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 anyone 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 anyone 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 like 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 hardhearted 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 ot............