On the following morning, the morning of Monday, 2nd September, Isadore Hamel started on his journey. He had thought much about the journey before he made it. No doubt the door had been slammed in his face in London. He felt quite conscious of that, and conscious also that a man should not renew his attempt to enter a door when it has been once slammed in his face. But he understood the circumstances nearly as they had happened — except that he was not aware how far the door had been slammed by Lady Tringle without any concurrence on the part of Sir Thomas. But the door had, at any rate, not been slammed by Lucy. The only person he had really wished to see within that house had been Lucy Dormer; and he had hitherto no reason for supposing that she would be unwilling to receive him. Her face had been sweet and gracious when she saw him in the Park. Was he to deny himself all hope of any future intercourse with her because Lady Tringle had chosen to despise him? He must make some attempt. It was more than probable, no doubt, that this attempt would be futile. The servant at Glenbogie would probably be as well instructed as the servant in Queen’s Gate. But still a man has to go on and do something, if he means to do anything. There could be no good in sitting up at Drumcaller, at one side of the lake, and thinking of Lucy Dormer far away, at the other side. He had not at all made up his mind that he would ask Lucy to be his wife. His professional income was still poor, and she, as he was aware, had nothing. But he felt it to be incumbent upon him to get nearer to her if it were possible, and to say something to her if the privilege of speech should be accorded to him.
He walked down to Callerfoot, refusing the loan of the Colonel’s pony carriage, and thence had himself carried across the lake in a hired boat to a place called Sandy’s Quay. That, he was assured, was the spot on the other side from whence the nearest road would be found to Glenbogie. But nobody on the Callerfoot side could tell him what would be the distance. At Sandy’s Quay he was assured that it was twelve miles to Glenbogie House; but he soon found that the man who told him had a pony for hire. “Ye’ll nae get there under twalve mile — or maybe saxteen, if ye attampt to walk up the glin.” So said the owner of the pony. But milder information came to him speedily. A little boy would show him the way up the glen for sixpence, and engage to bring him to the house in an hour and a half. So he started with the little boy, and after a hot scramble for about two hours he found himself within the demesne. Poking their way up through thick bushes from a ravine, they showed their two heads — first the boy and then the sculptor — close by the side of the private road — just as Sir Thomas was passing, mounted on his cob. “It’s his ain sell,” said the boy, dropping his head again amongst the bushes.
Hamel, when he had made good his footing, had first to turn round so that the lad might not lose his wages. A dirty little hand came up for the sixpence, but the head never appeared again. It was well known in the neighbourhood — especially at Sandy’s Quay, where boats were used to land — that Sir Thomas was not partial to visitors who made their way into Glenbogie by any but the authorised road. While Hamel was paying his debt, he stood still on his steed waiting to see who might be the trespasser. “That’s not a high road,” said Sir Thomas, as the young man approached him. As the last quarter of an hour from the bottom of the ravine had been occupied in very stiff climbing among the rocks the information conveyed appeared to Hamel to have been almost unnecessary. “Your way up to the house, if you are going there, would have been through the lodge down there.”
“Perhaps you are Sir Thomas Tringle,” said Hamel.
“That is my name.”
“Then I have to ask your pardon for my mode of ingress. I am going up to the house; but having crossed the lake from Callerfoot I did not know my way on this side, and so I have clambered up the ravine.” Sir Thomas bowed, and then waited for further tidings. “I believe Miss Dormer is at the house?”
“My niece is there.”
“My name is Hamel — Isadore Hamel. I am a sculptor, and used to be acquainted with her father. I have had great kindness from the whole family, and so I was going to call upon her. If you do not object, I will go on to the house.”
Sir Thomas sat upon his horse speechless for a minute. He had to consider whether he did not object or not. He was well aware that his wife objected — aware also that he had declined to coincide with his wife’s objection when it had been pressed upon him. Why should not his niece have the advantage of a lover, if a proper sort of a lover came in her way? As to the father’s morals or the son’s birth, those matters to Sir Thomas were nothing. The young man, he was told, was good at making busts. Would anyone buy the busts when they were made? That was the question. His wife would certainly be prejudiced — would think it necessary to reject for Lucy any suitor she would reject for her own girls. And then, as Sir Thomas felt, she had not shown great judgment in selecting suitors for her own girls. “Oh, Mr Hamel, are you?” he said at last.
“Isadore Hamel.”
“You called at Queen’s Gate once, not long ago?”
“I did,” said Hamel; but saw no one.
“No, you didn’t; I heard that. Well, you can go on to the house if you like, but you had better ask for Lady Tringle. After coming over from Callerfoot you’ll want some lunch. Stop a moment. I don’t mind if I ride back with you.” And so the two started towards the house, and Hamel listened whilst Sir Thomas expatiated on the beauties of Glenbogie.
They had passed through one gate and were approaching another, when, away among the trees, there was a young lady seen walking alone. “There is Miss Dormer,” said Hamel; I suppose I may join her?” Sir Thomas could not quite make up his mind whether the meeting was to be allowed or not, but he could not bring himself at the spur of the moment to refuse his sanction. So Hamel made his way across to Lucy, while Sir Thomas rode on alone to the house.
Lucy had seen her uncle on the cob, and, being accustomed to see him on the cob, knew of course who he was. She had also seen another man with him, but not in the least expecting that Hamel was in those parts, had never dreamt that he was her uncle’s companion. It was not till Hamel was near to her that she understood that the man was coming to join herself; and then, when she did recognise the man, she was lost in amazement. “You hardly expected to see me here?” said he.
“Indeed; no.”
“Nor did I expect that I should find you in this way.”
“My uncle knows it is you?” asked Lucy.
“Oh, yes. I met him as I came up from the ravine, and he has asked me to go on to the house to lunch.” Then there was silence for a few moments as they walked on together. “I hope you do not think that I am persecuting you in making my way over here.”
“Oh, no; not persecuting!” Lucy when she heard the sound of what she herself had said, was angry with herself, feeling that she had almost declared him guilty of some wrong in having come thither. “Of course I am glad to see you”, she added, for papa’s sake, but I’m afraid — ”
“Afraid of what, Miss Dormer?”
She looked him full in the face as she answered him, collecting her courage to make the declaration which seemed to be necessary. “My Aunt Emmeline does not want you to come.”
“Why should she not want me?”
“That I cannot tell. Perhaps if I did know I should not tell. But it is so. You called at Queen’s Gate, and I know that you were not admitted, though I was at home. Of course, Aunt Emmeline has a right to choose who shall come. It is not as though I had a house of my own.”
“But Sir Thomas asked me in.”
“Then you had better go in. After what Aunt Emmeline said, I do not think that you ought to remain with me.”
“Your uncle knows I am with you,” said Hamel. Then they walked on towards the house together in silence for a while. “Do you mean to say”, he continued, “that because your aunt objects you are never to see me again?”
“I hope I shall see you again. You were papa’s friend, and I should be so very sorry not to see you again.”
“I suppose”, he said, slowly, I can never be more than your papa’s friend.”
“You are mine also.”
“I would be more than that.” Then he paused as if waiting for a reply, but she of course had none to make. “I would be so much more than that, Lucy.” Still she had no answer to give him. But there comes a time when no answer is as excellent eloquence as any words that can be spoken. Hamel, who had probably not thought much of this, was nevertheless at once informed by his instincts that it was so. “Oh, Lucy,” he said, if you can love me say so.
“Mr Hamel,” she whispered.
“Lucy.”
“Mr Hamel, I told you............