been to papa as you told me, but he was very unkind.
   Nothing could be worse. He said that you ought to earn
   your bread, which is, of course, all humbug. He didn't
   understand that there ought to be some gentlemen who never
   earn their bread. I am sure, if you had been earning your
   bread by going to Lombard Street every day, I shouldn't
   have ever cared for you.

   He says that he will not give a single shilling. I think
   he is angry because Augusta's husband will come and live
   here always. That is disgusting, of course. But it isn't
   my fault. It is either that, or else some money has gone
   wrong;--or perhaps he had a very bad fit of indigestion.
   He was, however, so savage, that I really do not know how
   to go to him again. Mamma is quite afraid of him, and does
   not dare say a word, because it was she who managed about
   Mr. Traffick.

   What ought to be done? Of course, I don't like to think
   that you should be kept waiting. I am not sure that I
   quite like it myself. I will do anything you propose, and
   am not afraid of running a little risk. If we could get
   married without his knowing anything about it, I am sure
   he would give the money afterwards,--because he is always
   so good-natured in the long run, and so generous. He can
   be very savage, but he would be sure to forgive.

   How would it be if I were to go away? I am of age, and
   I believe that no one could stop me. If you could manage
   that we should get married in that way, I would do my
   best. I know people can get themselves married at Ostend.
   I do not see what else is to be done. You can write
   to me at present here, and nothing wrong will come of
   it. But Augusta says that if papa were to begin to
   suspect anything about my going away he would stop my
   letters.--Dear Frank, I am yours always, and always most
   lovingly,

   GERTRUDE.

   You needn't be a bit afraid but that I should be quite up
   to going off if you could arrange it.

"I believe, papa," said Mrs. Traffick, on the afternoon of the day on
which this was written, "that Gertrude is thinking of doing something
wrong, and therefore I feel it to be my duty to bring you this
letter." Augusta had not been enabled to read the letter, but had
discussed with her sister the propriety of eloping. "I won't advise
it," she had said, "but, if you do, Mr. Houston should arrange to be
married at Ostend. I know that can be done." Some second thought had
perhaps told her that any such arrangement would be injurious to the
noble blood of the Traffick family, and she had therefore "felt it to
be her duty" to extract the letter from the family letter-box, and
to give it to her father. A daughter who could so excellently do her
duty would surely not be turned out before Parliament met.

Sir Thomas took the letter and said not a word to his elder child.
When he was alone he doubted. He was half-minded to send the letter
on. What harm could the two fools do by writing to each other? While
he held the strings of the purse there could be no marriage. Then he
bethought himself of his paternal authority, of the right he had to
know all that his daughter did,--and he opened the letter. "There
ought to be gentlemen who don't earn their bread!" "Ought there?"
said he to himself. If so these gentlemen ought not to come to him
for bread. He was already supporting one such, and that was quite
enough. "Mamma is quite afraid of him, and doesn't dare say a word."
That he rather liked. "I am sure he would give the money afterwards."
"I am sure he would do no such thing," he said to himself, and he
reflected that in such a condition he should rather be delighted than
otherwise in watching the impecunious importunities of his baffled
son-in-law. The next sentence reconciled his girl to him almost
entirely. "He is always so good-natured in the long run, and so
generous!" For "good-natured" he did not care much, but he liked to
be thought generous. Then he calmly tore the letter in little bits,
and threw them into the waste-paper basket.

He sat for ten minutes thinking what he had better do, finding
the task thus imposed upon him to be much more difficult than the
distribution of a loan. At last he determined that, if he did
nothing, things would probably settle themselves. Mr. Houston,
when he received no reply from his lady-love, would certainly be
quiescent, and Gertrude, without any assent from her lover, could
hardly arrange her journey to Ostend. Perhaps it might be well that
he should say a word of caution to his wife; but as to that he did
not at present quite make up his mind, as he was grievously disturbed
while he was considering the subject.

"If you please, Sir Thomas," said the coachman, hurrying into the
room almost without the ceremony of knocking,--"if you please,
Phoebe mare has been brought home with both her knees cut down to
the bone."

"What!" exclaimed Sir Thomas, who indulged himself in a taste for
horseflesh, and pretended to know one animal from another.

"Yes, indeed, Sir Thomas, down to the bone," said the coachman, who
entertained all that animosity against Mr. Traffick which domestics
feel for habitual guests who omit the ceremony of tipping. "Mr.
Traffick brought her down on Windover Hill, Sir Thomas, and she'll
never be worth a feed of oats again. I didn't think a man was
born who could throw that mare off her feet, Sir Thomas." Now Mr.
Traffick, when he had borrowed the phaeton and pair of horses that
morning to go into Hastings, had dispensed with the services of a
coachman, and had insisted on driving himself.

CHAPTER XXX.

AT MERLE PARK. NO. 2.

Has any irascible reader,--any reader who thoroughly enjoys the
pleasure of being in a rage,--encountered suddenly some grievance
which, heavy as it may be, has been more than compensated by the
privilege it has afforded of blowing-up the offender? Such was the
feeling of Sir Thomas as he quickly followed his coachman out of
the room. He had been very proud of his Phoebe mare, who could trot
with him from the station to the house at the rate of twelve miles
an hour. But in his present frame of mind he had liked the mare
less than he disliked his son-in-law. Mr. Traffick had done him
this injury, and he now had Mr. Traffick on the hip. There are some
injuries for which a host cannot abuse his guest. If your best
Venetian decanter be broken at table you are bound to look as though
you liked it. But if a horse be damaged a similar amount of courtesy
is hardly required. The well-nurtured gentleman, even in that case,
will only look unhappy and say not a word. Sir Thomas was hardly to
be called a well nurtured gentleman; and then it must be remembered
that the offender was his son-in-law. "Good heavens!" he exclaimed,
hurrying into the yard. "What is this?"

The mare was standing out on the pavement with three men around her,
of whom one was holding her head, another was down on his knees
washing her wounds, and the third was describing the fatal nature of
the wounds which she had received. Traffick was standing at a little
distance, listening in silence to the implied rebukes of the groom.
"Good heavens, what is this?" repeated Sir Thomas, as he joined the
conclave.

"There are a lot of loose stones on that hill," said Traffick, "and
she tripped on one and came down, all in a lump, before you could
look at her. I'm awfully sorry, but it might have happened to any
one."

Sir Thomas knew how to fix his darts better than by throwing them
direct at his enemy. "She has utterly destroyed herself," said he,
addressing himself to the head-groom, who was busily employed with
the sponge in his hand.

"I'm afraid she has, Sir Thomas. The joint-oil will be sure to run on
both knees; the gashes is so mortal deep."

"I've driven that mare hundreds of times down that hill," said Sir
Thomas, "and I never knew her to trip before."

"Never, Sir Thomas," said the groom.

"She'd have come down with you to-day," said Mr. Traffick, defending
himself.

"It was my own fault, Bunsum. That's all that can be said about it."
Bunsum the groom, kneeling as he was, expressed, by his grimaces, his
complete agreement with this last opinion of his master. "Of course I
ought to have known that he couldn't drive," said Sir Thomas.

"A horse may fall down with anybody," said Mr. Traffick.

"You'd better take her and shoot her," said Sir Thomas, still
addressing the groom. "She was the best thing we had in the stable,
but now she is done for." With that he turned away from the yard
without having as yet addressed a word to his son-in-law.

This was so intolerable that even Mr. Traffick could not bear it in
silence. "I have told you that I am very sorry," said he, following
Sir Thomas closely, "and I don't know what a man can do more."

"Nothing,--unless it be not to borrow a horse again."

"You may be sure I will never do that."

"I'm not sure of it at all. If you wanted another to-morrow you'd ask
for him if you thought you could get him."

"I call that very uncivil, Sir Thomas,--and very unkind."

"Bother!" said Sir Thomas. "It is no good in being kind to a fellow
like you. Did you ever hear what the cabman did who had a sovereign
given to him for driving a mile. He asked the fool who gave it him to
make it a guinea. I am the fool, and, by George, you are the cabman!"
With this Sir Thomas turned into the house by a small door, leaving
his son-in-law to wander round to the front by himself.

"Your father has insulted me horribly," he said to his wife, whom he
found up in her bed-room.

"What is the matter now, Septimus?"

"That little mare of his, which I have no doubt has come down half a
score of times before, fell with me and cut her knees."

"That's Phoebe," said Augusta. "She was his favourite."

"It's a kind of thing that might happen to anyone, and no gentleman
thinks of mentioning it. He said such things to me that upon my word
I don't think I can stop in the house any longer."

"Oh, yes, you will," said the wife.

"Of course, it is a difference coming from one's father-in-law. It's
almost the same as from one's father."

"He didn't mean it, Septimus."

"I suppose not. If he had, I really couldn't have borne it. He does
become very rough sometimes, but I know that at bottom he has a
thorough respect for me. It is only that induces me to bear it." Then
it was settled between husband and wife that they should remain in
their present quarters, and that not a word further should be said
at any rate by them about the Phoebe mare. Nor did Sir Thomas say
another word about the mare, but he added a note to those already
written in the tablets of his memory as to his son-in-law, and
the note declared that no hint, let it be ever so broad, would be
effectual with Mr. Traffick.

The next day was a Sunday, and then another trouble awaited Sir
Thomas. At this time it was not customary with Tom to come often to
Merle Park. He had his own lodgings in London and his own club, and
did not care much for the rural charms of Merle Park. But on this
occasion he had condescended to appear, and on the Sunday afternoon
informed his father that there was a matter which he desired to
discuss with him. "Father," said he, "I am getting confoundedly sick
of all this."

"Confounded," said Sir Thomas, "is a stupid foolish word, and it
means nothing."

"There is a sort of comfort in it, Sir," said Tom; "but if it's
objectionable I'll drop it."

"It is objectionable."

"I'll drop it, Sir. But nevertheless I am very sick of it."

"What are you sick of, Tom?"

"All this affair with my cousin."

"Then, if you take my advice, you'll drop that too."

"I couldn't do that, father. A word is all very well. A man can drop
a word; but a girl is a different sort of thing. One can't drop a
girl, even if one tries."

"Have you tried, Tom?"

"Yes, I have. I've done my best to try. I put it out of my mind for
a fortnight and wouldn't think of her. I had a bottle of champagne
every day at dinner and then went to the theatre. But it was all of
no use. I have set my heart on it and I can't give her up. I'll tell
you what I'd like to do. I'd like to give her a diamond necklace."

"It wouldn't be the slightest use," said Sir Thomas, shaking his
head.

"Why not? It's what other men do. I mean it to be something
handsome;--about three hundred pounds."

"That's a large sum of money for a necklace."

"Some of them cost a deal more than that."

"And you'd only throw away your money."

"If she took it, she'd take me too. If she didn't,--why I should
still have the diamonds. I mean to try any way."

"Then it's of no use your coming to me."

"I thought you'd let me have the money. It's no good running into
debt for them. And then if you'd add something of your own,--a
locket, or something of that kind,--I think it would have an effect.
I have seen a necklace at Ricolay's, and if I could pay ready money
for it I could have 20 per cent. off it. The price named is three
hundred guineas. That would make it £254 5_s_. £250 would buy it if
the cheque was offered."

There was a spirit about the son which was not displeasing to the
father. That idea that the gift, if accepted, would be efficacious,
or if not that it would be rejected,--so that Tom would not lose his
hopes and his diamonds together,--seemed to be sound. Sir Thomas,
therefore, promised the money, with the distinct understanding that
if the gift were not accepted by Ayala it should be consigned to
his own hands. But as for any present from himself, he felt that
this would not be the time for it. He had called upon his niece and
solicited her himself, and she had been deaf to his words. After that
he could not condescend to send her gifts. "Should she become my
promised daughter-in-law then I would send her presents," said Sir
Thomas.

The poor man certainly received less pleasure from his wealth than
was credited to him by those who knew his circumstances. Yet he
endeavoured to be good to those around him, and especially good to
his children. There had been present to him ever since the beginning
of his successes,--ever since his marriage,--a fixed resolution that
he would not be a curmudgeon with his money, that he would endeavour
to make those happy who depended on him, and that he would be liberal
in such settlements for his children as might be conducive to their
happiness and fortunes in life. In this way he had been very generous
to Mr. Traffick. The man was a Member of Parliament, the son of a
peer, and laborious. Why should he expect more? Money was wanting,
but he could supply the money. So he had supplied it, and had been
content to think that a good man should be propped up in the world
by his means. What that had come to the reader knows. He thoroughly
detested his son-in-law, and would have given much to have had his
money back again,--so that Mr. Traffick should have had no share in
it.

Then there was his second daughter! What should be done with
Gertrude? The money should be forthcoming for her too if the fitting
man could be found. But he would have nothing further to do with a
penniless lover, let his position in the world of fashion, or even in
the world of politics, be what it might. The man should either have
wealth of his own, or should be satisfied to work for it. Houston had
been unfortunate in the moment of his approaches. Sir Thomas had been
driven by his angry feelings to use hard, sharp words, and now was
forced to act up to his words. He declared roughly that Mr. Houston
should not have a shilling of his money,--as he had certainly
been justified for doing; and his daughter, who had always been
indulged in every kind of luxury, had at once concocted a plot for
running away from her home! As he thought of the plot it seemed
to be wonderful to him that she should be willing to incur such a
danger,--to be ready without a penny to marry a penniless man,--till
he confessed to himself that, were she to do so, she would certainly
have the money sooner or later. He was capable of passion, capable
of flying out and saying a very severe thing to Septimus Traffick or
another when his temper was hot; but he was incapable of sustained
wrath. He was already aware that if Mr. Traffick chose to stay he
would stay;--that if Mr. Houston were brave enough to be persistent
he might have both the money and the girl. As he thought of it all
he was angry with himself, wishing that he were less generous, less
soft, less forgiving.

And now here was Tom,--whom at the present moment he liked the best
of all his children, who of the three was the least inclined to run
counter to him,--ready to break his heart, because he could not get
a little chit of a girl of whom he would probably be tired in twelve
months after he possessed her! Remembering what Tom had been, he was
at a loss to understand how such a lad should be so thoroughly in
love. At the present moment, had Ayala been purchaseable, he would
have been willing to buy her at a great price, because he would fain
have pleased Tom had it been possible. But Ayala, who had not a penny
in the world,--who never would have a penny unless he should give it
her,--would not be purchased, and would have nothing to do with Tom!
The world was running counter to him, so that he had no pleasure in
his home, no pleasure in his money, no pleasure in his children. The
little back-parlour in Lombard Street was sweeter to him than Merle
Park, with all its charms. His daughter Gertrude wanted to run away
from him, while by no inducement could he get Mr. Traffick to leave
the house.

While he was in this humour he met his niece Lucy roaming about the
garden. He knew the whole story of Lucy's love, and had been induced
by his wife to acknowledge that her marriage with the sculptor was
not to be sanctioned. He had merely expressed his scorn when the
unfortunate circumstances of Hamel's birth had been explained to him
again and again. He had ridiculed the horror felt by his wife at the
equally ill-born brothers and sisters in Rome. He had merely shaken
his head when he was told that Hamel's father never went inside of
any place of worship. But when it was explained to him that the
young man had, so to say, no income at all, then he was forced to
acknowledge that the young man ought not to be allowed to marry his
niece.

To Lucy herself he had as yet said nothing on the subject since he
had asked the lover in to lunch at Glenbogie. He heard bad accounts
of her. He had been told by his wife, on different occasions,--not
in the mere way of conversation, but with a premeditated energy of
fault-finding,--that Lucy was a disobedient girl. She was worse than
Ayala. She persisted in saying that she would marry the penniless
artist as soon as he should profess himself to be ready. It had been
different, she had tried to explain to her aunt, before she had been
engaged to him. Now she considered herself to be altogether at his
disposal. This had been her plea, but her plea had been altogether
unacceptable to Aunt Emmeline. "She can do as she pleases, of
course," Sir Thomas had said. That might be all very well; but Aunt
Emmeline was strongly of opinion that an adopted daughter of Queen's
Gate, of Glenbogie, and Merle Park, ought not to be allowed to do as
she pleased with herself. A girl ought not to be allowed to have the
luxuries of palatial residences, and the luxuries of free liberty of
choice at the same time. More than once it had occurred to Sir Thomas
that he would put an end to all these miseries by a mere scratch of
his pen. It need not be £120,000, or £100,000, as with a daughter.
A few modest thousands would do it. And then this man Hamel, though
the circumstances of his birth had been unfortunate, was not an idler
like Frank Houston. As far as Sir Thomas could learn, the man did
work, and was willing to work. The present small income earned would
gradually become more. He had a kindly feeling towards Lucy, although
he had been inclined to own that her marriage with Hamel was out of
the question. "My dear," he said to her, "why are you walking about
alone?" She did not like to say that she was walking alone because
she had no one to walk with her,--no such companion as Isadore would
be if Isadore were allowed to come to Merle Park; so she simply
smiled, and went on by her uncle's side. "Do you like this place as
well as Glenbogie?" he asked.

"Oh; yes."

"Perhaps you will be glad to get back to London again?"

"Oh; no."

"Which do you like best, then?"

"They are all so nice, if--"

"If what, Lucy?"

"Cælum non animum mutant qui trans mare currunt," Lucy might have
said, had she known the passage. As it was she put the same feeling
into simpler words, "I should like one as well as the other, Uncle
Tom, if things went comfortably."

"There's a great deal in that," he said. "I suppose the meaning is,
that you do not get on well with your aunt?"

"I am afraid she is angry with me, Uncle Tom."

"Why do you make her angry, Lucy? When she tells you what is your
duty, why do you not endeavour to do it?"

"I cannot do what she tells me," said Lucy; "and, as I cannot, I
think I ought not to be here."

"Have you anywhere else to go to?" To this she made no reply, but
walked on in silence. "When you say you ought not to be here, what
idea have you formed in your own mind as to the future?"

"That I shall marry Mr. Hamel, some day."

"Do you think it would be well to marry any man without an income
to live upon? Would it be a comfort to him seeing that he had just
enough to maintain himself, and no more?" These were terrible
questions to her,--questions which she could not answer, but yet as
to which her mind entertained an easy answer. A little help from him,
who was willing to indulge her with so many luxuries while she was
under his roof, would enable her to be an assistance rather than a
burden to her lover. But of this she could not utter a word. "Love
is all very well," continued Sir Thomas, in his gruffest voice;
"but love should be regulated by good sense. It is a crime when
two beggars think of marrying each other,--two beggars who are not
prepared to live as beggars do."

"He is not a beggar," said Lucy, indignantly. "He has begged nothing;
nor have I."

"Pshaw!" said Sir Thomas; "I was laying down a general rule. I did
not mean to call anybody a beggar. You shouldn't take me up like
that."

"I beg your pardon, Uncle Tom," she said piteously.

"Very well; very well; that will do." But still he went on walking
with her, and she felt she could not leave him till he gave her some
signal that she was to go. They continued in this way till they
had come nearly round the large garden; when he stopped, as he
was walking, and addressed her again. "I suppose you write to him
sometimes."

"Yes," said Lucy, boldly.

"Write to him at once, and tell him to come and see me in Lombard
Street on Tuesday, at two o'clock. Give me the letter, and I will
take care it is sent to him directly I get to town. Now you had
better go in, for it is getting very cold."

CHAPTER XXXI.

THE DIAMOND NECKLACE.

Tom went up to London intent upon his diamonds. To tell the truth
he had already made the purchase subject to some question of ready
money. He now paid for it after considerable chaffering as to the odd
pounds, which he succeeded in bringing to a successful termination.
Then he carried the necklace away with him, revolving in his mind the
different means of presentation. He thought that a letter might be
best if only he was master of the language in which such a letter
should properly be written. But he entirely doubted his own powers of
composition. He was so modest in this respect that he would not even
make an attempt. He knew himself well enough to be aware that he was
in many respects ignorant. He would have endeavoured to take the
bracelet personally to Ayala had he not been conscious that he could
not recommend his present with such romantic phrases and touches of
poetry as would be gratifying to her fine sense. Were he to find
himself in her presence with the necklace he must depend on himself
for his words; but a letter might be sent in his own handwriting, the
poetry and romance of which might be supplied by another.

Now it had happened that Tom had formed a marvellous friendship in
Rome with Colonel Stubbs. They had been hunting together in the
Campagna, and Tom had been enabled to accommodate the Colonel with
the loan of a horse when his own had been injured. They had since met
in London, and Stubbs had declared to more than one of his friends
that Tom, in spite of his rings and his jewelry, was a very good
fellow at bottom. Tom had been greatly flattered by the intimacy,
and had lately been gratified by an invitation to Aldershot in order
that the military glories of the camp might be shown to him. He
had accepted the invitation, and a day in the present week had been
fixed. Then it occurred to him suddenly that he knew no one so
fitted to write such a letter as that demanded as his friend Colonel
Jonathan Stubbs. He had an idea that the Colonel, in spite of his red
hair and in spite of a certain aptitude for drollery which pervaded
him, had a romantic side to his character; and he felt confident
that, as to the use of language, the Colonel was very great indeed.
He therefore, when he went to Aldershot, carefully put the bracelet
in his breast-pocket and determined to reveal his secret and to ask
for aid.

The day of his arrival was devoted to the ordinary pursuits of
Aldershot and the evening to festivities, which were prolonged too
late into the night to enable him to carry out his purpose before
he went to bed. He arranged to leave on the next morning by a train
between ten and eleven, and was told that three or four men would
come in to breakfast at half-past nine. His project then seemed to be
all but hopeless. But at last with great courage he made an effort.
"Colonel," said he, just as they were going to bed, "I wonder if you
could give me half-an-hour before breakfast. It is a matter of great
importance." Tom, as he said this, assumed a most solemn face.

"An hour if you like, my dear boy. I am generally up soon after six,
and am always out on horseback before breakfast as soon as the light
serves."

"Then if you'll have me called at half-past seven I shall be ever so
much obliged to you."

The next morning at eight the two were closeted together, and Tom
immediately extracted the parcel from his pocket and opened the
diamonds to view. "Upon my word that is a pretty little trinket,"
said the Colonel, taking the necklace in his hand.

"Three hundred guineas!" said Tom, opening his eyes very wide.

"I daresay."

"That is, it would have been three hundred guineas unless I had come
down with the ready. I made the fellow give me twenty per cent. off.
You should always remember this when you are buying jewelry."

"And what is to be done with this pretty thing? I suppose it is
intended for some fair lady's neck."

"Oh, of course."

"And why has it been brought down to Aldershot? There are plenty of
fellows about this place who will get their hands into your pocket if
they know that you have such a trinket as that about you."

"I will tell you why I brought it," said Tom, very gravely. "It is,
as you say, for a young lady. I intend to make that young lady my
wife. Of course this is a secret, you know."

"It shall be sacred as the Pope's toe," said Stubbs.

"Don't joke about it, Colonel, if you please. It's life and death to
me."

"I'll keep your secret and will not joke. Now what can I do for you."

"I must send this as a present with a letter. I must first tell you
that she has,--well, refused me."

"That never means much the first time, old boy."

"She has refused me half-a-dozen times, but I mean to go on with it.
If she refuses me two dozen times I'll try her a third dozen."

"Then you are quite in earnest?"

"I am. It's a kind of thing I know that men laugh about, but I don't
mind telling you that I am downright in love with her. The governor
approves of it."

"She has got money, probably?"

"Not a shilling;--not as much as would buy a pair of gloves. But I
don't love her a bit the less for that. As to income, the governor
will stump up like a brick. Now I want you to write the letter."

"It's a kind of thing a third person can't do," said the Colonel,
when he had considered the request for a moment.

"Why not? Yes, you can."

"Do it yourself, and say just the simplest words as they come up.
They are sure to go further with any girl than what another man may
write. It is impossible that another man should be natural on such a
task as that."

"Natural! I don't know about natural," said Tom, who was anxious now
to explain the character of the lady in question. "I don't know that
a letter that was particularly natural would please her. A touch of
poetry and romance would go further than anything natural."

"Who is the lady?" asked the Colonel, who certainly was by this time
entitled to be so far inquisitive.

"She is my cousin,--Ayala Dormer."

"Who?"

"Ayala Dormer;--my cousin. She was at Rome, but I do not think you
ever saw her there."

"I have seen her since," said the Colonel.

"Have you? I didn't know."

"She was with my aunt, the Marchesa Baldoni."

"Dear me! So she was. I never put the two things together. Don't you
admire her?"

"Certainly I do. My dear fellow, I can't write this letter for you."
Then he put down the pen which he had taken up as though he had
intended to comply with his friend's request. "You may take it as
settled that I cannot write it."

"No?"

"Impossible. One man should never write such a letter for another
man. You had better give the thing in person,--that is, if you mean
to go on with the matter."

"I shall certainly go on with it," said Tom, stoutly.

"After a certain time, you know, reiterated offers do, you
know,--do,--do,--partake of the nature of persecution."

"Reiterated refusals are the sort of persecution I don't like."

"It seems to me that Ayala,--Miss Dormer. I mean,--should be
protected by a sort of feeling,--feeling of--of what I may perhaps
call her dependent position. She is peculiarly,--peculiarly
situated."

"If she married me she would be much better situated. I could give
her everything she wants."

"It isn't an affair of money, Mr. Tringle."

Tom felt, from the use of the word Mister, that he was in some way
giving offence; but felt also that there was no true cause for
offence. "When a man offers everything," he said, "and asks for
nothing, I don't think he should be said to persecute."

"After a time it becomes persecution. I am sure Ayala would feel it
so."

"My cousin can't suppose that I am ill-using her," said Tom, who
disliked the "Ayala" quite as much as he did the "Mister."

"Miss Dormer, I meant. I can have nothing further to say about it. I
can't write the letter, and I should not imagine that Ayala,--Miss
Dormer,--would be moved in the least by any present that could
possibly be made to her. I must go out now, if you don't mind, for
half-an-hour; but I shall be back in time for breakfast."

Then Tom was left alone with the necklace lying on the table before
him. He knew that something was wrong with the Colonel, but could not
in the least guess what it might be. He was quite aware that early
in the interview the Colonel had encouraged him to persevere with
the lady, and had then, suddenly, not only advised him to desist,
but had told him in so many words that he was bound to desist out of
consideration for the lady. And the Colonel had spoken of his cousin
in a manner that was distasteful to him. He could not analyse his
feelings. He did not exactly know why he was displeased, but he was
displeased. The Colonel, when asked for his assistance, was, of
course, bound to talk about the lady,--would be compelled, by the
nature of the confidence, to mention the lady's name;--would even
have been called on to write her Christian name. But this he should
have done with a delicacy;--almost with a blush. Instead of that
Ayala's name had been common on his tongue. Tom felt himself to be
offended, but hardly knew why. And then, why had he been called
Mister Tringle? The breakfast, which was eaten shortly afterwards
in the company of three or four other men, was not eaten in
comfort;--and then Tom hurried back to London and to Lombard Street.

After this failure Tom felt it to be impossible to go to another
friend for assistance. There had been annoyance in describing his
love to Colonel Stubbs, and pain in the treatment he had received.
Even had there been another friend to whom he could have confided the
task, he could not have brought himself to encounter the repetition
of such treatment. He was as firmly fixed as ever in his conviction
that he could not write the letter himself. And, as he thought of the
words with which he should accompany a personal presentation of the
necklace, he reflected that in all probability he might not be able
to force his way into Ayala's presence. Then a happy thought struck
him. Mrs. Dosett was altogether on his side. Everybody was on his
side except Ayala herself, and that pigheaded Colonel. Would it not
be an excellent thing to entrust the necklace to the hands of his
Aunt Dosett, in order that she might give it over to Ayala with all
the eloquence in her power. Satisfied with this project he at once
wrote a note to Mrs. Dosett.

   MY DEAR AUNT,

   I want to see you on _most important business_. If I shall
   not be troubling you, I will call upon you to-morrow at
   ten o'clock, before I go to my place of business.

   Yours affectionately,

   T. TRINGLE, Junior.

On the following morning he apparelled himself with all his rings.
He was a good-hearted, well-intentioned young man, with excellent
qualities; but he must have been slow of intellect when he had not
as yet learnt the deleterious effect of all those rings. On this
occasion he put on his rings, his chains, and his bright waistcoat,
and made himself a thing disgusting to be looked at by any
well-trained female. As far as his aunt was concerned he would have
been altogether indifferent as to his appearance, but there was
present to his mind some small hope that he might be allowed to see
Ayala, as the immediate result of the necklace. Should he see Ayala,
then how unfortunate it would be that he should present himself
before the eyes of his mistress without those adornments which he did
not doubt would be grateful to her. He had heard from Ayala's own
lips that all things ought to be pretty. Therefore he endeavoured
to make himself pretty. Of course he failed,--as do all men who
endeavour to make themselves pretty,--but it was out of the question
that he should understand the cause of his failure.

"Aunt Dosett, I want you to do me a very great favour," he began,
with a solemn voice.

"Are you going to a party, Tom," she said.

"A party! No,--who gives a party in London at this time of the day?
Oh, you mean because I have just got a few things on. When I call
anywhere I always do. I have got another lady to see, a lady of rank,
and so I just made a change." But this was a fib.

"What can I do for you, Tom?"

"I want you to look at that." Then he brought out the necklace, and,
taking it out of the case, displayed the gems tastefully upon the
table.

"I do believe they are diamonds," said Mrs. Dosett.

"Yes; they are diamonds. I am not the sort of fellow to get anything
sham. What do you think that little thing cost, Aunt Dosett?"

"I haven't an idea. Sixty pounds, perhaps!"

"Sixty pounds! Do you go into a jeweller's shop and see what you
could do among diamonds with sixty pounds!"

"I never do go into jewellers' shops, Tom."

"Nor I, very often. It's a sort of place where a fellow can drop a
lot of money. But I did go into one after this. It don't look much,
does it?"

"It is very pretty."

"I think it is pretty. Well, Aunt Dosett, the price for that little
trifle was three--hundred--guineas!" As he said this he looked into
his aunt's face for increased admiration.

"You gave three hundred guineas for it!"

"I went with ready money in my hand, when I tempted the man with a
cheque to let me have it for two hundred and fifty pounds. In buying
jewelry you should always do that."

"I never buy jewelry," said Mrs. Dosett, crossly.

"If you should, I mean. Now, I'll tell you what I want you to do.
This is for Ayala."

"For Ayala!"

"Yes, indeed. I am not the fellow to stick at a trifle when I want to
carry my purpose. I bought this the other day and gave ready money
for it,--two hundred and fifty pounds,--on purpose to give it to
Ayala. In naming the value,--of course you'll do that when you give
it her,--you might as well say three hundred guineas. That was the
price on the ticket. I saw it myself,--so there won't be any untruth
you know."

"Am I to give it her?"

"That's just what I want. When I talk to her she flares up, and, as
likely as not, she'd fling the necklace at my head."

"She wouldn't do that, I hope."

"It would depend upon how the thing went. When I do talk to her it
always seems that nothing I say can be right. Now, if you will give
it her you can put in all manner of pretty things."

"This itself will be the prettiest thing," said Mrs. Dosett.

"That's just what I was thinking. Everybody agrees that diamonds will
go further with a girl than anything else. When I told the governor
he quite jumped at the idea."

"Sir Thomas knows you are giving it?"

"Oh, dear, yes. I had to get the rhino from him. I don't go about
with two hundred and fifty pounds always in my own pocket."

"If he had sent the money to Ayala how much better it would have
been," said poor Mrs. Dosett.

"I don't think that at all. Who ever heard of making a present to a
young lady in money. Ayala is romantic, and that would have been the
most unromantic thing out. That would not have done me the least good
in the world. It would simply have gone to buy boots and petticoats
and such like. A girl would never be brought to think of her lover
merely by putting on a pair of boots. When she fastens such a
necklace as this round her throat he ought to have a chance. Don't
you think so, Aunt Dosett?"

"Tom, shall I tell you something?" said the aunt.

"What is it, Aunt Dosett?"

"I don't believe that you have a chance."

"Do you mean that?" he asked, sorrowfully.

"I do."

"You think that the necklace will do no good?"

"Not the least. Of course I will offer it to her if you wish it,
because her uncle and I quite approve of you as a husband for Ayala.
But I am bound to tell you the truth. I do not think the necklace
will do you any good." Then he sat silent for a time, meditating upon
his condition. It might be imprudent;--it might be a wrong done to
his father to jeopardise the necklace. How could it be if Ayala were
to take the necklace and not to take him? "Am I to give it?" she
asked.

"Yes," said he, bravely, but with a sigh; "give it her all the same."

"From you or from Sir Thomas?"

"Oh, from me;--from me. If she were told it came from the governor
she'd keep it whether or no. I am sure I hope she will keep it," he
said, trying to remove the bad impression which his former words
might perhaps have left.

"You may be sure she will not keep it," said Mrs. Dosett, "unless she
should intend to accept your hand. Of that I can hold out no hope to
you. There is a matter, Tom, which I think I should tell you as you
are so straightforward in your offer. Another gentleman has asked her
to marry him."

"She has accepted him!" exclaimed Tom.

"No, she has not accepted him. She has refused him."

"Then I'm just where I was," said Tom.

"She has refused him, but I think that she is in a sort of way
attached to him; and though he too has been refused I imagine that
his chance is better than yours."

"And who the d---- is he?" said Tom, jumping up from his seat in
great excitement.

"Tom!" exclaimed Mrs. Dosett.

"I beg your pardon; but you see this is very important. Who is the
fellow?"

"He is one Colonel Jonathan Stubbs."

"Who?"

"Colonel Jonathan Stubbs."

"Impossible! It can't be Colonel Stubbs. I know Colonel Stubbs."

"I can assure you it is true, Tom. I have had a letter from a
lady,--a relative of Colonel Stubbs,--telling me the whole story."

"Colonel Stubbs!" he said. "That passes anything I ever heard. She
has refused him?"

"Yes, she has refused him."

"And has not accepted him since?"

"She certainly has not accepted him yet."

"You may give her the bracelet all the same," said Tom, hurrying out
of the room. That Colonel Stubbs should have made an offer to Ayala,
and yet have accepted his, Tom Tringle's, confidence!

CHAPTER XXXII.

TOM'S DESPAIR.

The reader will understand that the fate of the necklace was very
soon decided. Ayala declared that it was very beautiful. She had,
indeed, a pretty taste for diamonds, and would have been proud enough
to call this necklace her own; but, as she declared to her aunt, she
would not accept Tom though he were made of diamonds from head to
foot. Accept Tom, when she could not even bring herself to think of
becoming the wife of Jonathan Stubbs! If Colonel Stubbs could not be
received by her imagination as an Angel of Light, how immeasurably
distant from anything angelic must be Tom Tringle! "Of course it must
go back," she said, when the question had to be decided as to the
future fate of the necklace. As a consequence poor Mr. Dosett was
compelled to make a special journey into the City, and to deposit a
well-sealed parcel in the hands of Tom Tringle himself. "Your cousin
sends her kind regards," he said, "but cannot bring herself to accept
your magnificent present."

Tom had been very much put about since his visit to the Crescent. Had
his aunt merely told him that his present would be inefficacious,
he would have taken that assurance as being simply her opinion, and
would have still entertained some hopes in the diamonds. But these
tidings as to another lover crushed him altogether. And such a lover!
The very man whom he had asked to write his letter for him! Why
had not Colonel Stubbs told him the truth when thus his own secret
had become revealed by an accident? He understood it all now,--the
"Ayala," and the "Mister," and the reason why the Colonel could not
write the letter. Then he became very angry with the Colonel, whom he
bitterly accused of falsehood and treason. What right had the Colonel
to meddle with his cousin at all? And how false he had been to say
nothing of what he himself had done when his rival had told him
everything! In this way he made up his mind that it was his duty
to hate Colonel Stubbs, and if possible to inflict some personal
punishment upon him. He was reckless of himself now, and, if he could
only get one good blow at the Colonel's head with a thick stick,
would be indifferent as to what the law might do with him afterwards.
Or perhaps he might be able to provoke Colonel Stubbs to fight with
him. He had an idea that duels at present were not in fashion. But
nevertheless, in such a case as this, a man ought to fight. He could
at any rate have the gratification of calling the Colonel a coward if
he should refuse to fight.

He was the more wretched because his spirit within him was cowed
by the idea of the Colonel. He did acknowledge to himself that his
chance could be but bad while such a rival as Colonel Stubbs stood in
his way. He tried to argue with himself that it was not so. As far as
he knew, Colonel Stubbs was and would remain a very much less rich
man than himself. He doubted very much whether Colonel Stubbs could
keep a carriage in London for his wife, while it had been already
arranged that he was to be allowed to do so should he succeed in
marrying Ayala. To be a partner in the house of Travers and Treason
was a much greater thing than to be a Colonel. But, though he assured
himself of all this again and again, still he was cowed. There was
something about the Colonel which did more than redeem his red
hair and ugly mouth. And of this something poor Tom was sensible.
Nevertheless, if occasion should arise he thought that he could
"punch the Colonel's head";--not without evil consequence to
himself;--but still that he could "punch the Colonel's head," not
minding the consequences.

Such had been his condition of mind when he left the Crescent, and it
was not improved by the receipt of the parcel. He hardly said a word
when his uncle put it into his hands, merely muttering something and
consigning the diamonds to his desk. He did not tell himself that
Ayala must now be abandoned. It would have been better for him if he
could have done so. But all real, springing, hopeful hope departed
from his bosom. This came from the Colonel, rather than from the
rejected necklace.

"Did you send that jewelry?" his father asked him some days
afterwards.

"Yes; I sent it."

"And what has now become of it?"

"It is in my desk there."

"Did she send it back again?"

"It came back. My Uncle Dosett brought it. I do not want to say
anything more about it, if you please."

"I am sorry for that, Tom;--very sorry. As you had set your heart
upon it I wish it could have been as you would have it. But the
necklace should not be left there." Tom shook his head in despair.

"You had better let me have the necklace. It is not that I should
grudge it to you, Tom, if it could do you any good."

"You shall have it, Sir."

"It will be better so. That was the understanding." Then the necklace
was transferred to some receptacle belonging to Sir Thomas himself,
the lock of which might probably be more secure than that of Tom's
desk, and there it remained in its case, still folded in the various
papers in which Mrs. Dosett had encased it.

Then Tom found it necessary to adopt some other mode of life for his
own consolation and support. He had told his father on one occasion
that he had devoted himself for a fortnight to champagne and the
theatres. But this had been taken as a joke. He had been fairly
punctual at his place of business and had shown no symptoms of fast
living. But now it occurred to him that fast living would be the only
thing for him. He had been quite willing to apply himself to marriage
and a steady life; but fortune had not favoured him. If he drank
too much now, and lay in bed, and became idle, it was not his fault.
There came into his head an idea that Ayala and Colonel Stubbs
between them must look to that. Could he meet Ayala he would explain
to her how his character as a moral man had been altogether destroyed
by her conduct;--and should he meet Colonel Stubbs he would explain
something to him also.

A new club had been established in London lately called the
Mountaineers, which had secured for itself handsome lodgings in
Piccadilly, and considered itself to be, among clubs, rather a
comfortable institution than otherwise. It did not as yet affect
much fashion, having hitherto secured among its members only two
lords,--and they were lords by courtesy. But it was a pleasant,
jovial place, in which the delights of young men were not impeded
by the austerity of their elders. Its name would be excused only on
the plea that all other names available for a club had already been
appropriated in the metropolis. There was certainly nothing in the
club peculiarly applicable to mountains. But then there are other
clubs in London with names which might be open to similar criticism.
It was the case that many young men engaged in the City had been
enrolled among its members, and it was from this cause, no doubt,
that Tom Tringle was regarded as being a leading light among the
Mountaineers. It was here that the champagne had been drunk to which
Tom had alluded when talking of his love to his father. Now, in his
despair, it seemed good to him to pass a considerable portion of his
time among the Mountaineers.

"You'll dine here, Faddle?" he said one evening to a special friend
of his, a gentleman also from the City, with whom he had been dining
a good deal during the last week.

"I suppose I shall," said Faddle, "but ain't we coming it a little
strong? They want to know at the Gardens what the deuce it is I'm
about." The Gardens was a new row of houses, latterly christened
Badminton Gardens, in which resided the father and mother of Faddle.

"I've given up all that kind of thing," said Tom.

"Your people are not in London."

"It will make no difference when they do come up. I call an evening
in the bosom of one's family about the slowest thing there is. The
bosom must do without me for the future."

"Won't your governor cut up rough?"

"He must cut up as he pleases. But I rather fancy he knows all about
it. I shan't spend half as much money this way as if I had a house
and wife and family,--and what we may call a bosom of one's own."
Then they had dinner and went to the theatre, and played billiards,
and had supper, and spent the night in a manner very delightful, no
doubt, to themselves, but of which their elder friends could hardly
have approved.

There was a good deal of this following upon the episode of the
necklace, and it must be told with regret that our young hero fell
into certain exploits which were by no means creditable to him. More
than one good-humoured policeman had helped him home to his lodgings;
but alas, on Christmas Eve, he fell into the hands of some guardian
of the peace who was not quite sufficiently good-natured, and Tom
passed the night and the greater part of the following morning,
recumbent, he in one cell, and his friend Faddle in the next, with an
intimation that they would certainly be taken before a magistrate on
the day after Christmas Day.

Oh, Ayala! Ayala! It must be acknowledged that you were in a measure
responsible;--and not only for the lamentable condition of your
lover, but also of that of his friend. For, in his softer moments,
Tom had told every thing to Faddle, and Faddle had declared that
he would be true to the death to a friend suffering such unmerited
misfortune. Perhaps the fidelity of Faddle may have owed something
to the fact that Tom's pecuniary allowances were more generous than
those accorded to himself. To Ayala must be attributed the occurrence
of these misfortunes. But Tom in his more fiery moments,--those
moments which would come between the subsidence of actual sobriety
and the commencement of intoxication,--attributed all his misfortunes
to the Colonel. "Faddle," he would say in these moments, "of course
I know that I'm a ruined man. Of course I'm aware that all this is
only a prelude to some ignominious end. I have not sunk to this
kind of thing without feeling it." "You'll be right enough some day,
old fellow," Faddle would reply. "I shall live to be godfather to
the first boy." "Never, Faddle!" Tom replied. "All those hopes have
vanished. You'll never live to see any child of mine. And I know well
where to look for my enemy. Stubbs indeed! I'll Stubbs him. If I can
only live to be revenged on that traitor then I shall die contented.
Though he shot me through the heart, I should die contented."

This had happened a little before that unfortunate Christmas Eve. Up
to this time Sir Thomas, though he had known well that his son had
not been living as he should do, had been mild in his remonstrances,
and had said nothing at Merle Park to frighten Lady Tringle. But the
affair of Christmas Eve came to his ears with all its horrors. A
policeman whom Tom had struck with his fist in the pit of the stomach
had not been civil enough to accept this mark of familiarity with
good humour. He had been much inconvenienced by the blow, and had
insisted upon giving testimony to this effect before the magistrate.
There had been half-an-hour, he said, in which he had hung dubious
between this world and the next, so great had been the violence of
the blow, and so deadly its direction! The magistrate was one of
those just men who find a pleasure and a duty in protecting the
police of the metropolis. It was no case, he declared, for a fine.
What would be a fine to such a one as Thomas Tringle, junior! And
Tom,--Tom Tringle, the only son of Sir Thomas Tringle, the senior
partner in the great house of Travers and Treason,--was ignominiously
locked up for a week. Faddle, who had not struck the blow, was
allowed to depart with a fine and a warning. Oh, Ayala, Ayala, this
was thy doing!

When the sentence was known Sir Thomas used all his influence to
extricate his unfortunate son, but in vain. Tom went through his
penalty, and, having no help from champagne, doubtless had a bad time
of it. Ayala, Stubbs, the policeman, and the magistrate, seemed to
have conspired to destroy him. But the week at last dragged itself
out, and then Tom found himself confronted with his father in the
back-parlour of the house in Queen's Gate. "Tom," he said, "this is
very bad!"

"It is bad, Sir," said Tom.

"You have disgraced me, and your mother, and yourself. You have
disgraced Travers and Treason!" Poor Tom shook his head. "It will be
necessary, I fear, that you should leave the house altogether." Tom
stood silent without a word. "A young man who has been locked up in
prison for a week for maltreating a policeman can hardly expect to be
entrusted with such concerns as those of Travers and Treason. I and
your poor mother cannot get rid of you and the disgrace which you
have entailed upon us. Travers and Treason can easily get rid of
you." Tom knew very well that his father was, in fact, Travers and
Treason, but he did not yet feel that an opportunity had come in
which he could wisely speak a word. "What have you got to say for
yourself, Sir?" demanded Sir Thomas.

"Of course, I'm very sorry," muttered Tom.

"Sorry, Tom! A young man holding your position in Travers and Treason
ought not to have to be sorry for having been locked up in prison for
a week for maltreating a policeman! What do you think must be done,
yourself?"

"The man had been hauling me about in the street."

"You were drunk, no doubt."

"I had been drinking. I am not going to tell a lie about it. But he
needn't have done as he did. Faddle knows that, and can tell you."

"What can have driven you to associate with such a young man as
Faddle? That is the worst part of it. Do you know what Faddle and
Company are,--stock jobbers, who ten years ago hadn't a thousand
pounds in the way of capital among them! They've been connected with
a dozen companies, none of which are floating now, and have made
money out of them all! Do you think that Travers and Treason will
accept a young man as a partner who associates with such people as
that?"

"I have seen old Faddle's name and yours on the same prospectus
together, Sir."

"What has that to do with it? You never saw him inside our counter.
What a name to appear along with yours in such an affair as this! If
it hadn't been for that, you might have got over it. Young men will
be young men. Faddle! I think you will have to go abroad for a time,
till it has been forgotten."

"I should like to stay, just at present, Sir," said Tom.

"What good can you do?"

"All the same, I should like to stay, Sir."

"I was thinking that, if you were to take a tour through the United
States, go across to San Francisco, then up to Japan, and from thence
through some of the Chinese cities down to Calcutta and Bombay,
you might come back by the Euphrates Valley to Constantinople, see
something of Bulgaria and those countries, and so home by Vienna and
Paris. The Euphrates Valley Railway will be finished by that time,
perhaps, and Bulgaria will be as settled as Hertfordshire. You'd see
something of the world, and I could let it be understood that you
were travelling on behalf of Travers and Treason. By the time that
you were back, people in the City would have forgotten the policeman,
and if you could manage to write home three or four letters about our
trade with Japan and China, they would be willing to forget Faddle."

"But, Sir--"

"Shouldn't you like a tour of that kind?"

"Very much indeed, Sir;--only--"

"Only what, Tom?"

"Ayala!" said Tom, hardly able to suppress a sob as he uttered the
fatal name.

"Tom, don't be a fool. You can't make a young woman have you if she
doesn't choose. I have done all that I could for you, because I saw
that you'd set your heart upon it. I went to her myself, and then I
gave two hundred and fifty pounds for that bauble. I am told I shall
have to lose a third of the sum in getting rid of it."

"Ricolay told me that he'd take it back at two hundred and twenty,"
said Tom, whose mind, prostrate as it was, was still alive to
consideration of profit and loss.

"Never mind that for the present," said Sir Thomas. "Don't you
remember the old song?--'If she will, she will, you may depend on't.
And if she won't she won't; and there's an end on't.' You ought to be
a man and pluck up your spirits. Are you going to allow a little girl
to knock you about in that way?" Tom only shook his head, and looked
as if he was very ill. In truth, the champagne, and the imprisonment,
and Ayala together, had altogether altered his appearance. "We've
done what we could about it, and now it is time to give it over. Let
me hear you say that you will give it over." Tom stood speechless
before his father. "Speak the word, and the thing will be done,"
continued Sir Thomas, endeavouring to encourage the young man.

"I can't," said Tom, sighing.

"Nonsense!"

"I have tried, and I can't."

"Tom, do you mean to say that you are going to lose everything
because a chit of a girl like that turns up her nose at you?"

"It's no use my going while things are like this," said Tom. "If I
were to get to New York, I should come back by the next ship. As for
letters about business, I couldn't settle my mind to anything of the
kind."

"Then you're not the man I took you to be," said the father.

"I could be man enough," said Tom, clenching his fist, "if I could
get hold of Colonel Stubbs."

"Colonel who?"

"Stubbs! Jonathan Stubbs! I know what I'm talking about. I'm not
going to America, nor China, nor anything else, till I've polished
him off. It's all very well your abusing me, but you don't know what
it is I have suffered. As for being called a man I don't care about
it. What I should like best would be to get Ayala on one side and
Stubbs on the other, and then all three to go off the Duke of York's
Column together. It's no good talking about Travers and Treason. I
don't care for Travers and Treason as I am now. If you'll get Ayala
to say that she'll have me, I'll go to the shop every morning at
eight and stay till nine; and as for the Mountaineers it may all go
to the d---- for me." Then he rushed out of the room, banging the
door after him.

Sir Thomas, when he was thus left, stood for awhile with his hands
in his trousers' pockets, contemplating the condition of his son. It
was wonderful to him that a boy of his should be afflicted in this
manner. When he had been struck by the juvenile beauties of Emmeline
Dosett he had at once asked the young lady to share his fortunes with
him, and the young lady had speedily acceded to his request. Then he
had been married, and that was all he had ever known of the troubles
of love. He could not but think, looking back at it as he did now
from a distance, that had Emmeline been hard-hearted he would have
endured the repulse and have passed on speedily to some other
charmer. But Tom had been wounded after a fashion which seemed
to him to have been very uncommon. It might be possible that he
should recover in time, but while undergoing recovery he would be
ruined;--so great were the young man's sufferings! Now Sir Thomas,
though he had spoken to Tom with all the severity which he had been
able to assume, though he had abused Faddle, and had vindicated the
injured dignity of Travers and Treason with all his eloquence; though
he had told Tom it was unmanly to give way to his love, yet, of
living creatures, Tom was at this moment the dearest to his heart. He
had never for an instant entertained the idea of expelling Tom from
Travers and Treason because of the policeman, or because of Faddle.
What should he do for the poor boy now? Was there any argument, any
means of persuasion, by which he could induce that foolish little
girl to accept all the good things which he was ready to do for her?
Could he try yet once again himself, with any chance of success?

Thinking of all this, he stood there for an hour alone with his hands
in his trousers' pockets.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

ISADORE HAMEL IN LOMBARD STREET.

In following the results of Tom's presentation of the necklace we
have got beyond the period which our story is presumed to have
reached. Tom was in durance during the Christmas week, but we must go
back to the promise which had been made by her uncle, Sir Thomas, to
Lucy about six weeks before that time. The promise had extended only
to an undertaking on the part of Sir Thomas to see Isadore Hamel if
he would call at the house in Lombard Street at a certain hour on a
certain day. Lucy was overwhelmed with gratitude when the promise was
made. A few moments previously she had been indignant because her
uncle had appeared to speak of her and her lover as two beggars,--but
Sir Thomas had explained and in some sort apologised, and then had
come the promise which to Lucy seemed to contain an assurance of
effectual aid. Sir Thomas would not have asked to see the lover had
he intended to be hostile to the lover. Something would be done to
solve the difficulty which had seemed to Lucy to be so grave. She
would not any longer be made to think that she should give up either
her lover or her home under her uncle's roof. This had been terribly
distressing to her because she had been well aware that on leaving
her uncle's house she could be taken in only by her lover, to whom an
immediate marriage would be ruinous. And yet she could not undertake
to give up her lover. Therefore her uncle's promise had made her very
happy, and she forgave the ungenerous allusion to the two beggars.

The letter was written to Isadore in high spirits. "I do not know
what Uncle Tom intends, but he means to be kind. Of course you must
go to him, and if I were you I would tell him everything about
everything. He is not strict and hard like Aunt Emmeline. She means
to be good too, but she is sometimes so very hard. I am happier
now because I think something will be done to relieve you from the
terrible weight which I am to you. I sometimes wish that you had
never come to me in Kensington Gardens, because I have become such a
burden to you."

There was much more in which Lucy no doubt went on to declare that,
burden as she was, she intended to be persistent. Hamel, when he
received this letter, was resolved to keep the appointment made for
him, but his hopes were not very high. He had been angry with Lady
Tringle,--in the first place, because of her treatment of himself at
Glenbogie, and then much more strongly, because she had been cruel
to Lucy. Nor did he conceive himself to be under any strong debt
of gratitude to Sir Thomas, though he had been invited to lunch.
He was aware that the Tringles had despised him, and he repaid
the compliment with all his heart by despising the Tringles. They
were to him samples of the sort of people which he thought to be of
all the most despicable. They were not only vulgar and rich, but
purse-proud and conceited as well. To his thinking there was nothing
of which such people were entitled to be proud. Of course they
make money,--money out of money, an employment which he regarded
as vile,--creating nothing either useful or beautiful. To create
something useful was, to his thinking, very good. To create something
beautiful was almost divine. To manipulate millions till they should
breed other millions was the meanest occupation for a life's energy.
It was thus, I fear, that Mr. Hamel looked at the business carried on
in Lombard Street, being as yet very young in the world and seeing
many things with distorted eyes.

He was aware that some plan would be proposed to him which might
probably accelerate his marriage, but was aware also that he would be
very unwilling to take advice from Sir Thomas. Sir Thomas, no doubt,
would be coarse and rough, and might perhaps offer him pecuniary
assistance in a manner which would make it impossible for him to
accept it. He had told himself a score of times that, poor as he was,
he did not want any of the Tringle money. His father's arbitrary
conduct towards him had caused him great misery. He had been brought
up in luxury, and had felt it hard enough to be deprived of his
father's means because he would not abandon the mode of life that
was congenial to him. But having been thus, as it were, cast off
by his father, he had resolved that it behoved him to depend only
on himself. In the matter of his love he was specially prone to be
indignant and independent. No one had a right to dictate to him,
and he would follow the dictation of none. To Lucy alone did he
acknowledge any debt, and to her he owed everything. But even for
her sake he could not condescend to accept Sir Thomas's money, and
with his money his advice. Lucy had begged him in her letter to tell
everything to her uncle. He would tell Sir Thomas everything as to
his income, his prospects, and his intentions, because Sir Thomas as
Lucy's uncle would be entitled to such information. But he thought it
very improbable that he should accept any counsel from Sir Thomas.

Such being the condition of Hamel's mind it was to be feared that but
little good would come from his visit to Lombard Street. Lucy had
simply thought that her uncle, out of his enormous stores, would
provide an adequate income. Hamel thought that Sir Thomas, out of his
enormous impudence, would desire to dictate everything. Sir Thomas
was, in truth, anxious to be good-natured, and to do a kindness to
his niece; but was not willing to give his money without being sure
that he was putting it into good hands.

"Oh, you're Hamel," said a young man to him, speaking to him across
the counter in the Lombard Street office. This was Tom, who, as the
reader will remember, had not yet got into his trouble on account of
the policeman.

Tom and Hamel had never met but once before, for a few moments in the
Coliseum at Rome, and the artist, not remembering him, did not know
by whom he was accosted in this familiar manner. "That is my name,
Sir," said Hamel. "Here is my card. Perhaps you will do me the
kindness to take it to Sir Thomas Tringle."

"All right, old fellow; I know all about it. He has got Puxley with
him from the Bank of England just at this moment. Come through into
this room. He'll soon have polished off old Puxley." Tom was no more
to Hamel than any other clerk, and he felt himself to be aggrieved;
but he followed Tom into the room as he was told, and then prepared
to wait in patience for the convenience of the great man. "So you and
Lucy are going to make a match of it," said Tom.

This was terrible to Hamel. Could it be possible that all the clerks
in Lombard Street talked of his Lucy in this way, because she was the
niece of their senior partner? Were all the clerks, as a matter of
course, instructed in the most private affairs of the Tringle family?
"I am here in obedience to directions from Sir Thomas," said Hamel,
ignoring altogether the impudent allusion which the young man had
made.

"Of course you are. Perhaps you don't know who I am?"

"Not in the least," said Hamel.

"I am Thomas Tringle, junior," said Tom, with a little accession of
dignity.

"I beg your pardon; I did not know," said Hamel.

"You and I ought to be thick," rejoined Tom, "because I'm going in
for Ayala. Perhaps you've heard that before?"

Hamel had heard it and was well aware that Tom was to Ayala an
intolerable burden, like the old man of the sea. He had heard of Tom
as poor Ayala's pet aversion,--as a lover not to be shaken off though
he had been refused a score of times. Ayala was to the sculptor only
second in sacredness to Lucy. And now he was told by Tom himself that
he was--"going in for Ayala." The expression was so distressing to
his feelings that he shuddered when he heard it. Was it possible that
any one should say of him that he was "going in" for Lucy? At that
moment Sir Thomas opened the door, and grasping Hamel by the hand led
him away into his own sanctum.

"And now, Mr. Hamel," said Sir Thomas, in his cheeriest voice, "how
are you?" Hamel declared that he was very well, and expressed a hope
that Sir Thomas was the same. "I am not so young as I was, Mr. Hamel.
My years are heavier and so is my work. That's the worst of it. When
one is young and strong one very often hasn't enough to do. I daresay
you find it so sometimes."

"In our profession," said Hamel, "we go on working, though very often
we do not sell what we do."

"That's bad," said Sir Thomas.

"It is the case always with an artist before he has made a name for
himself. It is the case with many up to the last day of a life of
labour. An artist has to look for that, Sir Thomas."

"Dear me! That seems very sad. You are a sculptor, I believe?"

"Yes, Sir Thomas."

"And the things you make must take a deal of room and be very heavy."
At this Mr. Hamel only smiled. "Don't you think if you were to call
an auction you'd get something for them?" At this suggestion the
sculptor frowned but condescended to make no reply. Sir Thomas went
on with his suggestion. "If you and half-a-dozen other beginners made
a sort of gallery among you, people would buy them as they do those
things in the Marylebone Road and stick them up somewhere about their
grounds. It would be better than keeping them and getting nothing."
Hamel had in his studio at home an allegorical figure of Italia
United, and another of a Prostrate Roman Catholic Church, which
in his mind's eye he saw for a moment stuck here or there about
the gardens of some such place as Glenbogie! Into them had been
infused all the poetry of his nature and all the conviction of his
intelligence. He had never dreamed of selling them. He had never
dared to think that any lover of Art would encourage him to put into
marble those conceptions of his genius which now adorned his studio,
standing there in plaster of Paris. But to him they were so valuable,
they contained so much of his thoughts, so many of his aspirations,
that even had the marble counterparts been ordered and paid for
nothing would have induced him to part with the originals. Now he was
advised to sell them by auction in order that he might rival those
grotesque tradesmen whose business it is to populate the gardens of
wealthy but tasteless Britons! It was thus that the idea represented
itself to him. He simply smiled; but Sir Thomas did not fail to
appreciate the smile.

"And now about this young lady?" said Sir Thomas, not altogether in
so good a humour as he had been when he began his suggestion. "It's a
bad look out for her when, as you say, you cannot sell your work when
you've done it."

"I think you do not quite understand the matter, Sir Thomas."

"Perhaps not. It certainly does seem unintelligible that a man should
lumber himself up with a lot of things which he cannot sell. A
tradesman would know that he must get into the bankruptcy court if
he were to go on like that. And what is sauce for the goose will
be sauce for the gander also." Mr. Hamel again smiled but held his
tongue. "If you can't sell your wares how can you keep a wife?"

"My wares, as you call them, are of two kinds. One, though no doubt
made for sale, is hardly saleable. The other is done to order. Such
income as I make comes from the latter."

"Heads," suggested Sir Thomas.

"Busts they are generally called."

"Well, busts. I call them heads. They are heads. A bust, I take it,
is--well, never mind." Sir Thomas found a difficulty in defining his
idea of a bust. "A man wants to have something more or less like some
one to put up in a church and then he pays you."

"Or perhaps in his library. But he can put it where he likes when he
has bought it."

"Just so. But there ain't many of those come in your way, if I
understand right."

"Not as many as I would wish."

"What can you net at the end of the year? That's the question."

Lucy had recommended him to tell Sir Thomas everything; and he had
come there determined to tell at any rate everything referring to
money. He had not the slightest desire to keep the amount of his
income from Sir Thomas. But the questions were put to him in so
distasteful a way that he could not bring himself to be confidential.
"It varies with various circumstances, but it is very small."

"Very small? Five hundred a year?" This was ill-natured, because Sir
Thomas knew that Mr. Hamel did not earn five hundred a year. But he
was becoming acerbated by the young man's manner.

"Oh dear, no," said Hamel.

"Four hundred?"

"Nor four hundred,--nor three. I have never netted three hundred in
one year after paying the incidental expenses."

"That seems to me to be uncommonly little for a young man who is
thinking of marrying. Don't you think you had better give it up?"

"I certainly think nothing of the kind."

"Does your father do anything for you?"

"Nothing at all."

"He also makes heads?"

"Heads,--and other things."

"And sells them when he has made them."

"Yes, Sir Thomas; he sells them. He had a hard time once, but now he
is run after. He refuses more orders than he can accept."

"And he won't do anything for you."

"Nothing. He has quarreled with me."

"That is very bad. Well now, Mr. Hamel, would you mind telling me
what your ideas are?" Sir Thomas, when he asked the question, still
intended to give assistance, was still minded that the young people
should by his assistance be enabled to marry. But he was strongly of
opinion that it was his duty, as a rich and protecting uncle, to say
something about imprudence, and to magnify difficulties. It certainly
would be wrong for an uncle, merely because he was rich, to give
away his money to dependent relatives without any reference to those
hard principles which a possessor of money always feels it to be his
business to inculcate. And up to this point Hamel had done nothing
to ingratiate himself. Sir Thomas was beginning to think that the
sculptor was an impudent prig, and to declare to himself that, should
the marriage ever take place, the young couple would not be made
welcome at Glenbogie or Merle Park. But still he intended to go on
with his purpose, for Lucy's sake. Therefore he asked the sculptor as
to his ideas generally.

"My idea is that I shall marry Miss Dormer, and support her on the
earnings of my profession. My idea is that I shall do so before long,
in comfort. My idea also is, that she will be the last to complain
of any discomfort which may arise from my straitened circumstances
at present. My idea is that I am preparing for myself a happy
and independent life. My idea also is,--and I assure you that of
all my ideas this is the one to which I cling with the fondest
assurance,--that I will do my very best to make her life happy when
she comes to grace my home."

There was a manliness in this which would have touched Sir Thomas
had he been in a better humour, but, as it was, he had been so much
irritated by the young man's manner, that he could not bring himself
to be just. "Am I to understand that you intend to marry on something
under three hundred a year?"

Hamel paused a moment before he made his reply. "How am I to answer
such a question," he said, at last, "seeing that Miss Dormer is in
your hands, and that you are unlikely to be influenced by anything
that I may say?"

"I shall be very much influenced," said Sir Thomas.

"Were her father still alive, I think we should have put our heads
together, and between us decided on what might have been best for
Lucy's happiness."

"Do you think that I'm indifferent to her happiness?" demanded Sir
Thomas.

"I should have suggested to him," continued Hamel, not noticing the
last question, "that she should remain in her own home till I could
make one for her worthy of her acceptance. And then we should have
arranged among us what would have been best for her happiness. I
cannot do this with you. If you tell her to-morrow that she must give
up either your protection or her engagement with me, then she must
come to me, and make the best of all the little that I can do for
her."

"Who says that I'm going to turn her out?" said Sir Thomas, rising
angrily from his chair.

"I do not think that any one has said this of you."

"Then why do you throw it in my teeth?"

"Because your wife has threatened it."

Then Sir Thomas boiled over in his anger. "No one has threatened it.
It is untrue. You are guilty both of impertinence and untruth in
saying so." Here Hamel rose from his chair, and took up his hat.
"Stop, young man, and hear what I have to say to you. I have done
nothing but good to my niece."

"Nevertheless, it is true, Sir Thomas, that she has been told by your
wife that she must either abandon me or the protection of your roof.
I find no fault with Lady Tringle for saying so. It may have been the
natural expression of a judicious opinion. But when you ask after my
intentions in reference to your niece I am bound to tell you that I
propose to subject her to the undoubted inconveniences of my poor
home, simply because I find her to be threatened with the loss of
another."

"She has not been threatened, Sir."

"You had better ask your wife, Sir Thomas. And, if you find that what
I have said is true, I think you will own that I have been obliged to
explain myself as I have done. As you have told me to my face that
I have been guilty of untruth, I shall now leave you." With this he
walked out of the room, and the words which Sir Thomas threw after
him had no effect in recalling him.

It must be acknowledged that Hamel had been very foolish in referring
to Aunt Emmeline's threat. Who does not know that words are
constantly used which are intended to have no real effect? Who does
not know that an angry woman will often talk after this fashion?
But it was certainly the fact that Aunt Emmeline had more than once
declared to Lucy that she could not be allowed to remain one of
that family unless she would give up her lover. Lucy, in her loyal
endeavours to explain to her lover her own position, had told him of
the threat, and he, from that moment, had held himself prepared to
find a home for his future wife should that threat be carried into
execution. Sir Thomas was well aware that such words had been spoken,
but he knew his wife, and knew how little such words signified. His
wife, without his consent, would not have the power to turn a dog
from Merle Park. The threat had simply been an argument intended to
dissuade Lucy from her choice; and now it had been thrown in his
teeth just when he had intended to make provision for this girl, who
was not, in truth, related to him, in order that he might ratify her
choice! He was very angry with the young prig who had thus rushed out
of his presence. He was angry, too, with his wife, who had brought
him into his difficulty by her foolish threat. But he was angry,
also, with himself, knowing that he had been wrong to accuse the man
of a falsehood.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

"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."

CHAPTER XXXV.

TOM TRINGLE SENDS A CHALLENGE.

The next six weeks went on tranquilly at Merle Park without a word
spoken about Hamel. Sir Thomas, who was in the country as little as
possible, showed his scorn to his son-in-law simply by the paucity
of his words, speaking to him, when he did speak to him, with
a deliberate courtesy which Mr. Traffick perfectly understood.
It was that dangerous serenity which so often presages a storm.
"There is something going to be up with your father," he said to
Augusta. Augusta replied that she had never seen her father so civil
before. "It would be a great convenience," continued the Member of
Parliament, "if he could be made to hold his tongue till Parliament
meets; but I'm afraid that's too good to expect." In other respects
things were comfortable at Merle Park, though they were not always
comfortable up in London. Tom, as the reader knows, was misbehaving
himself sadly at the Mountaineers. This was the period of unlimited
champagne, and of almost total absence from Lombard Street. It was
seldom that Sir Thomas could get hold of his son, and when he did
that broken-hearted youth would reply to his expostulations simply
by asserting that if his father would induce Ayala to marry him
everything should go straight in Lombard Street. Then came the final
blow. Tom was of course expected at Merle Park on Christmas Eve,
but did not make his appearance either then or on Christmas Day.
Christmas fell on a Wednesday, and it was intended that the family
should remain in the country till the following Monday. On the
Thursday Sir Thomas went up to town to make inquiries respecting his
heir, as to whom Lady Tringle had then become absolutely unhappy. In
London he heard the disastrous truth. Tom, in his sportive mood, had
caused serious inconvenience to a most respectable policeman, and
was destined to remain another week in the hands of the Philistines.
Then, for a time, all the other Tringle troubles were buried and
forgotten in this great trouble respecting Tom. Lady Tringle was
unable to leave her room during the period of incarceration. Mr.
Traffick promised to have the victim liberated by the direct
interference of the Secretary of State, but failed to get anything
of the kind accomplished. The girls were completely cowed by the
enormity of the misfortune; so that Tom's name was hardly mentioned
except in sad and confidential whispers. But of all the sufferers Sir
Thomas suffered the most. To him it was a positive disgrace, weighing
down every moment of his life. At Travers and Treason he could not
hold up his head boldly and open his mouth loudly as had always been
his wont. At Travers and Treason there was not a clerk who did not
know that "the governor" was an altered man since this misfortune had
happened to the hope of the firm. What passed between Sir Thomas and
his son on the occasion has already been told in a previous chapter.
That Sir Thomas, on the whole, behaved with indulgence must be
acknowledged; but he felt that his son must in truth absent himself
from Lombard Street for a time.

Tom had been advised by his father to go forth and see the world. A
prolonged tour had been proposed to him which to most young men might
seem to have great attraction. To him it would have had attraction
enough, had it not been for Ayala. There would have been hardly any
limit to the allowance made to him, and he would have gone forth
armed with introductions, which would have made every port a happy
home to him. But as soon as the tour was suggested he resolved at
once that he could not move himself to a distance from Ayala. What he
expected,--what he even hoped,--he could not tell himself. But while
Ayala was in London, and Ayala was unmarried, he could not be made to
take himself far away.

He was thoroughly ashamed of himself. He was not at all the man who
could bear a week of imprisonment and not think himself disgraced.
For a day or two he shut himself up altogether in his lodgings, and
never once showed himself at the Mountaineers. Faddle came to him,
but he snubbed Faddle at first, remembering all the severe things his
father had said about the Faddles in general. But he soon allowed
that feeling to die away when the choice seemed to be between Faddle
and solitude. Then he crept out in the dark and ate his dinners with
Faddle at some tavern, generally paying the bill for both of them.
After dinner he would play half-a-dozen games of billiards with his
friend at some unknown billiard-room, and then creep home to his
lodgings,--a blighted human being!

At last, about the end of the first week in January, he was induced
to go down to Merle Park. There Mr. and Mrs. Traffick were still
sojourning, the real grief which had afflicted Sir Thomas having
caused him to postpone his intention in regard to his son-in-law.
At Merle Park Tom was cosseted and spoilt by the women very
injudiciously. It was not perhaps the fact that they regarded him
as a hero simply because he had punched a policeman in the stomach
and then been locked up in vindication of the injured laws of his
country; but that incident in combination with his unhappy love did
seem to make him heroic. Even Lucy regarded him with favour because
of his constancy to her sister; whereas the other ladies measured
their admiration for his persistency by the warmth of their anger
against the silly girl who was causing so much trouble. His mother
told him over and over again that his cousin was not worth his
regard; but then, when he would throw himself on the sofa in an agony
of despair,--weakened perhaps as much by the course of champagne as
by the course of his love,--then she, too, would bid him hope, and at
last promised that she herself would endeavour to persuade Ayala to
look at the matter in a more favourable light. "It would all be right
if it were not for that accursed Stubbs," poor Tom would say to his
mother. "The man whom I called my friend! The man I lent a horse to
when he couldn't get one anywhere else! The man to whom I confided
everything, even about the necklace! If it hadn't been for Stubbs
I never should have hurt that policeman! When I was striking him
I thought that it was Stubbs!" Then the mother would heap feminine
maledictions on the poor Colonel's head, and so together they would
weep and think of revenge.

From the moment Tom had heard Colonel Stubbs's name mentioned as that
of his rival he had meditated revenge. It was quite true when he said
that he had been thinking of Stubbs when he struck the policeman. He
had consumed the period of his confinement in gnashing his teeth, all
in regard to our poor friend Jonathan. He told his father that he
could not go upon his long tour because of Ayala. But in truth his
love was now so mixed up with ideas of vengeance that he did not
himself know which prevailed. If he could first have slaughtered
Stubbs then perhaps he might have started! But how was he to
slaughter Stubbs? Various ideas occurred to his mind. At first
he thought that he would go down to Aldershot with the biggest
cutting-whip he could find in any shop in Piccadilly; but then it
occurred to him that at Aldershot he would have all the British army
against him, and that the British army might do something to him
worse even than the London magistrate. Then he would wait till the
Colonel could be met elsewhere. He ascertained that the Colonel was
still at Stalham, where he had passed the Christmas, and he thought
how it might be if he were to attack the Colonel in the presence of
his friends, the Alburys. He assured himself that, as far as personal
injury went, he feared nothing. He had no disinclination to be hit
over the head himself, if he could be sure of hitting the Colonel
over the head. If it could be managed that they two should fly at
each other with their fists, and be allowed to do the worst they
could to each other for an hour, without interference, he would be
quite satisfied. But down at Stalham that would not be allowed. All
the world would be against him, and nobody there to see that he got
fair play. If he could encounter the man in the streets of London it
would be better; but were he to seek the man down at Stalham he would
probably find himself in the County Lunatic Asylum. What must he do
for his revenge? He was surely entitled to it. By all the laws of
chivalry, as to which he had his own ideas, he had a right to inflict
an injury upon a successful--even upon an unsuccessful--rival. Was it
not a shame that so excellent an institution as duelling should have
been stamped out? Wandering about the lawns and shrubberies at Merle
Park he thought of all this, and at last he came to a resolution.

The institution had been stamped out, as far as Great Britain was
concerned. He was aware of that. But it seemed to him that it had not
been stamped out in other more generous countries. He had happened to
notice that a certain enthusiastic politician in France had enjoyed
many duels, and had never been severely repressed by the laws of his
country. Newspaper writers were always fighting in France, and were
never guillotined. The idea of being hanged was horrible to him,--so
distasteful that he saw at a glance that a duel in England was out
of the question. But to have his head cut off, even if it should
come to that, would be a much less affair. But in Belgium, in Italy,
in Germany, they never did cut off the heads of the very numerous
gentlemen who fought duels. And there were the Southern States of the
American Union, where he fancied that men might fight duels just as
they pleased. He would be ready to go even to New Orleans at a day's
notice if only he could induce Colonel Stubbs to meet him there. And
he thought that, if Colonel Stubbs really possessed half the spirit
which seemed to be attributed to him by the British army generally,
he would come, if properly invoked, and fight such a duel as this,
whether at New Orleans or at some other well-chosen blood-allowing
spot on the world's surface. Tom was prepared to go anywhere for
blood.

But the invocation must be properly made. When he had wanted another
letter of another kind to be written for him, the Colonel himself
was the man to whom he had gone for assistance. And, had his present
enemy been any other than the Colonel himself, he would have gone
to the Colonel in preference to any one else for aid in this matter.
There was no one, in truth, in whom he believed so thoroughly as in
the Colonel. But that was out of the question. Then he reflected
what friend might now stand him in stead. He would have gone to
Houston, who wanted to marry his sister; but Houston seemed to have
disappeared, and he did not know where he might be found. There was
his brother-in-law, Traffick,--but he feared lest Traffick might give
him over once more into the hands of the police. He thought of Hamel,
as being in a way connected with the family; but he had seen so
little of Hamel, and had so much disliked what he had seen, that he
was obliged to let that hope go by. There was no one left but Faddle
whom he could trust. Faddle would do anything he was told to do.
Faddle would carry the letter, no doubt, or allow himself to be named
as a proposed second. But Faddle could not write the letter. He felt
that he could write the letter himself better than Faddle.

He went up to town, having sent a mysterious letter to Faddle,
bidding his friend attend him in his lodgings. He did not yet dare
to go to the Mountaineers, where Faddle would have been found. But
Faddle came, true to the appointment. "What is it, now?" said the
faithful friend. "I hope you are going back to Travers and Treason's.
That is what I should do, and walk in just as though nothing had
happened."

"Not if you were me, you wouldn't."

"That does make a difference, of course."

"There is something else to be done before I can again darken the
doors of Travers and Treason,--if I should ever do so!"

"Something particular?"

"Something very particular. Faddle, I do think you are a true
friend."

"You may say that. I have stuck to you always,--though you don't know
the kind of things my people say to me about it. They say I am going
to ruin myself because of you. The governor threatened to put me out
of the business altogether. But I'm a man who will be true to my
friend, whatever happens. I think you have been a little cool to me,
lately; but even that don't matter."

"Cool! If you knew the state that I'm in you wouldn't talk of a
fellow being cool! I'm so knocked about it all that I don't know what
I'm doing."

"I do take that into consideration."

"Now, I'll tell you what I am going to do." Then he stood still, and
looked Faddle full in the face. Faddle, sitting awe-struck on his
chair, returned the gaze. He knew that a moment of supreme importance
was at hand. "Faddle, I'll shoot that fellow down like a dog."

"Will you, indeed?"

"Like a dog;--if I can get at him. I should have no more compunction
in taking his life than a mere worm. Why should I, when I know that
he has sapped the very juice of my existence?"

"Do you mean,--do you mean,--that you would--murder him?"

"It would not be murder. Of course it might be that he would shoot me
instead. Upon the whole, I think I should like that best."

"Oh; a duel!" said Faddle.

"That's what I mean. Murder him! Certainly not. Though I should like
nothing half so well as to thrash him within an inch of his life.
I would not murder him. My plan is this,--I shall write to him a
letter inviting him to meet me in any corner of the globe that he
may select. Torrid zone or Arctic circle will be all the same to me.
You will have to accompany me as my second." Faddle shivered with
excitement and dread of coming events. Among other ideas there came
the thought that it might be difficult to get back from the Arctic
circle without money if his friend Tom should happen to be shot dead
in that locality. "But first of all," continued Tom, "you will have
to carry a letter."

"To the Colonel?" suggested Faddle.

"Of course. The man is now staying with friends of his named Albury
at a place called Stalham. From what I hear they are howling swells.
Sir Harry Albury is Master of the Hounds, and Lady Albury when she
is up in London has all the Royal Family constantly at her parties.
Stubbs is a cousin of his; but you must go right away up to him among
'em all, and deliver the letter into his hands without minding 'em a
bit."

"Couldn't it go by post?"

"No; this kind of letter musn't go by post. You have to be able to
swear that you delivered it yourself into his own hands. And then you
must wait for an answer. Even though he should want a day to think of
it, you must wait."

"Where am I to stay, Tom?"

"Well; it may be they'll ask you to the house, because, though you
carry the letter for me, you are not supposed to be his enemy. If so,
put a jolly face on it, and enjoy yourself as well as you can. You
must seem, you know, to be just as big a swell as anybody there. But
if they don't ask you, you must go to the nearest inn. I'll pay the
bill."

"Shall I go to-day?" asked Faddle.

"I've got to write the letter first. It'll take a little time, so
that you'd better put it off till to-morrow. If you will leave me
now I'll write it, and if you will come back at six we'll go and
have a bit of dinner at Bolivia's." This was an eating-house in the
neighbourhood of Leicester Square, to which the friends had become
partial during this troubled period of their existence.

"Why not come to the Mountaineers, old boy?" Tom shook his head,
showing that he was not yet up to such festivity as that; and then
Faddle took his departure.

Tom at once got out his pen and paper, and began to write his letter.
It may be imagined that it was not written off-hand, or without many
struggles. When it was written it ran as follows;--

   SIR,

   You will not, I think, be surprised to hear from me in
   anything but a friendly spirit. I went down to you at
   Aldershot as to a friend whom I could trust with my
   bosom's dearest secret, and you have betrayed me. I told
   you of my love, a love which has long burned in my heart,
   and you received my confidence with a smile, knowing all
   the time that you were my rival. I leave it to you to
   say what reply you can make as to conduct so damning, so
   unmanly, so dastardly,--and so very unlike a friend as
   this!

   However, there is no place here for words. You have
   offered me the greatest insult and the greatest injury
   which one man can inflict upon another! There is no
   possibility of an apology, unless you are inclined to
   say that you will renounce for ever your claim upon the
   hand of Miss Ayala Dormer. This I do not expect, and,
   therefore, I call upon you to give me that satisfaction
   which is all that one gentleman can offer to another.
   After the injury you have done me I think it quite
   impossible that you should refuse.

   Of course, I know that duels cannot be fought in England
   because of the law. I am sorry that the law should have
   been altered, because it allows so many cowards to escape
   the punishment they deserve.

Tom, as he wrote this, was very proud of the keenness of the
allusion. "I am quite sure, however, that a man who bears the colours
of a colonel in the British army will not try to get off by such a
pretext." He was proud, too, about the colours.

   France, Belgium, Italy, the United States, and all the
   world, are open! I will meet you wherever you may choose
   to arrange a meeting. I presume that you will prefer
   pistols.

   I send this by the hands of my friend, Mr. Faddle, who
   will be prepared to make arrangements with you, or with
   any friend on your behalf. He will bring back your reply,
   which no doubt will be satisfactory.--I am, Sir, your most
   obedient servant,

   THOMAS TRINGLE, junior.

When, after making various copies, Tom at last read the letter as
finally prepared, he was much pleased with it, doubting whether the
Colonel himself could have written it better, had the task been
confided to his hands. When Faddle came, he read it to him with much
pride, and then committed it to his custody. After that they went out
and ate their dinner at Bolivia's with much satisfaction, but still
with a bearing of deep melancholy, as was proper on such an occasion.

CHAPTER XXXVI.

TOM TRINGLE GETS AN ANSWER.

Faddle as he went down into the country made up his mind that the law
which required such letters to be delivered by hand was an absurd
law. The post would have done just as well, and would have saved a
great deal of trouble. These gloomy thoughts were occasioned by a
conviction that he could not carry himself easily or make himself
happy among such "howling swells" as these Alburys. If they should
invite him to the house the matter would be worse that way than the
other. He had no confidence in his dress coat, which he was aware
had been damaged by nocturnal orgies. It is all very well to tell a
fellow to be as "big a swell" as anybody else, as Tom had told him.
But Faddle acknowledged to himself the difficulty of acting up to
such advice. Even the eyes of Colonel Stubbs turned upon him after
receipt of the letter would oppress him.

Nevertheless he must do his best, and he took a gig at the station
nearest to Albury. He was careful to carry his bag with him, but
still he lived in hope that he would be able to return to London the
same day. When he found himself within the lodges of Stalham Park
he could hardly keep himself from shivering, and, when he asked the
footman at the door whether Colonel Stubbs were there, he longed to
be told that Colonel Stubbs had gone away on the previous day to
some--he did not care what--distant part of the globe. But Colonel
Stubbs had not gone away. Colonel Stubbs was in the house.

Our friend the Colonel had not suffered as Tom had suffered since his
rejection;--but nevertheless he had been much concerned. He had set
his heart upon Ayala before he had asked her, and could not bring
himself to change his heart because she had refused him. He had
gone down to Aldershot and had performed his duties, abstaining for
the present from repeating his offer. The offer of course must be
repeated, but as to the when, the where, and the how, he had not as
yet made up his mind. Then Tom Tringle had come to him at Aldershot
communicating to him the fact that he had a rival;--and also the
other fact that the other rival like himself had hitherto been
unsuccessful. It seemed improbable to him that such a girl as
Ayala should attach herself to such a man as her cousin Tom. But
nevertheless he was uneasy. He regarded Tom Tringle as a miracle of
wealth, and felt certain that the united efforts of the whole family
would be used to arrange the match. Ayala had refused him also, and
therefore, up to the present moment, the chances of the other man
were no better than his own. When Tom left him at Aldershot he hardly
remembered that Tom knew nothing of his secret, whereas Tom had
communicated to him his own. It never for a moment occurred to him
that Tom would quarrel with him; although he had seen that the poor
fellow had been disgusted because he had refused to write the letter.

On Christmas Eve he had gone down to Stalham, and there he had
remained discussing the matter of his love with Lady Albury. To no
one else in the house had the affair been mentioned, and by Sir Harry
he was supposed to remain there only for the sake of the hunting.
With Sir Harry he was of all guests the most popular, and thus it
came to pass that his prolonged presence at Stalham was not matter
of special remark. Much of his time he did devote to hunting, but
there were half hours devoted in company with Lady Albury to Ayala's
perfection and Ayala's obstinacy.

Lady Albury was almost inclined to think that Ayala should be given
up. Married ladies seldom estimate even the girls they like best at
their full value. It seems to such a one as Lady Albury almost a
pity that such a one as Colonel Stubbs should waste his energy upon
anything so insignificant as Ayala Dormer. The speciality of the
attraction is of course absent to the woman, and unless she has
considered the matter so far as to be able to clothe her thoughts in
male vestments, as some women do, she cannot understand the longing
that is felt for so small a treasure. Lady Albury thought that young
ladies were very well, and that Ayala was very well among young
ladies; but Ayala in getting Colonel Stubbs for a husband would, as
Lady Albury thought, have received so much more than her desert that
she was now almost inclined to be angry with the Colonel. "My dear
friend," he said to her one day, "you might as well take it for
granted. I shall go after my princess with all the energy which a
princess merits."

"The question is whether she be a princess," said Lady Albury.

"Allow me to say that that is a point on which I cannot admit a
doubt. She is a princess to me, and just at present I must be
regarded as the only judge in the matter."

"She shall be a goddess, if you please," said Lady Albury.

"Goddess, princess, pink, or pearl;--any name you please supposed to
convey perfection shall be the same to me. It may be that she is in
truth no better, or more lovely, or divine, than many another young
lady who is at the present moment exercising the heart of many
another gentleman. You know enough of the world to be aware that
every Jack has his Gill. She is my Gill, and that's an end of it."

"I hope then that she may be your Gill."

"And, in order that she may, you must have her here again. I should
absolutely not know how to go to work were I to find myself in the
presence of Aunt Dosett in Kingsbury Crescent." In answer to this
Lady Albury assured him that she would be quite willing to have the
girl again at Stalham if it could be managed. She was reminding him,
however, how difficult it had been on a previous occasion to overcome
the scruples of Mrs. Dosett, when a servant brought in word to
Colonel Stubbs that there was a man in the hall desirous of seeing
him immediately on particular business. Then the servant presented
our friend Faddle's card.

   MR. SAMUEL FADDLE,
   1, Badminton Gardens.

"Yes, Sir;" said the servant. "He says he has a letter which he must
put into your own particular hands."

"That looks like a bailiff," said Lady Albury, laughing. Colonel
Stubbs, declaring that he had no special reason to be afraid of any
bailiff, left the room and went down into the hall.

At Stalham the real hall of the house was used as a billiard-room,
and here, leaning against the billiard table, the Colonel found
poor Faddle. When a man is compelled by some chance circumstance to
address another man whom he does not know, and whom by inspection he
feels he shall never wish to know, he always hardens his face, and
sometimes also his voice. So it was with the Colonel when he looked
at Faddle. A word he did say, not in words absolutely uncivil, as to
the nature of the business in hand. Then Faddle, showing his emotion
by a quaver in his voice, suggested that as the matter was one of
extreme delicacy some more private apartment might be provided. Upon
this Stubbs led the way into a little room which was for the most
part filled with hunting-gear, and offered the stranger one of the
three chairs which it contained. Faddle sat down, finding himself
so compelled, though the Colonel still remained standing, and then
extracted the fatal epistle from his pocket. "Colonel Stubbs," said
he, handing up the missive, "I am directed by my friend, Mr. Thomas
Tringle, junior, to put this letter into your own hand. When you have
read it I shall be ready to consult with you as to its contents."
These few words he had learnt by heart on his journey down, having
practised them continually.

The Colonel took the letter, and turning to the window read it with
his back to the visitor. He read it twice from beginning to end in
order that he might have time to resolve whether he would laugh aloud
at both Faddle and Tringle, or whether it might not be better to
endeavour to soften the anger of poor Tom by a message which should
be at any rate kindly worded. "This is from my friend, Tom Tringle,"
he said.

"From Mr. Thomas Tringle, junior," said Faddle, proudly.

"So I perceive. I am sorry to think that he should be in so much
trouble. He is one of the best fellows I know, and I am really
grieved that he should be unhappy. This, you know, is all nonsense."

"It is not nonsense at all, Colonel Stubbs."

"You must allow me to be the judge of that, Mr. Faddle. It is at
any rate nonsense to me. He wants me to go somewhere and fight a
duel,--which I should not do with any man under any circumstances.
Here there is no possible ground for any quarrel whatsoever,--as
I will endeavour to explain, myself, to my friend, Mr. Tringle. I
shall be sure to write to him at once,--and so I will bid you good
afternoon."

But this did not at all suit poor Faddle after so long a journey.
"I thought it probable that you would write, Colonel Stubbs, and
therefore I am prepared to wait. If I cannot be accommodated here I
will wait,--will wait elsewhere."

"That will not be at all necessary. We have a post to London twice a
day."

"You must be aware, Colonel Stubbs, that letters of this sort should
not be sent by post."

"The kind of letter I shall write may be sent by post very well. It
will not be bellicose, and therefore there can be no objection."

"I really think, Colonel Stubbs, that you are making very little of a
very serious matter."

"Mr. Faddle, I really must manage my own affairs after my own way.
Would you like a glass of sherry? If not, I need hardly ask you to
stay here any longer." Upon that he went out into the billiard-room
and rang the bell. Poor Faddle would have liked the glass of sherry,