While Gertrude was still away on her ill-omened voyage in quest of a parson, Lady Tringle was stirred up to a great enterprise on behalf of her unhappy son. There wanted now little more than a fortnight before the starting of the ship which his father still declared should carry him out across the world, and he had progressed so far in contemplating the matter as to own to himself that it would be best for him to obey his father if there was no hope. But his mind was still swayed by a theory of love and constancy. He had heard of men who had succeeded after a dozen times of asking. If Stubbs, the hated but generous Stubbs, were in truth a successful rival, then indeed the thing would be over — then he would go, the sooner the better; and, as he told his mother half a dozen times a day, it would matter nothing to him whether he were sent to Japan, or the Rocky Mountains, or the North Pole. In such a case he would be quite content to go, if only for the sake of going. But how was he to be sure? He was, indeed, nearly sure in the other direction. If Ayala were in truth engaged to Colonel Stubbs it would certainly be known through Lucy. Then he had heard, through Lucy, that, though Ayala was staying at Stalham, the Colonel was not there. He had gone, and Ayala had remained week after week without him. Then, towards the end of March, he wrote a letter to his Uncle Reginald, which was very piteous in its tone:

DEAR UNCLE REGINALD , [the letter said]

I don’t know whether you have heard of it, but I have been very ill — and unhappy. I am now in bed, and nobody here knows that I am sending this letter to you. It is all about Ayala, and I am not such a fool as to suppose that you can do anything for me. If you could I think you would — but of course you can’t. She must choose for herself — only I do so wish that she should choose me. Nobody would ever be more kind to her. But you can tell me really how it is. Is she engaged to marry Colonel Stubbs? I know that she refused him, because he told me so himself. If she is not engaged to him I think that I would have another shy at it. You know what the poet says — “Faint heart never won fair lady”. Do tell me if she is or is not engaged. I know that she is with those Alburys, and that Colonel Stubbs is their friend. But they can’t make her marry Colonel Stubbs any more than my friends can make her marry me. I wish they could. I mean my friends, not his.

“If she were really engaged I would go away and hide myself in the furthermost corner of the world. Siberia or Central Africa would be the same to me. They would have little trouble in getting rid of me if I knew that it was all over with me. BUT I WILL NEVER STIR FROM THESE REALMS TILL I KNOW MY FATE !

Therefore, waiting your reply, I am your affectionate nephew, THOMAS TRINGLE , junior

Mr Dosett, when he received this letter, consulted his wife before he replied to it, and then did so very shortly:

MY DEAR TOM ,

As far as I know, or her aunt, your cousin Ayala is not engaged to marry anyone. But I should deceive you if I did not add my belief that she is resolved not to accept the offer you have done her the honour to make her.

Your affectionate uncle, REGINALD DOSETT

The latter portion of this paragraph had no influence whatsoever on Tom. Did he not know all that before? Had he ever attempted to conceal from his relations the fact that Ayala had refused him again and again? Was not that as notorious to the world at large as a minister’s promise that the income-tax should be abolished? But the income-tax was not abolished — and, as yet, Ayala was not married to anyone else. Ayala was not even engaged to any other suitor. Why should she not change her mind as well as the minister? Certainly he would not go either to the North Pole or to New York as long as there should be a hope of bliss for him in England. Then he called his mother to his bedside.

“Go to Stalham, my dear!” said his mother.

“Why not? They can’t eat you. Lady Albury is no more than a Baronet’s wife — just the same as you.”

“It isn’t about eating me, Tom. I shouldn’t know what to say to them.”

“You need not tell them anything. Say that you had come to call upon your niece.”

“But it would be such an odd thing to do. I never do call on Ayala — even when I am in London.”

“What does it matter being odd? You could learn the truth at any rate. If she does not care for anyone else why shouldn’t she have me? I could make her a baronet’s wife — that is, some day when the governor — ”

“Don’t, Tom — don’t talk in that way.”

“I only mean in the course of nature. Sons do come after their fathers, you know. And as for money, I suppose the governor is quite as rich as those Alburys.”

“I don’t think that would matter.”

“It does count, mother. I suppose Ayala is the same as other girls in that respect. I am sure I don’t know why it is that she should have taken such an aversion to me. I suppose it is that she doesn’t think me so much — quite such a swell as some other men.”

“One can’t account for such things, Tom.”

“No — that is just it. And therefore she might come round without accounting for it. At any rate, you might try. You might tell her that it is ruining me — that I shall have to go about wandering over all the world because she is so hardhearted.”

“I don’t think I could, my dear,” said Lady Tringle, after considering the matter for a while.

“Why not? Is it because of the trouble?”

“No, my dear; a mother does not think what trouble she may take for her child, if any good may be done. It is not the trouble. I would walk all round England to get her for you if that would do it.”

“Why not, then? At any rate you might get an answer from her. She would tell you something of her intention. Mother, I shall never go away till I know more about it than I do now. The governor says that he will turn me out. Let him turn me out. That won’t make me go away.”

“Oh, Tom, he doesn’t mean it.”

“But he says it. If I knew that it was all over — that every chance was gone, then I would go away.”

“It is not the Alburys that I am afraid of,” said Lady Tringle.

“What then?”

“It is your father. I cannot go if he will not let me.” Nevertheless she promised before she left his bedside that she would ask Sir Thomas when he came home whether he would permit her to make the journey. All this occurred while Sir Thomas was away in quest of his daughter. And it may be imagined that immediately after his return he was hardly in a humour to yield to any such request as that which had been suggested. He was for the moment almost sick of his children, sick of Merle Park, sick of his wife, and inclined to think that the only comfort to be found in the world was to be had among his millions, in that little back parlour in Lombard Street.

It was on a Sunday that he returned, and on that day he did not see his son. On the Monday morning he went into the room, and Tom was about to press upon him the prayer which he had addressed to his mother when his lips were closed by his father’s harshness. “Tom,” he said, you will be pleased to remember that you start on the nineteenth.”

“But, father — ”

“You start on the nineteenth,” said Sir Thomas. Then he left the room, closing the door behind him with none of the tenderness generally accorded to an invalid.

“You have not asked him?” Tom said to his mother shortly afterwards.

“Not yet, my dear. His mind is so disturbed by this unfortunate affair.”

“And is not my mind disturbed? You may tell him that I will not go, though he should turn me out a dozen times, unless I know more about it than I do now.”

Sir Thomas came home again that evening, very sour in temper, and nothing could be said to him. He was angry with everybody, and Lady Tringle hardly dared to go near him, either then or on the following morning. On the Tuesday evening, however, he returned somewhat softened in his demeanour. The millions had perhaps gone right, though his children would go so wrong. When he spoke either to his younger daughter or of her he did so in that jeering tone which he afterwards always assumed when allusion was made to Captain Batsby, and which, disagreeable as it was, seemed to imply something of forgiveness. And he ate his dinner, and drank his glass of wine, without making any allusion to the parsimonious habits of his son-in-law, Mr Traffick. Lady Tringle, therefore, considered that she might approach him with Tom’s request.

“You go to Stalham!” he exclaimed.

“Well, my dear, I suppose I could see her?”

“And what could you learn from her?”

“I don’t suppose I could learn much. She was always a pigheaded, stiff-necked creature. I am sure it wouldn’t be any pleasure to me to see her.”

“What good would it do?” demanded Sir Thomas.

“Well, my dear; he says that he won’t go unless he can get a message from her. I am sure I don’t want to go to Stalham. Nothing on earth could be so disagreeable. But perhaps I could bring back a word or two which would make him go upon his journey.”

“What sort of word?”

............