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.
“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.
“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.
“Mr Hamel, I told you about Aunt Emmeline. She will not allow it. I ought not to have let you speak to me like this, while I am staying here.”
“But your uncle knows I am with you.”
“My aunt does not know. We must go to the house. She expressly desired that I would not speak to you.”
“And you will obey her — always?”
“No; not always. I did not say that I should obey her always. Some day, perhaps, I shall do as I think fit myself.”
“And then you will speak to me?”
“Then I will speak to you,” she said.
“And love me?”
“And love you,” she answered, again looking him full in the face. “But now pray, pray let us go on.” For he had stopped her awhile amidst the trees, and had put out his hand as though to take hers, and had opened his arms as though he would embrace her. But she passed on quickly, and hardly answered his further questions till they found themselves together in the hall of the house.
Then they met Lady Tringle, who was just passing into the room where the lunch was laid, and following her were Augusta, Gertrude, and the Honourable Septimus Traffick. For, though Frank Houston had found himself compelled to go at the day named, the Honourable Septimus had contrived to squeeze out another week. Augusta was indeed still not without hope that the paternal hospitality of Glenbogie might be prolonged till dear Merle Park should once again open her portals. Sir Thomas had already passed into the dining-room, having in a gruff voice informed his wife that he had invited Mr Hamel to come in to lunch. “Mr Hamel!” she had exclaimed. Yes, Mr Hamel. I could not see the man starving when he had come all this way. I don’t know anything against him.” Then he had turned away, and had gone into the dining-room, and was now standing with his back to the empty fireplace, determined to take Mr Hamel’s part if any want of courtesy were shown to him.
It certainly was hard upon Lady Tringle. She frowned and was going to walk on without any acknowledgment, when Lucy timidly went through a form of introduction. “Aunt Emmeline, this is Mr Hamel. Uncle Tom met him somewhere in the grounds and has asked him to come to luncheon.” Then Lady Tringle curtseyed and made a bow. The curtsey and the bow together were sufficient to have crushed the heart of any young man who had not been comforted and exalted by such words as Isadore had heard from Lucy’s lips not five minutes since. “And love you,” she had said. After that Lady Tringle might curtsey and bow as she would, and he could still live uncrushed. After the curtsey and the bow Lady Tringle passed on. Lucy fell into the rank behind Gertrude; and then Hamel afterwards took his place behind the Honourable Septimus. “If you will sit there, Mr Hamel,” said Lady Tringle, pointing to a chair, across the table, obliquely, at the greatest possible distance from that occupied by Lucy. There he was stationed between Mr Traffick and Sir Thomas. But now, in his present frame of mind, his position at the table made very little difference to him.
The lunch was eaten in grim silence. Sir Thomas was not a man profuse with conversation at his meals, and at this moment was ill-inclined for any words except what he might use in scolding his wife for being uncivil to his guest. Lady Tringle sat with her head erect, hardly opening her mouth sufficiently to allow the food to enter it. It was her purpose to show her displeasure at Mr Hamel, and she showed it. Augusta took her mother’s part, thoroughly despising the two Dormer girls and any lover that they might have. Poor Gertrude had on that morning been violently persecuted by a lecture as to Frank Houston’s impecuniosity. Lucy of course would not speak. The Honourable Septimus was anxious chiefly about his lunch — somewhat anxious also to offend neither the master nor the mistress of Merle Park. Hamel made one or two little efforts to extract answers from Sir Thomas, but soon found that Sir Thomas would prefer to be left in silence. What did it signify to him? He had done all that he wanted, and much more than he had expected.
The rising and getting away from luncheon is always a difficulty — so great a difficulty when there are guests that lunch should never be much a company festival. There is no provision for leaving the table as there is at dinner. But on this occasion Lady Tringle extemporised provision the first moment in which they had all ceased to eat. “Mr Hamel,” she said very loudly, “would you like some cheese?” Mr Hamel, with a little start, declared that he wanted no cheese. “Then, my dears, I think we will go into my room. Lucy, will you come with me?” Upon this the four ladies all went out in procession, but her ladyship was careful that Lucy should go first so that there might be no possibility of escape. Augusta and Gertrude followed her. The minds of all the four were somewhat perturbed; but among the four Lucy’s heart was by far the lightest.
“Are you staying over with Stubbs at that cottage?” asked the Honourable Septimus. “A very queer fellow is Stubbs.”
“A very good fellow,” said Hamel.
“I dare say. He hasn’t got any shooting?”
“I think not.”
“Not a head. Glentower wouldn’t let an acre of shooting over there for any money.” This was the Earl of Glentower, to whom belonged an enormous tract of country on the other side of the lake. “What on earth does he do with himself stuck up on the top of those rocks?”
“He does shoot sometimes, I believe, when Lord Glentower is there.”
“That’s a poor kind of fun, waiting to be asked for a day,” said the Honourable Septimus, who rarely waited for anything till he was asked. “Does he get any fishing?”
“He catches a few trout sometimes in the tarns above. But I fancy that Stubbs isn’t much devoted to shooting and fishing.”
“Then what the d — does he do with himself in such a country as this?” Hamel shrugged his shoulders, not caring to say that what with walking, what with reading and writing, his friend could be as happy as the day was long in such a place as Drumcaller.
“Is he a Liberal?”
“A what?” asked Hamel. Oh, a Liberal? Upon my word I don’t know what he is. He is chiefly given to poetry, tobacco, and military matters.” Then the Honourable Septimus turned up his nose in disgust, and ceased his cross-examination as to the character and pursuits of Colonel Jonathan Stubbs.
“Sir Thomas, I am very much obliged to you for your kindness,” said Hamel, getting up suddenly. “As it is a long way over to Drumcaller I think I will make a start. I know my way down the Glen and should be sure to miss it by any other route. Perhaps you’ll let me go back as I came.” Sir Thomas offered him the loan of a horse, but this was refused, and Hamel started on his return journey across the lake.
When he had gone a few steps from the portal he turned to look at the house which contained one whom he now regarded as belonging exclusively to himself,; perhaps he thought that he might catch some final view of Lucy; or, not quite thinking it, fancied that some such chance might at least be possible; but he saw nothing but the uninteresting façade of the grand mansion. Lucy was employed quite otherwise. She was listening to a lecture in which her aunt was describing to her how very badly Mr Hamel had behaved in obtruding himself on the shades of Glenbogie. The lecture was somewhat long, as Aunt Emmeline found it necessary to repeat all the arguments which she had before used as to the miscreant’s birth, as to his want of adequate means, and as to the general iniquities of the miscreant’s father. All this she repeated more than once with an energy that was quite unusual to her. The flood of her eloquence was so great that Lucy found no moment for an interposing word till all these evils had been denunciated twice and thrice. But then she spoke. “Aunt Emmeline,” she said, “I am engaged to Mr Hamel now.
“He has asked me to be his wife and I have promised.”
“And that after all that I had said to you!”
“Aunt Emmeline, I told you that I should not drop him. I did not bid him come here. Uncle Tom brought him. When I saw him I would have avoided him if I could. I told him he ought not to be here because you did not wish it; and then he answered that my uncle knew that he was with me. Of course when he told me that he — loved me, I could not make him any other answer.” Then Aunt Emmeline expressed the magnitude of her indignation simply by silence, and Lucy was left to think of her lover in solitude.
“And how have you fared on your day’s journey?” said the Colonel, when Hamel found him still seated on the platform with a book in his hand.
“Much better than I thought. Sir Thomas gave me luncheon.”
“And the young lady?”
“The young lady was gracious also; but I am afraid that I cannot carry my praises of the family at Glenbogie any further. The three Tringle ladies looked at me as I was sitting at table as though I certainly had no business in their august society.”
Last updated Monday, December 22, 2014 at 10:55