It was now the middle of January, and Gertrude Tringle had received no reply from her lover to the overture which she had made him. Nor, indeed, had she received any letter from him since that to which this overture had been a reply. It was now two months since her proposition had been made, and during that time her anger had waxed very hot against Mr Houston. After all, it might be a question whether Mr Houston was worth all the trouble which she, with her hundred thousand pounds, was taking on his behalf. She did not like the idea of abandoning him, because, by doing so, she would seem to yield to her father. Having had a young man of her own, it behoved her to stick to her young man in spite of her parents. But what is a girl to do with a lover who, at the end of two months, has made no reply to an offer from herself that he should run away with her, and take her to Ostend? She was in this frame of mind when, lo and behold, she found her own letter, still inclosed in her own envelope — but opened, and thrust in among her father’s papers. It was evident enough that the letter had never passed from out of the house. There had been treachery on the part of some servant — or perhaps her father might have condescended to search the little box — or, more probable still, Augusta had betrayed her! Then she reflected that she had communicated her purpose to her sister, that her sister had abstained from any questions since the letter had been written, and that her sister, therefore, no doubt, was the culprit. There, however, was the letter, which had never reached her lover’s hands, and, as a matter of course, her affections returned with all their full ardour to the unfortunate ill-used man. That her conduct was now watched would, she thought, be a matter of course. Her father knew her purpose, and, like stern parents in general, would use all his energies to thwart it. Sir Thomas had, in truth, thought but little about the matter since he had first thrust the letter away. Tom’s troubles, and the disgrace brought by them upon Travers and Treason generally, had so occupied his mind that he cared but little for Gertrude and her lover. But Gertrude had no doubt that she was closely watched, and in these circumstances was driven to think how she could best use her wits so as to countermine her father. To run away from Queen’s Gate would, she thought, be more difficult, and more uncomfortable, than to perform the same operation at Merle Park. It was intended that the family should remain in the country, at any rate, till Easter, and Gertrude resolved that there might yet be time for another effort before Easter should be past, if only she could avoid those hundred Argus eyes, which were, no doubt, fixed upon her from all sides.
She prepared another letter to her lover, which she addressed to him at his club in London. In this she told him nothing of her former project, except that a letter written by her in November had fallen in to the hands of enemies. Then she gave him to understand that there was need of the utmost caution; but that, if adequate caution were used, she did not doubt they might succeed. She said nothing about her great project, but suggested to him that he should run down into Sussex, and meet her at a certain spot indicated, outside the Park palings, half an hour after dusk. It might be, she said, impossible that the meeting should be effected, but she thought that she could so manage as to leave the house unwatched at the appointed hour. With the object of being especially safe she began and concluded her letter without any names, and then managed to deposit it herself in the box of the village post-office.
Houston, when he received this letter, at once made up his mind that he would not be found on the outer side of the Park palings on the evening named. He told himself that he was too old for the romance of love-making, and that should he be received, when hanging about in the dark, by some custodian with a cudgel, he would have nothing to thank but his own folly. He wrote back therefore to say that he regarded the outside of the Park palings as indiscreet, but that he would walk up through the lodge gate to the house at three o’clock in the afternoon of the day named, and he would take it as an additional mark of her favour if she would meet him on the road. Gertrude had sent him a mysterious address; he was to direct the letter to “O.P.Q., Post Office, Hastings,” and she was prepared to hire a country boy to act as Love’s messenger on the occasion. But of this instruction Frank took no notice, addressing the letter to Merle Park in the usual way.
Gertrude received her letter without notice from anyone. On that occasion Argus, with all his eyes, was by chance asleep. She was very angry with her lover — almost determined to reject him altogether, almost disposed to yield to her angry parents and look out for some other lover who might be accepted in better part; but still, when the day came she put on her hat and walked down the road towards the lodge.
As Fortune had it — Fortune altogether unfavourable to those perils for which her soul was longing — no one watched her, no one dogged her steps, no one took any notice of her, till she met Frank Houston when he had passed about a hundred yards through the gates. “And so you have come,” she said.
“Oh, yes; I have come. I was sure to come when I said so. No man is more punctual than I am in these matters. I should have come before — only I did not get your letter.”
“Oh, Frank!”
“Well, my darling. You are looking uncommonly well, and I am so glad to see you. How are they all?”
“Frank!”
“What is it?”
“Oh, Frank, what are we to do?”
“The governor will give way at last, I should say.”
“Never — that is while we are as we are now. If we were married — ”
“Ah — I wish we were! Wouldn’t it be nice?”
“Do you really think so?”
“Of course I do. I’m ready tomorrow for the matter of that.”
“But could you do something great?”
“Something great! As to earning my bread, you mean? I do not think I could do that. I didn’t turn my hand to it early enough.”
“I wasn’t thinking of — your bread.”
“You said — could I do something great?”
“Frank, I wrote you a letter and described it all. How I got the courage to do it I do not know. I feel as though I could not bring myself to say it now. I wonder whether you would have the courage.”
“I should say so. I don’t know quite what sort of thing it is; but I generally have pluck enough for anything in a common way.”
“This is something in an uncommon way.”
“I couldn’t break open Travers and Treason, and get at the safe, or anything in that way.”
“It is another sort of safe of which you must break the lock, Frank; another treasure you must steal. Do you not understand me?”
“Not in the least.”
“There is Tom,” said Gertrude. He is always wandering about the place now like a ghost. Let us go back to the gate.” Then Frank turned. “You heard, I suppose, of that dreadful affair about the policeman.”
“There was a row, I was told.”
“Did you feel that the family were disgraced?”
“Not in the least. He had to pay five shillings — hadn’t he — for telling a policeman to go about his business?”
“He was — locked up,” said Gertrude, solemnly.
“It’s just the same. Nobody thinks anything about that kind of thing. Now, what is it I have got to do? We had better turn back again as soon as we can, because I must go up to the house before I go.”
“You will?”
“Certainly. I will not leave it to your father to say that I came skulking about the place, and was ashamed to show my face. That would not be the way to make him give you your money.”
“I am sure he’d give it — if we were once married.”
“If we were married without having it assured beforehand we should look very blue if things went wrong afterwards.”
“I asked you whether you had courage.”
“Courage enough, I think, when my body is concerned; but I am an awful coward in regard to money. I wouldn’t mind hashed mutton and baked potatoes for myself, but I shouldn’t like to see you eating them, dearest, after all the luxuries to which you have been accustomed.”
“I should think nothing of it.”
“Did you ever try? I never came absolutely to hashed mutton, but I’ve known how very uncomfortable it is not to be able to pay for the hot joints. I’m willing to own honestly that married life without an income would not have attractions for me.”
“But if it was sure to come?”
“Ah, then indeed — with you! I have just said how nice it would be.”
“Have you ever been at Ostend?” she asked, suddenly.
“Ostend. Oh, yes. There was a man there who used to cheat horribly at écarté. He did me out of nearly a hundred pounds one night.”
“But there’s a clergyman there, I’m told.”
“I don’t think this man was in orders. But he might have been. Parsons come out in so many shapes! This man called himself a count. It was seven years ago.”
“I am speaking of today.”
“I’ve not been there since.”
“Would you like to go there — with me?”
“It isn’t a nice sort of place, I should say, for a honeymoon. But you shall choose. When we are married you shall go where you like.”
