"Ayala's Angel": electronic edition	

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A-1377-C:  Ayala's Angel.  Ed. David Skilton. London, 1989: Folio 
Society. Depositor: Joe Whitlock Blundell, The Folio Society.  [On RLIN]

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11 May 1993

First edition published in 1881 




AYALA'S ANGEL by Anthony Trollope


CHAPTER 1
THE TWO SISTERS

When Egbert Dormer died he left his two daughters utterly penniless
upon the world, and it must be said of Egbert Dormer that nothing
else could have been expected of him. The two girls were both
pretty, but Lucy, who was twenty-one, was supposed to be simple
and comparatively unattractive, whereas Ayala was credited --
as her somewhat romantic name might show -- with poetic charm
and a taste for romance. Ayala when her father died was nineteen.
We must begin yet a little earlier and say that there had been
-- and had died many years before the death of Egbert Dormer
-- a clerk in the Admiralty, by name Reginald Dosett, who, and
whose wife, had been conspicuous for personal beauty. Their charms
were gone, but the records of them had been left in various grandchildren.
There had been a son born to Mr Dosett, who was also a Reginald
and a clerk in the Admiralty, and who also, in his turn, had
been a handsome man. With him, in his decadence, the reader will
become acquainted. There were also two daughters, whose reputation
for perfect feminine beauty had never been contested. The elder
had married a city man of wealth -- of wealth when he married
her, but who had become enormously wealthy by the time of our
story. He had when he married been simply Mister, but was now
Sir Thomas Tringle, Baronet, and was senior partner in the great
firm of Travers and Treason. Of Traverses and Treasons there
were none left in these days, and Mr Tringle was supposed to
manipulate all the millions with which the great firm in Lombard
Street was concerned. He had married old Mr Dosett's eldest daughter,
Emmeline, who was now Lady Tringle, with a house at the top of
Queen's Gate, rented at L#1,500 a year, with a palatial moor
in Scotland, with a seat in Sussex, and as many carriages and
horses as would suit an archduchess. Lady Tringle had everything
in the world; a son, two daughters, and an open-handed stout
husband, who was said to have told her that money was a matter
of no consideration. 

The second Miss Dosett, Adelaide Dosett, who had been considerably
younger than her sister, had insisted upon giving herself to
Egbert Dormer the artist, whose death we commemorated in our
first line. But she had died before her husband. They who remembered
the two Miss Dosetts as girls were wont to declare that, though
Lady Tringle might, perhaps, have had the advantage in perfection
of feature and in unequalled symmetry, Adelaide had been the
more attractive from expression and brilliancy. To her Lord Sizes
had offered his hand and coronet, promising to abandon for her
sake all the haunts of his matured life. To her Mr Tringle had
knelt before he had taken the elder sister. For her Mr Progrum,
the popular preacher of the day, for a time so totally lost himself
that he was nearly minded to go over to Rome. She was said to
have had offers from a widowed Lord Chancellor and from a Russian
prince. Her triumphs would have quite obliterated that of her
sister had she not insisted on marrying Egbert Dormer. 

Then there had been, and still was, Reginald Dosett, the son
of old Dosett, and the eldest of the family. He too had married,
and was now living with his wife; but to them had no children
been born, luckily, as he was a poor man. Alas, to a beautiful
son it is not often that beauty can be a fortune as to a daughter.
Young Reginald Dosett -- he is anything now but young -- had
done but little for himself with his beauty, having simply married
the estimable daughter of a brother clerk. Now, at the age of
fifty, he had his L#900 a year from his office, and might have
lived in fair comfort had he not allowed a small millstone of
debt to hang round his neck from his earlier years. But still
he lived creditably in a small but very genteel house at Notting
Hill, and would have undergone any want rather than have declared
himself to be a poor man to his rich relations the Tringles.
Such were now the remaining two children of old Mr Dosett --
Lady Tringle, namely, and Reginald Dosett, the clerk in the Admiralty.
Adelaide, the beauty in chief of the family, was gone; and now
also her husband, the improvident artist, had followed his wife.
Dormer had been by no means a failing artist. He had achieved
great honour -- had at an early age been accepted into the Royal
Academy -- had sold pictures to illustrious princes and more
illustrious dealers, had been engraved and had lived to see his
own works resold at five times their original prices. Egbert
Dormer might also have been a rich man. But he had a taste for
other beautiful things besides a wife. The sweetest little phaeton
that was to cost nothing, the most perfect bijou of a little
house at South Kensington -- he had boasted that it might have
been packed without trouble in his brother-in-law Tringle's dining-room
-- the simplest little gem for his wife, just a blue set of china
for his dinner table, just a painted cornice for his studio,
just satin hangings for his drawing-room -- and a few simple
ornaments for his little girls; these with a few rings for himself,
and velvet suits of clothing in which to do his painting; these,
with a few little dinner parties to show off his blue china,
were the first and last of his extravagances. But when he went,
and when his pretty things were sold, there was not enough to
cover his debts. There was, however, a sweet savour about his
name. When he died it was said of him that his wife's death had
killed him. He had dropped his palette, refused to finish the
ordered portrait of a princess, and had simply turned himself
round and died. 

Then there were the two daughters, Lucy and Ayala. It should
be explained that though a proper family intercourse had always
been maintained between the three families, the Tringles, the
Dormers, and the Dosetts, there had never been cordiality between
the first and the two latter. The wealth of the Tringles had
seemed to convey with it a fetid odour. Egbert Dormer, with every
luxury around him which money could purchase, had affected to
despise the heavy magnificence of the Tringles. It may be that
he affected a fashion higher than that which the Tringles really
attained. Reginald Dosett, who was neither brilliant nor fashionable,
was in truth independent, and, perhaps, a little thin-skinned.
He would submit to no touch of arrogance from Sir Thomas; and
Sir Thomas seemed to carry arrogance in his brow and in his paunch.
It was there rather, perhaps, than in his heart; but there are
men to whom a knack of fumbling their money in their pockets
and of looking out from under penthouse brows over an expanse
of waistcoat, gives an air of overweening pride which their true
idiosyncracies may not justify. To Dosett had, perhaps, been
spoken a word or two which on some occasion he had inwardly resented,
and from thenceforward he had ever been ready to league with
Dormer against the "bullionaire", as they agreed to call Sir
Thomas. Lady Tringle had even said a word to her sister, Mrs
Dormer, as to expenses, and that had never been forgiven by the
artist. So things were when Mrs Dormer died first; and so they
remained when her husband followed her. 

Then there arose a sudden necessity for action, which, for a
while, brought Reginald Dosett into connexion with Sir Thomas
and Lady Tringle. Something must be done for the poor girls.
That the something should come out of the pocket of Sir Thomas
would have seemed to be natural. Money with him was no object
-- not at all. Another girl or two would be nothing to him --
as regarded simple expenditure. But the care of a human being
is an important matter, and so Sir Thomas knew. Dosett had not
a child at all, and would be the better for such a windfall.
Dosett he supposed to be -- in his, Dosett's way -- fairly well
off. So he made this proposition. He would take one girl and
let Dosett take the other. To this Lady Tringle added her proviso,
that she should have the choice. To her nerves affairs of taste
were of such paramount importance! To this Dosett yielded. The
matter was decided in Lady Tringle's back drawing-room. Mrs Dosett
was not even consulted in that matter of choice, having already
acknowledged the duty of mothering a motherless child. Dosett
had thought that the bullionaire should have said a word as to
some future provision for the penniless girl, for whom he would
be able to do so little. But Sir Thomas had said no such word,
and Dosett, himself, lacked both the courage and the coarseness
to allude to the matter. Then Lady Tringle declared that she
must have Ayala, and so the matter was settled. Ayala the romantic;
Ayala the poetic! It was a matter of course that Ayala should
be chosen. Ayala had already been made intimate with the magnificent
saloons of the Tringles, and had been felt by Lady Tringle to
be an attraction. Her long dark black locks, which had never
hitherto been tucked up, which were never curled, which were
never so long as to be awkward, were already known as being the
loveliest locks in London. She sang as though Nature had intended
her to be a singing-bird -- requiring no education, no labour.
She had been once for three months in Paris, and French had come
naturally to her. Her father had taught her something of his
art, and flatterers had already begun to say that she was born
to be the one great female artist of the world. Her hands, her
feet, her figure were perfect. Though she was as yet but nineteen,
London had already begun to talk about Ayala Dormer. Of course
Lady Tringle chose Ayala, not remembering at the moment that
her own daughters might probably be superseded by their cousin.
And, therefore, as Lady Tringle said herself to Lucy with her
sweetest smile -- Mrs Dosett had chosen Lucy. The two girls were
old enough to know something of the meaning of such a choice.
Ayala, the younger, was to be adopted into immense wealth, and
Lucy was to be given up to comparative poverty. She knew nothing
of her uncle Dosett's circumstances, but the genteel house at
Notting Hill -- No. 3, Kingsbury Crescent -- was known to her,
and was but a poor affair as compared even with the bijou in
which she had hitherto lived. Her aunt Dosett never rose to any
vehicle beyond a four-wheeler, and was careful even in thinking
of that accommodation. Ayala would be whirled about the park
by a wire-wig and a pair of brown horses which they had heard
it said were not to be matched in London. Ayala would be carried
with her aunt and her cousin to the show-room of Madame Tonsonville,
the great French milliner of Bond Street, whereas she, Lucy,
might too probably be called on to make her own gowns. All the
fashion of Queen's Gate, something, perhaps, of the fashion of
Eaton Square, would be open to Ayala. Lucy understood enough
to know that Ayala's own charms might probably cause still more
august gates to be opened to her, whereas Aunt Dosett entered
no gates. It was quite natural that Ayala should be chosen. Lucy
acknowledged as much to herself. But they were sisters, and had
been so near! By what a chasm would they be dissevered, now so
far asunder! 

Lucy herself was a lovely girl, and knew her own loveliness.
She was fairer than Ayala, somewhat taller, and much more quiet
in her demeanour. She was also clever, but her cleverness did
not show itself so quickly. She was a musician, whereas her sister
could only sing. She could really draw, whereas her sister would
rush away into effects in which the drawing was not always very
excellent. Lucy was doing the best she could for herself, knowing
something of French and German, though as yet not very fluent
with her tongue. The two girls were, in truth, both greatly gifted;
but Ayala had the gift of showing her talent without thought
of showing it. Lucy saw it all, and knew that she was outshone;
but how great had been the price of the outshining! 

The artist's house had been badly ordered, and the two girls
were of better disposition and better conduct than might have
been expected from such fitful training. Ayala had been the father's
pet and Lucy the mother's. Parents do ill in making pets, and
here they had done ill. Ayala had been taught to think herself
the favourite, because the artist, himself, had been more prominent
before the world than his wife. But the evil had not been lasting
enough to have made bad feeling between the sisters. Lucy knew
that her sister had been preferred to her, but she had been self-denying
enough to be aware that some such preference was due to Ayala.
She, too, admired Ayala, and loved her with her whole heart.
And Ayala was always good to her -- had tried to divide everything
-- had assumed no preference as a right. The two were true sisters.
But when it was decided that Lucy was to go to Kingsbury Crescent
the difference was very great. The two girls, on their father's
death, had been taken to the great red brick house in Queen's
Gate, and from hence, three or four days after the funeral, Lucy
was to be transferred to her Aunt Dosett. Hitherto there had
been little between them but weeping for their father. Now had
come the hour of parting. 

The tidings had been communicated to Lucy, and to Lucy alone,
by Aunt Tringle -- "As you are the eldest, dear, we think that
you will be best able to be a comfort to your aunt," said Lady
Tringle. 

"I will do the best I can, Aunt Emmeline," said Lucy, declaring
to herself that, in giving such a reason, her aunt was lying
basely. 

"I am sure you will. Poor dear Ayala is younger than her cousins,
and will be more subject to them." So in truth was Lucy younger
than her cousins, but of that she said nothing. "I am sure you
will agree with me that it is best that we should have the youngest."
"Perhaps it is, Aunt Emmeline." 

"Sir Thomas would not have had it any other way," said Lady Tringle,
with a little severity, feeling that Lucy's accord had hardly
been as generous as it should be. But she recovered herself quickly,
remembering how much it was that Ayala was to get, how much that
Lucy was to lose. "But, my dear, we shall see you very often,
you know. It is not so far across the park; and when we do have
a few parties again -- " 

"Oh, aunt, I am not thinking of that." 

"Of course not. We can none of us think of it just now. But when
the time does come of course we shall always have you, just as
if you were one of us." Then her aunt gave her a roll of bank-notes,
a little present of twenty-five pounds, to begin the world with,
and told her that the carriage should take her to Kingsbury Crescent
on the following morning. On the whole Lucy behaved well and
left a pleasant impression on her aunt's mind. The difference
between Queen's Gate and Kingsbury Crescent -- between Queen's
Gate and Kingsbury Crescent for life -- was indeed great! 

"I wish it were you, with all my heart," said Ayala, clinging
to her sister. 

"It could not have been me." 

"Why not!" 

"Because you are so pretty and you are so clever." 

"No!" 

"Yes! If we were to be separated of course it would be so. Do
not suppose, dear, that I am disappointed." 

"I am." 

"If I can only like Aunt Margaret," -- Aunt Margaret was Mrs
Dosett, with whom neither of the girls had hitherto become intimate,
and who was known to be quiet, domestic, and economical, but
who had also been spoken of as having a will of her own -- "I
shall do better with her than you would, Ayala." 

"I don't see why." 

"Because I can remain quiet longer than you. It will be very
quiet. I wonder how we shall see each other! I cannot walk across
the park alone." 

"Uncle Reg will bring you." 

"Not often, I fear. Uncle Reg has enough to do with his office.
"You can come in a cab." 

"Cabs cost money, Ayey dear." 

"But Uncle Thomas -- " 

"We had better understand one or two things, Ayala. Uncle Thomas
will pay everything for you, and as he is very rich things will
come as they are wanted. There will be cabs, and if not cabs,
carriages. Uncle Reg must pay for me, and he is very very kind
to do so. But as he is not rich, there will be no carriages,
and not a great many cabs. It is best to understand it all."
"But they will send for you." 

"That's as they please. I don't think they will very often. I
would not for the world put you against Uncle Thomas, but I have
a feeling that I shall never get on with him. But you will never
separate yourself from me, Ayala!" 

"Separate myself!" 

"You will not -- not be my sister because you will be one of
these rich ones?" 

"Oh, I wish -- I wish that I were to be the poor one. I'm sure
I should like it best. I never cared about being rich. Oh, Lucy,
can't we make them change?" 

"No, Ayey, my own, we can't make them change. And if we could,
we wouldn't. It is altogether best that you should be a rich
Tringle and that I should be a poor Dosett." 

"I will always be a Dormer," said Ayala, proudly. 

"And I will always be so too, my pet. But you should be a bright
Dormer among the Tringles, and I will be a dull Dormer among
the Dosetts. I shall begrudge nothing, if only we can see each
other." 

So the two girls were parted, the elder being taken away to Kingsbury
Crescent and the latter remaining with her rich relations at
Queen's Gate. Ayala had not probably realized the great difference
of their future positions. To her the attractions of wealth and
the privations of comparative poverty had not made themselves
as yet palpably plain. They do not become so manifest to those
to whom the wealth falls -- at any rate, not in early life --
as to the opposite party. If the other lot had fallen to Ayala
she might have felt it more keenly. 

Lucy felt it keenly enough. Without any longing after the magnificence
of the Tringle mansion she knew how great was the fall from her
father's well-assorted luxuries and prettinesses down to the
plain walls, tables, and chairs of her Uncle Dosett's house.
Her aunt did not subscribe to Mudie's. The old piano had not
been tuned for the last ten years. The parlour-maid was a cross
old woman. Her aunt always sat in the dining-room through the
greater part of the day, and of all rooms the dining-room in
Kingsbury Crescent was the dingiest. Lucy understood very well
to what she was going. Her father and mother were gone. Her sister
was divided from her. Her life offered for the future nothing
to her. But with it all she carried a good courage. There was
present to her an idea of great misfortune; but present to her
at the same time an idea also that she would do her duty. 


CHAPTER 2
LUCY WITH HER AUNT DOSETT

For some days Lucy found herself to be absolutely crushed --
in the first place, by a strong resolution to do some disagreeable
duty, and then by a feeling that there was no duty the doing
of which was within her reach. It seemed to her that her whole
life was a blank. Her father's house had been a small affair
and considered to be poor when compared with the Tringle mansion,
but she now became aware that everything there had in truth abounded.
In one little room there had been two or three hundred beautifully
bound books. That Mudie's unnumbered volumes should come into
the house as they were wanted had almost been as much a provision
of nature as water, gas, and hot rolls for breakfast. A piano
of the best kind, and always in order, had been a first necessary
of life, and, like other necessaries, of course, forthcoming.
There had been the little room in which the girls painted, joining
their father's studio and sharing its light, surrounded by every
pretty female appliance. Then there had always been visitors.
The artists from Kensington had been wont to gather there, and
the artists' daughters, and perhaps the artists' sons. Every
day had had its round of delights -- its round of occupations,
as the girls would call them. There had been some reading, some
painting, some music -- perhaps a little needlework and a great
deal of talking. 

How little do we know how other people live in the houses close
to us! We see the houses looking like our own, and we see the
people come out of them looking like ourselves. But a Chinaman
is not more different from the English John Bull than is No.
10 from No. 11. Here there are books, paintings, music, wine,
a little dilettanti getting-up of subjects of the day, a little
dilettanti thinking on great affairs, perhaps a little dilettanti
religion; few domestic laws, and those easily broken; few domestic
duties, and those easily evaded; breakfast when you will, with
dinner almost as little binding, with much company and acknowledged
aptitude for idle luxury. That is life at No. 10. At No. 11 everything
is cased in iron. There shall be equal plenty, but at No. 11
even plenty is a bondage. Duty rules everything, and it has come
to be acknowledged that duty is to be hard. So many hours of
needlework, so many hours of books, so many hours of prayer!
That all the household shall shiver before daylight, is a law,
the breach of which by any member either augurs sickness or requires
condign punishment. To be comfortable is a sin; to laugh is almost
equal to bad language. Such and so various is life at No. 10
and at No. 11. 

From one extremity, as far removed, to another poor Lucy had
been conveyed; though all the laws were not exactly carried out
in Kingsbury Crescent as they have been described at No. 11.
The enforced prayers were not there, nor the early hours. It
was simply necessary that Lucy should be down to breakfast at
nine, and had she not appeared nothing violent would have been
said. But it was required of her that she should endure a life
which was altogether without adornment. Uncle Dosett himself,
as a clerk in the Admiralty, had a certain position in the world
which was sufficiently maintained by decent apparel, a well-kept,
slight, grey whisker, and an umbrella which seemed never to have
been violated by use. Dosett was popular at his office, and was
regarded by his brother clerks as a friend. But no one was acquainted
with his house and home. They did not dine with him, nor he with
them. There are such men in all public offices -- not the less
respected because of the quiescence of their lives. It was known
of him that he had burdens, though it was not known what his
burdens were. His friends, therefore, were intimate with him
as far as the entrance into Somerset House -- where his duties
lay -- and not beyond it. Lucy was destined to know the other
side of his affairs, the domestic side, which was as quiet as
the official side. The link between them, which consisted of
a journey by the Underground Railway to the Temple Station, and
a walk home along the Embankment and across the parks and Kensington
Gardens, was the pleasantest part of Dosett's life. 

Mr Dosett's salary has been said to be L#900 per annum. What
a fund of comfort there is in the word! When the youth of nineteen
enters an office how far beyond want would he think himself should
he ever reach the pecuniary paradise of L#900 a year! How he
would see all his friends, and in return be seen of them! But
when the income has been achieved its capabilities are found
to be by no means endless. And Dosett in the earlier spheres
of his married life had unfortunately anticipated something of
such comforts. For a year or two he had spent a little money
imprudently. Something which he had expected had not come to
him; and, as a result, he had been forced to borrow, and to insure
his life for the amount borrowed. Then, too, when that misfortune
as to the money came -- came from the non-realization of certain
claims which his wife had been supposed to possess -- provision
had also to be made for her. In this way an assurance office
eat up a large fraction of his income, and left him with means
which in truth were very straitened. Dosett at once gave up all
glories of social life, settled himself in Kingsbury Crescent,
and resolved to satisfy himself with his walk across the park
and his frugal dinner afterwards. He never complained to anyone,
nor did his wife. He was a man small enough to be contented with
a thin existence, but far too great to ask anyone to help him
to widen it. Sir Thomas Tringle never heard of that L#175 paid
annually to the assurance office, nor had Lady Tringle, Dosett's
sister, even heard of it. When it was suggested to him that he
should take one of the Dormer girls, he consented to take her
and said nothing of the assurance office. 

Mrs Dosett had had her great blow in life, and had suffered more
perhaps than her husband. This money had been expected. There
had been no doubt of the money -- at any rate on her part. It
did not depend on an old gentleman with or without good intentions,
but simply on his death. There was to be ever so much of it,
four or five hundred a year, which would last for ever. When
the old gentleman died, which took place some ten years after
Dosett's marriage, it was found that the money, tied tight as
it had been by half a dozen lawyers, had in some fashion vanished.
Whither it had gone is little to our purpose, but it had gone.
Then there came a great crash upon the Dosetts, which she for
a while had been hardly able to endure. 

But when she had collected herself together after the crash,
and had made up her mind, as had Dosett also, to the nature of
the life which they must in future lead, she became more stringent
in it even than he. He could bear and say nothing; but she, in
bearing, found herself compelled to say much. It had been her
fault -- the fault of people on her side -- and she would fain
have fed her husband with the full flowery potato while she ate
only the rind. She told him, unnecessarily, over and over again,
that she had ruined him by her marriage. No such idea was ever
in his head. The thing had come, and so it must be. There was
food to eat, potatoes enough for both, and a genteel house in
which to live. He could still be happy if she would not groan.
A certain amount of groaning she did postpone while in his presence.
The sewing of seams, and the darning of household linen, which
in his eyes amounted to groaning, was done in his absence. After
their genteel dinner he would sleep a little, and she would knit.
He would have his glass of wine, but would make his bottle of
port last almost for a week. This was the house to which Lucy
Dormer was brought when Mr Dosett had consented to share with
Sir Thomas the burden left by the death of the improvident artist.
When a month passed by Lucy began to think that time itself would
almost drive her mad. Her father had died early in September.
The Tringles had then, of course, been out of town, but Sir Thomas
and his wife had found themselves compelled to come up on such
an occasion. Something they knew must be done about the girls,
and they had not chosen that that something should be done in
their absence. Mr Dosett was also enjoying his official leave
of absence for the year, but was enjoying it within the economical
precincts of Kingsbury Crescent. There was but seldom now an
excursion for him or his wife to the joys of the country. Once,
some years ago, they had paid a visit to the palatial luxuries
of Glenbogie, but the delights of the place had not paid for
the expense of the long journey. They, therefore, had been at
hand to undertake their duties. Dosett and Tringle, with a score
of artists, had followed poor Dormer to his grave in Kensal Green,
and then Dosett and Tringle had parted again, probably not to
see each other for another term of years. 

"My dear, what do you like to do with your time?" Mrs Dosett
said to her niece, after the first week. At this time Lucy's
wardrobe was not yet of a nature to need much work over its ravages.
The Dormer girls had hardly known where their frocks had come
from when they wanted frocks -- hardly with more precision than
the Tringle girls. Frocks had come -- dark, gloomy frocks, lately,
alas! And these, too, had now come a second time. Let creditors
be ever so unsatisfied, new raiment will always be found for
mourning families. Everything about Lucy was nearly new. The
need of repairing would come upon her by degrees, but it had
not come as yet. Therefore there had seemed, to the anxious aunt,
to be a necessity for some such question as the above. 

"I'll do anything you like, aunt," said Lucy. 

"It is not for me, my dear. I get through a deal of work, and
am obliged to do so." She was, at this time, sitting with a sheet
in her lap, which she was turning. Lucy had, indeed, once offered
to assist, but her assistance had been rejected. This had been
two days since, and she had not renewed the proposal as she should
have done. This had been mainly from bashfulness. Though the
work would certainly be distasteful to her, she would do it.
But she had not liked to seem to interfere, not having as yet
fallen into the ways of intimacy with her aunt. "I don't want
to burden you with my task-work," continued Mrs Dosett, "but
I am afraid you seem to be listless." 

"I was reading till just before you spoke," said Lucy, again
turning her eyes to the little volume of poetry, which was one
of the few treasures which she had brought away with her from
her old home. 

"Reading is very well, but I do not like it as an excuse, Lucy."
Lucy's anger boiled within her when she was told of an excuse,
and she declared to herself that she could never like her aunt.
"I am quite sure that for young girls, as well as for old women,
there must be a great deal of waste time unless there be needle
and thread always about. And I know, too, unless ladies are well
off, they cannot afford to waste time any more than gentlemen."
In the whole course of her life nothing so much like scolding
as this had ever been addressed to her. So at least thought Lucy
at that moment. Mrs Dosett had intended the remarks all in good
part, thinking them to be simply fitting from an aunt to a niece.
It was her duty to give advice, and for the giving of such advice
some day must be taken as the beginning. She had purposely allowed
a week to run by, and now she had spoken her word -- as she thought
in good season. 

To Lucy it was a new and most bitter experience. Though she was
reading the Idylls of the King, or pretending to read them, She
was, in truth, thinking of all that had gone from her. Her mind
had, at that moment, been intent upon her mother, who, in all
respects, had been so different from this careful, sheet-darning
housewife of a woman. And in thinking of her mother there had
no doubt been regrets for many things of which she would not
have ventured to speak as sharing her thoughts with the memory
of her mother, but which were nevertheless there to add darkness
to the retrospective. Everything behind had been so bright, and
everything behind had gone away from her! Everything before was
so gloomy, and everything before must last for so long! After
her aunt's lecture about wasted time Lucy sat silent for a few
minutes, and then burst into uncontrolled tears. 

"I did not mean to vex you," said her aunt. 

"I was thinking of my -- darling, darling mamma," sobbed Lucy.
"Of course, Lucy, you will think of her. How should you not?
And of your father. Those are sorrows which must be borne. But
sorrows such as those are much lighter to the busy than to the
idle. I sometimes think that the labourers grieve less for those
they love than we do just because they have not time to grieve."
"I wish I were a labourer then," said Lucy, through her tears.
"You may be if you will. The sooner you begin to be a labourer
the better for yourself and for those about you." 

That Aunt Dosett's voice was harsh was not her fault -- nor that
in the obduracy of her daily life she had lost much of her original
softness. She had simply meant to be useful, and to do her duty;
but in telling Lucy that it would be better that the labouring
should be commenced at once for the sake of "those about you'
-- who could only be Aunt Dosett herself -- she had seemed to
the girl to be harsh, selfish, and almost unnatural. The volume
of poetry fell from her hand, and she jumped up from the chair
quickly. "Give it me at once," she said, taking hold of the sheet
-- which was not itself a pleasant object; Lucy had never seen
such a thing at the bijou. "Give it me at once," she said, and
clawed the long folds of linen nearly out of her aunt's lap.
"I did not mean anything of the kind," said Aunt Dosett. "You
should not take me up in that way. I am speaking only for your
good, because I know that you should not dawdle away your existence.
Leave the sheet." 

Lucy did leave the sheet, and then, sobbing violently, ran out
of the room up to her own chamber. Mrs Dosett determined that
she would not follow her. She partly forgave the girl because
of her sorrows, partly reminded herself that she was not soft
and facile as had been her sister-in-law, Lucy's mother; and
then, as she continued her work, she assured herself that it
would be best to let her niece have her cry out upstairs. Lucy's
violence had astonished her for a moment, but she had taught
herself to think it best to allow such little ebullitions to
pass off by themselves. 

Lucy, when she was alone, flung herself upon her bed in absolute
agony. She thought that she had misbehaved, and yet how cruel
-- how harsh had been her aunt's words! If she, the quiet one,
had misbehaved, what would Ayala have done? And how was she to
find strength with which to look forward to the future? She struggled
hard with herself for a resolution. Should she determine that
she would henceforward darn sheets morning, noon, and night till
she worked her fingers to the bone? Perhaps there had been something
of truth in that assertion of her aunt's that the labourers have
no time to grieve. As everything else was shut out from her,
it might be well for her to darn sheets. Should she rush down
penitent and beg her aunt to allow her to commence at once? 

She would have done it as far as the sheets were concerned, but
she could not do it as regarded her aunt. She could put herself
into unison with the crumpled soiled linen, but not with the
hard woman. 

Oh, how terrible was the change! Her father and her mother who
had been so gentle to her! All the sweet prettinesses of her
life! All her occupations, all her friends, all her delights!
Even Ayala was gone from her! How was she to bear it? She begrudged
Ayala nothing -- no, nothing. But yet it was hard! Ayala was
to have everything. Aunt Emmeline -- though they had not hitherto
been very fond of Aunt Emmeline -- was sweetness itself as compared
with this woman. "The sooner you begin to labour the better for
yourself and those about you." Would it not have been fitter
that she should have been sent at once to some actual poorhouse
in which there would have been no mistake as to her position?
That it should all have been decided for her for her and Ayala,
not by any will of their own, not by any concert between themselves,
but simply by the fantasy of another! Why should she thus be
made a slave to the fantasy of anyone! Let Ayala have her uncle's
wealth and her aunt's palaces at her command, and she would walk
out simply a pauper into the world -- into some workhouse, so
that at least she need not be obedient to the harsh voice and
the odious common sense of her Aunt Dosett! But how should she
take herself to some workhouse? In what way could she prove her
right to be admitted even then? It seemed to her that the same
decree which had admitted Ayala into the golden halls of the
fairies had doomed her not only to poverty, but to slavery. There
was no escape for her from her aunt and her aunt's sermons. "Oh,
Ayala, my darling -- my own one; oh, Ayala, if you did but know!"
she said to herself. What would Ayala think, how would Ayala
bear it, could she but guess by what a gulf was her heaven divided
from her sister's hell! "I will never tell her," she said to
herself. "I will die, and she shall never know." 

As she lay there sobbing all the gilded things of the world were
beautiful in her eyes. Alas, yes, it was true. The magnificence
of the mansion at Queen's Gate, the glories of Glenbogie, the
closely studied comforts of Merle Park, as the place in Sussex
was called, all the carriages and horses, Madame Tonsonville
and all the draperies, the seats at the Albert Hall into which
she had been accustomed to go with as much ease as into her bedroom,
the box at the opera, the pretty furniture, the frequent gems,
even the raiment which would make her pleasing to the eyes of
men whom she would like to please -- all these things grew in
her eyes and became beautiful. No. 3, Kingsbury Crescent, was
surely, of all places on the earth's surface, the most ugly.
And yet -- yet she had endeavoured to do her duty. "If it had
been the workhouse I could have borne it," she said to herself;
"but not to be the slave of my Aunt Dosett!" Again she appealed
to her sister, "Oh, Ayala, if you did but know it!" Then she
remembered herself, declaring that it might have been worse to
Ayala than even to her. "If one had to bear it, it was better
for me," she said, as she struggled to prepare herself for her
uncle's dinner. 


CHAPTER 3
LUCY'S TROUBLES

The evening after the affair with the sheet went off quietly,
as did many days and many evenings. Mrs Dosett was wise enough
to forget the little violence and to forget also the feeling
which had been displayed. When Lucy first asked for some household
needlework, which she did with a faltering voice and shame-faced
remembrance of her fault, her aunt took it all in good part and
gave her a task somewhat lighter as a beginning than the handling
of a sheet. Lucy sat at it and suffered. She went on sitting
and suffering. She told herself that she was a martyr at every
stitch she made. As she occupied the seat opposite to her aunt's
accustomed chair she would hardly speak at all, but would keep
her mind always intent on Ayala and the joys of Ayala's life.
That they who had been born together, sisters, with equal fortunes,
who had so closely lived together, should be sundered so utterly
one from the other; that the one should be so exalted and the
other so debased! And why? What justice had there been? Could
it be from heaven or even from earth that the law had gone forth
for such a division of the things of the world between them?
"You have got very little to say to a person," said Aunt Dosett,
one morning. This, too, was a reproach. This, too, was scolding.
And yet Aunt Dosett had intended to be as pleasant as she knew
how. 

"I have very little to say," replied Lucy, with repressed anger.
"But why?" 

"Because I am stupid," said Lucy. "Stupid people can't talk.
You should have had Ayala." 

"I hope you do not envy Ayala her fortune, Lucy?" A woman with
any tact would not have asked such a question at such a time.
She should have felt that a touch of such irony might he natural,
and that unless it were expressed loudly, or shown actively,
it might be left to be suppressed by affection and time. But
she, as she had grown old, had taught herself to bear disappointment,
and thought it wise to teach Lucy to do the same. 

"Envy!" said Lucy, not passionately, but after a little pause
for thought. "I sometimes think it is very hard to know what
envy is." 

"Envy, hatred, and malice," said Mrs Dosett, hardly knowing what
she meant by the use of the well-worn words. 

"I do know what hatred and malice are," said Lucy. "Do you think
I hate Ayala?" 

"I am sure you do not." 

"Or that I bear her malice?" 

"Certainly not." 

"If I had the power to take anything from her, would I do it?
I love Ayala with my whole heart. Whatever be my misery I would
rather bear it than let Ayala have even a share of it. Whatever
good things she may have I would not rob her even of a part of
them. If there be joy and sorrow to be divided between us I would
wish to have the sorrow so that she might have the joy. That
is not hatred and malice." Mrs Dosett looked at her over her
spectacles. This was the girl who had declared that she could
not speak because she was too stupid! "But, when you ask me whether
I envy her, I hardly know," continued Lucy. "I think one does
covet one's neighbour's house, in spite of the tenth commandment,
even though one does not want to steal it." 

Mrs Dosett repented herself that she had given rise to any conversation
at all. Silence, absolute silence, the old silence which she
had known for a dozen years before Lucy had come to her, would
have been better than this. She was very angry, more angry than
she had ever yet been with Lucy; and yet she was afraid to show
her anger. Was this the girl's gratitude for all that her uncle
was doing for her -- for shelter, food, comfort, for all that
she had in the world? Mrs Dosett knew, though Lucy did not, of
the little increased pinchings which had been made necessary
by the advent of another inmate in the house; so many pounds
of the meat in the week, and so much bread, and so much tea and
sugar! It had all been calculated. In genteel houses such calculation
must often be made. And when by degrees -- degrees very quick
-- the garments should become worn which Lucy had brought with
her, there must be something taken from the tight-fitting income
for that need. Arrangements had already been made of which Lucy
knew nothing, and already the two glasses of port wine a day
had been knocked off from poor Mr Dosett's comforts. His wife
had sobbed in despair when he had said that it should be so.
He had declared gin and water to be as supporting as port wine,
and the thing had been done. Lucy inwardly had been disgusted
by the gin and water, knowing nothing of its history. Her father,
who had not always been punctual in paying his wine-merchant's
bills, would not have touched gin and water, would not have allowed
it to contaminate his table. Everything in Mr Dosett's house
was paid for weekly. 

And now Lucy, who had been made welcome to all that the genteel
house could afford, who had been taken in as a child, had spoken
of her lot as one which was all sorrowful. Bad as it is -- this
living in Kingsbury Crescent -- I would rather bear it myself
than subject Ayala to such misery! It was thus that she had,
in fact, spoken of her new home when she had found it necessary
to defend her feelings towards her sister. It was impossible
that her aunt should be altogether silent under such treatment.
"We have done the best for you that is in our power, Lucy," she
said, with a whole load of reproach in her tone. 

"Have I complained, aunt?" 

"I thought you did." 

"Oh, no! You asked me whether I envied Ayala. What was I to say?
Perhaps I should have said nothing, but the idea of envying Ayala
was painful to me. Of course she -- " 

"Well?" 

"I had better say nothing more, aunt. If I were to pretend to
be cheerful I should be false. It is as yet only a few weeks
since papa died." Then the work went on in silence between them
for the next hour. 

And the work went on in solemn silence between them through the
winter. It came to pass that the sole excitement of Lucy's life
came from Ayala's letters -- the sole excitement except a meeting
which took place between the sisters one day. When Lucy was taken
to Kingsbury Crescent Ayala was at once carried down to Glenbogie,
and from thence there came letters twice a week for six weeks.
Ayala's letters, too, were full of sorrow. She, too, had lost
her mother, her father, and her sister. Moreover, in her foolish
petulance she said things of her Aunt Emmeline, and of the girls,
and of Sir Thomas, which ought not to have been written of those
who were kind to her. Her cousin Tom, too, she ridiculed -- Tom
Tringle, the son and heir -- saying that he was a lout who endeavoured
to make eyes at her. Oh, how distasteful, how vulgar they were
after all that she had known. Perhaps the eldest girl, Augusta,
was the worst. She did not think that she could put up with the
assumed authority of Augusta. Gertrude was better, but a simpleton.
Ayala declared herself to be sad at heart. But then the sweet
scenery of Glenbogie, and the colour of the moors, and the glorious
heights of Ben Alchan, made some amends. Even in her sorrow she
would rave about the beauties of Glenbogie. Lucy, as she read
the letters, told herself that Ayala's grief was a grief to be
borne, a grief almost to be enjoyed. To sit and be sad with a
stream purling by you, how different from the sadness of that
dining-room in the Crescent. To look out upon the glories of
a mountain, while a tear would now and again force itself into
the eye, how much less bitter than the falling of salt drops
over a tattered towel. 

Lucy, in her answers, endeavoured to repress the groans of her
spirit. In the first place she did acknowledge that it did not
become her to speak ill of those who were, in truth, her benefactors;
and then she was anxious not to declare to Ayala her feeling
of the injustice by which their two lots had been defined to
them. Though she had failed to control herself once or twice
in speaking to her aunt she did control herself in writing her
letters. She would never, never, write a word which should make
Ayala unnecessarily unhappy. On that she was determined. She
would say nothing to explain to Ayala the unutterable tedium
of that downstairs parlour in which they passed their lives,
lest Ayala should feel herself to be wounded by the luxurious
comforts around her. 

It was thus she wrote. Then there came a time in which they were
to meet -- just at the beginning of November. The Tringles were
going to Rome. They generally did go somewhere. Glenbogie, Merle
Park, and the house in Queen's Gate, were not enough for the
year. Sir Thomas was to take them to Rome, and then return to
London for the manipulation of the millions in Lombard Street.
He generally did remain nine months out of the twelve in town,
because of the millions, making his visits at Merle Park very
short; but Lady Tringle found that change of air was good for
the girls. It was her intention now to remain at Rome for two
or three months. 

The party from Scotland reached Queen's Gate late one Saturday
evening, and intended to start early on the Monday. To Ayala,
who had made it quite a matter of course that she should see
her sister, Lady Tringle had said that in that case a carriage
must be sent across. It was awkward, because there were no carriages
in London. She had thought that they had all intended to pass
through London just as though they were not stopping. Sunday,
she had thought, was not to be regarded as being a day at all.
Then Ayala flashed up. She had flashed up some times before.
Was it supposed that she was not going to see Lucy? Carriage!
She would walk across Kensington Gardens, and find the house
out all by herself. She would spend the whole day with Lucy,
and come back alone in a cab. She was strong enough, at any rate,
to have her way so far, that a carriage, wherever it came from,
was sent for Lucy about three in the afternoon, and did take
her back to Kingsbury Crescent after dinner. 

Then at last the sisters were together in Ayala's bedroom. "And
now tell me about everything," said Ayala. 

But Lucy was resolved that she would not tell anything. "I am
so wretched!" That would have been all; but she would not tell
her wretchedness. "We are so quiet in Kingsbury Crescent," she
said,; "you have so much more to talk of." 

"Oh, Lucy, I do not like it." 

"Not your aunt?" 

"She is not the worst, though she sometimes is hard to bear.
I can't tell you what it is, but they all seem to think so much
of themselves. In the first place they never will say a word
about papa." 

"Perhaps that is from feeling, Ayey." 

"No, it is not. One would know that. But they look down upon
papa, who had more in his little finger than they have with all
their money." 

"Then I should hold my tongue." 

"So I do -- about him; but it is very hard. And then Augusta
has a way with me, as though she had a right to order me. I certainly
will not be ordered by Augusta. You never ordered me." 

"Dear Ayey!" 

"Augusta is older than you -- of course, ever so much. They make
her out twenty-three at her last birthday, but she is twenty-four.
But that is not difference enough for ordering -- certainly between
cousins. I do hate Augusta." 

"I would not hate her." 

"How is one to help oneself? She has a way of whispering to Gertrude,
and to her mother, when I am there, which almost kills me. 'If
you'll only give me notice I'll go out of the room at once,'
I said the other day, and they were all so angry." 

"I would not make them angry if I were you, Ayey." 

"Why not?" 

"Not Sir Thomas, or Aunt Emmeline." 

"I don't care a bit for Sir Thomas. I am not sure but he is the
most good-natured, though he is so podgy. Of course, when Aunt
Emmeline tells me anything I do it." 

"It is so important that you should be on good terms with them."
"I don't see it at all," said Ayala, flashing round. 

"Aunt Emmeline can do so much for you. We have nothing of our
own -- you and I." 

"Am I to sell myself because they have got money! No, indeed!
No one despises money so much as I do. I will never be other
to them than if I had the money, and they were the poor relations."
"That will not do, Ayey." 

"I will make it do. They may turn me out if they like. Of course,
I know that I should obey my aunt, and so I will. If Sir Thomas
told me anything I should do it. But not Augusta." Then, while
Lucy was thinking how she might best put into soft words advice
which was so clearly needed, Ayala declared another trouble.
"But there is worse still." 

"What is that?" 

"Tom!" 

"What does Tom do?" 

"You know Tom, Lucy?" 

"I have seen him." 

"Of all the horrors he is the horridest." 

"Does he order you about?" 

"No; but he -- " 

"What is it, Ayey?" 

"Oh! Lucy, he is so dreadful. He -- " 

"You don't mean that he makes love to you?" 

"He does. What am I to do, Lucy?" 

"Do they know it?" 

"Augusta does, I'm sure; and pretends to think that it is my
fault. I am sure that there will be a terrible quarrel some day.
I told him the day before we left Glenbogie that I should tell
his mother. I did indeed. Then he grinned. He is such a fool.
And when I laughed he took it all as kindness. I couldn't have
helped laughing if I had died for it." 

"But he has been left behind." 

"Yes, for the present. But he is to come over to us some time
after Christmas, when Uncle Tringle has gone back." 

"A girl need not be bothered by a lover unless she chooses, Ayey.
"But it will be such a bother to have to talk about it. He looks
at me, and is such an idiot. Then Augusta frowns. When I see
Augusta frowning I am so angry that I feel like boxing her ears.
Do you know, Lucy, that I often think that it will not do, and
that I shall have to be sent away. I wish it had been you that
they had chosen." 

Such was the conversation between the girls. Of what was said
everything appertained to Ayala. Of the very nature of Lucy's
life not a word was spoken. As Ayala was talking Lucy was constantly
thinking of all that might be lost by her sister's imprudence.
Even though Augusta might be disagreeable, even though Tom might
be a bore, it should all be borne -- borne at any rate for a
while -- seeing how terrible would be the alternative. The alternative
to Lucy seemed to be Kingsbury Crescent and Aunt Dosett. It did
not occur to her to think whether in any possible case Ayala
would indeed be added to the Crescent family, or what in that
case would become of herself, and whether they two might live
with Aunt Dosett, and whether in that case life would not be
infinitely improved. Ayala had all that money could do for her,
and would have such a look-out into the world from a wealthy
house as might be sure at last to bring her some such husband
as would be desirable. Ayala, in fact, had everything before
her, and Lucy had nothing. Wherefore it became Lucy's duty to
warn Ayala, so that she should bear with much, and throw away
nothing. If Ayala could only know what life might be, what life
was at Kingsbury Crescent, then she would be patient, then she
would softly make a confidence with her aunt as to Tom's folly,
then she would propitiate Augusta. Not care for money! Ayala
had not yet lived in an ugly room and darned sheets all the morning.
Ayala had never sat for two hours between the slumbers of Uncle
Dosett and the knitting of Aunt Dosett. Ayala had not been brought
into contact with gin and water. 

"Oh, Ayala!" she said, as they were going down to dinner together,
"do struggle; do bear it. Tell Aunt Emmeline. She will like you
to tell her. If Augusta wants you to go anywhere, do go. What
does it signify? Papa and mamma are gone, and we are alone."
All this she said without a word of allusion to her own sufferings.
Ayala made a half promise. She did not think she would go anywhere
for Augusta's telling; but she would do her best to satisfy Aunt
Emmeline. Then they went to dinner, and after dinner Lucy was
taken home without further words between them. 

Ayala wrote long letters on her journey, full of what she saw,
and full of her companions. From Paris she wrote, and then from
Turin, and then again on their immediate arrival at Rome. Her
letters were most imprudent as written from the close vicinity
of her aunt and cousin. It was such a comfort that that oaf Tom
had been left behind. Uncle Tringle was angry because he did
not get what he liked to eat. Aunt Emmeline gave that courier
such a terrible life, sending for him every quarter of an hour.
Augusta would talk first French and then Italian, of which no
one could understand a word. Gertrude was so sick with travelling
that she was as pale as a sheet. Nobody seemed to care for anything.
She could not get her aunt to look at the Campanile at Florence,
or her cousins to know one picture from another. "As for pictures,
I am quite sure that Mangle's angels would do as well as Raffael's."
Mangle was a brother academician whom their father had taught
them to despise. There was contempt, most foolish contempt, for
all the Tringles; but, luckily, there had be no quarrelling.
Then it seemed that both in Paris and in Florence Ayala had bought
pretty things, from which it was to be argued that her uncle
had provided her liberally with money. One pretty thing had been
sent from Paris to Lucy, which could not have been bought for
less than many francs. It would not be fair that Ayala should
take so much without giving something in return. 

Lucy knew that she too should give something in return. Though
Kingsbury Crescent was not attractive, though Aunt Dosett was
not to her a pleasant companion, she had begun to realise the
fact that it behoved her to be grateful, if only for the food
she ate, and for the bed on which she slept. As she thought of
all that Ayala owed she remembered also her own debts. As the
winter went on she struggled to pay them. But Aunt Dosett was
a lady not much given to vacillation. She had become aware at
first that Lucy had been rough to her, and she did not easily
open herself to Lucy's endearments. Lucy's life at Kingsbury
Crescent had begun badly, and Lucy, though she understood much
about it, found it hard to turn a bad beginning to a good result.


CHAPTER 4
ISADORE HAMEL

It was suggested to Lucy before she had been long in Kingsbury
Crescent that she should take some exercise. For the first week
she had hardly been out of the house; but this was attributed
to her sorrow. Then she had accompanied her aunt for a few days
during the half-hour's marketing which took place every morning,
but in this there had been no sympathy. Lucy would not interest
herself in the shoulder of mutton which must be of just such
a weight as to last conveniently for two days -- twelve pounds
-- of which, it was explained to her, more than one-half was
intended for the two servants, because there was always a more
lavish consumption in the kitchen than in the parlour. Lucy would
not appreciate the fact that eggs at a penny a piece, whatever
they might be, must be used for puddings, as eggs with even a
reputation of freshness cost two-pence. Aunt Dosett, beyond this,
never left the house on week-days except for a few calls which
were made perhaps once a month, on which occasion the Sunday
gloves and the Sunday silk dress were used. On Sunday they all
went to church. But this was not enough for exercise, and as
Lucy was becoming pale she was recommended to take to walking
in Kensington Gardens. 

It is generally understood that there are raging lions about
the metropolis, who would certainly eat up young ladies whole
if young ladies were to walk about the streets or even about
the parks by themselves. There is, however, beginning to be some
vacillation as to the received belief on this subject as regards
London. In large continental towns, such as Paris and Vienna,
young ladies would be devoured certainly. Such, at least, is
the creed. In New York and Washington there are supposed to be
no lions, so that young ladies go about free as air. In London
there is a rising doubt, under which before long, probably, the
lions will succumb altogether. Mrs Dosett did believe somewhat
in lions, but she believed also in exercise. And she was aware
that the lions eat up chiefly rich people. Young ladies who must
go about without mothers, brothers, uncles, carriages, or attendants
of any sort, are not often eaten or even roared at. It is the
dainty darlings for whom the roarings have to be feared. Mrs
Dosett, aware that daintiness was no longer within the reach
of her and hers, did assent to these walkings in Kensington Gardens.
At some hour in the afternoon Lucy would walk from the house
by herself, and within a quarter of an hour would find herself
on the broad gravel path which leads down to the Round Pond.
From thence she would go by the back of the Albert Memorial,
and then across by the Serpentine and return to the same gate,
never leaving Kensington Gardens. Aunt Dosett had expressed some
old-fashioned idea that lions were more likely to roar in Hyde
Park than within the comparatively retired purlieus of Kensington.
Now the reader must be taken back for a few moments to the bijou,
as the bijou was before either the artist or his wife had died.
In those days there had been a frequent concourse of people in
the artist's house. Society there had not consisted chiefly of
eating and drinking. Men and women would come in and out as though
really for a purpose of talking. There would be three or four
constantly with Dormer in his studio, helping him but little
perhaps in the real furtherance of his work, though discussing
art subjects in a manner calculated to keep alive art-feeling
among them. A novelist or two of a morning might perhaps aid
me in my general pursuit, but would, I think, interfere with
the actual tally of pages. Egbert Dormer did not turn out from
his hand so much work as some men that I know, but he was overflowing
with art up to his ears -- and with tobacco, so that, upon the
whole, the bijou was a pleasant rendezvous. 

There had come there of late, quite of late, a young sculptor,
named Isadore Hamel. Hamel was an Englishman, who, however, had
been carried very early to Rome and had been bred there. Of his
mother question never was made, but his father had been well
known as an English sculptor resident at Rome. The elder Hamel
had been a man of mark, who had a fine suite of rooms in the
city and a villa on one of the lakes, but who never came to England.
English connections were, he said, to him abominable, by which
he perhaps meant that the restrictions of decent life were not
to his taste. But his busts came, and his groups in marble, and
now and again some great work for some public decoration: so
that money was plentiful with him, and he was a man of note.
It must be acknowledged of him that he spared nothing in bringing
up his son, giving him such education as might best suit his
future career as an artist, and that money was always forthcoming
for the lad's wants and fantasies. 

Then young Hamel also became a sculptor of much promise; but
early in life differed from his father on certain subjects of
importance. The father was wedded to Rome and to Italy. Isadore
gradually expressed an opinion that the nearer a man was to his
market the better for him, that all that art could do for a man
in Rome was as nothing to the position which a great artist might
make for himself in London -- that, in fact, an Englishman had
better be an Englishman. At twenty-six he succeeded in his attempt,
and became known as a young sculptor with a workshop at Brompton.
He became known to many both by his work and his acquirements;
but it may not be surprising that after a year he was still unable
to live, as he had been taught to live, without drawing upon
his father. Then his father threw his failure in his teeth, not
refusing him money indeed, but making the receipt of it unpleasant
to him. 

At no house had Isadore Hamel been made so welcome as at Dormer's.
There was a sympathy between them both on that great question
of art, whether to an artist his art should be a matter to him
of more importance than all the world besides. So said Dormer
-- who simply died because his wife died, who could not have
touched his brush if one of his girls had been suffering, who,
with all his genius, was but a faineant workman. His art more
than all the world to him! No, not to him. Perhaps here and again
to some enthusiast, and him hardly removed from madness! Where
is the painter who shall paint a picture after his soul's longing
though he shall get not a penny for it -- though he shall starve
as he put his last touch to it, when he knows that by drawing
some duchess of the day he shall in a fortnight earn a ducal
price? Shall a wife and child be less dear to him than to a lawyer
-- or to a shoemaker, or the very craving of his hunger less
obdurate? A man's self, and what he has within him and his belongings,
with his outlook for this and other worlds -- let that be the
first, and the work, noble or otherwise, be the second. To be
honest is greater than to have painted the San Sisto, or to have
chiselled the Apollo, to have assisted in making others honest
-- infinitely greater. All of which were discussed at great length
at the bijou, and the bijouites always sided with the master
of the house. To an artist, said Dormer, let his art be everything
-- above wife and children, above money, above health, above
even character. Then he would put out his hand with his jewelled
finger, and stretch forth his velvet-clad arm, and soon after
lead his friend away to the little dinner at which no luxury
had been spared. But young Hamel agreed with the sermons, and
not the less because Lucy Dormer had sat by and listened to them
with rapt attention. 

Not a word of love had been spoken to her by the sculptor when
her mother died, but there had been glances and little feelings
of which each was half conscious. It is so hard for a young man
to speak of love, if there be real love -- so impossible that
a girl should do so! Not a word had been spoken, but each had
thought that the other must have known. To Lucy a word had been
spoken by her mother -- "Do not think too much of him till you
know," the mother had said -- not quite prudently. "Oh, no! I
will think of him not at all," Lucy had replied. And she had
thought of him day and night. "I wonder why Mr Hamel is so different
with you?" Ayala had said to her sister. "I am sure he is not
different with me", Lucy had replied. Then Ayala had shaken her
full locks and smiled. 

Things came quickly after that. Mrs Dormer had sickened and died.
There was no time then for thinking of that handsome brow, of
that short jet black hair, of those eyes so full of fire and
thoughtfulness, of that perfect mouth, and the deep but yet soft
voice. Still even in her sorrow this new god of her idolatry
was not altogether forgotten. It was told to her that he had
been summoned off to Rome by his father, and she wondered whether
he was to find his home at Rome for ever. Then her father was
ill, and in his illness Hamel came to say one word of farewell
before he started. 

"You find me crushed to the ground," the painter said. Something
the young man whispered as to the consolation which time would
bring. "Not to me," said Dormer. "It is as though one had lost
his eyes. One cannot see without his eyes." It was true of him.
His light had been put out. 

Then, on the landing at the top of the stairs, there had been
one word between Lucy and the sculptor. "I ought not to have
intruded on you perhaps," he said; "but after so much kindness
I could hardly go without a word." 

"I am sure he will be glad that you have come." 

"And you?" 

"I am glad too -- so that I may say goodbye." Then she put out
her hand, and he held it for a moment as he looked into her eyes.
There was not a word more, but it seemed to Lucy as though there
had been so many words. 

Things went on quickly. Egbert Dormer died, and Lucy was taken
away to Kingsbury Crescent. When once Ayala had spoken about
Mr Hamel, Lucy had silenced her. Any allusion to the idea of
love wounded her, as though it was too impossible for dreams,
too holy for words. How should there be words about a lover when
father and mother were both dead? He had gone to his old and
natural home. He had gone, and of course he would not return.
To Ayala, when she came up to London early in November, to Ayala,
who was going to Rome, where Isadore Hamel now was, Isadore Hamel's
name was not mentioned. But through the long mornings of her
life, through the long evenings, through the long nights, she
still thought of him -- she could not keep herself from thinking.
To a girl whose life is full of delights her lover need not be
so very much -- need not, at least, be everything. Though he
be a lover to be loved at all points, her friends will be something,
her dancing, her horse, her theatre-going, her brothers and sisters,
even her father and mother. But Lucy had nothing. The vision
of Isadore Hamel had passed across her life, and had left with
her the only possession that she had. It need hardly be said
that she never alluded to that possession at Kingsbury Crescent.
It was not a possession from which any enjoyment could come except
that of thinking of it. He had passed away from her, and there
was no point of life at which he could come across her again.
There was no longer that half-joint studio. If it had been her
lot to be as was Ayala, she then would have been taken to Rome.
Then again he would have looked into her eyes. and taken her
hand in his. Then perhaps -- . But now, even though he were to
come back to London, he would know nothing of her haunts. Even
in that case nothing would bring them together. As the idea was
crossing her mind -- as it did cross it so frequently -- she
saw him turning from the path on which she was walking, making
his way towards the steps of the Memorial. 

Though she saw no more than his back she was sure that it was
Isadore Hamel. For a moment there was an impulse on her to run
after him and to call his name. It was then early in January,
and she was taking her daily walk through Kensington Gardens.
She had walked there daily now for the last two months and had
never spoken a word or been addressed -- had never seen a face
that she had recognised. It had seemed to her that she had not
an acquaintance in the world except Uncle Reg and Aunt Dosett.
And now, almost within reach of her hand, was the one being in
all the world whom she most longed to see. She did stand and
the word was formed within her lips; but she could not speak
it. Then came the thought that she would run after him, but the
thought was expelled quickly. Though she might lose him again
and for ever she could not do that. She stood almost gasping
till he was out of sight, and then she passed on upon her usual
round. 

She never omitted her walks after that, and always paused a moment
as the path turned away to the Memorial. It was not that she
thought that she might meet him there -- there rather than elsewhere
-- but there is present to us often an idea that when some object
has passed from us that we have desired then it may be seen again.
Day after day, and week after week, she did not see him. During
this time there came letters from Ayala, saying that their return
to England was postponed till the first week in February -- that
she would certainly see Lucy in February -- that she was not
going to be hurried through London in half an hour because her
aunt wished it; and that she would do as she pleased as to visiting
her sister. Then there was a word or two about Tom -- "Oh, Tom
-- that idiot Tom!" And another word or two about Augusta. "Augusta
is worse than ever. We have not spoken to each other for the
last day or two." This came but a day or two before the intended
return of the Tringles. 

No actual day had been fixed. But on the day before that on which
Lucy thought it probable that the Tringles might return to town
she was again walking in the Gardens. Having put two and two
together, as people do, she felt sure that the travellers could
not be away more than a day or two longer. Her mind was much
intent upon Ayala, feeling that the imprudent girl was subjecting
herself to great danger, knowing that it was wrong that she and
Augusta should be together in the house without speaking -- thinking
of her sister's perils -- when, of a sudden, Hamel was close
before her! There was no question of calling to him now -- no
question of an attempt to see him face to face. She had been
wandering along the path with eyes fixed upon the ground, when
her name was sharply called, and they two were close to each
other. Hamel had a friend with him, and it seemed to Lucy at
once, that she could only bow to him, only mutter something,
and then pass on. How can a girl stand and speak to a gentleman
in public, especially when that gentleman has a friend with him?
She tried to look pleasant, bowed, smiled, muttered something,
and was passing on. But he was not minded to lose her thus immediately.
"Miss Dormer," he said, "I have seen your sister at Rome. May
I not say a word about her?" 

Why should he not say a word about Ayala? In a minute he had
left his friend, and was walking back along the path with Lucy.
There was not much that he had to say about Ayala. He had seen
Ayala and the Tringles, and did manage to let it escape him that
Lady Tringle had not been very gracious to himself when once,
in public, he had claimed acquaintance with Ayala. But at that
he simply smiled. Then he had asked of Lucy where she lived.
"With my uncle, Mr Dosett," said Lucy, "at Kingsbury Crescent."
Then, when he asked whether he might call, Lucy, with many blushes,
had said that her aunt did not receive many visitors -- that
her uncle's house was different from what her father's had been.
"Shall I not see you at all, then?" he asked. 

She did not like to ask him after his own purposes of life, whether
he was now a resident in London, or whether he intended to return
to Rome. She was covered with bashfulness, and dreaded to seem
even to be interested in his affairs. "Oh, yes," she said,; "perhaps
we may meet some day." 

"Here?" he asked. 

"Oh, no; not here! It was only an accident." As she said this
she determined that she must walk no more in Kensington Gardens.
It would be dreadful, indeed, were he to imagine that she would
consent to make an appointment with him. It immediately occurred
to her that the lions were about, and that she must shut herself
up. 

"I have thought of you every day since I have been back," he
said, "and I did not know where to hear of you. Now that we have
met am I to lose you again?" Lose her! What did he mean by losing
her? She, too, had found a friend -- she who had been so friendless!
Would it not be dreadful to her, also, to lose him? "Is there
no place where I may ask of you?" 

"When Ayala is back, and they are in town, perhaps I shall sometimes
be at Lady Tringle's," said Lucy, resolved that she would not
tell him of her immediate abode. This was, at any rate, a certain
address from where he might commence further inquiries, should
he wish to make inquiry; and as such he accepted it. "I think
I had better go now," said Lucy, trembling at the apparent impropriety
of her present conversation. 

He knew that it was intended that he should leave her, and he
went. "I hope I have not offended you in coming so far." 

"Oh, no." Then again she gave him her hand and again there was
the same look as he took his leave. 

When she got home, which was before the dusk, having resolved
that she must, at any rate, tell her aunt that she had met a
friend, she found that her uncle had returned from his office.
This was a most unusual occurrence. Her uncle, she knew, left
Somerset House exactly at half past four, and always took an
hour and a quarter for his walk. She had never seen him in Kingsbury
Crescent till a quarter before six. "I have got letters from
Rome," he said, in a solemn voice. 

"From Ayala?" 

"One from Ayala, for you. It is here. And I have had one from
my sister, also; and one, in the course of the day, from your
uncle in Lombard Street. You had better read them!" There was
something terribly tragic in Uncle Dosett's voice as he spoke.
And so must the reader read the letters; but they must be delayed
for a few chapters. 


CHAPTER 5
AT GLENBOGIE

We must go back to Ayala's life during the autumn and winter.
She was rapidly whirled away to Glenbogie amidst the affectionate
welcomings of her aunt and cousins. All manner of good things
were done for her, as to presents and comforts. Young as she
was, she had money given to her, which was not without attraction;
and though she was, of course, in the depth of her mourning,
she was made to understand that even mourning might be made becoming
if no expense were spared. No expense among the Tringles ever
was spared, and at first Ayala liked the bounty of profusion.
But before the end of the first fortnight there grew upon her
a feeling that even bank-notes become tawdry if you are taught
to use them as curl-papers. It may be said that nothing in the
world is charming unless it be achieved at some trouble. If it
rained "'64 Leoville' -- which I regard as the most divine of
nectars -- I feel sure that I should never raise it to my lips.
Ayala did not argue the matter out in her mind, but in very early
days she began to entertain a dislike to Tringle magnificence.
There had been a good deal of luxury at the bijou, but always
with a feeling that it ought not to be there -- that more money
was being spent than prudence authorised -- which had certainly
added a savour to the luxuries. A lovely bonnet, is it not more
lovely because the destined wearer knows that there is some wickedness
in achieving it? All the bonnets, all the claret, all the horses,
seemed to come at Queen's Gate and at Glenbogie without any wickedness.
There was no more question about them than as to one's ordinary
bread and butter at breakfast. Sir Thomas had a way -- a merit
shall we call it or a fault? -- of pouring out his wealth upon
the family as though it were water running in perpetuity from
a mountain tarn. Ayala the romantic, Ayala the poetic, found
very soon that she did not like it. 

Perhaps the only pleasure left to the very rich is that of thinking
of the deprivations of the poor. The bonnets, and the claret,
and the horses, have lost their charm; but the Gladstone, and
the old hats, and the four-wheeled cabs of their neighbours,
still have a little flavour for them. From this source it seemed
to Ayala that the Tringles drew much of the recreation of their
lives. Sir Thomas had his way of enjoying this amusement, but
it was a way that did not specially come beneath Ayala's notice.
When she heard that Break-at-last, the Huddersfield manufacturer,
had to sell his pictures, and that all Shoddy and Stuffgoods'
grand doings for the last two years had only been a flash in
the pan, she did not understand enough about it to feel wounded;
but when she heard her aunt say that people like the Poodles
had better not have a place in Scotland than have to let it,
and when Augusta hinted that Lady Sophia Smallware had pawned
her diamonds, then she felt that her nearest and dearest relatives
smelt abominably of money. 

Of all the family Sir Thomas was most persistently the kindest
to her, though he was a man who did not look to be kind. She
was pretty, and though he was ugly himself he liked to look at
things pretty. He was, too, perhaps, a little tired of his own
wife and daughters -- who were indeed what he had made them,
but still were not quite to his taste. In a general way he gave
instructions that Ayala should be treated exactly as a daughter,
and he informed his wife that he intended to add a codicil to
his will on her behalf. "Is that necessary?" asked Lady Tringle,
who began to feel something like natural jealousy. "I suppose
I ought to do something for a girl if I take her by the hand,"
said Sir Thomas, roughly. "If she gets a husband I will give
her something, and that will do as well." Nothing more was said
about it, but when Sir Thomas went up to town the codicil was
added to his will. 

Ayala was foolish rather than ungrateful, not understanding the
nature of the family to which she was relegated. Before she had
been taken away she had promised Lucy that she would be "obedient"
to her aunt. There had hardly been such a word as obedience known
at the bijou. If any were obedient, it was the mother and the
father to the daughters. Lucy, and Ayala as well, had understood
something of this; and therefore Ayala had promised to be obedient
to her aunt. "And to Uncle Thomas," Lucy had demanded, with an
imploring embrace. "Oh, yes," said Ayala, dreading her uncle
at that time. She soon learned that no obedience whatsoever was
exacted from Sir Thomas. She had to kiss him morning and evening,
and then to take whatever presents he made her. An easy uncle
he was to deal with, and she almost learned to love him. Nor
was Aunt Emmeline very exigeant, though she was fantastic and
sometimes disagreeable. But Augusta was the great difficulty.
Lucy had not told her to obey Augusta, and Augusta she would
not obey. Now Augusta demanded obedience. 

"You never ordered me," Ayala had said to Lucy when they met
in London as the Tringles were passing through. At the bijou
there had been a republic, in which all the inhabitants and all
the visitors had been free and equal. Such republicanism had
been the very mainspring of life at the bijou. Ayala loved equality,
and she specially felt that it should exist among sisters. Do
anything for Lucy? Oh, yes, indeed, anything; abandon anything;
but for Lucy as a sister among sisters, not for an elder as from
a younger! And if she were not bound to serve Lucy then certainly
not Augusta. But Augusta liked to be served. On one occasion
she sent Ayala upstairs, and on another she sent Ayala downstairs.
Ayala went, but determined to be equal with her cousin. On the
morning following, in the presence of Aunt Emmeline and of Gertrude,
in the presence also of two other ladies who were visiting at
the house, she asked Augusta if she would mind running upstairs
and fetching her scrap-book! She had been thinking about it all
the night and all the morning, plucking up her courage. But she
had been determined. She found a great difficulty in saying the
words, but she said them. The thing was so preposterous that
all the ladies in the room looked aghast at the proposition.
"I really think that Augusta has got something else to do," said.
Aunt Emmeline. "Oh, very well," said Ayala, and then they were
all silent. Augusta, who was employed on a silk purse, sat still
and did not say a word. 

Had a great secret, or rather a great piece of news which pervaded
the family, been previously communicated to Ayala, she would
not probably have made so insane a suggestion. Augusta was engaged
to be married to the Honourable Septimus Traffick, the member
for Port Glasgow. A young lady who is already half a bride is
not supposed to run up and down stairs as readily as a mere girl.
For running up and down stairs at the bijou Ayala had been proverbial.
They were a family who ran up and down with the greatest alacrity.
"Oh, papa, my basket is out on the seat' -- for there had been
a seat in the two-foot garden behind the house. Papa would go
down in two jumps and come up with three skips, and there was
the basket, only because his girl liked him to do something for
her. But for him Ayala would run about as though she were a tricksy
Ariel. Had the important matrimonial news been conveyed to Ariel,
with a true girl's spirit she would have felt that during the
present period Augusta was entitled to special exemption from
all ordering. Had she herself been engaged she would have run
more and quicker than ever -- would have been excited thereto
by the peculiar vitality of her new prospects; but to even Augusta
she would be subservient, because of her appreciation of bridal
importance. She, however, had not been told till that afternoon.
"You should not have asked Augusta to go upstairs," said Aunt
Emmeline, in a tone of mitigated reproach. 

"Oh! I didn't know," said Ayala. 

"You had meant to say that because she had sent you you were
to send her. There is a difference, you know." 

"I didn't know," said Ayala, beginning to think that she would
fight her battle if told of such differences as she believed
to exist. 

"I had meant to tell you before, but I may as well tell you now,
Augusta is engaged to be married to the Honourable Mr Septimus
Traffick. He is second son of Lord Boardotrade, and is in the
House." 

"Dear me!" said Ayala, acknowledging at once within her heart
that the difference alleged was one against which she need not
rouse herself to the fight. Aunt Emmeline had, in truth, intended
to insist on that difference -- and another; but her courage
had failed her. 

"Yes, indeed. He is a man very much thought of just now in public
life, and Augusta's mind is naturally much occupied. He writes
all those letters in The Times about supply and demand." 

"Does he, aunt?" Ayala did feel that if Augusta's mind was entirely
occupied with supply and demand she ought not to be made to go
upstairs to fetch a scrap-book. But she had her doubts about
Augusta's mind. Nevertheless, if the forthcoming husband were
true, that might be a reason. "If anybody had told me before
I wouldn't have asked her," she said. 

Then Lady Tringle explained that it had been thought better not
to say anything heretofore as to the coming matrimonial hilarities
because of the sadness which had fallen upon the Dormer family.
Ayala accepted this as an excuse, and nothing further was said
as to the iniquity of her request to her cousin. But there was
a general feeling among the women that Ayala, in lieu of gratitude,
had exhibited an intention of rebelling. 

On the next day Mr Traffick arrived, whose coming had probably
made it necessary that the news should be told. Ayala was never
so surprised in her life as when she saw him. She had never yet
had a lover of her own, had never dreamed of a lover, but she
had her own idea as to what a lover ought to be. She had thought
that Isadore Hamel would be a very nice lover -- for her sister.
Hamel was young, handsome, with a great deal to say on such a
general subject as art, but too bashful to talk easily to the
girl he admired. Ayala had thought that all that was just as
it should be. She was altogether resolved that Hamel and her
sister should be lovers, and was determined to be devoted to
her future brother-in-law. But the Honourable Septimus Traffick!
It was a question to her whether her Uncle Tringle would not
have been better as a lover. 

And yet there was nothing amiss about Mr Traffick. He was very
much like an ordinary hard-working member of the House of Commons,
over perhaps rather than under forty years of age. He was somewhat
bald, somewhat grey, somewhat fat, and had lost that look of
rosy plumpness which is seldom, I fear, compatible with hard
work and late hours. He was not particularly ugly, nor was he
absurd in appearance. But he looked to be a disciple of business,
not of pleasure, nor of art. "To sit out on the bank of a stream
and have him beside one would not be particularly nice," thought
Ayala to herself. Mr Traffick no doubt would have enjoyed it
very well if he could have spared the time; but to Ayala it seemed
that such a man as that could have cared nothing for love. As
soon as she saw him, and realised in her mind the fact that Augusta
was to become his wife, she felt at once the absurdity of sending
Augusta on a message. 

Augusta that evening was somewhat more than ordinarily kind to
her cousin. Now that the great secret was told, her cousin no
doubt would recognise her importance. "I suppose you had not
heard of him before?" she said to Ayala. 

"I never did." 

"That's because you have not attended to the debates." 

"I never have. What are debates?" 

"Mr Traffick is very much thought of in the House of Commons
on all subjects affecting commerce." 

"Oh!" 

"It is the most glorious study which the world affords." 

"The House of Commons. I don't think it can be equal to art."
Then Augusta turned up her nose with a double turn -- first as
against painters, Mr Dormer having been no more, and then at
Ayala's ignorance in supposing that the House of Commons could
have been spoken of as a study. "Mr Traffick will probably be
in the government some day," she said. 

"Has not he been yet?" asked Ayala. 

"Not yet." 

"Then won't he be very old before he gets there?" This was a
terrible question. Young ladies of five-and-twenty, when they
marry gentlemen of four-and-fifty, make up their minds for well-understood
and well-recognised old age. They see that they had best declare
their purpose, and they do declare it. "Of course, Mr Walker
is old enough to be my father, but I have made up my mind that
I like that better than anything else." Then the wall has been
jumped, and the thing can go smoothly. But at forty-five there
is supposed to be so much of youth left that the difference of
age may possibly be tided over and not made to appear abnormal.
Augusta Tringle had determined to tide it over in this way. The
forty-five had been gradually reduced to "less than forty' --
though all the Peerages were there to give the lie to the assertion.
She talked of her lover as Septimus, and was quite prepared to
sit with him beside a stream if only half an hour for the amusement
could be found. When, therefore, Ayala suggested that if her
lover wanted to get into office he had better do so quickly,
lest he should be too old, Augusta was not well pleased. 

"Lord Boardotrade was much older when he began," said Augusta.
"His friends, indeed, tell Septimus that he should not push himself
forward too quickly. But I don't think that I ever came across
anyone who was so ignorant of such things as you are, Ayala."
"Perhaps he is not so old as he looks," said Ayala. After this
it may be imagined that there was not close friendship between
the cousins. Augusta's mind was filled with a strong conception
as to Ayala's ingratitude. The houseless, penniless orphan had
been taken in, and had done nothing but make herself disagreeable.
Young! No doubt she was young. But had she been as old as Methuselah
she could not have been more insolent. It did not, however, matter
to her, Augusta. She was going away; but it would be terrible
to her mamma and to Gertrude! Thus it was that Augusta spoke
of her cousin to her mother. 

And then there came another trouble, which was more troublesome
to Ayala even than the other. Tom Tringle, who was in the house
in Lombard Street, who was the only son, and heir to the title
and no doubt to much of the wealth, had chosen to take Ayala's
part and to enlist himself as her special friend. Ayala had,
at first, accepted him as a cousin, and had consented to fraternise
with him. Then, on some unfortunate day, there had been some
word or look which she had failed not to understand, and immediately
she had become afraid of Tom. Tom was not like Isadore Hamel
-- was very far, indeed, from that idea of a perfect lover which
Ayala's mind had conceived; but he was by no means a lout, or
an oaf, or an idiot, as Ayala in her letters to her sister had
described him. He had been first at Eton and then at Oxford,
and having spent a great deal of money recklessly, and done but
little towards his education, had been withdrawn and put into
the office. His father declared of him now that he would do fairly
well in the world. He had a taste for dress, and kept four or
five hunters which he got but little credit by riding. He made
a fuss about his shooting, but did not shoot much. He was stout
and awkward looking -- very like his father, but without that
settled air which age gives to heavy men. In appearance he was
not the sort of lover to satisfy the preconceptions of such a
girl as Ayala. But he was good-natured and true. At last he became
to her terribly true. His love, such as it seemed at first, was
absurd to her. "If you make yourself such a fool, Tom, I'll never
speak to you again," she had said, once. Even after that she
had not understood that it was more than a stupid joke. But the
joke, while it was considered as such, was very distasteful to
her; and afterwards, when a certain earnestness in it was driven
in upon her, it became worse than distasteful. 

She repudiated his love with such power as she had, but she could
not silence him. She could not at all understand that a young
man, who seemed to her to be an oaf, should really be in love
-- honestly in love with her. But such was the case. Then she
became afraid lest others should see it -- afraid, though she
often told herself that she would appeal to her aunt for protection.
"I tell you I don't care a bit about you, and you oughtn't to
go on," she said. But he did go on, and though her aunt did not
see it Augusta did. 

Then Augusta spoke a word to her in scorn. "Ayala," she said,
"you should not encourage Tom." 

Encourage him! What a word from one girl to another! What a world
of wrong there was in the idea which had created the word! What
an absence of the sort of feeling which, according to Ayala's
theory of life, there should be on such a matter between two
sisters, two cousins, or two friends! Encourage him! When Augusta
ought to have been the first to assist her in her trouble! "Oh,
Augusta," she said, turning sharply round, "what a spiteful creature
you are." 

"I suppose you think so, because I do not choose to approve."
"Approve of what! Tom is thoroughly disagreeable. Sometimes he
makes my life such a burden to me that I think I shall have to
go to my aunt. But you are worse. Oh!" exclaimed Ayala, shuddering
as she thought of the unwomanly treachery of which her cousin
was guilty towards her. 

Nothing more came of it at Glenbogie. Tom was required in Lombard
Street, and the matter was not suspected by Aunt Emmeline --
as far, at least, as Ayala was aware. When he was gone it was
to her as though there would be a world of time before she would
see him again. They were to go to Rome, and he would not be at
Rome till January. Before that he might have forgotten his folly.
But Ayala was quite determined that she would never forget the
ill offices of Augusta. She did hate Augusta, as she had told
her sister. Then, in this frame of mind, the family was taken
to Rome. 


CHAPTER 6
AT ROME

During her journeying and during her sojourn at Rome Ayala did
enjoy much; but even these joys did not come to her without causing
some trouble of spirit. At Glenbogie everybody had known that
she was a dependent niece, and that as such she was in truth
nobody. On that morning when she had ordered Augusta to go upstairs
the two visitors had stared with amazement -- who would not have
stared at all had they heard Ayala ordered in the same way. But
it came about that in Rome Ayala was almost of more importance
than the Tringles. It was absolutely true that Lady Tringle and
Augusta and Gertrude were asked here and there because of Ayala;
and the worst of it was that the fact was at last suspected by
the Tringles themselves. Sometimes they would not always be asked.
One of the Tringle girls would only be named. But Ayala was never
forgotten. Once or twice an effort was made by some grand lady,
whose taste was perhaps more conspicuous than her good nature,
to get Ayala without burdening herself with any of the Tringles.
When this became clear to the mind of Augusta -- of Augusta,
engaged as she was to the Honourable Septimus Traffick, Member
of Parliament -- Augusta's feelings were -- such as may better
be understood than described! "Don't let her go, mamma," she
said to Lady Tringle one morning. 

"But the Marchesa has made such a point of it." 

"Bother the Marchesa! Who is the Marchesa? I believe it is all
Ayala's doing because she expects to meet that Mr Hamel. It is
dreadful to see the way she goes on." 

"Mr Hamel was a very intimate friend of her father's." 

"I don't believe a bit of it." 

"He certainly used to be at his house. I remember seeing him."
"I daresay; but that doesn't justify Ayala in running after him
as she does. I believe that all this about the Marchesa is because
of Mr Hamel." This was better than believing that Ayala was to
be asked to sing, and that Ayala was to be feted and admired
and danced with, simply because Ayala was Ayala, and that they,
the Tringles, in spite of Glenbogie, Merle Park, and Queen's
Gate, were not wanted at all. But when Aunt Emmeline signified
to Ayala that on that particular morning she had better not go
to the Marchesa's picnic, Ayala simply said that she had promised
-- and Ayala went. 

At this time no gentleman of the family was with them. Sir Thomas
had gone, and Tom Tringle had not come. Then, just at Christmas,
the Honourable Septimus Traffick came for a short visit -- a
very short visit, no more than four or five days, because Supply
and Demand were requiring all his services in preparation for
the coming Session of Parliament. But for five halcyon days he
was prepared to devote himself to the glories of Rome under the
guidance of Augusta. He did not of course sleep at the Palazzo
Ruperti, where it delighted Lady Tringle to inform her friends
in Rome that she had a suite of apartments au premiere, but he
ate there and drank there and almost lived there; so that it
became absolutely necessary to inform the world of Rome that
it was Augusta's destiny to become in course of time the Honourable
Mrs Traffick, otherwise the close intimacy would hardly have
been discreet -- unless it had been thought, as the ill-natured
Marchesa had hinted, that Mr Traffick was Lady Tringle's elder
brother. Augusta, however, was by no means ashamed of her lover.
Perhaps she felt that when it was known that she was about to
be the bride of so great a man then doors would be open for her
at any rate as wide as for her cousin. At this moment she was
very important to herself. She was about to convey no less a
sum than L#120,000 to Mr Traffick, who in truth, as younger son
of Lord Boardotrade, was himself not well endowed. Considering
her own position and her future husband's rank and standing,
she did not know how a young woman could well be more important.
She was very important at any rate to Mr Traffick. She was sure
of that. When, therefore, she learned that Ayala had been asked
to a grand ball at the Marchesa's, that Mr Traffick was also
to be among the guests, and that none of the Tringles had been
invited -- then her anger became hot. 

She must have been very stupid when she took it into her head
to be jealous of Mr Traffick's attention to her cousin; stupid,
at any rate, when she thought that her cousin was laying out
feminine lures for Mr Traffick. Poor Ayala! We shall see much
of her in these pages, and it may be well to declare of her at
once that her ideas at this moment about men -- or rather about
a possible man -- were confined altogether to the abstract. She
had floating in her young mind some fancies as to the beauty
of love. That there should be a hero must of course be necessary.
But in her day-dreams this hero was almost celestial -- or, at
least, athereal. It was a concentration of poetic perfection
to which there was not as yet any appanage of apparel, of features,
or of wealth. It was a something out of heaven which should think
it well to spend his whole time in adoring her and making her
more blessed than had ever yet been a woman upon the earth. Then
her first approach to a mundane feeling had been her acknowledgment
to herself that Isadore Hamel would do as a lover for Lucy. Isadore
Hamel was certainly very handsome -- was possessed of infinite
good gifts; but even he would by no means have come up to her
requirements for her own hero. That hero must have wings tinged
with azure, whereas Hamel had a not much more aetherealised than
ordinary coat and waistcoat. She knew that heroes with azure
wings were not existent save in the imagination, and, as she
desired a real lover for Lucy, Hamel would do. But for herself
her imagination was too valuable then to allow her to put her
foot upon earth. Such as she was, must not Augusta have been
very stupid to have thought that Ayala should become fond of
her Mr Traffick! 

Her cousin Tom had come to her, and had been to her as a Newfoundland
dog is when he jumps all over you just when he has come out of
a horse-pond. She would have liked Tom had he kept his dog-like
gambols at a proper distance. But when he would cover her with
muddy water he was abominable. But this Augusta had not understood.
With Mr Traffick there would be no dog-like gambols; and, as
he was not harsh to her, Ayala liked him. She had liked her uncle.
Such men were, to her thinking, more like dogs than lovers. She
sang when Mr Traffick asked her, and made a picture for him,
and went with him to the Coliseum, and laughed at him about Supply
and Demand. She was very pretty, and perhaps Mr Traffick did
like to look at her. 

"I really think you were too free with Mr Traffick last night,"
Augusta said to her one morning. 

"Free! How free?" 

"You were -- laughing at him." 

"Oh, he likes that," said Ayala. "All that time we were up at
the top of St Peter's I was quizzing him about his speeches.
He lets me say just what I please." 

This was wormwood. In the first place there had been a word or
two between the lovers about that going up of St Peter's, and
Augusta had refused to join them. She had wished Septimus to
remain down with her -- which would have been tantamount to preventing
any of the party from going up; but Septimus had persisted on
ascending. Then Augusta had been left for a long hour alone with
her mother. Gertrude had no doubt gone up, but Gertrude had lagged
during the ascent. Ayala had skipped up the interminable stairs
and Mr Traffick had trotted after her with admiring breathless
industry. This itself, with the thoughts of the good time which
Septimus might be having at the top, was very bad. But now to
be told that she, Ayala, should laugh at him; and that he, Septimus,
should like it! "I suppose he takes you to be a child," said
Augusta; "but if you are a child you ought to conduct yourself."
"I suppose he does perceive the difference," said Ayala. 

She had not in the least known what the words might convey --
had probably meant nothing. But to Augusta it was apparent that
Ayala had declared that her lover, her Septimus, had preferred
her extreme youth to the more mature charms of his own true love
-- or had, perhaps, preferred Ayala's raillery to Augusta's serious
demeanour. "You are the most impertinent person I ever knew in
my life," said Augusta, rising from her chair and walking slowly
out of the room. Ayala stared after her, not above half comprehending
the cause of the anger. 

Then came the very serious affair of the ball. The Marchesa had
asked that her dear little friend Ayala Dormer might be allowed
to come over to a little dance which her own girls were going
to have. Her own girls were so fond of Ayala! There would be
no trouble. There was a carriage which would be going somewhere
else, and she would be fetched and taken home. Ayala at once
declared that she intended to go, and her Aunt Emmeline did not
refuse her sanction. Augusta was shocked, declaring that the
little dance was to be one of the great balls of the season,
and pronouncing the whole to be a falsehood; but the affair was
arranged before she could stop it. 

But Mr Traffick's affair in the matter came more within her range.
"Septimus," she said, "I would rather you would not go to that
woman's party." Septimus had been asked only on the day before
the party -- as soon, indeed, as his arrival had become known
to the Marchesa. 

"Why, my own one?" 

"She has not treated mamma well -- nor yet me." 

"Ayala is going." He had no right to call her Ayala. So Augusta
thought. 

"My cousin is behaving badly in the matter, and mamma ought not
to allow her to go. Who knows anything about the Marchesa Baldoni?"
"Both he and she are of the very best families in Rome," said
Mr Traffick, who knew everything about it. 

"At any rate they are behaving very badly to us, and I will take
it as a favour that you do not go. Asking Ayala, and then asking
you, as good as from the same house, is too marked. You ought
not to go." 

Perhaps Mr Traffick had on some former occasion felt some little
interference with his freedom of action. Perhaps he liked the
acquaintance of the Marchesa. Perhaps he liked Ayala Dormer.
Be that as it might, he would not yield. "Dear Augusta, it is
right that I should go there, if it be only for half an hour."
This he said in a tone of voice with which Augusta was already
acquainted, which she did not love, and which, when she heard
it, would make her think of her L#120,000. When he had spoken
he left her, and she began to think of her L#120,000. 

They both went, Ayala and Mr Traffick -- and Mr Traffick, instead
of staying half an hour, brought Ayala back at three o'clock
in the morning. Though Mr Traffick was nearly as old as Uncle
Tringle, yet he could dance. Ayala had been astonished to find
how well he could dance, and thought that she might please her
cousin Augusta by praising the juvenility of her lover at luncheon
the next day. She had not appeared at breakfast, but had been
full of the ball at lunch. "Oh, dear, yes, I dare say there were
two hundred people there." 

"That is what she calls a little dance," said Augusta, with scorn.
"I suppose that is the Italian way of talking about it," said
Ayala. 

"Italian way! I hate Italian ways." 

"Mr Traffick liked it very much. I'm sure he'll tell you so.
I had no idea he would care to dance." 

Augusta only shook herself and turned up her nose. Lady Tringle
thought it necessary to say something in defence of her daughter's
choice. "Why should not Mr Traffick dance like any other gentleman?"
"Oh, I don't know. I thought that a man who makes so many speeches
in Parliament would think of something else. I was very glad
he did, for he danced three times with me. He can waltz as lightly
as -- " As though he were young, she was going to say, but then
she stopped herself. 

"He is the best dancer I ever danced with," said Augusta. 

"But you almost never do dance," said Ayala. 

"I suppose I may know about it as well as another," said Augusta,
angrily. 

The next day was the last of Mr Traffick's sojourn in Rome, and
on that day he and Augusta so quarrelled that, for a certain
number of hours, it was almost supposed in the family that the
match would be broken off. On the afternoon of the day after
the dance, Mr Traffick was walking with Ayala on the Pincian,
while Augusta was absolutely remaining behind with her mother.
For a quarter of an hour -- the whole day, as it seemed to Augusta
-- there was a full two hundred yards between them. It was not
that the engaged girl could not bear the severance, but that
she could not endure the attention paid to Ayala. On the next
morning "she had it out", as some people say, with her lover.
"If I am to be treated in this way you had better tell me so
at once," she said. 

"I know no better way of treating you," said Mr Traffick. 

"Dancing with that chit all night, turning her head, and then
walking with her all the next day! I will not put up with such
conduct." 

Mr Traffick valued L#120,000 very highly, as do most men, and
would have done much to keep it; but he believed that the best
way of making sure of it would be by showing himself to be the
master. "My own one," he said, "you are really making an ass
of yourself." 

"Very well! Then I will write to papa, and let him know that
it must be all over." 

For three hours there was terrible trouble in the apartments
in the Palazzo Ruperti, during which Mr Traffick was enjoying
himself by walking up and down the Forum, and calculating how
many Romans could have congregated themselves in the space which
is supposed to have seen so much of the world's doings. During
this time Augusta was very frequently in hysterics; but, whether
in hysterics or out of them, she would not allow Ayala to come
near her. She gave it to be understood that Ayala had interfered
fatally, foully, damnably, with all her happiness. She demanded,
from fit to fit, that telegrams should be sent over to bring
her father to Italy for her protection. She would rave about
Septimus, and then swear that, under no consideration whatever,
would she ever see him again. At the end of three hours she was
told that Septimus was in the drawing-room. Lady Tringle had
sent half a dozen messengers after him, and at last he was found
looking up at the Arch of Titus. "Bid him go," said Augusta.
"I never want to behold him again." But within two minutes she
was in his arms, and before dinner she was able to take a stroll
with him on the Pincian. 

He left, like a thriving lover, high in the good graces of his
beloved; but the anger which had fallen on Ayala had not been
removed. Then came a rumour that the Marchesa, who was half English,
had called Ayala Cinderella, and the name had added fuel to the
fire of Augusta's wrath. There was much said about it between
Lady Tringle and her daughter, the aunt really feeling that more
blame was being attributed to Ayala than she deserved. "Perhaps
she gives herself airs," said Lady Tringle, "but really it is
no more." 

"She is a viper," said Augusta. 

Gertrude rather took Ayala's part, telling her mother, in private,
that the accusation about Mr Traffick was absurd. "The truth
is", said Gertrude, "that Ayala thinks herself very clever and
very beautiful, and Augusta will not stand it." Gertrude acknowledged
that Ayala was upsetting and ungrateful. Poor Lady Tringle, in
her husband's absence, did not know what to do about her niece.
Altogether, they were uncomfortable after Mr Traffick went and
before Tom Tringle had come. On no consideration whatsoever would
Augusta speak to her cousin. She declared that Ayala was a viper,
and would give no other reason. In all such quarrelings the matter
most distressing is that the evil cannot be hidden. Everybody
at Rome who knew the Tringles, or who knew Ayala, was aware that
Augusta Tringle would not speak to her cousin. When Ayala was
asked she would shake her locks, and open her eyes, and declare
that she knew nothing about it. In truth she knew very little
about it. She remembered that passage-at-arms about the going
upstairs at Glenbogie, but she could hardly understand that for
so small an affront, and one so distant, Augusta would now refuse
to speak to her. That Augusta had always been angry with her,
and since Mr Traffick's arrival more angry than ever, she had
felt; but that Augusta was jealous in respect to her lover had
never yet at all come home to Ayala. That she should have wanted
to captivate Mr Traffick -- she with her high ideas of some transcendental,
more than human, hero! 

But she had to put up with it, and to think of it. She had sense
enough to know that she was no more than a stranger in her aunt's
family, and that she must go if she made herself unpleasant to
them. She was aware that hitherto she had not succeeded with
her residence among them. Perhaps she might have to go. Some
things she would bear, and in them she would endeavour to amend
her conduct. In other matters she would hold her own, and go,
if necessary. Though her young imagination was still full of
her unsubstantial hero -- though she still had her castles in
the air altogether incapable of terrestrial foundation -- still
there was a common sense about her which told her that she must
give and take. She would endeavour to submit herself to her aunt.
She would be kind -- as she had always been kind -- to Gertrude.
She would in all matters obey her uncle. Her misfortune with
the Newfoundland dog had almost dwindled out of her mind. To
Augusta she could not submit herself. But then Augusta, as soon
as the next session of Parliament should be over, would be married
out of the way. And, on her own part, she did think that her
aunt was inclined to take her part in the quarrel with Augusta.
Thus matters were going on in Rome when there came up another
and a worse cause for trouble. 


CHAPTER 7
TOM TRINGLE IN EARNEST

Tom Tringle, though he had first appeared to his cousin Ayala
as a Newfoundland dog which might perhaps be pleasantly playful,
and then, as the same dog, very unpleasant because dripping with
muddy water, was nevertheless a young man with so much manly
truth about him as to be very much in love. He did not look like
it; but then perhaps the young men who do fall most absolutely
into love do not look like it. To Ayala her cousin Tom was as
unloveable as Mr Septimus Traffick. She could like them both
well enough while they would be kind to her. But as to regarding
cousin Tom as a lover -- the idea was so preposterous to her
that she could not imagine that anyone else should look upon
it as real. But with Tom the idea had been real, and was, moreover,
permanent. The black locks which would be shaken here and there,
the bright glancing eyes which could be so joyous and could be
so indignant, the colour of her face which had nothing in it
of pink, which was brown rather, but over which the tell-tale
blood would rush with a quickness which was marvellous to him,
the lithe quick figure which had in it nothing of the weight
of earth, the little foot which in itself was a perfect joy,
the step with all the elasticity of a fawn -- these charms together
had mastered him. Tom was not romantic or poetic, but the romance
and poetry of Ayala had been divine to him. It is not always
like to like in love. Titania loved the weaver Bottom with the
ass's head. Bluebeard, though a bad husband, is supposed to have
been fond of his last wife. The Beauty has always been beloved
by the Beast. To Ayala the thing was monstrous: but it was natural.
Tom Tringle was determined to have his way, and when he started
for Rome was more intent upon his love-making than all the glories
of the Capitol and the Vatican. 

When he first made his appearance before Ayala's eyes he was
bedecked in a manner that was awful to her. Down at Glenbogie
he had affected a rough attire, as is the custom with young men
of ample means when fishing, shooting, or the like, is supposed
to be the employment then in hand. The roughness had been a little
overdone, but it had added nothing to his own uncouthness. In
London he was apt to run a little towards ornamental gilding,
but in London his tastes had been tempered by the ill-natured
criticism of the world at large. He had hardly dared at Queen's
Gate to wear his biggest pins; but he had taken upon himself
to think that at Rome an Englishman might expose himself with
all his jewelry. "Oh, Tom, I never saw anything so stunning,"
his sister Gertrude said to him. He had simply frowned upon her,
and had turned himself to Ayala, as though Ayala, being an artist,
would be able to appreciate something beautiful in art. Ayala
had looked at him and had marvelled, and had ventured to hope
that, with his Glenbogie dress, his Glenbogie manners and Glenbogie
propensities would be changed. 

At this time the family at Rome was very uncomfortable. Augusta
would not speak to her cousin, and had declared to her mother
and sister her determination never to speak to Ayala again. For
a time Aunt Emmeline had almost taken her niece's part, feeling
that she might, best bring things back to a condition of peace
in this manner. Ayala, she had thought, might thus be decoyed
into a state of submission. Ayala, so instigated, had made her
attempt. "What is the matter, Augusta," she had said, "that you
are determined to quarrel with me?" Then had followed a little
offer that bygones should be bygones. 

"I have quarrelled with you", said Augusta, "because you do not
know how to behave yourself." Then Ayala had flashed forth, and
the little attempt led to a worse condition than ever, and words
were spoken which even Aunt Emmeline had felt to be irrevocable,
irremediable. 

"Only that you are going away I would not consent to live here."
said Ayala. Then Aunt Emmeline had asked her where she would
go to live should it please her to remove herself. Ayala had
thought of this for a moment, and then had burst into tears.
"If I could not live I could die. Anything would be better than
to be treated as she treats me." So the matters were when Tom
came to Rome with all his jewelry. 

Lady Tringle had already told herself that, in choosing Ayala,
she had chosen wrong. Lucy, though not so attractive as Ayala,
was pretty, quiet, and ladylike. So she thought now. And as to
Ayala's attractions, they were not at all of a nature to be serviceable
to such a family as hers. To have her own girls outshone, to
be made to feel that the poor orphan was the one person most
worthy of note among them, to be subjected to the caprices of
a pretty, proud, ill-conditioned minx -- thus it was that Aunt
Emmeline was taught to regard her own charity and good-nature
towards her niece. There was, she said, no gratitude in Ayala.
Had she said that there was no humility she would have been more
nearly right. She was entitled, she thought, to expect both gratitude
and humility, and she was sorry that she had opened the Paradise
of her opulent home to one so little grateful and so little humble
as Ayala. She saw now her want of judgment in that she had not
taken Lucy. 

Tom, who was not a fool, in spite of his trinkets, saw the state
of the case, and took Ayala's part at once. "I think you are
quite right,"he said to her, on the first occasion on which he
had contrived to find himself alone with her after his arrival.
"Right about what?" 

"In not giving up to Augusta. She was always like that when she
was a child, and now her head is turned about Traffick." 

"I shouldn't grudge her her lover if she would only let me alone."
"I don't suppose she hurts you much?" 

"She sets my aunt against me, and that makes me unhappy. Of course
I am wretched." 

"Oh, Ayala, don't be wretched." 

"How is one to help it? I never said an ill-natured word to her,
and now I am so lonely among them!" In saying this -- in seeking
to get one word of sympathy from her cousin, she forgot for a
moment his disagreeable pretensions. But, no sooner had she spoken
of her loneliness, than she saw that ogle in his eye of which
she had spoken with so much ludicrous awe in her letters from
Glenbogie to her sister. 

"I shall always take your part," said he. 

"I don't want any taking of parts." 

"But I shall. I am not going to see you put upon. You are more
to me, Ayala, than any of them." Then he looked at her, whereupon
she got up and ran away. 

But she could not always run away, nor could she always refuse
when he asked her to go with him about the show-places of the
city. To avoid starting alone with him was within her power;
but she found herself compelled to join herself to Gertrude and
her brother in some of those little excursions which were taken
for her benefit. At this time there had come to be a direct quarrel
between Lady Tringle and the Marchesa, which, however, had arisen
altogether on the part of Augusta. Augusta had forced her mother
to declare that she was insulted, and then there was no more
visiting between them. This had been sad enough for Ayala, who
had struck up an intimacy with the Marchesa's daughters. But
the Marchesa had explained to her that there was no help for
it. "It won't do for you to separate yourself from your aunt,"
she had said. "Of course we shall be friends, and at some future
time you shall come and see us." So there had been a division,
and Ayala would have been quite alone had she declined the proffered
companionship of Gertrude. 

Within the walls and arches and upraised terraces of the Coliseum
they were joined one day by young Hamel, the sculptor, who had
not, as yet, gone back to London -- and had not, as yet, met
Lucy in the gardens at Kensington; and with him there had been
one Frank Houston, who had made acquaintance with Lady Tringle,
and with the Tringles generally, since they had been at Rome.
Frank Houston was a young man of family, with a taste for art,
very good-looking, but not specially well off in regard to income.
He had heard of the good fortune of Septimus Traffick in having
prepared for himself a connection with so wealthy a family as
the Tringles, and had thought it possible that a settlement in
life might be comfortable for himself. What few softwords he
had hitherto been able to say to Gertrude had been taken in good
part, and when, therefore, they met among the walls of the Coliseum,
she had naturally straggled away to see some special wonder which
he had a special aptitude for showing. Hamel remained with Ayala
and Tom, talking of the old days at the bijou, till he found
himself obliged to leave them. Then Tom had his opportunity.
"Ayala," he said, "all this must be altered." 

"What must be altered?" 

"If you only knew, Ayala, how much you are to me." 

"I wish you wouldn't, Tom. I don't want to be anything to anybody
in particular." 

"What I mean is, that I won't have them sit upon you. They treat
you as -- as -- well, as though you had only half a right to
be one of them." 

"No more I have. I have no right at all." 

"But that's not the way I want it to be. If you were my wife
-- " 

"Tom, pray don't." 

"Why not? I'm in earnest. Why ain't I to speak as I think? Oh,
Ayala, if you knew how much I think of you." 

"But you shouldn't. You haven't got a right." 

"I have got a right." 

"But I don't want it, Tom, and I won't have it." He had carried
her away now to the end of the terrace, or ruined tier of seats,
on which they were walking, and had got her so hemmed into a
corner that she could not get away from him. She was afraid of
him, lest he should put out his hand to take hold of her -- lest
something even more might be attempted. And yet his manner was
manly and sincere, and had it not been for his pins and his chains
she could not but have acknowledged his goodness to her, much
as she might have disliked his person. "I want to get out," she
said. "I won't stay here any more. Mr Traffick, on the top of
St Peter's, had been a much pleasanter companion. 

"Don't you believe me when I tell you that I love you better
than anybody?" pleaded Tom. 

"No." 

"Not believe me? Oh, Ayala!" 

"I don't want to believe anything. I want to get out. If you
go on, I'll tell my aunt." 

Tell her aunt! There was a want of personal consideration to
himself in this way of receiving his addresses which almost angered
him. Tom Tringle was not in the least afraid of his mother --
was not even afraid of his father as long as he was fairly regular
at the office in Lombard Street. He was quite determined to please
himself in marriage, and was disposed to think that his father
and mother would like him to be settled. Money was no object.
There was, to his thinking, no good reason why he should not
marry his cousin. For her the match was so excellent that he
hardly expected she would reject him when she could be made to
understand that he was really in earnest. "You may tell all the
world," lie said proudly. "All I want is that you should love
me." 

"But I don't. There are Gertrude and Mr Houston, and I want to
go to them." 

"Say one nice word to me, Ayala." 

"I don't know how to say a nice word. Can't you be made to understand
that I don't like it?" 

"Ayala." 

"Why don't you let me go away?" 

"Ayala -- give me -- one -- kiss." Then Ayala did go away, escaping
by some kid-like manoeuvre among the ruins, and running quickly,
while he followed her, joined herself to the other pair of lovers,
who probably were less in want of her society than she of theirs.
"Ayala, I am quite in earnest," said Tom, as they were walking
home, "and I mean to go on with it." 

Ayala thought that there was nothing for it but to tell her aunt.
That there would be some absurdity in such a proceeding she did
feel -- that she would be acting as though her cousin were a
naughty boy who was merely teasing her. But she felt also the
peculiar danger of her own position. Her aunt must be made to
understand that she, Ayala, was innocent in the matter. It would
be terrible to her to be suspected even for a moment of a desire
to inveigle the heir. That Augusta would bring such an accusation
against her she thought probable. Augusta had said as much even
at Glenbogie. She must therefore be on the alert, and let it
be understood at once that she was not leagued with her cousin
Tom. There would be an absurdity -- but that would be better
than suspicion. 

She thought about it all that afternoon, and in the evening she
came to a resolution. She would write a letter to her cousin
and persuade him if possible to desist. If he should again annoy
her after that she would appeal to her aunt. Then she wrote and
sent her letter, which was as follows --  

DEAR TOM?

You don't know how unhappy you made me at the Coliseum today.
I don't think you ought to turn against me when you know what
I have to bear. It is turning against me to talk as you did.
Of course it means nothing; but you shouldn't do it. It never
never could mean anything. I hope you will be good-natured and
kind to me, and then I shall be so much obliged to you. If you
won't say anything more like that I will forget it altogether.
Your affectionate cousin, 

AYALA

The letter ought to have convinced him. Those two underscored
nevers should have eradicated from his mind the feeling which
had been previously produced by the assertion that he had "meant
nothing". But he was so assured in his own meanings that he paid
no attention whatever to the nevers. The letter was a delight
to him because it gave him the opportunity of a rejoinder --
and he wrote his rejoinder on a scented sheet of notepaper and
copied it twice --  

DEAREST AYALA, 

Why do you say that it means nothing? It means everything. No
man was ever more in earnest in speaking to a lady than I am
with you. Why should I not be in earnest when I am so deeply
in love? From the first moment in which I saw you down at Glenbogie
I knew how it was going to be with me. 

As for my mother I don't think she would say a word. Why should
she? But I am not the sort of man to be talked out of my intentions
in such a matter as this. I have set my heart upon having you
and nothing will ever turn me off. 

Dearest Ayala, let me have one look to say that you will love
me, and I shall be the happiest man in England. I think you so
beautiful! I do, indeed. The governor has always said that if
I would settle down and marry there should be lots of money.
What could I do better with it than make my darling look as grand
as the best of them? 

Yours, always meaning it, Most affectionately, 

T. TRINGLE

It almost touched her -- not in the way of love but of gratitude.
He was still to her like Bottom with the ass's head, or the Newfoundland
dog gambolling out of the water. There was the heavy face, and
there were the big chains and the odious rings, and the great
hands and the clumsy feet -- making together a creature whom
it was impossible even to think of with love. She shuddered as
she remembered the proposition which had been made to her in
the Coliseum. 

And now by writing to him she had brought down upon herself this
absolute love-letter. She had thought that by appealing to him
as "Dear Tom," and by signing herself his affectionate cousin,
she might have prevailed. If he could only be made to understand
that it could never mean anything! But now, on the other hand,
she had begun to understand that it did mean a great deal. He
had sent to her a regular offer of marriage! The magnitude of
the thing struck her at last. The heir of all the wealth of her
mighty uncle wanted to make her his wife! 

But it was to her exactly as though the heir had come to her
wearing an ass's head on his shoulders. Love him! Marry him!
or even touch him? Oh, no. They might ill-use her; they might
scold her,; they might turn her out of the house; but no consideration
would induce her to think of Tom Tringle as a lover. 

And yet he was in earnest, and honest, and good. And some answer
-- some further communication must be made to him. She did recognise
some nobility in him, though personally he was so distasteful
to her. Now his appeal to her had taken the guise of an absolute
offer of marriage he was entitled to a discreet and civil answer.
Romantic, dreamy, poetic, childish as she was, she knew as much
as that. "Go away, Tom, you fool, you," would no longer do for
the occasion. As she thought of it all that night it was borne
in upon her more strongly than ever that her only protection
would be in telling her aunt, and in getting her aunt to make
Tom understand that there must be no more of it. Early on the
following morning she found herself in her aunt's bedroom. 


CHAPTER 8
THE LOUT

"Aunt Emmeline, I want you to read this letter." So it was that
Ayala commenced the interview. At this moment Ayala was not on
much better terms with her aunt than she was with her cousin
Augusta. Ayala was a trouble to her -- Lady Tringle -- who was
altogether perplexed with the feeling that she had burdened herself
with an inmate in her house who was distasteful to her and of
whom she could not rid herself. Ayala had turned out on her hands
something altogether different from the girl she had intended
to cherish and patronise. Ayala was independent; superior rather
than inferior to her own girls; more thought of by others; apparently
without any touch of that subservience which should have been
produced in her by her position. Ayala seemed to demand as much
as though she were a daughter of the house, and at the same time
to carry herself as though she were more gifted than the daughters
of the house. She was less obedient even than a daughter. All
this Aunt Emmeline could not endure with a placid bosom. She
was herself kind of heart. She acknowledged her duty to her dead
sister. She wished to protect and foster the orphan. She did
not even yet wish to punish Ayala by utter desertion. She would
protect her in opposition to Augusta's more declared malignity;
but she did wish to be rid of Ayala, if she only knew how. 

She took her son's letter and read it, and as a matter of course
misunderstood the position. At Glenbogie something had been whispered
to her about Tom and Ayala, but she had not believed much in
it. Ayala was a child, and Tom was to her not much more than
a boy. But now here was a genuine love-letter -- a letter in
which her son had made a distinct proposition to marry the orphan.
She did not stop to consider why Ayala had brought the letter
to her, but entertained at once an idea that the two young people
were going to vex her very soul by a lamentable love affair.
How imprudent she had been to let the two young people be together
in Rome, seeing that the matter had been whispered to her at
Glenbogie! "How long has this been going on?" she asked, severely.
"He used to tease me at Glenbogie, and now he is doing it again,"
said Ayala. 

"There must certainly be put an end to it. You must go away."
Ayala knew at once that her aunt was angry with her, and was
indignant at the injustice. "Of course there must be put an end
to it, Aunt Emmeline. He has no right to annoy me when I tell
him not." 

"I suppose you have encouraged him." 

This was too cruel to be borne! Encouraged him! Ayala's anger
was caused not so much by a feeling that her aunt had misappreciated
the cause of her coming as that it should have been thought possible
that she should have "encouraged" such a lover. It was the outrage
to her taste rather than to her conduct which afflicted her.
"He is a lout," she said; "a stupid lout!" thus casting her scorn
upon the mother as well as on the son, and, indeed, upon the
whole family. "I have not encouraged him. It is untrue." 

"Ayala, you are very impertinent." 

"And you are very unjust. Because I want to put a stop to it
I come to you, and you tell me that I encourage him. You are
worse than Augusta." 

This was too much for the good nature even of Aunt Emmeline.
Whatever may have been the truth as to the love affair, however
innocent Ayala may have been in that matter, or however guilty
Tom, such words from a niece to her aunt -- from a dependent
to her superior -- were unpardonable. The extreme youthfulness
of the girl, a peculiar look of childhood which she still had
with her, made the feeling so much the stronger. "You are worse
than Augusta!" 

And this was said to her who was specially conscious of her endeavours
to mitigate Augusta's just anger. She bridled up, and tried to
look big and knit her brows. At that moment she could not think
what must be the end of it, but she felt that Ayala must be crushed.
"How dare you speak to me like that, Miss?" she said. 

"So you are. It is very cruel. Tom will go on saying all this
nonsense to me, and when I come to you you say I encourage him!
I never encouraged him. I despise him too much. I did not think
my own aunt could have told me that I encouraged any man. No,
I didn't. You drive me to it, so that I have got to be impertinent."
"You had better go to your room," said the aunt. Then Ayala,
lifting her head as high as she knew how, walked towards the
door. "You had better leave that letter with me." Ayala considered
the matter for a moment, and then handed the letter a second
time to her aunt. It could be nothing to her who saw the letter.
She did not want it. Having thus given it up she stalked off
in silent disdain and went to her chamber. 

Aunt Emmeline, when she was left alone, felt herself to be enveloped
in a cloud of doubt. The desirableness of Tom as a husband first
forced itself upon her attention, and the undesirableness of
Ayala as a wife for Tom. She was perplexed at her own folly in
not having seen that danger of this kind would arise when she
first proposed to take Ayala into the house. Aunts and uncles
do not like the marriage of cousins, and the parents of rich
children do not, as a rule, approve of marriages with those which
are poor. Although Ayala had been so violent, Lady Tringle could
not rid herself of the idea that her darling boy was going to
throw himself away. Then her cheeks became red with anger as
she remembered that her Tom had been called a lout -- a stupid
lout. There was an ingratitude in the use of such language which
was not alleviated even by the remembrance that it tended against
that matrimonial danger of which she was so much afraid. Ayala
was behaving very badly. She ought not to have coaxed Tom to
be her lover, and she certainly ought not to have called Tom
a lout. And then Ayala had told her aunt that she was unjust
and worse than Augusta! It was out of the question that such
a state of things should be endured. Ayala must be made to go
away. 

Before the day was over Lady Tringle spoke to her son, and was
astonished to find that the "lout" was quite in earnest -- so
much in earnest that he declared his purpose of marrying his
cousin in opposition to his father and mother, in opposition
even to Ayala herself. He was so much in earnest that he would
not be roused to wrath even when he was told that Ayala had called
him a lout. And then grew upon the mother a feeling that the
young man had never been so little loutish before. For there
had been, even in her maternal bosom, a feeling that Tom was
open to the criticism expressed on him. Tom had been a hobble
de hoy, one of those overgrown lads who come late to their manhood,
and who are regarded by young ladies as louts. Though he had
spent his money only too freely when away, his sisters had sometimes
said that he could not say "bo to a goose" at home. But now --
now Tom was quite an altered young man. When his own letter was
shown to him he simply said that he meant to stick to it. When
it was represented to him that his cousin would be quite an unfit
wife for him he assured his mother that his own opinion on that
matter was very different. When his father's anger was threatened
he declared that his father would have no right to be angry with
him if he married a lady. At the word "lout" he simply smiled.
"She'll come to think different from that before she's done with
me," he said, with a smile. Even the mother could not but perceive
that the young man had been much improved by his love. 

But what was she to do? Two or three days went on, during which
there was no reconciliation between her and Ayala. Between Augusta
and Ayala no word was spoken. Messages were taken to her by Gertrude,
the object of which was to induce her to ask her aunt's pardon.
But Ayala was of opinion that her aunt ought to ask her pardon,
and could not be beaten from it. "Why did she say that I encouraged
him?" she demanded indignantly of Gertrude. "I don't think she
did encourage him," said Gertrude to her mother. This might possibly
be true, but not the less had she misbehaved. And though she
might not yet have encouraged her lover it was only too probable
that she might do so when she found that her lover was quite
in earnest. 

Lady Tringle was much harassed. And then there came an additional
trouble. Gertrude informed her mother that she had engaged herself
to Mr Francis Houston, and that Mr Houston was going to write
to her father with the object of proposing himself as a son-in-law.
Mr Houston came also to herself and told her, in the most natural
tone in the world, that he intended to marry her daughter. She
had not known what to say. It was Sir Thomas who managed all
matters of money. She had an idea that Mr Houston was very poor.
But then so also had been Mr Traffick, who had been received
into the family with open arms. But then Mr Traffick had a career,
whereas Mr Houston was lamentably idle. She could only refer
Mr Houston to Sir Thomas, and beg him not to come among them
any more till Sir Thomas had decided. Upon this Gertrude also
got angry, and shut herself up in her room. The apartments Ruperti
were, therefore, upon the whole, an uncomfortable home to them.
Letters upon letters were written to Sir Thomas, and letters
upon letters came. The first letter had been about Ayala. He
had been much more tender towards Ayala than her aunt had been.
He talked of calf-love, and said that Tom was a fool; but he
had not at once thought it necessary to give imperative orders
for Tom's return. As to Ayala's impudence, he evidently regarded
it as nothing. It was not till Aunt Emmeline had spoken out in
her third letter that he seemed to recognise the possibility
of getting rid of Ayala altogether. And this he did in answer
to a suggestion which had been made to him. "If she likes to
change with her sister Lucy, and you like it, I shall not object,"
said Sir Thomas. Then there came an order to Tom that he should
return to Lombard Street at once; but this order had been rendered
abortive by the sudden return of the whole family. Sir Thomas,
in his first letter as to Gertrude, had declared that the Houston
marriage would not do at all. Then, when he was told that Gertrude
and Mr Houston had certainly met each other more than once since
an order had been given for their separation, he desired the
whole family to come back at once to Merle Park. 

The proposition as to Lucy had arisen in this wise. Tom being
in the same house with Ayala, of course had her very much at
advantage, and would carry on his suit in spite of any abuse
which she might lavish upon him. It was quite in vain that she
called him lout. "You'll think very different from that some
of these days, Ayala," he said, more seriously. 

"No, I shan't; I shall think always the same." 

"When you know how much I love you, you'll change." 

"I don't want you to love me," she said; "and if you were anything
that is good you wouldn't go on after I have told you so often.
It is not manly of you. You have brought me to all manner of
trouble. It is your fault, but they make me suffer." 

After that Ayala again went to her aunt, and on this occasion
the family misfortune was discussed in more seemly language.
Ayala was still indignant, but she said nothing insolent. Aunt
Emmeline was still averse to her niece, but she abstained from
crimination. They knew each as enemies, but recognised the wisdom
of keeping the peace. "As for that, Aunt Emmeline," Ayala said,
"you may be quite sure that I shall never encourage him. I shall
never like him well enough." 

"Very well. Then we need say no more about that, my dear. Of
course, it must be unpleasant to us all, being in the same house
together." 

"It is very unpleasant to me, when he will go on bothering me
like that. It makes me wish that I were anywhere else." 

Then Aunt Emmeline began to think about it very seriously. It
was very unpleasant. Ayala had made herself disagreeable to all
the ladies of the family, and only too agreeable to the young
gentleman. Nor did the manifest favour of Sir Thomas do much
towards raising Ayala in Lady Tringle's estimation. Sir Thomas
had only laughed when Augusta had been requested to go upstairs
for the scrap-book. Sir Thomas had been profuse with his presents
even when Ayala had been most persistent in her misbehaviour.
And then all that affair of the Marchesa, and even Mr Traffick's
infatuation! If Ayala wished that she were somewhere else would
it not be well to indulge her wish! Aunt Emmeline certainly wished
it. "If you think so, perhaps some arrangement can be made,"
said Aunt Emmeline, very slowly. 

"What arrangement?" 

"You must not suppose that I wish to turn you out." 

"But what arrangement?" 

"You see, Ayala, that unfortunately we have not all of us hit
it on nicely; have we?" 

"Not at all, Aunt Emmeline. Augusta is always angry with me.
And you -- you think that I have encouraged Tom." 

"I am saying nothing about that, Ayala." 

"But what arrangement is it, Aunt Emmeline?" The matter was one
of fearful import to Ayala. She was prudent enough to understand
that well. The arrangement must be one by which she would be
banished from all the wealth of the Tringles. Her coming among
them had not been a success. She had already made them tired
of her by her petulance and independence. Young as she was she
could see that, and comprehend the material injury she had done
herself by her folly. She had been very wrong in telling Augusta
to go upstairs. She had been wrong in the triumph of her exclusive
visits to the Marchesa. She had been wrong in walking away with
Mr Traffick on the Pincian. She could see that. She had not been
wrong in regard to Tom -- except in calling him a lout; but whether
wrong or right she had been most unfortunate. But the thing had
been done, and she must go. 

At this moment the wealth of the Tringles seemed to be more to
her than it had ever been before -- and her own poverty and destitution
seemed to be more absolute. When the word "arrangement" was whispered
to her there came upon her a clear idea of all that which she
was to lose. She was to be banished from Merle Park, from Queen's
Gate, and from Glenbogie. For her there were to be no more carriages,
and horses, and pretty trinkets -- none of that abandon of the
luxury of money among which the Tringles lived. But she had done
it for herself, and she would not say a word in opposition to
the fate which was before her. "What arrangement, aunt?" she
said again, in a voice which was intended to welcome any arrangement
that might be made. 

Then her aunt spoke very softly. "Of course, dear Ayala, we do
not wish to do less than we at first intended. But as you are
not happy here -- " Then she paused, almost ashamed of herself.
"I am not happy here," said Ayala, boldly. 

"How would it be if you were to change -- with Lucy?" 

The idea which had been present to Lady Tringle for some weeks
past had never struck Ayala. The moment she heard it she felt
that she was more than ever bound to assent. If the home from
which she was to be banished was good, then would that good fall
upon Lucy. Lucy would have the carriages and the horses and the
trinkets, Lucy, who certainly was not happy at Kingsbury Crescent.
"I should be very glad, indeed," said Ayala. 

Her voice was so brave and decided that, in itself, it gave fresh
offence to her aunt. Was there to be no regret after so much
generosity? But she misunderstood the girl altogether. As the
words were coming from her lips -- "I should be very glad, indeed,"
-- Ayala's heart was sinking with tenderness as she remembered
how much after all had been done for her. But as they wished
her to go there should be not a word, not a sign of unwillingness
on her part. 

"Then perhaps it can be arranged," said Lady Tringle. 

"I don't know what Uncle Dosett may say. Perhaps they are very
fond of Lucy now." 

"They wouldn't wish to stand in her way, I should think." 

"At any rate, I won't. If you, and my uncles, and Aunt Margaret,
will consent, I will go whenever you choose. Of course I must
do just as I'm told." 

Aunt Emmeline made a faint demur to this; but still the matter
was held to be arranged. Letters were written to Sir Thomas,
and letters came, and at last even Sir Thomas had assented. He
suggested, in the first place, that all the facts which would
follow the exchange should be explained to Ayala; but he was
obliged after a while to acknowledge that this would be inexpedient.
The girl was willing; and knew no doubt that she was to give
up the great wealth of her present home. But she had proved herself
to be an unfit participator, and it was better that she should
go. 

Then the departure of them all from Rome was hurried on by the
indiscretion of Gertrude. Gertrude declared that she had a right
to her lover. As to his having no income, what matter for that.
Everyone knew that Septimus Traffick had no income. Papa had
income enough for them all. Mr Houston was a gentleman. Till
this moment no one had known of how strong a will of her own
Gertrude was possessed. When Gertrude declared that she would
not consent to be separated from Mr Houston then they were all
hurried home. 


CHAPTER 9
THE EXCHANGE

Such was the state of things when Mr Dosett brought the three
letters home with him to Kingsbury Crescent, having been so much
disturbed by the contents of the two which were addressed to
himself as to have found himself compelled to leave his office
two hours before the proper time. The three letters were handed
together by her uncle to Lucy, and she, seeing the importance
of the occasion, read the two open ones before she broke the
envelope of her own. That from Sir Thomas came first, and was
as follows --  

Lombard Street, January, 187 --  

MY DEAR DOSETT, 

I have had a correspondence with the ladies at Rome which has
been painful in its nature, but which I had better perhaps communicate
to you at once. Ayala has not got on as well with Lady Tringle
and the girls as might have been wished, and they all think it
will be better that she and Lucy should change places. I chiefly
write to give my assent. Your sister will no doubt write to you.
I may as well mention to you, should you consent to take charge
of Ayala, that I have made some provision for her in my will,
and that I shall not change it. I have to add on my own account
that I have no complaint of my own to make against Ayala. 

Yours sincerely, 

T. TRINGLE

Lucy, when she had read this, proceeded at once to the letter
from her aunt. The matter to her was one of terrible importance,
but the importance was quite as great to Ayala. She had been
allowed to go up alone into her own room. The letters were of
such a nature that she could hardly have read them calmly in
the presence of her Aunt Dosett. It was thus that her Aunt Emmeline
had written --  

Palazzo Ruperti, Rome, Thursday

MY DEAR REGINALD, 

I am sure you will be sorry to hear that we are in great trouble
here. This has become so bad that we are obliged to apply to
you to help us. Now you must understand that I do not mean to
say a word against dear Ayala -- only she does not suit. It will
occur sometimes that people who are most attached to each other
do not suit. So it has been with dear Ayala. She is not happy
with us. She has not perhaps accommodated herself to her cousins
quite as carefully as she might have done. She is fully as sensible
of this as I am, and is, herself, persuaded that there had better
be a change. 

Now, my dear Reginald, I am quite aware that when poor Egbert
died it was I who chose Ayala, and that you took Lucy partly
in compliance with my wishes. Now I write to suggest that there
should be a change. I am sure you will give me credit for a desire
to do the best I can for both the poor dear girls. I did think
that this might be best done by letting Ayala come to us. I now
think that Lucy would do better with her cousins, and that Ayala
would be more attractive without the young people around her.
When I see you I will tell you everything. There has been no
great fault. She has spoken a word or two to me which had been
better unsaid, but I am well convinced that it has come from
hot temper and not from a bad heart. Perhaps I had better tell
you the truth. Tom has admired her. She has behaved very well;
but she could not bear to be spoken to, and so there have been
unpleasantnesses. And the girls certainly have not got on well
together. Sir Thomas quite agrees with me that if you will consent
there had better be a change. 

I will not write to dear Lucy herself because you and Margaret
can explain it all so much better -- if you will consent to our
plan. Ayala also will write to her sister. But pray tell her
from me that I will love her very dearly if she will come to
me. And indeed I have loved Ayala almost as though she were my
own, only we have not been quite able to hit it off together.
Of course neither has Sir Thomas nor have I any idea of escaping
from a responsibility. I should be quite unhappy if I did not
have one of poor dear Egbert's girls with me. Only I do think
that Lucy would be the best for us; and Ayala thinks so too.
I should be quite unhappy if I were doing this in opposition
to Ayala. 

We shall be in England almost as soon as this letter, and I should
be so glad if this could be decided at once. If a thing like
this is to be done it is so much better for all parties that
it should be done quickly. Pray give my best love to Margaret,
and tell her that Ayala shall bring everything with her that
she wants. 

Your most affectionate sister, 

EMMELINE TRINGLE

The letter, though it was much longer than her uncle's, going
into details, such as that of Tom's unfortunate passion for his
cousin, had less effect upon Lucy, as it did not speak with so
much authority as that from Sir Thomas. What Sir Thomas said
would surely be done; whereas Aunt Emmeline was only a woman,
and her letter, unsupported, might not have carried conviction.
But, if Sir Thomas wished it, surely it must be done. Then, at
last, came Ayala's letter --  

Rome, Thursday

DEAREST, DEAREST LUCY, 

Oh, I have such things to write to you! Aunt Emmeline has told
it all to Uncle Reginald. You are to come and be the princess,
and I am to go and be the milkmaid at home. I am quite content
that it should be so because I know that it will be the best.
You ought to be a princess and I ought to be a milkmaid. 

It has been coming almost ever since the first day that I came
among them -- since I told Augusta to go upstairs for the scrap-book.
I felt from the very moment in which the words were uttered that
I had gone and done for myself. But I am not a bit sorry, as
you will come in my place. Augusta will very soon be gone now,
and Aunt Emmeline is not bad at all if you will only not contradict
her. I always contradicted her, and I know that I have been a
fool. But I am not a bit sorry, as you are to come instead of
me. 

But it is not only about Augusta and Aunt Emmeline. There has
been that oaf Tom. Poor Tom! I do believe that he is the most
good-natured fellow alive. And if he had not so many chains I
should not dislike him so very much. But he will go on saying
horrible things to me. And then he wrote me a letter! Oh dear!
I took the letter to Aunt Emmeline, and that made the quarrel.
She said that I had -- encouraged him! Oh, Lucy, if you will
think of that! I was so angry that I said ever so much to her
-- till she sent me out of the room. She had no business to say
that I encouraged him. It was shameful! But she has never forgiven
me, because I scolded her. So they have decided among them that
I am to be sent away, and that you are to come in my place. 

My own darling Lucy, it will be ever so much better. I know that
you are not happy in Kingsbury Crescent, and that I shall bear
it very much better. I can sit still and mend sheets. [Poor Ayala,
how little she knew herself!] And you will make a beautiful grand
lady, quiescent and dignified as a grand lady ought to be. At
any rate it would be impossible that I should remain here. Tom
is bad enough, but to be told that I encourage him is more than
I can bear. 

I shall see you very soon, but I cannot help writing and telling
it to you all. Give my love to Aunt Dosett. If she will consent
to receive me I will endeavour to be good to her. In the meantime
goodbye. 

Your most affectionate sister, 

AYALA

When Lucy had completed the reading of the letters she sat for
a considerable time wrapped in thought. There was, in truth,
very much that required thinking. It was proposed that the whole
tenor of her life should be changed, and changed in a direction
which would certainly suit her taste. She had acknowledged to
herself that she had hated the comparative poverty of her Uncle
Dosett's life, hating herself in that she was compelled to make
such acknowledgment. But there had been more than the poverty
which had been distasteful to her -- a something which she had
been able to tell herself that she might be justified in hating
without shame. There had been to her an absence of intellectual
charm in the habits and manners of Kingsbury Crescent which she
had regarded as unfortunate and depressing. There had been no
thought of art delights. No one read poetry. No one heard music.
No one looked at pictures. A sheet to be darned was the one thing
of greatest importance. The due development of a leg of mutton,
the stretching of a pound of butter, the best way of repressing
the washerwoman's bills -- these had been the matters of interest.
And they had not been made the less irritating to her by her
aunt's extreme goodness in the matter. The leg of mutton was
to be developed in the absence of her uncle -- if possible without
his knowledge. He was to have his run of clean linen. Lucy did
not grudge him anything, but was sickened by that partnership
in economy which was established between her and her aunt. Undoubtedly
from time to time she had thought of the luxuries which had been
thrown in Ayala's way. There had been a regret -- not that Ayala
should have them but that she should have missed them. Money
she declared that she despised -- but the easy luxury of the
bijou was sweet to her memory. 

Now it was suggested to her suddenly that she was to exchange
the poverty for the luxury, and to return to a mode of life in
which her mind might be devoted to things of beauty. The very
scenery of Glenbogie -- what a charm it would have for her! Judging
from her uncle's manner, as well as she could during that moment
in which he handed to her the letter, she imagined that he intended
to make no great objection. Her aunt disliked her. She was sure
that her aunt disliked her in spite of the partnership. Only
that there was one other view of the case -- how happy might
the transfer be. Her uncle was always gentle to her, but there
could hardly as yet have grown up any strong affection for her.
To him she was grateful, but she could not tell herself that
to part from him would be a pang. There was, however, another
view of the case. 

Ayala! How would it be with Ayala! Would Ayala like the partnership
and the economies? Would Ayala be cheerful as she sat opposite
to her aunt for four hours at a time! Ayala had said that she
could sit still and mend sheets, but was it not manifest enough
that Ayala knew nothing of the life of which she was speaking?
And would she, Lucy, be able to enjoy the glories of Glenbogie
while she thought that Ayala was eating out her heart in the
sad companionship of Kingsbury Crescent? For above an hour she
sat and thought; but of one aspect which the affair bore she
did not think. She did not reflect that she and Ayala were in
the hands of Fate, and that they must both do as their elders
should require of them. 

At last there came a knock at the door, and her aunt entered.
She would sooner that it should have been her uncle: but there
was no choice but that the matter should be now discussed with
the woman whom she did not love -- this matter that was so dreadful
to herself in all its bearings, and so dreadful to one for whom
she would willingly sacrifice herself if it were possible! She
did not know what she could say to create sympathy with Aunt
Dosett. "Lucy," said Aunt Dosett, "this is a very serious proposal."
"Very serious," said Lucy, sternly. 

"I have not read the letters, but your uncle has told me about
it." Then Lucy handed her the two letters, keeping that from
Ayala to herself, and she sat perfectly still while her aunt
read them both slowly. "Your Aunt Emmeline is certainly in earnest,"
said Mrs Dosett. 

"Aunt Emmeline is very good-natured, and perhaps she will change
her mind if we tell her that we wish it." 

"But Sir Thomas has agreed to it." 

"I am sure my uncle will give way if Aunt Emmeline will ask him.
He says he has no complaint to make against Ayala. I think it
is Augusta, and Augusta will be married, and will go away very
soon." 

Then there came a change, a visible change, over the countenance
of Aunt Dosett, and a softening of the voice -- so that she looked
and spoke as Lucy had not seen or heard her before. There are
people apparently so hard, so ungenial, so unsympathetic, that
they who only half know them expect no trait of tenderness, think
that features so little alluring cannot be compatible with softness.
Lucy had acknowledged her Aunt Dosett to be good, but believed
her to be incapable of being touched. But a word or two had now
conquered her. The girl did not want to leave her -- did not
seize the first opportunity of running from her poverty to the
splendour of the Tringles! "But, Lucy," she said, and came and
placed herself nearer to Lucy on the bed. 

"Ayala -- ," said Lucy, sobbing. 

"I will be kind to her -- perhaps kinder than I have been to
you." 

"You have been kind, and I have been ungrateful. I know it. But
I will do better now, Aunt Dosett. I will stay, if you will have
me." 

"They are rich and powerful, and you will have to do as they
direct." 

"No! Who are they that I should be made to come and go at their
bidding? They cannot make me leave you." 

"But they can rid themselves of Ayala. You see what your uncle
says about money for Ayala." 

"I hate money." 

"Money is a thing which none of us can afford to hate. Do you
think it will not be much to your Uncle Reginald to know that
you are both provided for? Already he is wretched because there
will be nothing to come to you. If you go to your Aunt Emmeline,
Sir Thomas will do for you as he has done for Ayala. Dear Lucy,
it is not that I want to send you away." Then for the first time
Lucy put her arm round her aunt's neck. "But it had better be
as is proposed, if your aunt still wishes it, when she comes
home. I and your Uncle Reginald would not do right were we to
allow you to throw away the prospects that are offered you. It
is natural that Lady Tringle should be anxious about her son."
"She need not, in the least," said Lucy, indignantly. 

"But you see what they say." 

"It is his fault, not hers. Why should she be punished?" 

"Because he is Fortune's favourite, and she is not. It is no
good kicking against the pricks, my dear. He is his father's
son and heir, and everything must give way to him." 

"But Ayala does not want him. Ayala despises him. It is too hard
that she is to lose everything because a young man like that
will go on making himself disagreeable. They have no right to
do it after having accustomed Ayala to such a home. Don't you
feel that, Aunt Dosett?" 

"I do feel it." 

"However it might have been arranged at first, it ought to remain
now. Even though Ayala and I are only girls, we ought not to
be changed about as though we were horses. If she had done anything
wrong -- but Uncle Tom says she has done nothing wrong." 

"I suppose she has spoken to her aunt disrespectfully." 

"Because her aunt told her that she had encouraged this man.
What would you have a girl say when she is falsely accused like
that? Would you say it to me merely because some horrid man would
come and speak to me?" Then there came a slight pang of conscience
as she remembered Isadore Hamel in Kensington Gardens. If the
men were not thought to be horrid, then perhaps the speaking
might be a sin worthy of most severe accusation. 

There was nothing more said about it that night, nor till the
following afternoon, when Mr Dosett returned home at the usual
hour from his office. Then Lucy was closeted with him for a quarter
of an hour in the drawing-room. He had been into the City and
seen Sir Thomas. Sir Thomas had been of opinion that it would
be much better that Lady Tringle's wishes should be obeyed. It
was quite true that he himself had no complaint to make against
Ayala, but he did think that Ayala had been pert; and, though
it might be true that Ayala had not encouraged Tom, there was
no knowing what might grow out of such a propensity on Tom's
part. And then it could not be pleasant to Lady Tringle or to
himself that their son should be banished out of their house.
When something was hinted as to the injustice of this, Sir Thomas
endeavoured to put all that right by declaring that, if Lady
Tringle's wishes could be attended to in this matter, provision
would be made for the two girls. He certainly would not strike
Ayala's name out of his will, and as certainly would not take
Lucy under his wing as his own child without making some provision
for her. Looking at the matter in this light he did not think
that Mr Dosett would be justified in robbing Lucy of the advantages
which were offered to her. With this view Mr Dosett found himself
compelled to agree, and with these arguments he declared to Lucy
that it was her duty to submit herself to the proposed exchange.
Early in February all the Tringle family were in Queen's Gate,
and Lucy on her first visit to the house found that everyone,
including Ayala, looked upon the thing as settled. Ayala, who
under these circumstances was living on affectionate terms with
all the Tringles, except Tom, was quite radiant. "I suppose I
had better go tomorrow, aunt?" she said, as though it were a
matter of most trivial consequence. 

"In a day or two, Ayala, it will be better." 

"It shall be Monday, then. You must come over here in a cab,
Lucy." 

"The carriage shall be sent, my dear." 

"But then it must go back with me, Aunt Emmeline." 

"It shall, my dear." 

"And the horses must be put up, because Lucy and I must change
all our things in the drawers." Lucy at the time was sitting
in the drawing-room, and Augusta, with most affectionate confidence,
was singing to her all the praises of Mr Traffick. In this way
it was settled, and the change, so greatly affecting the fortunes
of our two sisters, was arranged. 


CHAPTER 10
AYALA AND HER AUNT MARGARET

Till the last moment for going Ayala seemed to be childish, triumphant,
and indifferent. But, till that last moment, she was never alone
with Lucy. It was the presence of her aunt and cousins which
sustained her in her hardihood. Tom was never there -- or so
rarely as not to affect her greatly. In London he had his own
lodgings, and was not encouraged to appear frequently till Ayala
should have gone. But Aunt Emmeline and Gertrude were perseveringly
gracious, and even Augusta had somewhat relaxed from her wrath.
With them Ayala was always good-humoured, but always brave. She
affected to rejoice at the change which was to be made. She spoke
of Lucy's coming and of her own going as an unmixed blessing.
This she did so effectually as to make Aunt Emmeline declare
to Sir Thomas, with tears in her eyes, that the girl was heartless.
But when, at the moment of parting, the two girls were together,
then Ayala broke down. 

They were in the room, together, which one had occupied and the
other was to occupy, and their boxes were still upon the floor.
Though less than six months had passed since Ayala had come among
the rich things and Lucy had been among the poor, Ayala's belongings
had become much more important than her sister's. Though the
Tringles had been unpleasant they had been generous. Lucy was
sitting upon the bed, while Ayala was now moving about the room
restlessly, now clinging to her sister, and now sobbing almost
in despair. "Of course I know," she said. "What is the use of
telling stories about it any longer?" 

"It is not too late yet, Ayala. If we both go to Uncle Tom he
will let us change it." 

"Why should it be changed? If I could change it by lifting up
my little finger I could not do it. Why should it not be you
as well as me? They have tried me, and -- as Aunt Emmeline says
-- I have not suited." 

"Aunt Dosett is not ill-natured, my darling." 

"No, I dare say not. It is I that am bad. It is bad to like pretty
things and money, and to hate poor things. Or, rather, I do not
believe it is bad at all, because it is so natural. I believe
it is all a lie as to its being wicked to love riches. I love
them, whether it is wicked or not." 

"Oh, Ayala!" 

"Do not you? Don't let us be hypocritical, Lucy, now at the last
moment. Did you like the way in which they lived in Kingsbury
Crescent?" 

Lucy paused before she answered. "I like it better than I did,"
she said. "At any rate, I would willingly go back to Kingsbury
Crescent." 

"Yes -- for my sake." 

"Indeed I would, my pet." 

"And for your sake I would rather die than stay. But what is
the good of talking about it, Lucy? You and I have no voice in
it, though it is all about ourselves. As you say, we are like
two tame birds, who have to be moved from one cage into another
just as the owner pleases. We belong either to Uncle Tom or Uncle
Dosett, just as they like to settle it. Oh, Lucy, I do so wish
that I were dead." 

"Ayala, that is wicked." 

"How can I help it, if I am wicked? What am I to do when I get
there? What am I to say to them? How am I to live? Lucy, we shall
never see each other." 

"I will come across to you constantly." 

"I meant to do so, but I didn't. They are two worlds, miles asunder.
Lucy, will they let Isadore Hamel come here?" Lucy blushed and
hesitated. "I am sure he will come." 

Lucy remembered that she had given her friend her address at
Queen's Gate, and felt that she would seem to have done it as
though she had known that she was about to be transferred to
the other uncle's house. "It will make no difference if he does,"
she said. 

"Oh, I have such a dream -- such a castle in the air! If I could
think it might ever be so, then I should not want to die." 

"What do you dream?" But Lucy, though she asked the question,
knew the dream. 

"If you had a little house of your own, oh, ever so tiny; and
if you and he -- ?" 

"There is no he." 

"There might be. And, if you and he would let me have any corner
for myself, then I should be happy. Then I would not want to
die. You would, wouldn't you?" 

"How can I talk about it, Ayala? There isn't such a thing. But
yet -- but yet; oh, Ayala, do you not know that to have you with
me would be better than anything?" 

"No -- not better than anything -- second best. He would be best.
I do so hope that he may be 'he'. Come in." There was a knock
at the door, and Aunt Emmeline, herself, entered the room. 

"Now, my dears, the horses are standing there, and the men are
coming up for the luggage. Ayala, I hope we shall see you very
often. And remember that, as regards anything that is unpleasant,
bygones shall be bygones." Then there was a crowd of farewell
kisses, and in a few minutes Ayala was alone in the carriage
on her road up to Kingsbury Crescent. 

The thing had been done so quickly that hitherto there had hardly
been time for tears. To Ayala herself the most remarkable matter
in the whole affair had been Tom's persistence. He had, at last,
been allowed to bring them home from Rome, there having been
no other gentleman whose services were available for the occasion.
He had been watched on the journey very closely, and had had
no slant in his favour, as the young lady to whom he was devoted
was quite as anxious to keep out of his way as had been the others
of the party to separate them. But he had made occasion, more
than once, sufficient to express his intention. "I don't mean
to give you up, you know," he had said to her. "When I say a
thing I mean it. I am not going to be put off by my mother. And
as for the governor he would not say a word against it if he
thought we were both in earnest." 

"But I ain't in earnest," said Ayala; "or rather, I am very much
in earnest." 

"So am I. That's all I've got to say just at present." From this
there grew up within her mind a certain respect for the "lout",
which, however, made him more disagreeable to her than he might
have been had he been less persistent. 

It was late in the afternoon, not much before dinner, when Ayala
reached the house in Kingsbury Crescent. Hitherto she had known
almost nothing of her Aunt Dosett, and had never been intimate
even with her uncle. They, of course, had heard much of her,
and had been led to suppose that she was much less tractable
than the simple Lucy. This feeling had been so strong that Mr
Dosett himself would hardly have been led to sanction the change
had it not been for that promise from Sir Thomas that he would
not withdraw the provision he had made for Ayala, and would do
as much for Lucy if Lucy should become an inmate of his family.
Mrs Dosett had certainly been glad to welcome any change, when
a change was proposed to her. There had grown up something of
affection at the last moment, but up to that time she had certainly
disliked her niece. Lucy had appeared to her to be at first idle
and then sullen. The girl had seemed to affect a higher nature
than her own, and had been wilfully indifferent to the little
things which had given to her life whatever interest it possessed.
Lucy's silence had been a reproach to her, though she herself
had been able to do so little to abolish the silence. Perhaps
Ayala might be better. 

But they were both afraid of Ayala -- as they had not been afraid
of Lucy before her arrival. They made more of preparation for
her in their own minds, and, as to their own conduct, Mr Dosett
was there himself to receive her, and was conscious in doing
so that there had been something of failure in their intercourse
with Lucy. Lucy had been allowed to come in without preparation,
with an expectation that she would fall easily into her place,
and there had been failure. There had been no regular consultation
as to this new coming, but both Mr and Mrs Dosett were conscious
of an intended effort. 

Lady Tringle and Mr Dosett had always been Aunt Emmeline and
Uncle Reginald, by reason of the nearness of their relationship.
Circumstances of closer intercourse had caused Sir Thomas to
be Uncle Tom. But Mrs Dosett had never become more than Aunt
Dosett to either of the girls. This in itself had been matter
almost of soreness to her, and she had intended to ask Lucy to
adopt the more endearing form of her Christian name; but there
had been so little endearment between them that the moment for
doing so had never come. She was thinking of all this up in her
own room, preparatory to the reception of this other girl, while
Mr Dosett was bidding her welcome to Kingsbury Crescent in the
drawing-room below. 

Ayala had been dissolved in tears during the drive round by Kensington
to Bayswater, and was hardly able to repress her sobs as she
entered the house. "My dear," said the uncle, "we will do all
that we can to make you happy here." 

"I am sure you will; but -- but -- it is so sad coming away from
Lucy." 

"Lucy I am sure will be happy with her cousins." If Lucy's happiness
were made to depend on her cousins, thought Ayala, it would not
be well assured. "And my sister Emmeline is always good-natured."
"Aunt Emmeline is very good, only -- " 

"Only what?" 

"I don't know. But it is such a sudden change, Uncle Reginald."
"Yes, it is a very great change, my dear. They are very rich
and we are poor enough. I should hardly have consented to this,
for your sake, but that there are reasons which will make it
better for you both." 

"As to that," said Ayala, stoutly, "I had to come away. I didn't
suit." 

"You shall suit us, my dear." 

"I hope so. I will try. I know more now than I did then. I thought
I was to be Augusta's equal." 

"We shall all be equal here." 

"People ought to be equal, I think -- except old people and young
people. I will do whatever you and my aunt tell me. There are
no young people here, so there won't be any trouble of that kind."
"There will be no other young person, certainly. You shall go
upstairs now and see your aunt." 

Then there was the interview upstairs, which consisted chiefly
in promises and kisses, and Ayala was left alone to unpack her
boxes and prepare for dinner. Before she began her operations
she sat still for a few moments, and with an effort collected
her energies and made her resolution. She had said to Lucy in
her passion that she would that she were dead. That that should
have been wicked was not matter of much concern to her. But she
acknowledged to herself that it had been weak and foolish. There
was her life before her, and she would still endeavour to be
happy though there had been so much to distress her. She had
flung away wealth. She was determined to fling it away still
when it should present itself to her in the shape of her cousin
Tom. But she had her dreams -- her day-dreams -- those castles
in the air which it had been the delight of her life to construct,
and in the building of which her hours had never run heavy with
her. Isadore Hamel would, of course, come again, and would, of
course, marry Lucy, and then there would be a home for her after
her own heart. With Isadore as her brother, and her own Lucy
close to her, she would not feel the want of riches and of luxury.
If there were only some intellectual charm in her life, some
touch of art, some devotion to things beautiful, then she could
do without gold and silver and costly raiment. Of course, Isadore
would come; and then -- then -- in the far distance, something
else would come, something of which in her castle-building she
had not yet developed the form, of which she did not yet know
the bearing, or the manner of its beauty, or the music of its
voice; but as to which she was very sure that its form would
be beautiful and its voice full of music. It can hardly be said
that this something was the centre of her dreams, or the foundation
of her castles. It was the extreme point of perfection at which
she would arrive at last, when her thoughts had become sublimated
by the intensity of her thinking. It was the tower of the castle
from which she could look down upon the inferior world below
-- the last point of the dream in arranging which she would all
but escape from earth to heaven -- when in the moment of her
escape the cruel waking back into the world would come upon her.
But this she knew -- that this something, whatever might be its
form or whatever its voice, would be exactly the opposite of
Tom Tringle. 

She had fallen away from her resolution to her dreams for a time,
when suddenly she jumped up and began her work with immense energy.
Open went one box after another, and in five minutes the room
was strewed with her possessions. The modest set of drawers which
was to supply all her wants was filled with immediate haste.
Things were deposited in whatever nooks might be found, and every
corner was utilised. Her character for tidiness had never stood
high. At the bijou Lucy, or her mother, or the favourite maid,
had always been at hand to make good her deficiencies with a
reproach which had never gone beyond a smile or a kiss. At Glenbogie
and even on the journey there had been attendant lady's maids.
But here she was all alone. 

Everything was still in confusion when she was called to dinner.
As she went down she recalled to herself her second resolution.
She would be good -- whereby she intimated to herself that she
would endeavour to do what might be pleasing to her Aunt Dosett.
She had little doubt as to her uncle. But she was aware that
there had been differences between her aunt and Lucy. If Lucy
had found it difficult to be good how great would be the struggle
required from her! 

She sat herself down at table a little nearer to her aunt than
her uncle, because it was specially her aunt whom she wished
to win, and after a few minutes she put out her little soft hand
and touched that of Mrs Dosett. "My dear," said that lady. "I
hope you will be happy." 

"I am determined to be happy," said Ayala, "if you will let me
love you." 

Mrs Dosett was not beautiful, nor was she romantic. In appearance
she was the very reverse of Ayala. The cares of the world, the
looking after shillings and their results, had given her that
look of commonplace insignificance which is so frequent and so
unattractive among middle-aged women upon whom the world leans
heavily. But there was a tender corner in her heart which was
still green, and from which a little rill of sweet water could
be made to flow when it was touched aright. On this occasion
a tear came to her eye as she pressed her niece's hand; but she
said nothing. She was sure, however, that she would love Ayala
much better than she had been able to love Lucy. 

"What would you like me to do?" asked Ayala, when her aunt accompanied
her that night to her bedroom. 

"To do, my dear? What do you generally do?" 

"Nothing. I read a little and draw a little, but I do nothing
useful. I mean it to be different now." 

"You shall do as you please, Ayala." 

"Oh, but I mean it. And you must tell me. Of course things have
to be different." 

"We are not rich like your uncle and aunt Tringle." 

"Perhaps it is better not to be rich, so that one may have something
to do. But I want you to tell me as though you really cared for
me." 

"I will care for you," said Aunt Dosett, sobbing. 

"Then first begin by telling me what to do. I will try and do
it. Of course I have thought about it, coming away from all manner
of rich things; and I have determined that it shall not make
me unhappy. I will rise above it. I will begin tomorrow and do
anything if you will tell me." Then Aunt Dosett took her in her
arms and kissed her, and declared that on the morrow they would
begin their work together in perfect confidence and love with
each other. 

"I think she will do better than Lucy," said Mrs Dosett to her
husband that night. 

"Lucy was a dear girl too," said Uncle Reginald. 

"Oh, yes -- quite so. I don't mean to say a word against Lucy;
but I think that I can do better with Ayala. She will be more
diligent." Uncle Reginald said nothing to this, but he could
not but think that of the two Lucy would be the one most likely
to devote herself to hard work. 

On the next morning Ayala went out with her aunt on the round
to the shopkeepers, and listened with profound attention to the
domestic instructions which were given to her on the occasion.
When she came home she knew much of which she had known nothing
before. What was the price of mutton and how much mutton she
was expected as one of the family to eat per week; what were
the necessities of the house in bread and butter, how far a pint
of milk might be stretched -- with a proper understanding that
her Uncle Reginald as head of the family was to be subjected
to no limits. And before their return from that walk -- on the
first morning of Ayala's sojourn -- Ayala had undertaken always
to call Mrs Dosett Aunt Margaret for the future. 


CHAPTER 11
TOM TRINGLE COMES TO THE CRESCENT

During the next three months, up to the end of the winter and
through the early spring, things went on without any change either
in Queen's Gate or Kingsbury Crescent. The sisters saw each other
occasionally, but not as frequently as either of them had intended.
Lucy was not encouraged in the use of cabs, nor was the carriage
lent to her often for the purpose of going to the Crescent. The
reader may remember that she had been in the habit of walking
alone in Kensington Gardens, and a walk across Kensington Gardens
would carry her the greater part of the distance to Kingsbury
Crescent. But Lucy, in her new circumstances, was not advised
-- perhaps, I may say, was not allowed -- to walk alone. Lady
Tringle, being a lady of rank and wealth, was afraid, or pretended
to be afraid, of the lions. Poor Ayala was really afraid of the
lions. Thus it came to pass that the intercourse was not frequent.
In her daily life Lucy was quiet and obedient. She did not run
counter to Augusta, whose approaching nuptials gave her that
predominance in the house which is always accorded to young ladies
in her recognised position. Gertrude was at this time a subject
of trouble at Queen's Gate. Sir Thomas had not been got to approve
of Mr Frank Houston, and Gertrude had positively refused to give
him up. Sir Thomas was, indeed, considerably troubled by his
children. There had been a period of disagreeable obstinacy even
with Augusta before Mr Traffick had been taken into the bosom
of the family. Now Gertrude had her own ideas, and so also had
Tom. Tom had become quite a trouble. Sir Thomas and Lady Tringle,
together, had determined that Tom must be weaned; by which they
meant that he must be cured of his love. But Tom had altogether
refused to be weaned. Mr Dosett had been requested to deny him
admittance to the house in Kingsbury Crescent, and as this request
had been fully endorsed by Ayala herself orders had been given
to the effect to the parlour-maid. Tom had called more than once,
and had been unable to obtain access to his beloved. But yet
he resolutely refused to be weaned. He told his father to his
face that he intended to marry Ayala, and abused his mother roundly
when she attempted to interfere. The whole family was astounded
by his perseverance, so that there had already sprung up an idea
in the minds of some among the Tringles that he would be successful
at last. Augusta was very firm, declaring that Ayala was a viper.
But Sir Thomas, himself, began to inquire, within his own bosom,
whether Tom should not be allowed to settle down in the manner
desired by himself. In no consultation held at Queen's Gate on
the subject was there the slightest expression of an opinion
that Tom might be denied the opportunity of settling down as
he wished through any unwillingness on the part of Ayala. 

When things were in this position, Tom sought an interview one
morning with his father in Lombard Street. They rarely saw each
other at the office, each having his own peculiar branch of business.
Sir Thomas manipulated his millions in a little back room of
his own, while Tom, dealing probably with limited thousands,
made himself useful in an outer room. They never went to, or
left, the office together, but Sir Thomas always took care to
know that his son was or was not on the premises. "I want to
say a word or two, Sir, about -- about the little affair of mine,"
said Tom. 

"What affair?" said Sir Thomas, looking up from his millions.
"I think I should like to -- marry." 

"The best thing you can do, my boy; only it depends upon who
the young lady may be." 

"My mind is made up about that, Sir; I mean to marry my cousin.
I don't see why a young man isn't to choose for himself." Then
Sir Thomas preached his sermon, but preached it in the manner
which men are wont to use when they know that they are preaching
in vain. There is a tone of refusal, which, though the words
used may be manifestly enough words of denial, is in itself indicative
of assent. Sir Thomas ended the conference by taking a week to
think over the matter, and when the week was over gave way. He
was still inclined to think that marriages with cousins had better
be avoided; but he gave way, and at last promised that if Tom
and Ayala were of one mind an income should be forthcoming. 

For the carrying out of this purpose it was necessary that the
door of Uncle Dosett's house should be unlocked, and with the
object of turning the key Sir Thomas himself called at the Admiralty.
"I find my boy is quite in earnest about this," he said to the
Admiralty clerk. 

"Oh; indeed." 

"I can't say I quite like it myself." Mr Dosett could only shake
his head. "Cousins had better be cousins, and nothing more."
"And then you would probably expect him to get money?" 

"Not at all," said Sir Thomas, proudly. "I have got money enough
for them both. It isn't an affair of money. To make a long story
short, I have given my consent; and, therefore, if you do not
mind, I shall be glad if you will allow Tom to call at the Crescent.
Of course, you may have your own views; but I don't suppose you
can hope to do better for the girl. Cousins do marry, you know,
very often." Mr Dosett could only say that he could not expect
to do anything for the girl nearly so good, and that, as far
as he was concerned, his nephew Tom should be made quite welcome
at Kingsbury Crescent. It was not, he added, in his power to
answer for Ayala. As to this, Sir Thomas did not seem to have
any doubts. The good things of the world, which it was in his
power to offer, were so good, that it was hardly probable that
a young lady in Ayala's position should refuse them. 

"My dear," said Aunt Margaret, the next morning, speaking in
her most suasive tone, "your Cousin Tom is to be allowed to call
here." 

"Tom Tringle?" 

"Yes, my dear. Sir Thomas has consented." 

"Then he had better not," said Ayala, bristling up in hot anger.
"Uncle Tom has got nothing to do with it, either in refusing
or consenting. I won't see him." 

"I think you must see him if he calls." 

"But I don't want. Oh, Aunt Margaret, pray make him not come.
I don't like him a bit. We are doing so very well. Are we not,
Aunt Margaret?" 

"Certainly, my dear, we are doing very well -- at least, I hope
so. But you are old enough now to understand that this is a very
serious matter." 

"Of course it is serious," said Ayala, who certainly was not
guilty of the fault of making light of her future life. Those
dreams of hers, in which were contained all her hopes and all
her aspirations, were very serious to her. This was so much the
case that she had by no means thought of her Cousin Tom in a
light spirit, as though he were a matter of no moment to her.
He was to her just what the Beast must have been to the Beauty,
when the Beast first began to be in love. But her safety had
consisted in the fact that no one had approved of the Beast being
in love with her. Now she could understand that all the horrors
of oppression might fall upon her. Of course it was serious;
but not the less was she resolved that nothing should induce
her to marry the Beast. 

"I think you ought to see him when he comes, and to remember
how different it will be when he comes with the approval of his
father. It is, of course, saying that they are ready to welcome
you as their daughter." 

"I don't want to be anybody's daughter." 

"But, Ayala, there are so many things to be thought of. Here
is a young man who is able to give you not only every comfort
but great opulence." 

"I don't want to be opulent." 

"And be will be a baronet." 

"I don't care about baronets, Aunt Margaret." 

"And you will have a house of your own in which you may be of
service to your sister." 

"I had rather she should have a house." 

"But Tom is not in love with Lucy." 

"He is such a lout! Aunt Margaret, I won't have anything to say
to him. I would a great deal sooner die. Uncle Tom has no right
to send him here. They have got rid of me, and I am very glad
of it; but it isn't fair that he should come after me now that
I'm gone away. Couldn't Uncle Reginald tell him to stay away?"
A great deal more was said, but nothing that was said had the
slightest effect on Ayala. When she was told of her dependent
position, and of the splendour of the prospects offered, she
declared that she would rather go into the poorhouse than marry
her cousin. When she was told that Tom was good-natured, honest,
and true, she declared that good-nature, honesty, and truth had
nothing to do with it. When she was asked what it was that she
looked forward to in the world she could merely sob and say that
there was nothing. She could not tell even her sister Lucy of
those dreams and castles. How, then, could she explain them to
her Aunt Margaret? How could she make her aunt understand that
there could be no place in her heart for Tom Tringle seeing that
it was to be kept in reserve for some Angel of Light who would
surely make his appearance in due season -- but who must still
be there, present to her as her Angel of Light, even should he
never show himself in the flesh. How vain it was to talk of Tom
Tringle to her, when she had so visible before her eyes that
Angel of Light with whom she was compelled to compare him! 

But, though she could not be brought to say that she would listen
patiently to his story, she was nevertheless made to understand
that she must see him when he came to her. Aunt Margaret was
very full on that subject. A young man who was approved of by
the young lady's friends, and who had means at command, was,
in Mrs Dosett's opinion, entitled to a hearing. How otherwise
were properly authorised marriages to be made up and arranged?
When this was going on there was in some slight degree a diminished
sympathy between Ayala and her aunt. Ayala still continued her
household duties -- over which, in the privacy of her own room,
she groaned sadly; but she continued them in silence. Her aunt,
upon whom she had counted, was, she thought, turning against
her. Mrs Dosett, on the other hand, declared to herself that
the girl was romantic and silly. Husbands with every immediate
comfort, and a prospect of almost unlimited wealth, are not to
be found under every hedge. What right could a girl so dependent
as Ayala have to refuse an eligible match? She therefore in this
way became an advocate on behalf of Tom -- as did also Uncle
Reginald, more mildly. Uncle Reginald merely remarked that Tom
was attending to his business, which was a great thing in a young
man. It was not much, but it showed Ayala that in this matter
her uncle was her enemy. In this, her terrible crisis, she had
not a friend, unless it might be Lucy. 

Then a day was fixed on which Tom was to come, which made the
matter more terrible by anticipation. "What can be the good?"
Ayala said to her aunt when the hour named for the interview
was told her, "as I can tell him everything just as well without
his coming at all." But all that had been settled. Aunt Margaret
had repeated over and over again that such an excellent young
man as Tom, with such admirable intentions, was entitled to a
hearing from any young lady. In reply to this Ayala simply made
a grimace, which was intended to signify the utter contempt in
which she held her cousin Tom with all his wealth. 

Tom Tringle, in spite of his rings and a certain dash of vulgarity,
which was, perhaps, not altogether his own fault, was not a bad
fellow. Having taken it into his heart that he was very much
in love he was very much in love. He pictured to himself a happiness
of a wholesome cleanly kind. To have the girl as his own, to
caress her and foster her, and expend himself in making her happy;
to exalt her, so as to have it acknowledged that she was, at
any rate, as important as Augusta; to learn something from her,
so that he, too, might become romantic, and in some degree poetical
-- all this had come home to him in a not ignoble manner. But
it had not come home to him that Ayala might probably refuse
him. Hitherto Ayala had been very persistent in her refusals;
but then hitherto there had existed the opposition of all the
family. Now he had overcome that, and he felt therefore that
he was entitled to ask and to receive. On the day fixed, and
at the hour fixed, he came in the plenitude of all his rings.
Poor Tom! It was a pity that he should have had no one to advise
him as to his apparel. Ayala hated his jewelry. She was not quite
distinct in her mind as to the raiment which would be worn by
the Angel of Light when he should come, but she was sure that
he would not be chiefly conspicuous for heavy gilding; and Tom,
moreover, had a waistcoat which would of itself have been suicidal.
Such as he was, however, he was shown up into the drawing-room,
where he found Ayala alone. It was certainly a misfortune to
him that no preliminary conversation was possible. Ayala had
been instructed to be there with the express object of listening
to an offer of marriage. The work had to be done -- and should
be done; but it would not admit of other ordinary courtesies.
She was very angry with him, and she looked her anger. Why should
she be subjected to this terrible annoyance? He had sense enough
to perceive that there was no place for preliminary courtesy,
and therefore rushed away at once to the matter in hand. "Ayala!"
he exclaimed, coming and standing before her as she sat upon
the sofa. 

"Tom!" she said, looking boldly up into his face. 

"Ayala, I love you better than anything else in the world." 

"But what's the good of it?" 

"Of course it was different when I told you so before. I meant
to stick to it, and I was determined that the governor should
give way. But you couldn't know that. Mother and the girls were
all against us." 

"They weren't against me," said Ayala. 

"They were against our being married, and so they squeezed you
out as it were. That is why you have been sent to this place.
But they understand me now, and know what I am about. They have
all given their consent, and the governor has promised to be
liberal. When he says a thing he'll do it. There will be lots
of money." 

"I don't care a bit about money," said Ayala, fiercely. 

"No more do I -- except only that it is comfortable. It wouldn't
do to marry without money -- would it?" 

"It would do very well if anybody cared for anybody." The Angel
of Light generally appeared in forma pauperis, though there was
always about him a tinge of bright azure which was hardly compatible
with the draggle-tailed hue of everyday poverty. 

"But an income is a good thing, and the governor will come down
like a brick." 

"The governor has nothing to do with it. I told you before that
it is all nonsense. If you will only go away and say nothing
about it I shall always think you very good-natured." 

"But I won't go away," said Tom speaking out boldly. "I mean
to stick to it. Ayala, I don't believe you understand that I
am thoroughly in earnest." 

"Why shouldn't I be in earnest, too?" 

"But I love you, Ayala. I have set my heart upon it. You don't
know how well I love you. I have quite made up my mind about
it." 

"And I have made up my mind." 

"But, Ayala -- " Now the tenor of his face changed, and something
of the look of a despairing lover took the place of that offensive
triumph which had at first sat upon his brow. "I don't suppose
you care for any other fellow yet." 

There was the Angel of Light. But even though she might be most
anxious to explain to him that his suit was altogether impracticable
she could say nothing to him about the angel. Though she was
sure that the angel would come, she was not certain that she
would ever give herself altogether even to the angel. The celestial
castle which was ever being built in her imagination was as yet
very much complicated. But had it been ever so clear it would
have been quite impossible to explain anything of this to her
cousin Tom. "That has nothing to do with it," she said. 

"If you knew how I love you!" This came from him with a sob,
and as he sobbed he went down before her on his knees. 

"Don't be a fool, Tom -- pray don't. If you won't get up I shall
go away. I must go away. I have heard all that there is to hear.
I told them that there is no use in your coming." 

"Ayala!" with this there were veritable sobs. 

"Then why don't you give it up and let us be good friends?" 

"I can't give it up. I won't give it up. When a fellow means
it as I do he never gives it up. Nothing on earth shall make
me give it up. Ayala, you've got to do it, and so I tell you."
"Nobody can make me," said Ayala, nodding her head, but somewhat
tamed by the unexpected passion of the young man. 

"Then you won't say one kind word to me?" 

"I can't say anything kinder." 

"Very well. Then I shall go away and come again constantly till
you do. I mean to have you. When you come to know how very much
I love you I do think you will give way at last." With that he
picked himself up from the ground and hurried out of the house
without saying another word. 


CHAPTER 12
"WOULD YOU?"

The scene described in the last chapter took place in March.
For three days afterwards there was quiescence in Kingsbury Crescent.
Then there came a letter from Tom to Ayala, very pressing, full
of love and resolution, offering to wait any time -- even a month
-- if she wished it, but still persisting in his declared intention
of marrying her sooner or later -- not by any means a bad letter
had there not been about it a little touch of bombast which made
it odious to Ayala's sensitive appreciation. To this Ayala wrote
a reply in the following words: 

"When I tell you that I won't, you oughtn't to go on. It isn't
manly. 

AYALA

"Pray do not write again for I shall never answer another." 

Of this she said nothing to Mrs Dosett, though the arrival of
Tom's letter must have been known to that lady. And she posted
her own epistle without a word as to what she was doing. 

She wrote again and again to Lucy imploring her sister to come
to her, urging that as circumstances now were she could not show
herself at the house in Queen's Gate. To these Lucy always replied;
but she did not reply by coming, and hardly made it intelligible
why she did not come. Aunt Emmeline hoped, she said, that Ayala
would very soon be able to be at Queen's Gate. Then there was
a difficulty about the carriage. No one would walk across with
her except Tom; and walking by herself was forbidden. Aunt Emmeline
did not like cabs. Then there came a third or fourth letter,
in which Lucy was more explanatory, but yet not sufficiently
so. During the Easter recess, which would take place in the middle
of April, Augusta and Mr Traffick would be married. The happy
couple were to be blessed with a divided honeymoon. The interval
between Easter and Whitsuntide would require Mr Traffick's presence
in the House, and the bride with her bridegroom were to return
to Queen's Gate. Then they would depart again for the second
holidays, and when they were so gone Aunt Emmeline hoped that
Ayala would come to them for a visit. "They quite understand",
said Lucy, "that it will not do to have you and Augusta together."
This was not at all what Ayala wanted. "It won't at all do to
have me and him together," said Ayala to herself, alluding of
course to Tom Tringle. But why did not Lucy come over to her?
Lucy, who knew so well that her sister did not want to see anyone
of the Tringles, who must have been sure that any visit to Queen's
Gate must have been impossible, ought to have come to her. To
whom else could she say a word in her trouble? It was thus that
Ayala argued with herself, declaring to herself that she must
soon die in her misery -- unless indeed that Angel of Light might
come to her assistance very quickly. 

But Lucy had troubles of her own in reference to the family at
Queen's Gate, which did, in fact, make it almost impossible to
visit her sister for some weeks. Sir Thomas had given an unwilling
but a frank consent to his son's marriage -- and then expected
simply to be told that it would take place at such and such a
time, when money would be required. Lady Tringle had given her
consent -- but not quite frankly. She still would fain have forbidden
the banns had any power of forbidding remained in her hands.
Augusta was still hot against the marriage, and still resolute
to prevent it. That proposed journey upstairs after the scrap-book
at Glenbogie, that real journey up to the top of St Peter's,
still rankled in her heart. That Tom should make Ayala a future
baronet's wife; that Tom should endow Ayala with the greatest
share of the Tringle wealth; that Ayala should become powerful
in Queen's Gate, and dominant probably at Merle Park and Glenbogie
-- was wormwood to her. She was conscious that Ayala was pretty
and witty, though she could affect to despise the wit and the
prettiness. By instigating her mother, and by inducing Mr Traffick
to interfere when Mr Traffick should be a member of the family,
she thought that she might prevail. With her mother she did in
part prevail. Her future husband was at present too much engaged
with supply and demand to be able to give his thoughts to Tom's
affairs. But there would soon be a time when he naturally would
be compelled to divide his thoughts. Then there was Gertrude.
Gertrude's own affairs had not as yet been smiled upon, and the
want of smiles she attributed very much to Augusta. Why should
Augusta have her way and not she, Gertrude, nor her brother Tom?
She therefore leagued herself with Tom, and declared herself
quite prepared to receive Ayala into the house. In this way the
family was very much divided. 

When Lucy first made her petition for the carriage, expressing
her desire to see Ayala, both her uncle and her aunt were in
the room. Objection was made -- some frivolous objection -- by
Lady Tringle, who did not in truth care to maintain much connection
between Queen's Gate and the Crescent. Then Sir Thomas, in his
burly authoritative way, had said that Ayala had better come
to them. That same evening he had settled or intended to settle
it with his wife. Let Ayala come as soon as the Trafficks --
as they then would be -- should have gone. To this Lady Tringle
had assented, knowing more than her husband as to Ayala's feelings,
and thinking that in this way a breach might be made between
them. Ayala had been a great trouble to her, and she was beginning
to be almost sick of the Dormer connection altogether. It was
thus that Lucy was hindered from seeing her sister for six weeks
after that first formal declaration of his love made by Tom to
Ayala. Tom had still persevered and had forced his way more than
once into Ayala's presence, but Ayala's answers had been always
the same. "It's a great shame, and you have no right to treat
me in this way." 

Then came the Traffick marriage with great eclat. There were
no less than four Traffick bridesmaids, all of them no doubt
noble, but none of them very young, and Gertrude and Lucy were
bridesmaids -- and two of Augusta's friends. Ayala, of course,
was not of the party. Tom was gorgeous in his apparel, not in
the least depressed by his numerous repulses, quite confident
of ultimate success, and proud of his position as a lover with
so beautiful a girl. He talked of his affairs to all his friends,
and seemed to think that even on this wedding-day his part was
as conspicuous as that of his sister, because of his affair with
his beautiful cousin. "Augusta doesn't hit it off with her,"
he said to one of his friends, who asked why Ayala was not at
the wedding -- "Augusta is the biggest fool out, you know. She's
proud of her husband because he's the son of a lord. I wouldn't
change Ayala for the daughter of any duchess in Europe;" -- thus
showing that he regarded Ayala as being almost his own already.
Lord Boardotrade was there, making a semi-jocose speech, quite
in the approved way for a cognate paterfamilias. Perhaps there
was something of a thorn in this to Sir Thomas, as it had become
apparent at last that Mr Traffick himself did not purpose to
add anything from his own resources to the income on which he
intended to live with his wife. Lord Boardotrade had been obliged
to do so much for his eldest son that there appeared to be nothing
left for the member for Port Glasgow. Sir Thomas was prepared
with his L#120,000, and did not perhaps mind this very much.
But a man, when he pays his money, likes to have some return
for it, and he did not quite like the tone with which the old
nobleman, not possessed of very old standing in the peerage,
seemed to imply that he, like a noble old Providence, had enveloped
the whole Tringle family in the mantle of his noble blood. He
combined the jocose and the paternal in the manner appropriate
to such occasions; but there did run through Sir Thomas's mind
as he heard him an idea that L#120,000 was a sufficient sum to
pay, and that it might be necessary to make Mr Traffick understand
that out of the income thenceforth coming he must provide a house
for himself and his wife. It had been already arranged that he
was to return to Queen's Gate with his wife for the period between
Easter and Whitsuntide. It had lately -- quite lately -- been
hinted to Sir Thomas that the married pair would run up again
after the second holidays. Mr Septimus Traffick had once spoken
of Glenbogie as almost all his own, and Augusta had, in her father's
hearing, said a word intended to be very affectionate about "dear
Merle Park". Sir Thomas was a father all over, with all a father's
feelings; but even a father does not like to be done. Mr Traffick,
no doubt, was a Member of Parliament and son of a peer -- but
there might be a question whether even Mr Traffick had not been
purchased at quite his full value. 

Nevertheless the marriage was pronounced to have been a success.
Immediately after it -- early, indeed, on the following morning
-- Sir Thomas inquired when Ayala was coming to Queen's Gate.
"Is it necessary that she should come quite at present?" asked
Lady Tringle. 

"I thought it was all settled," said Sir Thomas, angrily. This
had been said in the privacy of his own dressing-room, but downstairs
at the breakfast-table in the presence of Gertrude and Lucy,
he returned to the subject. Tom, who did not live in the house,
was not there. "I suppose we might as well have Ayala now," he
said, addressing himself chiefly to Lucy. "Do you go and manage
it with her." There was not a word more said. Sir Thomas did
not always have his own way in his family. What man was ever
happy enough to do that? But he was seldom directly contradicted.
Lady Tringle when the order was given pursed up her lips, and
he, had he been observant, might have known that she did not
intend to have Ayala if she could help it. But he was not observant
-- except as to millions. 

When Sir Thomas was gone, Lady Tringle discussed the matter with
Lucy. "Of course, my dear," she said, "if we could make dear
Ayala happy -- " 

"I don't think she will come, Aunt Emmeline." 

"Not come!" This was not said at all in a voice of anger, but
simply as eliciting some further expression of opinion. 

"She's afraid of -- Tom." Lucy had never hitherto expressed a
positive opinion on that matter at Queen's Gate. When Augusta
had spoken of Ayala as having run after Tom, Lucy had been indignant,
and had declared that the running had been all on the other side.
In a side way she had hinted that Ayala, at any rate at present,
was far from favourable to Tom's suit. But she had never yet
spoken out her mind at Queen's Gate as Ayala had spoken it to
her. 

"Afraid of him?" said Aunt Emmeline. 

"I mean that she is not a bit in love with him, and when a girl
is like that I suppose she is -- is afraid of a man, if everybody
else wants her to marry him." 

"Why should everybody want her to marry Tom?" asked Lady Tringle,
indignantly. "I am sure I don't want her." 

"I suppose it is Uncle Tom, and Aunt Dosett and Uncle Reginald,"
said poor Lucy, finding that she had made a mistake. 

"I don't see why anybody should want her to marry Tom. Tom is
carried away by her baby face, and makes a fool of himself. As
to everybody wanting her, I hope she does not flatter herself
that there is anything of the kind." 

"I only meant that I think she would rather not be brought here,
where she would have to see him daily." 

After this the loan of the carriage was at last made, and Lucy
was allowed to visit her sister at the Crescent. "Has he been
there?" was almost the first question that Ayala asked. 

"What he do you mean?" 

"Isadore Hamel." 

"No; I have not seen him since I met him in the Park. But I do
not want to talk about Mr Hamel, Ayala. Mr Hamel is nothing."
"Oh, Lucy." 

"He is nothing. Had he been anything, he has gone, and there
would be an end to it. But he is nothing." 

"If a man is true he may go, but he will come back." Ayala had
her ideas about the Angel of Light very clearly impressed upon
her mind in regard to the conduct of the man, though they were
terribly vague as to his personal appearance, his condition of
life, his appropriateness for marriage, and many other details
of his circumstances. It had also often occurred to her that
this Angel of Light, when he should come, might not be in love
with herself -- and that she might have to die simply because
she had seen him and loved him in vain. But he would be a man
sure to come back if there were fitting reasons that he should
do so. Isadore Hamel was not quite an Angel of Light, but he
was nearly angelic -- at any rate very good, and surely would
come back. 

"Never mind about Mr Hamel, Ayala. It is not nice to talk about
a man who has never spoken a word." 

"Never spoken a word! Oh, Lucy!" 

"Mr Hamel has never spoken a word, and I will not talk about
him. There! All my heart is open to you, Ayala. You know that.
But I will not talk about Mr Hamel. Aunt Emmeline wants you to
come to Queen's Gate." 

"I will not." 

"Or rather it is Sir Thomas who wants you to come. I do like
Uncle Tom. I do, indeed." 

"So do I." 

"You ought to come when he asks you." 

"Why ought I? That lout would be there -- of course." 

"I don't know about his being a lout, Ayala." 

"He comes here, and I have to be perfectly brutal to him. You
can't guess the sort of things I say to him, and he doesn't mind
it a bit. He thinks that he has to go on long enough, and that
I must give way at last. If I were to go to Queen's Gate it would
be just as much as to say that I had given way." 

"Why not?" 

"Lucy!" 

"Why not? He is not bad. He is honest, and true, and kind-hearted.
I know you can't be happy here." 

"No." 

"Aunt Dosett, with all her affairs, must be trouble to you. I
could not bear them patiently. How can you?" 

"Because they are better than Tom Tringle. I read somewhere about
there being seven houses of the Devil, each one being lower and
worse than the other. Tom would be the lowest -- the lowest --
the lowest." 

"Ayala, my darling." 

"Do not tell me that I ought to marry Tom," said Ayala, almost
standing off in anger from the proferred kiss. "Do you think
that I could love him?" 

"I think you could if you tried, because he is loveable. It is
so much to be good, and then he loves you truly. After all, it
is something to have everything nice around you. You have not
been made to be poor and uncomfortable. I fear that it must be
bad with you here." 

"It is bad." 

"I wish I could have stayed, Ayala. I am more tranquil than you,
and could have borne it better." 

"It is bad. It is one of the houses -- but not the lowest. I
can eat my heart out here, peaceably, and die with a great needle
in my hand and a towel in my lap. But if I were to marry him
I should kill myself the first hour after I had gone away with
him. Things! What would things be with such a monster as that
leaning over one? Would you marry him?" In answer to this, Lucy
made no immediate reply. "Why don't you say? You want me to marry
him. Would you?" 

"No." 

"Then why should I?" 

"I could not try to love him." 

"Try! How can a girl try to love any man? It should come because
she can't help it, let her try ever so. Trying to love Tom Tringle!
Why can't you try?" 

"He doesn't want me." 

"But if he did? I don't suppose it would make the least difference
to him which it was. Would you try if he asked?" 

"No." 

"Then why should I? Am I so much a poorer creature than you?"
"You are a finer creature. You know that I think so." 

"I don't want to be finer. I want to be the same." 

"You are free to do as you please. I am not -- quite." 

"That means Isadore Hamel." 

"I try to tell you all the truth, Ayala; but pray do not talk
about him even to me. As for you, you are free; and if you could
-- " 

"I can't. I don't know that I am free, as you call it." Then
Lucy started, as though about to ask the question which would
naturally follow. "You needn't look like that, Lucy. There isn't
anyone to be named." 

"A man not to be named?" 

"There isn't a man at all. There isn't anybody. But I may have
my own ideas if I please. If I had an Isadore Hamel of my own
I could compare Tom or Mr Traffick, or any other lout to him,
and could say how infinitely higher in the order of things was
my Isadore than any of them. Though I haven't an Isadore can't
I have an image? And can't I make my image brighter, even higher,
than Isadore? You won't believe that, of course, and I don't
want you to believe it yourself. But you should believe it for
me. My image can make Tom Tringle just as horrible to me as Isadore
Hamel can make him to you." Thus it was that Ayala endeavoured
to explain to her sister something of the castle which she had
built in the air, and of the Angel of Light who inhabited the
castle. 

Then it was decided between them that Lucy should explain to
Aunt Emmeline that Ayala could not make a prolonged stay at Queen's
Gate. "But how shall I say it?" asked Lucy. 

"Tell her the truth, openly. 'Tom wants to marry Ayala, and Ayala
won't have him. Therefore, of course, she can't come, because
it would look as though she were going to change her mind --
which she isn't.' Aunt Emmeline will understand that, and will
not be a bit sorry. She doesn't want to have me for a daughter-in-law.
She had quite enough of me at Rome." 

All this time the carriage was waiting, and Lucy was obliged
to return before half of all that was necessary had been said.
What was to be Ayala's life for the future? How were the sisters
to see each other? What was to be done when, at the end of the
coming summer, Lucy should be taken first to Glenbogie and then
to Merle Park? There is a support in any excitement, though it
be in the excitement of sorrow only. At the present moment Ayala
was kept alive by the necessity of her battle with Tom Tringle,
but how would it be with her when Tom should have given up the
fight? Lucy knew, by sad experience, how great might be the tedium
of life in Kingsbury Crescent, and knew, also, how unfitted Ayala
was to endure it. There seemed to be no prospect of escape in
future. "She knows nothing of what I am suffering", said Ayala,
"when she gives me the things to do, and tells me of more things,
and more, and more! How can there be so many things to be done
in such a house as this?" But as Lucy was endeavouring to explain
how different were the arrangements in Kingsbury Crescent from
those which had prevailed at the bijou, the offended coachman
sent up word to say that he didn't think Sir Thomas would like
it if the horses were kept out in the rain any longer. Then Lucy
hurried down, not having spoken of half the things which were
down in her mind on the list for discussion. 


CHAPTER 13
HOW THE TRINGLES FELL INTO TROUBLE

After the Easter holidays the Trafficks came back to Queen's
Gate, making a combination of honeymoon and business which did
very well for a time. It was understood that it was to be so.
During honeymoon times the fashionable married couple is always
lodged and generally boarded for nothing. That opening wide of
generous hands, which exhibits itself in the joyous enthusiasm
of a coming marriage, taking the shape of a houseful of presents,
of a gorgeous and ponderous trousseau, of a splendid marriage
feast, and not unfrequently of subsidiary presents from the opulent
papa -- presents which are subsidiary to the grand substratum
of settled dowry -- generously extends itself to luxurious provision
for a month or two. That Mr and Mrs Traffick should come back
to Queen's Gate for the six weeks intervening between Easter
and Whitsuntide had been arranged, and arranged also that the
use of Merle Park, for the Whitsun holidays, should be allowed
to them. This last boon Augusta, with her sweetest kiss, had
obtained from her father only two days before the wedding. But
when it was suggested, just before the departure to Merle Park,
that Mr Traffick's unnecessary boots might be left at Queen's
Gate, because he would come back there, then Sir Thomas, who
had thought over the matter, said a word. 

It was in this way. "Mamma," said Augusta, "I suppose I can leave
a lot of things in the big wardrobe. Jemima says I cannot take
them to Merle Park without ever so many extra trunks." 

"Certainly, my dear. When anybody occupies the room, they won't
want all the wardrobe. I don't know that anyone will come this
summer." 

This was only the thin end of the wedge, and, as Augusta felt,
was not introduced successfully. The words spoken seemed to have
admitted that a return to Queen's Gate had not been intended.
The conversation went no further at the moment, but was recommenced
the same evening. "Mamma, I suppose Septimus can leave his things
here?" 

"Of course, my dear; he can leave anything -- to be taken care
of." 

"It will be so convenient if we can come back -- just for a few
days." 

Now, there certainly had been a lack of confidence between the
married daughter and her mother as to a new residence. A word
had been spoken, and Augusta had said that she supposed they
would go to Lord Boardotrade when they left Queen's Gate, just
to finish the season. Now, it was known that his lordship, with
his four unmarried daughters, lived in a small house in a small
street in Mayfair. The locality is no doubt fashionable, but
the house was inconvenient. Mr Traffick, himself, had occupied
lodgings near the House of Commons, but these had been given
up. "I think you must ask your papa," said Lady Tringle. 

"Couldn't you ask him?" said the Honourable Mrs Traffick. Lady
Tringle was driven at last to consent, and then put the question
to Sir Thomas -- beginning with the suggestion as to the unnecessary
boots. 

"I suppose Septimus can leave his things here?" 

"Where do they mean to live when they come back to town?" asked
Sir Thomas, sharply. 

"I suppose it would be convenient if they could come here for
a little time," said Lady Tringle. 

"And stay till the end of the season -- and then go down to Glenbogie,
and then to Merle Park! Where do they mean to live?" 

"I think there was a promise about Glenbogie," said Lady Tringle.
"I never made a promise. I heard Traffick say that he would like
to have some shooting -- though, as far as I know, he can't hit
a haystack. They may come to Glenbogie for two or three weeks,
if they like, but they shan't stay here during the entire summer."
"You won't turn your own daughter out, Tom." 

"I'll turn Traffick out, and I suppose he'll take his wife with
him," said Sir Thomas, thus closing the conversation in wrath.
The Trafficks went and came back, and were admitted into the
bedroom with the big wardrobe, and to the dressing-room where
the boots were kept. On the very first day of his arrival Mr
Traffick was in the House at four, and remained there till four
the next morning -- certain Irish Members having been very eloquent.
He was not down when Sir Thomas left the next morning at nine,
and was again at the House when Sir Thomas came home to dinner.
"How long is it to be?" said Sir Thomas, that night, to his wife.
There was a certain tone in his voice which made Lady Tringle
feel herself to be ill all over. It must be said, in justice
to Sir Thomas, that he did not often use this voice in his domestic
circle, though it was well known in Lombard Street. But he used
it now, and his wife felt herself to be unwell. "I am not going
to put up with it, and he needn't think it." 

"Don't destroy poor Augusta's happiness so soon." 

"That be d -- d," said the father, energetically. "Who's going
to destroy her happiness? Her happiness ought to consist in living
in her husband's house. What have I given her all that money
for?" Then Lady Tringle did not dare to say another word. 

It was not till the third day that Sir Thomas and his son-in-law
met each other. By that time Sir Thomas had got it into his head
that his son-in-law was avoiding him. But on the Saturday there
was no House. It was then just the middle of June -- Saturday,
June 15 -- and Sir Thomas had considered, at the most, that there
would be yet nearly two months before Parliament would cease
to sit and the time for Glenbogie would come. He had fed his
anger warm, and was determined that he would not be done. "Well,
Traffick, how are you?" he said, encountering his son-in-law
in the hall, and leading him into the dining-room. "I haven't
seen you since you've been back." 

"I've been in the House morning, noon, and night, pretty near."
"I dare say. I hope you found yourself comfortable at Merle Park."
"A charming house -- quite charming. I don't know whether I shouldn't
build the stables a little further from -- " 

"Very likely. Nothing is so easy as knocking other people's houses
about. I hope you'll soon have one to knock about of your own."
"All in good time," said Mr Traffick, smiling. 

Sir Thomas was one of those men who during the course of a successful
life have contrived to repress their original roughnesses, and
who make a not ineffectual attempt to live after the fashion
of those with whom their wealth and successes have thrown them.
But among such will occasionally be found one whose roughness
does not altogether desert him, and who can on an occasion use
it with a purpose. Such a one will occasionally surprise his
latter-day associates by the sudden ferocity of his brow, by
the hardness of his voice, and by an apparently unaccustomed
use of violent words. The man feels that he must fight, and,
not having learned the practice of finer weapons, fights in this
way. Unskilled with foils or rapier he falls back upon the bludgeon
with which his hand has not lost all its old familiarity. Such
a one was Sir Thomas Tringle, and a time for such exercise had
seemed to him to have come now. There are other men who by the
possession of imperturbable serenity seem to be armed equally
against rapier and bludgeon, whom there is no wounding with any
weapon. Such a one was Mr Traffick. When he was told of knocking
about a house of his own, he quite took the meaning of Sir Thomas's
words, and was immediately prepared for the sort of conversation
which would follow. "I wish I might -- a Merle Park of my own
for instance. If I had gone into the City instead of to Westminster
it might have come in my way." 

"It seems to me that a good deal has come in your way without
very much trouble on your part. 

"A seat in the House is a nice thing -- but I work harder, I
take it, than you do, Sir Thomas." 

"I never have had a shilling but what I earned. When you leave
this where are you and Augusta going to live?" 

This was a home question, which would have disconcerted most
gentlemen in Mr Traffick's position, were it not that gentlemen
easily disconcerted would hardly find themselves there. 

"Where shall we go when we leave this? You wore so kind as to
say something about Glenbogie when Parliament is up." 

"No, I didn't." 

"I thought I understood it." 

"You said something and I didn't refuse." 

"Put it any way you like, Sir Thomas." 

"But what do you mean to do before Parliament is up? The long
and the short of it is, we didn't expect you to come back after
the holidays. I like to be plain. This might go on for ever if
I didn't speak out." 

"And a very comfortable way of going on it would be." Sir Thomas
raised his eyebrows in unaffected surprise, and then again assumed
his frown. "Of course I'm thinking of Augusta chiefly." 

"Augusta made up her mind no doubt to leave her father's house
when she married." 

"She shows her affection for her parents by wishing to remain
in it. The fact, I suppose, is, you want the rooms." 

"But even if we didn't? You're not going to live here for ever,
I suppose?" 

"That, Sir, is too good to be thought of, I fear. The truth is
we had an idea of staying at my father's. He spoke of going down
to the country and lending us the house. My sisters have made
him change his mind and so here we are. Of course we can go into
lodgings." 

"Or to an hotel." 

"Too dear! You see you've made me pay such a sum for insuring
my life. I'll tell you what I'll do. If you'll let us make it
out here till the 10th of July we'll go into an hotel then."
Sir Thomas, surprised at his own compliance, did at last give
way. "And then we can have a month at Glenbogie from the 12th."
"Three weeks," said Sir Thomas, shouting at the top of his voice.
"Very well; three weeks. If you could have made it the month
it would have been convenient; but I hate to be disagreeable."
Thus the matter was settled, and Mr Traffick was altogether well
pleased with the arrangement. 

"What are we to do?" said Augusta, with a very long face. "What
are we to do when we are made to go away?" 

"I hope I shall be able to make some of the girls go down by
that time, and then we must squeeze in at my father's." 

This and other matters made Sir Thomas in those days irritable
and disagreeable to the family. "Tom", he said to his wife, "is
the biggest fool that ever lived." 

"What is the matter with him now?" asked Lady Tringle, who did
not like to have her only son abused. 

"He's away half his time, and when he does come he'd better be
away. If he wants to marry that girl why doesn't he marry her
and have done with it?" 

Now this was a matter upon which Lady Tringle had ideas of her
own which were becoming every day stronger. "I'm sure I should
be very sorry to see it," she said. 

"Why should you be sorry? Isn't it the best thing a young man
can do? If he's set his heart that way all the world won't talk
him off. I thought all that was settled." 

"You can't make the girl marry him." 

"Is that it?" asked Sir Thomas, with a whistle. "You used to
say she was setting her cap at him." 

"She is one of those girls you don't know what she would be at.
She's full of romance and nonsense, and isn't half as fond of
telling the truth as she ought to be. She made my life a burden
to me while she was with us, and I don't think she would be any
better for Tom." 

"But he's still determined." 

"What's the use of that?" said Lady Tringle. 

"Then he shall have her. I made him a promise and I'm not going
to give it up. I told him that if he was in earnest he should
have her." 

"You can't make a girl marry a young man." 

"You have her here, and then we'll take her to Glenbogie. Now
when I say it I mean it. You go and fetch her, and if you don't
I will. I'm not going to have her turned out into the cold in
that way." 

"She won't come, Tom." Then he turned round and frowned at her.
The immediate result of this was that Lady Tringle herself did
drive across to Kingsbury Crescent accompanied by Gertrude and
Lucy, and did make her request in form. "My dear, your uncle
particularly wants you to come to us for the next month." Mrs
Dosett was sitting by. "I hope Ayala may be allowed to come to
us for a month." 

"Ayala must answer for herself," said Mrs Dosett, firmly. There
had never been any warm friendship between Mrs Dosett and her
husband's elder sister. 

"I can't," said Ayala, shaking her head. 

"Why not, my dear?" said Lady Tringle. 

"I can't," said Ayala. 

Lady Tringle was not in the least offended or annoyed at the
refusal. She did not at all desire that Ayala should come to
Glenbogie. Ayala at Glenbogie would make her life miserable to
her. It would, of course, lead to Tom's marriage, and then there
would be internecine fighting between Ayala and Augusta. But
it was necessary that she should take back to her husband some
reply -- and this reply, if in the form of refusal, must come
from Ayala herself. "Your uncle has sent me," said Lady Tringle,
"and I must give him some reason. As for expense, you know,"
-- then she turned to Mrs Dosett with a smile -- "that of course
would be our affair." 

"If you ask me," said Mrs Dosett, "I think that as Ayala has
come to us she had better remain with us. Of course things are
very different, and she would be only discontented." At this
Lady Tringle smiled her sweetest smile -- as though acknowledging
that things certainly were different -- and then turned to Ayala
for a further reply. 

"Aunt Emmeline, I can't," said Ayala. 

"But why, my dear? Can't isn't a courteous answer to a request
that is meant to be kind." 

"Speak out, Ayala," said Mrs Dosett. "There is nobody here but
your aunts." 

"Because of Tom." 

"Tom wouldn't eat you," said Lady Tringle, again smiling. 

"It's worse than eating me," said Ayala. "He will go on when
I tell him not. If I were down there he'd be doing it always.
And then you'd tell me that I -- encouraged him!" 

Lady Tringle felt this to be unkind and undeserved. Those passages
in Rome had been very disagreeable to every one concerned. The
girl certainly, as she thought, had been arrogant and impertinent.
She had been accepted from charity and had then domineered in
the family. She had given herself airs and had gone out into
company almost without authority, into company which had rejected
her -- Lady Tringle. It had become absolutely necessary to get
rid of an inmate so troublesome, so unbearable. The girl had
been sent away -- almost ignominiously. Now she, Lady Tringle,
the offended aunt, the aunt who had so much cause for offence,
had been good enough, gracious enough, to pardon all this, and
was again offering the fruition of a portion of her good things
to the sinner. No doubt she was not anxious that the offer should
be accepted, but not the less was it made graciously -- as she
felt herself. In answer to this she had thrown back upon her
the only hard word she had ever spoken to the girl! "You wouldn't
be told anything of the kind, but you needn't come if you don't
like it." 

"Then I don't," said Ayala, nodding her head. 

"But I did think that after all that has passed, and when I am
trying to be kind to you, you would have made yourself more pleasant
to me. I can only tell your uncle that you say you won't." 

"Give my love to my uncle, and tell him that I am much obliged
to him and that I know how good he is; but I can't -- because
of Tom." 

"Tom is too good for you," exclaimed Aunt Emmeline, who could
not bear to have her son depreciated even by the girl whom she
did not wish to marry him. 

"I didn't say he wasn't," said Ayala, bursting into tears. "The
Archbishop of Canterbury would be too good for me, but I don't
want to marry him." Then she got up and ran out of the room in
order that she might weep over her troubles in the privacy of
her own chamber. She was thoroughly convinced that she was being
ill-used. No one had a right to tell her that any man was too
good for her unless she herself should make pretensions to the
man. It was an insult to her even to connect her name with that
of any man unless she had done something to connect it. In her
own estimation her cousin Tom was infinitely beneath her -- worlds
beneath her -- a denizen of an altogether inferior race, such
as the Beast was to the Beauty! Not that Ayala had ever boasted
to herself of her own face or form. It was not in that respect
that she likened herself to the Beauty when she thought of Tom
as the Beast. Her assumed superiority existed in certain intellectual
or rather artistic and aesthetic gifts -- certain celestial gifts.
But as she had boasted of them to no one, as she had never said
that she and her cousin were poles asunder in their tastes, poles
asunder in their feelings, poles asunder in their intelligence,
was it not very, very cruel that she should be told, first that
she encouraged him, and then that she was not good enough for
him? Cinderella did not ask to have the Prince for her husband.
When she had her own image of which no one could rob her, and
was content with that, why should they treat her in this cruel
way? 

"I am afraid you are having a great deal of trouble with her,"
said Lady Tringle to Mrs Dosett. 

"No, indeed. Of course she is romantic, which is very objectionable."
"Quite detestable!" said Lady Tringle. 

"But she has been brought up like that, so that it is not her
fault. Now she endeavours to do her best." 

"She is so upsetting." 

"She is angry because her cousin persecutes her." "Persecutes
her, indeed! Tom is in a position to ask any girl to be his wife.
He can give her a home of her own, and a good income. She ought
to be proud of the offer instead of speaking like that. But nobody
wants her to have him." 

"He wants it, I suppose." 

"Just taken by her baby face -- that's all. It won't last, and
she needn't think so. However, I've done my best to be kind,
Mrs Dosett, and there's an end of it. If you please I'll ring
the bell for the carriage. Goodbye." After that she swam out
of the room and had herself carried back to Queen's Gate. 


CHAPTER 14
FRANK HOUSTON

Three or four days afterwards Sir Thomas asked whether Ayala
was to come to Glenbogie. "She positively refused," said his
wife, "and was so rude and impertinent that I could not possibly
have her now." Then Sir Thomas frowned and turned himself away,
and said not a word further on that occasion. 

There were many candidates for Glenbogie on this occasion. Among
others there was Mr Frank Houston, whose candidature was not
pressed by himself -- as could not well have been done -- but
was enforced by Gertrude on his behalf. It was now July. Gertrude
and Mr Houston had seen something of each other in Rome, as may
be remembered, and since then had seen a good deal of each other
in town. Gertrude was perfectly well aware that Mr Houston was
impecunious; but Augusta had been allowed to have an impecunious
lover, and Tom to throw himself at the feet of an impecunious
love. Gertrude felt herself to be entitled to her L#120,000;
did not for a moment doubt but that she would get it. Why shouldn't
she give it to any young man she liked as long as he belonged
to decent people? Mr Houston wasn't a Member of Parliament --
but then he was young and good-looking. Mr Houston wasn't son
to a lord, but he was brother to a county squire, and came of
a family much older than that of those stupid Boardotrade and
Traffick people. And then Frank Houston was very presentable,
was not at all bald, and was just the man for a girl to like
as a husband. It was dinned into her ears that Houston had no
income at all -- just a few hundreds a year on which he never
could keep himself out of debt. But he was a generous man, who
would be more than contented with the income coming from L#120,000.
He would not spunge upon the house at Queen's Gate. He would
not make use of Merle Park and Glenbogie. He would have a house
of his own for his old boots. Four-percent. would give them nearly
L#5,000 a year. Gertrude knew all about it already. They could
have a nice house near Queen's Gate -- say somewhere about Onslow
Gardens. There would be quite enough for a carriage, for three
months upon a mountain in Switzerland, and three more among the
art treasures of Italy. It was astonishing how completely Gertrude
had it all at her finger's ends when she discussed the matter
with her mother. Mr Houston was a man of no expensive tastes.
He didn't want to hunt. He did shoot, no doubt, and perhaps a
little shooting at Glenbogie might be nice before they went to
Switzerland. In that case two months on the top of the mountain
would suffice. But if he was not asked he would never condescend
to demand an entry at Glenbogie as a part of his wife's dower.
Lady Tringle was thus talked over, though she did think that
at least one of her daughter's husbands ought to have an income
of his own. There was another point which Gertrude put forward
very frankly, and which no doubt had weight with her mother.
"Mamma, I mean to have him," she said, when Lady Tringle expressed
a doubt. 

"But papa?" 

"I mean to have him. Papa can scold, of course, if he pleases."
"But where would the income come from if papa did not give it?"
"Of course he'll give it. I've a right to it as much as Augusta."
There was something in Gertrude's face as she said this which
made her mother think that she would have her way. 

But Sir Thomas had hitherto declined. When Frank Houston, after
the manner of would-be sons-in-law, had applied to Sir Thomas,
Sir Thomas, who already knew all about it, asked after his income,
his prospects, and his occupation. Fifty years ago young men
used to encounter the misery of such questions, and to live afterwards
often in the enjoyment of the stern questioner's money and daughters.
But there used in those days to be a bad quarter of an hour while
the questions were being asked, and not unfrequently a bad six
months afterwards, while the stern questioner was gradually undergoing
a softening process under the hands of the females of the family.
But the young man of today has no bad quarter of an hour. "You
are a mercantile old brick with money and a daughter. I am a
jeunesse doree -- gilded by blood and fashion, though so utterly
impecunious! Let us know your terms. How much is it to be, and
then I can say whether we can afford to live upon it." The old
brick surrenders himself more readily and speedily to the latter
than to the former manner -- but he hardly surrenders himself
quite at once. Frank Houston, when inquired into, declared at
once, without blushing, that he had no income at all to speak
of in reference to matrimonial life. As to family prospects he
had none. His elder brother had four blooming boys, and was likely
to have more. As for occupation, he was very fond of painting,
very fond of art all round, could shoot a little, and was never
in want of anything to do as long as he had a book. But for the
earning of money he had no turn whatever. He was quite sure of
himself that he could never earn a shilling. But then on the
other hand he was not extravagant -- which was almost as good
as earning. It was almost incredible; but with his means, limited
as they were to a few hundreds, he did not owe above a thousand
pounds -- a fact which he thought would weigh much with Sir Thomas
in regard to his daughter's future happiness. 

Sir Thomas gave him a flat refusal. "I think that I may boast
that your daughter's happiness is in my charge," said Frank Houston.
"Then she must be unhappy," said Sir Thomas. Houston shrugged
his shoulders. "A fool like that has no right to be happy." 

"There isn't another man in the world by whom I would allow her
to be spoken of like that," said Houston. 

"Bother!" 

"I regard her as all that is perfect in woman, and you must forgive
me if I say that I shall not abandon my suit. I may be allowed,
at any rate, to call at the house?" 

"Certainly not." 

"That is a kind of thing that is never done nowadays -- never,"
said Houston, shaking his head. 

"I suppose my own house is my own." 

"Yours and Lady Tringle's, and your daughters', no doubt. At
any rate, Sir Thomas, you will think of this again. I am sure
you will think of it again. If you find that your daughter's
happiness depends upon it -- " 

"I shall find nothing of the kind. Good morning." 

"Good morning, Sir Thomas." Then Mr Houston, bowing graciously,
left the little back room in Lombard Street, and, jumping into
a cab had himself taken straight away to Queen's Gate. 

"Papa is always like that," said Gertrude. On that day Mrs Traffick,
with all the boots, had taken herself away to the small house
in Mayfair, and Gertrude, with her mother, had the house to herself.
At the present moment Lady Tringle was elsewhere, so that the
young lady was alone with her lover. 

"But he comes round, I suppose." 

"If he doesn't have too much to eat -- which disagrees with him
-- he does. He's always better down at Glenbogie because he's
out of doors a good deal, and then he can digest things." 

"Then take him down to Glenbogie and let him digest it at once."
"Of course we can't go till the 12th. Perhaps we shall start
on the 10th, because the 11th is Sunday. What will you do, Frank?"
There had been a whisper of Frank's going to the Tyrol in August,
there to join the Mudbury Docimers, who were his far-away cousins.
Imogene Docimer was a young lady of marvellous beauty -- not
possessed indeed of L#120,000 -- of whom Gertrude had heard,
and was already anxious that her Frank should not go to the Tyrol
this year. She was already aware that her Frank had -- just an
artist's eye for feminine beauty in its various shapes, and thought
that in the present condition of things he would be better at
Glenbogie than in the Tyrol. 

"I am thinking of wandering away somewhere -- perhaps to the
Tyrol. The Mudbury Docimers are there. He's a pal of mine, besides
being a cousin. Mrs Docimer is a very nice woman." 

"And her sister?" 

"A lovely creature. Such a turn of the neck! I've promised to
make a study of her back head." 

"Come down to Glenbogie," said Gertrude, sternly. 

"How can I do that when your governor won't let me enter his
house door even in London?" 

"But you're here." 

"Well -- yes -- I am here. But he told me not. I don't see how
I'm to drive in at the gate at Glenbogie with all my traps, and
ask to be shown my room. I have cheek enough for a good deal,
my pet." 

"I believe you have, Sir -- cheek enough for anything. But mamma
must manage it -- mamma and me, between us. Only keep yourself
disengaged. You won't go to the Tyrol -- eh?" Then Frank Houston
promised that he would not go to the Tyrol as long as there was
a chance open that he might be invited to Glenbogie. 

"I won't hear of it," said Sir Thomas to his wife. On that occasion
his digestion had perhaps failed him a little. "He only wants
to get my money." 

"But Gertrude has set her heart on it, and nothing will turn
her away." 

"Why can't she set her heart on someone who has got a decent
income? That man hasn't a shilling." 

"Nor yet has Mr Traffick." 

"Mr Traffick has, at any rate, got an occupation. Were it to
do again, Mr Traffick would never see a shilling of my money.
By  -- , those fellows, who haven't got a pound belonging to
them, think that they're to live on the fat of the land out of
the sweat of the brow of such men as me." 

"What is your money for, Tom, but for the children?" 

"I know what it's for. I'd sooner build a hospital than give
it to an idle fellow like that Houston. When I asked him what
he did, he said he was fond of 'picters'!" Sir Thomas would fall
back from his usual modes of expression when he was a little
excited. 

"Of course he hasn't been brought up to work. But he is a gentleman,
and I do think he would make our girl happy." 

"My money would make him happy -- till he had spent it." 

"Tie it up." 

"You don't know what you're talking about. How are you to prevent
a man from spending his wife's income?" 

"At any rate, if you have him down at Glenbogie you can see what
sort of a man he is. You don't know him now." 

"As much as I wish to." 

"That isn't fair to the poor girl. You needn't give your consent
to a marriage because he comes to Glenbogie. You have only to
say that you won't give the money and then it must be off. They
can't take the money from you." His digestion could not have
been very bad, for he allowed himself to be persuaded that Houston
should be asked to Glenbogie for ten days. This was the letter
of invitation --  

MY DEAR MR. HOUSTON, 

We shall start for Glenbogie on the 10th of next month. Sir Thomas
wishes you to join us on the 20th if you can, and stay till the
end of the month. We shall be a little crowded at first, and
therefore cannot name an earlier day. 

I am particularly to warn you that this means nothing more than
a simple invitation. I know what passed between you and Sir Thomas,
and he hasn't at all changed his mind. I think it right to tell
you this. If you like to speak to him again when you are at Glenbogie
of course you can. 

Very sincerely yours, 

EMMELINE TRINGLE

At the same time, or within a post of it, he got another letter,
which was as follows --  

DEAREST F, 

Papa, you see, hasn't cut up so very rough, after all. You are
to be allowed to come and help to slaughter grouse, which will
be better than going to that stupid Tyrol. If you want to draw
somebody's back head you can do it there. Isn't it a joke papa's
giving way like that all in a moment? He gets so fierce sometimes
that we think he's going to eat everybody. Then he has to come
down, and he gets eaten worse than anybody else. 

Of course, as you're asked to Glenbogie, you can come here as
often as you like. I shall ride on Thursday and Friday. I shall
expect you exactly at six, just under the Memorial. You can't
come home to dinner, you know, because he might flare up; but
you can turn in at lunch every day you please except Saturday
and Sunday. I intend to be so jolly down at Glenbogie. You mustn't
be shooting always. 

Ever your own, 

G. 

Frank Houston as he read this threw himself back on the sofa
and gave way to a soft sigh. He knew he was doing his duty --
just as another man does who goes forth from his pleasant home
to earn his bread and win his fortune in some dry, comfortless
climate, far from the delights to which he has been always accustomed.
He must do his duty. He could not live always adding a hundred
or two of debt to the burden already round his neck. He must
do his duty. As he thought of this he praised himself mightily.
How beautiful was his far-away cousin, Imogene Docimer, as she
would twist her head round so as to show the turn of her neck!
How delightful it would be to talk love to Imogene! As to marrying
Imogene, who hadn't quite so many hundreds as himself, that he
knew to be impossible. As for marriage, he wasn't quite sure
that he wanted to marry anyone. Marriage, to his thinking, was
"a sort of grind" at the best. A man would have to get up and
go to bed with some regularity. His wife might want him to come
down in a frock coat to breakfast. His wife would certainly object
to his drawing the back heads of other young women. Then he thought
of the provocation he had received to draw Gertrude's back head.
Gertrude hadn't got any turn of a neck to speak of. Gertrude
was a stout, healthy girl; and, having L#120,000, was entitled
to such a husband as himself. If he waited longer he might be
driven to worse before he found the money which was so essentially
necessary. He was grateful to Gertrude for not being worse, and
was determined to treat her well. But as for love, romance, poetry,
art -- all that must for the future be out of the question. Of
course, there would now be no difficulty with Sir Thomas, and
therefore he must at once make up his mind. He decided that morning,
with many soft regrets, that he would go to Glenbogie, and let
those dreams of wanderings in the mountains of the Tyrol pass
away from him. "Dear, dearest Imogene!" He could have loved Imogene
dearly had fates been more propitious. Then he got up and shook
himself, made his resolution like a man, ate a large allowance
of curried salmon for his breakfast -- and then wrote the following
letter. "Duty first!" he said to himself as he sat down to the
table like a hero. 

Letter No. 1

DEAR LADY TRINGLE, 

So many thanks! Nothing could suit my book so well as a few days
at Glenbogie just at the end of August. I will be there, like
a book, on the 20th. Of course I understand all that you say.
Fathers can't be expected to yield all at once, especially when
suitors haven't got very much of their own. I shouldn't have
dared to ask hadn't I known myself to be a most moderate man.
Of course I shall ask again. If you will help me, no doubt I
shall succeed. I really do think that I am the man to make Gertrude
happy. 

Yours, dear Lady Tringle, ever so much, 

F. HOUSTON

Letter No. 2

MY OWN ONE, 

Your governor is a brick. Of course, Glenbogie will be better
than the Tyrol, as you are to be there. Not but what the Tyrol
is a very jolly place, and we'll go and see it together some
day. Ask Tom to let me know whether one can wear heavy boots
in the Glenbogie mountains. They are much the best for the heather;
but I have shot generally in Yorkshire, and there they are too
hot. What number does he shoot with generally? I fancy the birds
are wilder with you than with us. 

As for riding, I don't dare to sit upon a horse this weather.
Nobody but a woman can stand it. Indeed, now I think of it, I
sold my horse last week to pay the fellow I buy paints from.
I've got the saddle and bridle, and if I stick them up upon a
rail, under the trees, it would be better than any horse while
the thermometer is near 80. All the ladies could come round and
talk to one so nicely. 

I hate lunch, because it makes me red in the face, and nobody
will give me my breakfast before eleven at the earliest. But
I'll come in about three as often as you like to have me. I think
I perhaps shall run over to the Tyrol after Glenbogie. A man
must go somewhere when he has been turned out in that fashion.
There are so many babies at Buncombe Hall! -- Buncombe Hall is
the family seat of the Houstons -- and I don't like to see my
own fate typified before the time. 

Can I do anything for you except riding or eating lunch -- which
are simply feminine exercises? 

Always your own, 

FRANK

Letter No. 3

DEAR COUSIN IM, 

How pleasant it is that a little strain of thin blood should
make the use of that pretty name allowable! What a stupid world
it is when the people who like each other best cannot get together
because of proprieties, and marriages, and such balderdash as
we call love. I do not in the least want to be in love with you
-- but I do want to sit near you, and listen to you, and look
at you, and to know that the whole air around is impregnated
by the mysterious odour of your presence. When one is thoroughly
satisfied with a woman there comes a scent as of sweet flowers,
which does not reach the senses of those whose feelings are not
so awakened. 

And now for my news! I suppose that G. T. will in a tremendously
short period become Mistress F. H. "A long day, my Lord." But,
if you are to be hung, better be hung at once. Pere Tringle has
not consented -- has done just the reverse -- has turned me out
of his house, morally. That is, out of his London house. He asked
of my "house and my home", as they did of Allan-a-Dale. Queen
Gate and Glenbogie stand fair on the hill."My home", quoth bold
Houston, "shows gallanter still.'Tis the gerret up three pair
-- " 

Then he told me roughly to get me gone; but "had laughed on the
lass with my bonny black eye." So the next day I got an invite
to Glenbogie, and at the appropriate time in August, She'll go
to the mountains to hear a love tale,And the youth --  it will
be told by is to be your poor unfortunate coz, Frank Houston.
Who's going to whimper? Haven't I known all along what was to
come? It has not been my lot in life to see a flower and pick
it because I love it. But a good head of cabbage when you're
hungry is wholesome food. --  

Your loving cousin, but not loving as he oughtn't to love, 

FRANK HOUSTON

"I shall still make a dash for the Tyrol when this episode at
Glenbogie is over." 


CHAPTER 15
AYALA WITH HER FRIENDS

Some few days after Lady Tringle had been at Kingsbury Crescent,
two visitors, who knew little or nothing of each other, came
to see Ayala. One was a lady and the other a gentleman, and the
lady came first. The gentleman, however, arrived before the lady
had gone. Mrs Dosett was present while the lady remained; but
when the gentleman came she was invited to leave him alone with
her niece -- as shall be told. 

The lady was the Marchesa Baldoni. Can the reader go so far back
as to remember the Marchesa Baldoni? It was she who rather instigated
Ayala to be naughty to the Tringles in Rome, and would have Ayala
at her parties when she did not want the Tringles. The Marchesa
was herself an Englishwoman, though she had lived at Rome all
her life, and had married an Italian nobleman. She was now in
London for a few weeks, and still bore in mind her friendship
for Ayala, and a certain promise she had once made her. In Rome
Lady Tringle, actuated by Augusta, who at the moment was very
angry with everybody, including her own lover, had quarrelled
with the Marchesa. The Marchesa had then told Ayala that she,
Ayala, must stay with her aunt -- must, in fact, cease for the
time to come to the Marchesa's apartments, because of the quarrel;
but that a time would come in which they might again be friends.
Soon afterwards the Marchesa had heard that the Tringle family
had discarded poor Ayala -- that her own quarrel had, in fact,
extended itself to Ayala, and that Ayala had been shunted off
to a poor relation, far away from all the wealth and luxuries
which she had been allowed to enjoy for so short a time. Therefore,
soon after her arrival in London, the Marchesa had made herself
acquainted with the address of the Dosetts, and now was in Kingsbury
Crescent in fulfilment of her promise made at Rome. 

"So now you have got our friend Ayala," said the Marchesa with
a smile to Mrs Dosett. 

"Yes; we have her now. There has been a change. Her sister, Lucy,
has gone to my husband's sister, Lady Tringle." 

The Marchesa made a pleasant little bow at each word. She seemed
to Mrs Dosett to be very gorgeously dressed. She was thoroughly
well dressed, and looked like a Marchesa -- or perhaps, even,
like a Marchioness. She was a tall, handsome woman, with a smile
perhaps a little too continuously sweet, but with a look conscious
of her own position behind it. She had seen in a moment of what
nature was Ayala, how charming, how attractive, how pretty, how
clever -- how completely the very opposite of the Tringles! Ayala
learned Italian so readily that she could talk it almost at once.
She could sing, and play, and draw. The Marchesa had been quite
willing that her own daughter Nina should find a friend in Ayala.
Then had come the quarrel. Now she was quite willing to renew
the friendship, though Ayala's position was so sadly altered.
Mrs Dosett was almost frightened as the grand lady sat holding
Ayala's hand, and patting it. "We used to know her so well in
Rome -- did we not, Ayala?" 

"You were very kind to me." 

"Nina couldn't come, because her father would make her go with
him to the pictures. But now, my dear, you must come to us just
for a little time. We have a furnished house in Brook Street,
near the park, till the end of the season, and we have one small
spare room which will just do for you. I hope you will let her
come to us, for we really are old friends," said the Marchesa,
turning to Mrs Dosett. 

Mrs Dosett looked black. There are people who always look black
when such applications are made to them -- who look black at
any allusions to pleasures. And then there came across her mind
serious thoughts as to flowers and ribbons -- and then more serious
thoughts as to boots, dresses, and hats. Ayala, no doubt, had
come there less than six months since with good store of everything;
but Mrs Dosett knew that such a house as would be that of this
lady would require a girl to show herself with the newest sheen
on everything. And Ayala knew it too. The Marchesa turned from
the blackness of Mrs Dosett's face with her sweetest smile to
Ayala. "Can't we manage it?" said the Marchesa. 

"I don't think we can," said Ayala, with a deep sigh. 

"And why not?" 

Ayala looked furtively round to her aunt. "I suppose I may tell,
Aunt Margaret?" she said. 

"You may tell everything, my dear," said Mrs Dosett. 

"Because we are poor," said Ayala. 

"What does that matter?" said the Marchesa, brightening up. "We
want you because you are rich in good gifts and pretty ways."
"But I can't get new frocks now as I used to do in Rome. Aunt
Emmeline was cruel to me, and said things which I could not bear.
But they let me have everything. Uncle Reginald gives me all
that he has, and I am much happier here. But we cannot go out
and buy things -- can we, Aunt Margaret?" 

"No, my dear; we cannot." 

"It does not signify," said the Marchesa. "We are quite quiet,
and what you have got will do very well. Frocks! The frocks you
had in Rome are good enough for London. I won't have a word of
all that. Nina has set her heart upon it, and so has my husband,
and so have I. Mrs Dosett, when we are at home we are the most
homely people in the world. We think nothing of dressing. Not
to come and see your old friends because of your frocks! We shall
send for you the day after tomorrow. Don't you know, Mrs Dosett,
it will do her good to be with her young friend for a few days."
Mrs Dosett had not succeeded in her remonstrances when Sir Thomas
Tringle was shown into the room, and then the Marchesa took her
leave. For Sir Thomas Tringle was the other visitor who came
on that morning to see Ayala. 

"If you wouldn't mind, Mrs Dosett," said Sir Thomas before he
sat down, "I should like to see Ayala alone." Mrs Dosett had
not a word to say against such a request, and at once took her
leave. 

"My dear," he began, coming and sitting opposite to Ayala, with
his knees almost touching her, "I have got something very particular
to say to you." Ayala was at once much frightened. Her uncle
had never before spoken to her in this way -- had never in truth
said a word to her seriously. He had always been kind to her,
making her presents, and allowing himself to be kissed graciously
morning and evening. He had never scolded her, and, better than
all, had never said a word to her, one way or the other, about
Tom. She had always liked her uncle, because he had never caused
her trouble when all the others in his house had been troublesome
to her. But now she was afraid of him. He did not frown, but
he looked very seriously at her, as he might look, perhaps, when
he was counting out all his millions in Lombard Street. "I hope
you think that I have always wished to be kind to you, Ayala."
"I am sure you have, Uncle Tom." 

"When you had come to us I always wished you to stay. I don't
like changes of this sort. I suppose you didn't hit it off with
Augusta. But she's gone now." 

"Aunt Emmeline said something." That accusation, as to "encouragement",
so rankled in her heart, that when she looked back at her grievances
among the Tringles that always loomed the largest. 

"I don't want to hear anything about it," said Sir Thomas. "Let
bygones be bygones. Your aunt, I am sure, never meant unkindly
by you. Now, I want you to listen to me." 

"I will, Uncle Tom." 

"Listen to me to the end, like a good girl." 

"I will." 

"Your Cousin Tom -- ." Ayala gave a visible shudder, and uttered
an audible groan, but as yet she did not say a word. Sir Thomas,
having seen the shudder, and heard the groan, did frown as he
began again. "Your Cousin Tom is most truly attached to you."
"Why won't he leave me alone, then?" 

"Ayala, you promised to listen to me without speaking." 

"I will, Uncle Tom. Only -- " 

"Listen to me, and then I will hear anything you have to say."
"I will," said Ayala, screwing up her lips, so that no words
should come out of them, let the provocation be what it might.
Sir Thomas began again. "Your Cousin Tom is most truly attached
to you. For some time I and his mother disapproved of this. We
thought you were both too young, and there were other reasons
which I need not now mention. But when I came to see how thoroughly
he was in earnest, how he put his heart into it, how the very
fact that he loved you had made a man of him; then how the fact
that you would not return his love unmanned him -- when I saw
all that, I gave my permission." Here he paused, almost as though
expecting a word; but Ayala gave an additional turn to the screw
on her lips, and remained quite silent. "Yes; we gave our permission
-- I and your aunt. Of course, our son's happiness is all in
all to us; and I do believe that you are so good that you would
make him a good wife." 

"But -- " 

"Listen till I have done, Ayala." Then there was another squeeze.
"I suppose you are what they call romantic. Romance, my dear,
won't buy bread and butter. Tom is a very good young man, and
he loves you most dearly. If you will consent to be his I will
make a rich man of him. He will then be a respectable man of
business, and will become a partner in the house. You and he
can choose a place to live in almost where you please. You can
have your own establishment and your carriage, and will be able
to do a deal of good. You will make him happy, and you will be
my dear child. I have come here to tell you that I will make
you welcome into the family, and to promise that I will do everything
I can to make you happy. Now you may say what you like; but,
Ayala, think a little before you speak." 

Ayala thought a little -- not as to what she should say, but
as to the words in which she might say it. She was conscious
that a great compliment was paid to her. And there was a certain
pride in her heart as she thought that this invitation into the
family had come to her after that ignominious accusation of encouragement
had been made. Augusta had snubbed her about Tom, and her aunt;
but now she was asked to come among them, and be one of them,
with full observances. She was aware of all this, and aware,
also, that such treatment required from her a gracious return.
But not on that account could she give herself to the Beast.
Not on that account could she be untrue to her image. Not on
that account could she rob her bosom of that idea of love which
was seated there. Not on that account could she look upon the
marriage proposed to her with aught but a shuddering abhorrence.
She sat silent for a minute or two, while her heavy eyes were
fixed upon his. Then, falling on her knees before him, she put
up her little hands to pray to him. "Uncle Tom, I can't," she
said. And then the tears came running down her cheeks. 

"Why can't you, Ayala? Why cannot you be sensible, as other girls
are?" said Sir Thomas, lifting her up, and putting her on his
knee. 

"I can't," she said. "I don't know how to tell you." 

"Do you love some other man?" 

"No; no; no!" To Uncle Tom, at any rate, she need say nothing
of the image. 

"Then why is it?" 

"Because I can't. I don't know what I say, but I can't. I know
how very, very, very good you are." 

"I would love you as my daughter." 

"But I can't, Uncle Tom. Pray tell him, and make him get somebody
else. He would be quite happy if he could get somebody else."
"It is you that he loves." 

"But what's the use of it, when I can't? Dear, dear Uncle Tom,
do have it all settled for me. Nothing on earth could ever make
me do it. I should die if I were to try." 

"That's nonsense." 

"I do so want not to make you angry, Uncle Tom. And I do so wish
he would be happy with someone else. Nobody ought to be made
to marry unless they like it -- ought they?" 

"There is no talk of making," said Sir Thomas, frowning. 

"At any rate I can't," said Ayala, releasing herself from her
uncle's embrace. 

It was in vain that even after this he continued his request,
begging her to come down to Glenbogie, so that she might make
herself used to Tom and his ways. If she could only once more,
he thought, be introduced to the luxuries of a rich house, then
she would give way. But she would not go to Glenbogie,; she would
not go to Merle Park; she would not consent to see Tom anywhere.
Her uncle told her that she was romantic and foolish, endeavouring
to explain to her over and over again that the good things of
the world were too good to be thrown away for a dream. At last
there was a touch of dignity in the final repetition of her refusal.
"I am sorry to make you angry, but I can't, Uncle Tom." Then
he frowned with all his power of frowning, and, taking his hat,
left the room and the house almost without a word. 

At the time fixed the Marchesa's carriage came, and Ayala with
her boxes was taken away to Brook Street. Uncle Reginald had
offered to do something for her in the way of buying a frock,
but this she refused, declaring that she would not allow herself
to become an expense merely because her friends in Rome had been
kind to her. So she had packed up the best of what she had and
started, with her heart in her mouth, fearing the grandeur of
the Marchesa's house. On her arrival she was received by Nina,
who at once threw herself into all her old intimacy. "Oh, Ayala,"
she said, "this is so nice to have you again. I have been looking
forward to this ever since we left Rome." 

"Yes," said Ayala, "it is nice." 

"But why did you tell mamma you would not come? What nonsense
to talk to her about frocks! Why not come and tell me? You used
to have everything at Rome, much more than I had." 

Then Ayala began to explain the great difference between Uncle
Tom and Uncle Reginald -- how Uncle Tom had so many thousands
that nobody could count them, how Uncle Reginald was so shorn
in his hundreds that there was hardly enough to supply the necessaries
of life. "You see," she said, "when papa died Lucy and I were
divided. I got the rich uncle, and Lucy got the poor one; but
I made myself disagreeable, and didn't suit, and so we have been
changed." 

"But why did you make yourself disagreeable?" said Nina, opening
her eyes. "I remember when we were at Rome your cousin Augusta
was always quarrelling with you. I never quite knew what it was
all about." 

"It wasn't only that," said Ayala, whispering. 

"Did you do anything very bad?" 

Then it occurred to Ayala that she might tell the whole story
to her friend, and she told it. She explained the nature of that
great persecution as to Tom. "And that was the real reason why
we were changed," said Ayala, as she completed her story. 

"I remember seeing the young man," said Nina. 

"He is such a lout!" 

"But was he very much in love?" asked Nina. 

"Well, I don't know. I suppose he was after his way. I don't
think louts like that can be very much in love to signify. Young
men when they look like that would do with one girl as well as
another." 

"I don't see that at all," said Nina. 

"I am sure he would if he'd only try. At any rate what's the
good of his going on? They can't make a girl marry unless she
chooses." 

"Won't he be rich?" 

"Awfully rich," said Ayala. 

"Then I should think about it again," said the young lady from
Rome. 

"Never," said Ayala, with an impressive whisper. "I will never
think about it again. If he were made of diamonds I would not
think about it again." 

"And is that why you were changed?" said Nina. 

"Well, yes. No; it is very hard to explain. Aunt Emmeline told
me that -- that I encouraged him. I thought I should have rushed
out of the house when she said that. Then I had to be changed.
I don't know whether they could forgive me, but I could not forgive
her." 

"And how is it now?" 

"It is different now," said Ayala, softly. "Only that it can't
make any real difference." 

"How different?" 

"They'd let me come if I would, I suppose; but I shall never,
never go to them any more." 

"I suppose you won't tell me everything?" said Nina, after a
pause. 

"What everything?" 

"You won't be angry if I ask?" 

"No, I will not be angry." 

"I suppose there is someone else you really care for?" 

"There is no one," said Ayala, escaping a little from her friend's
embrace. 

"Then why should you be so determined against that poor young
man?" 

"Because he is a lout and a beast," said Ayala, jumping up. "I
wonder you should ask me -- as if that had anything to do with
it. Would you fall in love with a lout because you had no one
else? I would rather live for ever all alone, even in Kingsbury
Crescent, than have to think of becoming the wife of my cousin
Tom." At this Nina shrugged her shoulders, showing that her education
in Italy had been less romantic than that accorded to Ayala in
London. 


CHAPTER 16
JONATHAN STUBBS

But, though Nina differed somewhat from Ayala as to their ideas
as to life in general, they were close friends, and everything
was done both by the Marchesa and by her daughter to make Ayala
happy. There was not very much of going into grand society, and
that difficulty about the dresses solved itself, as do other
difficulties. There came a few presents, with entreaties from
Ayala that presents of that kind might not be made. But the presents
were, of course, accepted, and our girl was as prettily arrayed,
if not as richly, as the best around her. At first there was
an evening at the opera, and then a theatre -- diversions which
are easy. Ayala, after her six dull months in Kingsbury Crescent,
found herself well pleased to be taken to easy amusements. The
carriage in the park was delightful to her, and delightful a
visit which was made to her by Lucy. For the Tringle carriage
could be spared for a visit in Brook Street, even though there
was still a remembrance in the bosom of Aunt Emmeline of the
evil things which had been done by the Marchesa in Rome. Then
there came a dance -- which was not so easy. The Marchesa and
Nina were going to a dance at Lady Putney's, and arrangements
were made that Ayala should be taken. Ayala begged that there
might be no arrangements, declared that she would be quite happy
to see Nina go forth in her finery. But the Marchesa was a woman
who always had her way, and Ayala was taken to Lady Putney's
dance without a suspicion on the part of any who saw her that
her ball-room apparatus was not all that it ought to be. 

Ayala when she entered the room was certainly a little bashful.
When in Rome, even in the old days at the bijou, when she did
not consider herself to be quite out, she had not been at all
bashful. She had been able to enjoy herself entirely, being very
fond of dancing, conscious that she could dance well, and always
having plenty to say for herself. But now there had settled upon
her something of the tedium, something of the silence, of Kingsbury
Crescent, and she almost felt that she would not know how to
behave herself if she were asked to stand up and dance before
all Lady Putney's world. In her first attempt she certainly was
not successful. An elderly gentleman was brought up to her --
a gentleman whom she afterwards declared to be a hundred, and
who was, in truth, over forty, and with him she manoeuvred gently
through a quadrille. He asked her two or three questions to which
she was able to answer only in monosyllables. Then he ceased
his questions, and the manoeuvres were carried on in perfect
silence. Poor Ayala did not attribute any blame to the man. It
was all because she had been six months in Kingsbury Crescent.
Of course this aged gentleman, if he wanted to dance, would have
a partner chosen for him out of Kingsbury Crescent. Conversation
was not to be expected from a gentleman who was made to stand
up with Kingsbury Crescent. Any powers of talking that had ever
belonged to herself had of course evaporated amidst the gloom
of Kingsbury Crescent. After this she was returned speedily to
the wings of the Marchesa, and during the next dance sat in undisturbed
peace. Then suddenly, when the Marchesa had for a moment left
her, and when Nina had just been taken away to join a set, she
saw the man of silence coming to her from a distance, with an
evident intention of asking her to stand up again. It was in
his eye, in his toe, as he came bowing forward. He had evidently
learned to suppose that they two outcasts might lessen their
miseries by joining them together. She was to dance with him
because no one else would ask her! She had plucked up her spirit
and resolved that, desolate as she might be, she would not descend
so far as that, when, in a moment, another gentleman sprang in,
as it were, between her and her enemy, and addressed her with
free and easy speech as though he had known her all her life.
"You are Ayala Dormer, I am sure," said he. She looked up into
his face and nodded her head at him in her own peculiar way.
She was quite sure that she had never set her eyes on him before.
He was so ugly that she could not have forgotten him. So at least
she told herself. He was very, very ugly, but his voice was very
pleasant. "I knew you were, and I am Jonathan Stubbs. So now
we are introduced, and you are to come and dance with me." 

She had heard the name of Jonathan Stubbs. She was sure of that,
although she could not at the moment join any facts with the
name. "But I don't know you," she said, hesitating. Though he
was so ugly he could not but be better than that ancient dancer
whom she saw standing at a distance, looking like a dog that
has been deprived of his bone. 

"Yes, you do," said Jonathan Stubbs, "and if you'll come and
dance I'll tell you about it. The Marchesa told me to take you."
"Did she?" said Ayala, getting up, and putting her little hand
upon his arm. 

"I'll go and fetch her if you like; only she's a long way off,
and we shall lose our place. She's my aunt." 

"Oh," said, Ayala, quite satisfied -- remembering now that she
had heard her friend Nina boast of a Colonel cousin, who was
supposed to be the youngest Colonel in the British army, who
had done some wonderful thing -- taken a new province in India,
or marched across Africa, or defended the Turks -- or perhaps
conquered them. She knew that he was very brave -- but why was
he so very ugly? His hair was ruby red, and very short; and he
had a thick red beard: not silky, but bristly, with each bristle
almost a dagger -- and his mouth was enormous. His eyes were
very bright, and there was a smile about him, partly of fun,
partly of good humour. But his mouth! And then that bristling
beard! Ayala was half inclined to like him, because he was so
completely master of himself, so unlike the unhappy ancient gentleman
who was still hovering at a distance. But why was he so ugly?
And why was he called Jonathan Stubbs? 

"There now," he said, "we can't get in at any of the sets. That's
your fault." 

"No, it isn't," said Ayala. 

"Yes, it is. You wouldn't stand up till you had heard all about
me." 

"I don't know anything about you now." 

"Then come and walk about and I'll tell you. Then we shall be
ready for a waltz. Do you waltz well?" 

"Do you?" 

"I'll back myself against any Englishman, Frenchman, German,
or Italian, for a large sum of money. I can't come quite up to
the Poles. The fact is, the honester the man is the worse he
always dances. Yes; I see what you mean. I must be a rogue. Perhaps
I am -- perhaps I'm only an exception. I knew your father." 

"Papa!" 

"Yes, I did. He was down at Stalham with the Alburys once. That
was five years ago, and he told me he had a daughter named Ayala.
I didn't quite believe him." 

"Why not?" 

"It is such an out-of-the-way name." 

"It's as good as Jonathan, at any rate." And Ayala again nodded
her head. 

"There's a prejudice about Jonathan, as there is about Jacob
and Jonah. I never could quite tell why. I was going to marry
a girl once with a hundred thousand pounds, and she wouldn't
have me at last because she couldn't bring her lips to say Jonathan.
Do you think she was right?" 

"Did she love you?" said Ayala, looking up into his face. 

"Awfully! But she couldn't bear the name; so within three months
she gave herself and all her money to Mr Montgomery Talbot de
Montpellier. He got drunk, and threw her out of the window before
a month was over. That's what comes of going in for sweet names."
"I don't believe a word of it," said Ayala. 

"Very well. Didn't Septimus Traffick marry your cousin?" 

"Of course he did, about a month ago." 

"He is another friend of mine. Why didn't you go to your cousin's
marriage?" 

"There were reasons," said Ayala. 

"I know all about it," said the Colonel. "You quarrelled with
Augusta down in Scotland, and you don't like poor Traffick because
he has got a bald head." 

"I believe you're a conjuror," said Ayala. 

"And then your cousin was jealous because you went to the top
of St Peter's, and because you would walk with Mr Traffick on
the Pincian. I was in Rome, and saw all about it." 

"I won't have anything more to do with you," said Ayala. 

"And then you quarrelled with one set of uncles and aunts, and
now you live with another." 

"Your aunt told you that." 

"And I know your cousin, Tom Tringle." 

"You know Tom?" asked Ayala. 

"Yes; he was ever so good to me in Rome about a horse; I like
Tom Tringle in spite of his chains. Don't you think, upon the
whole, if that young lady had put up with Jonathan she would
have done better than marry Montpellier? But now they're going
to waltz, come along." 

Thereupon Ayala got up and danced with him for the next ten minutes.
Again and again before the evening was over she danced with him;
and although, in the course of the night, many other partners
had offered themselves, and many had been accepted, she felt
that Colonel Jonathan Stubbs had certainly been the partner of
the evening. Why should he be so hideously ugly? said Ayala to
herself, as she wished him goodnight before she left the room
with the Marchesa and Nina. 

"What do you think of my nephew?" asked the Marchesa, when they
were in the carriage together. 

"Do tell us what you think of Jonathan," said Nina. 

"I thought he was very good-natured." 

"And very handsome?" 

"Nina, don't be foolish. Jonathan is one of the most rising officers
in the British service, and luckily he can be that without being
beautiful to look at." 

"I declare," said Nina, "sometimes, when he is talking, I think
him perfectly lovely. The fire comes out of his eyes, and he
rubs his old red hairs about till they sparkle. Then he shines
all over like a carbuncle, and every word he says makes me die
of laughter." 

"I laughed too," said Ayala. 

"But you didn't think him beautiful," said Nina. 

"No, I did not," said Ayala. "I liked him very much, but I thought
him very ugly. Was it true about the young lady who married Mr
Montgomery de Montpellier and was thrown out of a window a week
afterwards?" 

"There is one other thing I must tell you about Jonathan," said
Nina. "You must not believe a word that he says." 

"That I deny," said the Marchesa; "but here we are. And now,
girls, get out of the carriage and go up to bed at once." 

Ayala, before she went to sleep, and again when she woke in the
morning, thought a great deal about her new friend. As to shining
like a carbuncle -- perhaps he did, but that was not her idea
of manly beauty. And hair ought not to sparkle. She was sure
that Colonel Stubbs was very, very ugly. She was almost disposed
to think that he was the ugliest man she had ever seen. He certainly
was a great deal worse than her cousin Tom, who, after all, was
not particularly ugly. But, nevertheless, she would very much
rather dance with Colonel Stubbs. She was sure of that, even
without reference to Tom's objectionable love-making. Upon the
whole she liked dancing with Colonel Stubbs, ugly as he was.
Indeed, she liked him very much. She had spent a very pleasant
evening because he had been there. "It all depends upon whether
anyone has anything to say." That was the determination to which
she came when she endeavoured to explain to herself how it had
come to pass that she had liked dancing with anybody so very
hideous. The Angel of Light would of course have plenty to say
for himself, and would be something altogether different in appearance.
He would be handsome -- or rather, intensely interesting, and
his talk would be of other things. He would not say of himself
that he danced as well as though he were a rogue, or declare
that a lady had been thrown out of a window the week after she
was married. Nothing could be more unlike an Angel of Light than
Colonel Stubbs -- unless, perhaps, it were Tom Tringle. Colonel
Stubbs, however, was completely unangelic -- so much so that
the marvel was that he should yet be so pleasant. She had no
horror of Colonel Stubbs at all. She would go anywhere with Colonel
Stubbs, and feel herself to be quite safe. She hoped she might
meet him again very often. He was, as it were, the Genius of
Comedy, without a touch of which life would be very dull. But
the Angel of Light must have something tragic in his composition
-- must verge, at any rate, on tragedy. Ayala did not know that
beautiful description of a "Sallow, sublime, sort of Werther-faced
man," but I fear that in creating her Angel of Light she drew
a picture in her imagination of a man of that kind. 

Days went on, till the last day of Ayala's visit had come, and
it was necessary that she should go back to Kingsbury Crescent.
It was now August, and everybody was leaving town. The Marchesa
and Nina were going to their relations, the Alburys, at Stalham,
and could not, of course, take Ayala with them. The Dosetts would
remain in town for another month, with a distant hope of being
able to run down to Pegwell Bay for a fortnight in September.
But even that had not yet been promised. Colonel Stubbs had been
more than once at the house in Brook Street, and Ayala had come
to know him almost as she might some great tame dog. It was now
the afternoon of the last day, and she was sorry because she
would not be able to see him again. She was to be taken to the
theatre that night -- and then to Kingsbury Crescent and the
realms of Lethe early on the following morning. 

It was very hot, and they were sitting with the shutters nearly
closed, having resolved not to go out, in order that they might
be ready for the theatre -- when the door was opened and Tom
Tringle was announced. Tom Tringle had come to call on his cousin.
"Lady Baldoni," he said, "I hope you won't think me intrusive,
but I thought I'd come and see my cousin once whilst she is staying
here." The Marchesa bowed, and assured him that he was very welcome.
"It's tremendously hot," said Tom. 

"Very hot indeed," said the Marchesa. 

"I don't think it's ever so hot as this in Rome," said Nina,
fanning herself. 

"I find it quite impossible to walk a yard," said Tom, "and therefore
I've hired a hansom cab all to myself. The man goes home and
changes his horse regularly when I go to dinner; then he comes
for me at ten, and sticks to me till I go to bed. I call that
a very good plan." Nina asked him why he didn't drive the cab
himself. "That would be a grind," said he, "because it would
be so hot all day, and there might be rain at night. Have you
read what my brother-in-law, Traffick, said in the House last
night, my Lady?" 

"I'm afraid I passed it over," said the Marchesa. "Indeed, I
am not very good at the debates." 

"They are dull," said Tom, "but when it's one's brother-in-law,
one does like to look at it. I thought he made that very clear
about the malt tax." The Marchesa smiled and bowed. 

"What is -- malt tax?" asked Nina. 

"Well, it means beer," said Tom. "The question is whether the
poor man pays it who drinks the beer, or the farmer who grows
the malt. It is very interesting when you come to think of it."
"But I fear I never have come to think of it," said the Marchesa.
During all this time Ayala never said a word, but sat looking
at her cousin, and remembering how much better Colonel Jonathan
Stubbs would have talked if he had been there. Then, after a
pause, Tom got up, and took his leave, having to content himself
with simply squeezing his cousin's hand as he left the room.
"He is a lout," said Ayala, as soon as she knew that the door
was closed behind him. 

"I don't see anything loutish at all," said the Marchesa. 

"He's just like most other young men," said Nina. 

"He's not at all like Colonel Stubbs," said Ayala. 

Then the Marchesa preached a little sermon. "Colonel Stubbs,
my dear," she said, "happens to have been thrown a good deal
about the world, and has thus been able to pick up that easy
mode of talking which young ladies like, perhaps because it means
nothing. Your cousin is a man of business, and will probably
have amassed a large fortune when my poor nephew will be a do-nothing
old general on half-pay. His chatter will not then have availed
him quite so much as your cousin's habits of business." 

"Mamma," said Nina, "Jonathan will have money of his own." 

"Never mind, my dear. I do not like to hear a young man called
a lout because he's more like a man of business than a man of
pleasure." Ayala felt herself to be snubbed, but was not a whit
the less sure that Tom was a lout, and the Colonel an agreeable
partner to dance with. But at the same time she remembered that
neither the one nor the other was to be spoken of in the same
breath, or thought of in the same spirit, as the Angel of Light.
When they were dressed, and just going to dinner, the ugly man
with the red head was announced, and declared his purpose of
going with them to the theatre. "I've been to the office," said
he, "and got a stall next to yours, and have managed it all.
It now only remains that you should give me some dinner and a
seat in the carriage." Of course he was told that there was no
dinner sufficient for a man to eat; but he put up with a feminine
repast, and spent the whole of the evening sitting next to his
aunt, on a back tier, while the two girls were placed in front.
In this way, leaning forward, with his ugly head between them,
he acted as a running chorus to the play during the whole performance.
Ayala thoroughly enjoyed herself, and thought that in all her
experience no play she'd seen had ever been so delightful. On
their return home the two girls were both told to go to bed in
the Marchesa's good-natured authoritative tone; but, nevertheless,
Ayala did manage to say a word before she finally adjusted herself
on her pillow. "It is all very well, Nina, for your mamma to
say that a young man of business is the best; but I do know a
lout when I see him; and I am quite sure that my cousin Tom is
a lot, and that Colonel Jonathan is not." 

"I believe you are falling in love with Colonel Jonathan," said
Nina. 

"I should as soon think of falling in love with a wild bear --
but he's not a lout, and therefore I like him." 


CHAPTER 17
LUCY IS VERY FIRM

It was just before the Tringles had returned from Rome, during
the winter, that Lucy Dormer had met Mr Hamel in Kensington Gardens
for the second time, had walked there with him perhaps for half
an hour, and had then retumed home with a conviction that she
had done a wicked thing. But she had other convictions also,
which were perhaps stronger. "Now that we have met, am I to lose
you again?" he had said. What could he mean by losing except
that she was the one thing which he desired to find? But she
had not seen him since, or heard a word of his whereabouts, although,
as she so well remembered, she had given him an address at her
Aunt Emmeline's -- not knowing then that it would be her fate
to become a resident in her Aunt Emmeline's house. She had told
him that Ayala would live there, and that perhaps she might sometimes
be found visiting Ayala. Now, she was herself filling Ayala's
place, and might so easily have been found. But she knew nothing
of the man who had once asked whether he was "to lose her again".
Her own feelings about Isadore Hamel were clear enough to herself
now. Ayala in her hot humour had asked her whether she could
give her hand and her heart to such a one as their cousin Tom,
and she had found herself constrained to say that she could not
do so, because she was not free -- not quite free -- to do as
she pleased with her hand and her heart. She had striven hard
not to acknowledge anything, even to Ayala -- even to herself.
But the words had been forced from her, and now she was conscious,
terribly conscious, that the words were true. There could be
no one else now, whether Tom or another -- whether such as Tom
or such as any other. It was just that little word that had won
her. "Am I to lose you again?" A girl loves most often because
she is loved -- not from choice on her part. She is won by the
flattery of the man's desire. "Am I to lose you again?" He had
seemed to throw all his soul into his voice and into his eyes
as he had asked the question. A sudden thrill had filled her,
and, for his sake -- for his sake -- she had hoped that she might
not be lost to him. Now she began to fear that he was lost to
her. 

Something has been told of the relations between Isadore Hamel
and his father. They were both sculptors, the father having become
a successful artist. The father was liberal, but he was essentially
autocratic. If he supplied to his son the means of living --
and he was willing to supply the means of a very comfortable
life -- he expected that his son should live to some extent in
accordance with his fancies. The father wished his son to live
in Rome, and to live after the manner of Romans. Isadore would
prefer to live in London, and after the manner of Londoners.
For a time he had been allowed to do so, and had achieved a moderate
success. But a young artist may achieve a moderate success with
a pecuniary result that shall be almost less than moderate. After
a while the sculptor in Rome had told his son that if he intended
to remain in London he ought to do so on the independent proceeds
of his own profession. Isadore, if he would return to Rome, would
be made welcome to join his affairs to those of his father. In
other words, he was to be turned adrift if he remained in London,
and petted with every luxury if he would consent to follow his
art in Italy. But in Rome the father lived after a fashion which
was distasteful to the son. Old Mr Hamel had repudiated all conventions.
Conventions are apt to go very quickly, one after another, when
the first has been thrown aside. The man who ceases to dress
for dinner soon finds it to be a trouble to wash his hands. A
house is a bore. Calling is a bore. Church is a great bore. A
family is a bore. A wife is an unendurable bore. All laws are
bores, except those by which inferiors can be constrained to
do their work. Mr Hamel had got rid of a great many bores, and
had a strong opinion that bores prevailed more mightily in London
than in Rome. Isadore was not a bore to him. He was always willing
to have Isadore near to him. But if Isadore chose to enter the
conventional mode of life he must do it at his own expense. It
may be said at once that Isadore's present view of life was very
much influenced by Lucy Dormer, and by a feeling that she certainly
was conventional. A small house, very prettily furnished, somewhat
near the Fulham Road, or perhaps verging a little towards South
Kensington, with two maids, and perhaps an additional one as
nurse in the process of some months, with a pleasant English
breakfast and a pleasant English teapot in the evening, afforded
certainly a very conventional aspect of life. But, at the present
moment, it was his aspect, and therefore he could not go upon
all fours with his father. In this state of things there had,
during the last twelvemonth, been more than one journey made
to Rome and back. Ayala had seen him at Rome, and Lady Tringle,
remembering that the man had been intimate with her brother,
was afraid of him. They had made inquiry about him, and had fully
resolved that he should not be allowed into the house if he came
after Ayala. He had no mother -- to speak of; and he had little
brothers and sisters, who also had no mother -- to speak of.
Mr Hamel, the father, entertained friends on Sunday, with the
express object of playing cards. That a Papist should do so was
to be borne -- but Mr Hamel was not a Papist, and, therefore,
would certainly be -- . All this and much more had been learned
at Rome, and therefore Lucy, though she herself never mentioned
Mr Hamel's name in Queen's Gate, heard evil things said of the
man who was so dear to her. 

It was the custom of her life to be driven out every day with
her aunt and Gertrude. Not to be taken two or three times round
the park would be to Lady Tringle to rob her of the best appreciated
of all those gifts of fortune which had come to her by reason
of the banker's wealth. It was a stern law -- and as stern a
law that Lucy should accompany her. Gertrude, as being an absolute
daughter of the house, and as having an almost acknowledged lover
of her own, was allowed some choice. But for Lucy there was no
alternative. Why should she not go and be driven? Two days before
they left town she was being driven, while her aunt was sitting
almost in a slumber beside her, when suddenly a young man, leaning
over the railings, took off his hat so close to Lucy that she
could almost have put out her hand to him. He was standing there
all alone, and seemed simply to be watching the carriages as
they passed. She felt that she blushed as she bowed to him, and
saw also that the colour had risen to his face. Then she turned
gently round to her aunt, whom she hoped to find still sleeping;
but Aunt Emmeline could slumber with one eye open. "Who was that
young man, my dear?" said Aunt Emmeline. 

"It was Mr Hamel." 

"Mr Isadore Hamel!" said Aunt Emmeline, horrified. "Is that the
young man at Rome who has got the horrible father?" 

"I do not know his father," said Lucy; "but he does live at Rome."
"Of course, it is the Mr Hamel I mean. He scraped some acquaintance
with Ayala, but I would not have it for a moment. He is not at
all the sort of person any young girl ought to know. His father
is a horrible man. I hope he is no friend of yours, Lucy!" 

"He is a friend of mine." Lucy said this in a tone of voice which
was very seldom heard from her, but which, when heard, was evidence
that beneath the softness of her general manner there lay a will
of her own. 

"Then, my dear, I hope that such friendship may be discontinued
as long as you remain with us." 

"He was a friend of papa's," said Lucy. 

"That's all very well. I suppose artists must know artists, even
though they are disreputable." 

"Mr Hamel is not disreputable." 

Aunt Emmeline, as she heard this, could almost fancy that she
was renewing one of her difficulties with Ayala. "My dear," she
said -- and she intended to be very impressive as she spoke --
"in a matter such as this I must beg you to be guided by me.
You must acknowledge that I know the world better than you do.
Mr Hamel is not a fit person to be acquainted with a young lady
who occupies the place of my daughter. I am sure that will be
sufficient." Then she leant back in the carriage, and seemed
again to slumber; but she still had one eye open, so that if
Mr Hamel should appear again at any corner and venture to raise
his hand she might be aware of the impropriety. But on that day
Mr Hamel did not appear again. 

Lucy did not speak another word during the drive, and on reaching
the house went at once to her bedroom. While she had been out
with her aunt close to her, and while it had been possible that
the man she loved should appear again, she had been unable to
collect her thoughts or to make up her mind what she would do
or say. One thing simply was certain to her, that if Mr Hamel
should present himself again to her she would not desert him.
All that her aunt had said to her as to improprieties and the
like had no effect at all upon her. The man had been welcomed
at her father's house, had been allowed there to be intimate
with her, and was now, as she was well aware, much dearer to
her than any other human being. Nor for all the Aunt Emmelines
in the world would she regard him otherwise than as her dearest
friend. 

When she was alone she discussed the matter with herself. It
was repugnant to her that there should be any secret on the subject
between herself and her aunt after what had been said -- much
more that there should be any deceit. "Mr Hamel is not fit to
be acquainted with a lady who occupies the position of my daughter."
It was thus that her aunt had spoken. To this the proper answer
seemed to be -- seemed at least to Lucy -- "In that case, my
dear aunt, I cannot for a moment longer occupy the position of
your daughter, as I certainly am acquainted and shall remain
acquainted with Mr Hamel." But to such speech as this on her
own part there were two impediments. In the first place it would
imply that Mr Hamel was her lover -- for implying which Mr Hamel
had given her no authority; and then what should she immediately
do when she had thus obstinately declared herself to be unfit
for that daughter's position which she was supposed now to occupy?
With all her firmness of determination she could not bring herself
to tell her aunt that Mr Hamel was her lover. Not because it
was not as yet true. She would have been quite willing that her
aunt should know the exact truth, if the exact truth could be
explained. But how could she convey to such a one as Aunt Emmeline
the meaning of those words -- "Am I to lose you again?" How could
she make her aunt understand that she held herself to be absolutely
bound, as by a marriage vow, by such words as those -- words
in which there was no promise, even had they come from some fitting
suitor, but which would be regarded by Aunt Emmeline as being
simply impertinent coming as they did from such a one as Isadore
Hamel. It was quite out of the question to tell all that to Aunt
Emmeline, but yet it was necessary that something should be told.
She had been ordered to drop her acquaintance with Isadore, and
it was essential that she should declare that she would do nothing
of the kind. She would not recognise such obedience as a duty
on her part. The friendship had been created by her father, to
whom her earlier obedience had been due. It might be that, refusing
to render such obedience, her aunt and her uncle might tell her
that there could be no longer shelter for her in that house.
They could not cherish and foster a disobedient child. If it
must be so, it must. Though there should be no home left to her
in all the wide world she would not accept an order which should
separate her from the man she loved. She must simply tell her
aunt that she could not drop Mr Hamel's acquaintance -- because
Mr Hamel was a friend. 

Early on the next morning she did so. "Are you aware", said Aunt
Emmeline, with a severe face, "that he is -- illegitimate?" Lucy
blushed, but made no answer. "Is he -- is he -- engaged to you?"
"No," said Lucy, sharply. 

"Has he asked you to marry him?" 

"No," said Lucy. 

"Then what is it?" asked Lady Tringle, in a tone which was intended
to signify that as nothing of that kind had taken place such
a friendship could be a matter of no consequence. 

"He was papa's friend." 

"My dear, what can that matter? Your poor papa has gone, and
you are in my charge and your uncle's. Surely you cannot object
to choose your friends as we should wish. Mr Hamel is a gentleman
of whom we do not approve. You cannot have seen very much of
him, and it would be very easy for you, should he bow to you
again in the park, to let him see that you do not like it." 

"But I do like it," said Lucy with energy. 

"Lucy!" 

"I do like to see Mr Hamel, and I feel almost sure that he will
come and call here now that he has seen me. Last winter he asked
me my address, and I gave him this house." 

"When you were living with your Aunt Dosett?" 

"Yes, I did, Aunt Emmeline. I thought Aunt Margaret would not
like him to come to Kingsbury Crescent, and, as Ayala was to
be here, I told him he might call at Queen's Gate." 

Then Lady Tringle was really angry. It was not only that her
house should have been selected for so improper a use but that
Lucy should have shown a fear and a respect for Mrs Dosett which
had not been accorded to herself. It was shocking to her pride
that that should have appeared to be easy of achievement at Queen's
Gate which was too wicked to be attempted at Kingsbury Crescent.
And then the thing which had been done seemed in itself to her
to be so horrible! This girl, when living under the care of her
aunt, had made an appointment with an improper young man at the
house of another aunt! Any appointment made by a young lady with
a young man must, as she thought, be wrong. She began to be aghast
at the very nature of the girl who could do such a thing, and
on reflecting that that girl was at present under her charge
as an adopted daughter. "Lucy," she said, very impressively,
"there must be an end of this." 

"There cannot be an end of it," said Lucy. 

"Do you mean to say that he is to come here to this house whether
I and your uncle like it or not?" 

"He will come," said Lucy; "I am sure he will come. Now he has
seen me he will come at once." 

"Why should he do that if he is not your lover?" 

"Because," said Lucy -- and then she paused; "because -- . It
is very hard to tell you, Aunt Emmeline." 

"Why should he come so quickly?" demanded Aunt Emmeline again.
"Because -- . Though he has said nothing to me such as that you
mean," stammered out Lucy, determined to tell the whole truth,
"I believe that he will." 

"And you?" 

"If he did I should accept him." 

"Has he any means?" 

"I do not know." 

"Have you any?" 

"Certainly not." 

"And you would consent to be his wife after what I've told you?"
"Yes," said Lucy, "I should." 

"Then it must not be in this house. That is all. I will not have
him here on any pretence whatsoever." 

"I thought not, Aunt Emmeline, and therefore I have told you."
"Do you mean that you will make an appointment with him elsewhere?"
"Certainly not. I have not in fact ever made an appointment with
him. I do not know his address. Till yesterday I thought that
he was in Rome. I never had a line from him in my life, and of
course have never written to him." Upon hearing all this Lady
Tringle sat in silence, not quite knowing how to carry on the
conversation. The condition of Lucy's mind was so strange to
her, that she felt herself to be incompetent to dictate. She
could only resolve that under no circumstances should the objectionable
man be allowed into her house. "Now, Aunt Emmeline," said Lucy,
"I have told you everything. Of course you have a right to order,
but I also have some right. You told me I was to drop Mr Hamel,
but I cannot drop him. If he comes in my way I certainly shall
not drop him. If he comes here I shall see him if I can. If you
and Uncle Tom choose to turn me out, of course you can do so."
"I shall tell your uncle all about it," said Aunt Emmeline, angrily,
"and then you will hear what he says." And so the conversation
was ended. 

At that moment Sir Thomas was, of course, in the City managing
his millions, and as Lucy herself had suggested that Mr Hamel
might not improbably call on that very day, and as she was quite
determined that Mr Hamel should not enter the doors of the house
in Queen's Gate, it was necessary that steps should be taken
at once. Some hours afterwards Mr Hamel did call and asked for
Miss Dormer. The door was opened by a well-appointed footman,
who, with lugubrious face -- with a face which spoke much more
eloquently than his words -- declared that Miss Dormer was not
at home. In answer to further inquiries he went on to express
an opinion that Miss Dormer never would be at home -- from all
which it may be seen that Aunt Emmeline had taken strong measures
to carry out her purpose. Hamel, when he heard his fate thus
plainly spoken from the man's mouth, turned away, not doubting
its meaning. He had seen Lucy's face in the park, and had seen
also Lady Tringle's gesture after his greeting. That Lady Tringle
should not be disposed to receive him at her house was not matter
of surprise to him. 

When Lucy went to bed that night she did not doubt that Mr Hamel
had called, and that he had been turned away from the door. 


CHAPTER 18
DOWN IN SCOTLAND

When the time came, all the Tringles, together with the Honourable
Mrs Traffick, started for Glenbogie. Aunt Emmeline had told Sir
Thomas all Lucy's sins, but Sir Thomas had not made so much of
them as his wife had expected. "It wouldn't be a bad thing to
have a husband for Lucy," said Sir Thomas. 

"But the man hasn't got a sixpence." 

"He has a profession." 

"I don't know that he makes anything. And then think of his father!
He is -- illegitimate!" Sir Thomas seemed rather to sneer at
this. "And if you knew the way the old man lives in Rome! He
plays cards all Sunday!" Again Sir Thomas sneered. Sir Thomas
was fairly submissive to the conventionalities himself, but did
not think that they ought to stand in the way of a provision
for a young lady who had no provision of her own. "You wouldn't
wish to have him at Queen's Gate?" asked Lady Tringle. 

"Certainly not, if he makes nothing by his profession. A good
deal, I think, depends upon that." Then nothing further was said,
but Lucy was not told her uncle's opinion on the matter, as had
been promised. When she went down to Glenbogie she only knew
that Mr Hamel was considered to be by far too black a sheep to
be admitted into her aunt's presence, and that she must regard
herself as separated from the man as far as any separation could
be effected by her present protectors. But if he would be true
to her, as to a girl whom he had a short time since so keenly
rejoiced in "finding again," she was quite sure that she could
be true to him. 

On the day fixed, the 20th of August, Mr Houston arrived at Glenbogie,
with boots and stockings and ammunition, such as Tom had recommended
when interrogated on those matters by his sister, Gertrude. "I
travelled down with a man I think you know," he said to Lucy
-- "at any rate your sister does, because I saw him with her
at Rome." The man turned out to be Isadore Hamel. "I didn't like
to ask him whether he was coming here," said Frank Houston. 

"No; he is not coming here," said Aunt Emmeline. 

"Certainly not," said Gertrude, who was quite prepared to take
up the cudgels on her mother's behalf against Mr Hamel. 

"He said something about another man he used to know at Rome,
before you came. He was a nephew of that Marchesa Baldoni." 

"She was a lady we didn't like a bit too well," said Gertrude.
"A very stuck-up sort of person, who did all she could to spoil
Ayala," said Aunt Emmeline. 

"Ayala has just been staying with her," said Lucy. "She has been
very kind to Ayala." 

"We have nothing to do with that now," said Aunt Emmeline. "Ayala
can stay with whom she and her aunt pleases. Is this Mr Hamel,
whom you saw, a friend of the Marchesa's?" 

"He seemed to be a friend of the Marchesa's nephew," continued
Houston -- "one Colonel Stubbs. We used to see him at Rome, and
a most curious man he is. His name is Jonathan, and I don't suppose
that any man was ever seen so red before. He is shooting somewhere,
and Hamel seems to be going to join him. I thought he might have
been coming here afterwards, as you all were in Rome together."
"Certainly he is not coming here," said Aunt Emmeline. "And as
for Colonel Stubbs, I never heard of him before." 

A week of the time allotted to Frank Houston had gone before
he had repeated a word of his suit to Sir Thomas. But with Gertrude
every opportunity had been allowed him, and by the rest of the
family they had been regarded as though they were engaged. Mr
Traffick, who was now at Glenbogie, in accordance with the compact
made with him, did not at first approve of Frank Houston. He
had insinuated to Lady Tringle, and had said very plainly to
Augusta, that he regarded a young man, without any employment
and without any income, as being quite unfit to marry. "If he
had a seat in the House it would be quite a different thing,"
he had said to Augusta. But his wife had snubbed him; telling
him, almost in so many words, that if Gertrude was determined
to have her way in opposition to her father she certainly would
not be deterred by her brother-in-law. "It's nothing to me,"
Mr Traffick had then said; "the money won't come out of my pocket;
but when a man has nothing else to do he is sure to spend all
that he can lay his hands upon." After that, however, he withdrew
his opposition, and allowed it to be supposed that he was ready
to receive Frank Houston as his brother-in-law, should it be
so decided. 

The time was running by both with Houston, the expectant son-in-law,
and with Mr Traffick, who had achieved his position, and both
were aware that no grace would be allowed to them beyond that
which had been promised. Frank had fully considered the matter,
and was quite resolved that it would be unmanly in him to run
after his cousin Imogene, in the Tyrol, before he had performed
his business. One day, therefore, after having returned from
the daily allowance of slaughter, he contrived to find Sir Thomas
in the solitude of his own room, and again began to act the part
of Allan-a-Dale. "I thought, Mr Houston," said Sir Thomas, "that
we had settled that matter before." 

"Not quite," said Houston. 

"I don't know why you should say so. I intended to be understood
as expressing my mind." 

"But you have been good enough to ask me down here." 

"I may ask a man to my house, I suppose, without intending to
give him my daughter's hand." Then he again asked the important
question, to which Allan- a-Dale's answer was so unreasonable
and so successful. "Have you an income on which to maintain my
daughter?" 

"I cannot just say that I have, Sir Thomas," said Houston, apologetically.
"Then you mean to ask me to furnish you with an income." 

"You can do as you please about that, Sir Thomas." 

"You can hardly marry her without it." 

"Well; no; not altogether. No doubt it is true that I should
not have proposed myself had I not thought that the young lady
would have something of her own." 

"But she has nothing of her own," said Sir Thomas. And then that
interview was over. 

"You won't throw us over, Lady Tringle?" Houston said to Gertrude's
mother that evening. 

"Sir Thomas likes to have his own way," said Lady Tringle. 

"Somebody got round him about Septimus Traffick." 

"That was different," said Lady Tringle. "Mr Traffick is in Parliament,
and that gives him an employment. He is a son of Lord Boardotrade,
and some of these days he will be in office." 

"Of course, you know that if Gertrude sticks to it she will have
her own way. When a girl sticks to it her father has to give
way. What does it matter to him whether I have any business or
not? The money would be the same in one case as the other, only
it does seem such an unnecessary trouble to have it put off."
All this Lady Tringle seemed to take in good part, and half acknowledged
that if Frank Houston were constant in the matter he would succeed
at last. Gertrude, when the time for his departure had come,
expressed herself as thoroughly disgusted by her father's sternness.
"It's all bosh," she said to her lover. "Who is Lord Boardotrade
that that should make a difference? I have as much right to please
myself as Augusta." But there was the stern fact that the money
had not been promised, and even Frank had not proposed to marry
the girl of his heart without the concomitant thousands. 

Before he left Glenbogie, on the evening of his departure, he
wrote a second letter to Miss Docimer, as follows --  

DEAR COUSIN IM, 

Here I am at Glenbogie, and here I have been for a week, without
doing a stroke of work. The father still asks "of his house and
his home" and does not seem to be at all affected by my reference
to the romantic grandeur of my own peculiar residence. Perhaps
I may boast so far as to say that I have laughed on the lass
as successfully as did Allan-a-Dale. But what's the good of laughing
on a lass when one has got nothing to eat? Allan-a-Dale could
pick a pocket or cut a purse, accomplishments in which I am altogether
deficient. I suppose I shall succeed sooner or later, but when
I put my neck into the collar I had no idea that there would
be so much uphill work before me. It is all very well joking,
but it is not nice to be asked "of your house and your home"
by a gentleman who knows very well you've got none, and is conscious
of inhabiting three or four palaces himself. Such treatment must
be described as being decidedly vulgar. And then he must know
that it can be of no possible permanent use. The ladies are all
on my side, but I am told by Tringle mere that I am less acceptable
than old Traffick, who married the other girl, because I'm not
the son of Lord Boardotrade! Nothing astonishes me so much as
the bad taste of some people. Now, it must all be put off till
Christmas, and the cruel part is, that one doesn't see how I'm
to go on living. 

"In the meantime I have a little time in which to amuse myself,
and I shall turn up in about three weeks at Merle Park. I wish
chiefly to beg that you will not dissuade me from what I see
clearly to be a duty. I know exactly your line of argument. Following
a girl for her money is, you will say, mercenary. So, as far
as I can see, is every transaction in the world by which men
live. The judges, the bishops, the poets, the Royal academicians,
and the Prime Ministers, are all mercenary -- as is also the
man who breaks stones for 2s. 1d. a day. How shall a man live
without being mercenary unless he be born to fortune? Are not
girls always mercenary? Will she marry me knowing that I have
nothing? Will you not marry someone whom you will probably like
much less simply because he will have something for you to eat
and drink? Of course I am mercenary, and I don't even pretend
to old Tringle that I am not so. I feel a little tired of this
special effort -- but if I were to abandon it I should simply
have to begin again elsewhere. I have sighted my stag, and I
must go on following him, trying to get on the right side of
the wind till I bring him down. It is not nice, but it is to
me manifestly my duty -- and I shall do it. Therefore, do not
let there be any blowing up. I hate to be scolded. 

Yours always affectionately, 

F. H. 

Gertrude, when he was gone, did not take the matter quite so
quietly as he did, feeling that, as she had made up her mind,
and as all her world would know that she had made up her mind,
it behoved her to carry her purpose to its desired end. A girl
who is known to be engaged, but whose engagement is not allowed,
is always in a disagreeable plight. 

"Mamma," she said, "I think that papa is not treating me well."
"My dear, your papa has always had his own way." 

"That is all very well -- but why am I to be worse used than
Augusta? It turns out now that Mr Traffick has not got a shilling
of his own." 

"Your papa likes his being in Parliament." 

"All the girls can't marry Members of Parliament." 

"And he likes his being the son of Lord Boardotrade." 

"Lord Boardotrade! I call that very mean: Mr Houston is a gentleman,
and the Buncombe property has been for ever so many hundreds
of years in the family. I think more of Frank as to birth and
all that than I do of Lord Boardotrade and his mushroom peerage.
Can't you tell papa that I mean to marry Mr Houston at last,
and that he is making very little of me to let me be talked about
as I shall be?" 

"I don't think I can, Gertrude." 

"Then I shall. What would he say if I were to run away with Frank?"
"I don't think Frank Houston would do that." 

"He would if I told him -- in a moment." There Miss Tringle was
probably in error. "And unless papa consents I shall tell him.
I am not going to be made miserable for ever." 

This was at Glenbogie, in Inverness-shire, on the south-eastern
side of Loch Ness, where Sir Thomas Tringle possessed a beautiful
mansion, with a deer- forest, and a waterfall of his own, and
any amount of moors which the minds of sportsmen could conceive.
Nothing in Scotland could be more excellent, unless there might
be some truth in the remarks of those who said that the grouse
were scarce, and that the deer were almost nonexistent. On the
other side of the lake, four miles up from the gates, on the
edge of a ravine, down which rushed a little stream called the
Caller, was an inconvenient rickety cottage, built piecemeal
at two or three different times, called Drumcaller. From one
room you went into another, and from that into a third. To get
from the sitting-room, which was called the parlour, into another
which was called the den, you had to pass through the kitchen,
or else to make communication by a covered passage out of doors
which seemed to hang over the margin of the ravine. Pine trees
enveloped the place. Looking at the house from the outside anyone
would declare it to be wet through. It certainly could not with
truth be described as a comfortable family residence. But you
might, perhaps, travel through all Scotland without finding a
more beautifully romantic spot in which to reside. From that
passage, which seemed to totter suspended over the rocks, whence
the tumbling rushing waters could always be heard like music
close at hand, the view down over the little twisting river was
such as filled the mind with a conviction of realised poetry.
Behind the house across the little garden there was a high rock
where a little path had been formed, from which could be seen
the whole valley of the Caller and the broad shining expanse
of the lake beyond. Those who knew the cottage of Drumcaller
were apt to say that no man in Scotland had a more picturesque
abode, or one more inconvenient. Even bread had to be carried
up from Callerfoot, as was called the little village down on
the lake side, and other provisions, such even as meat, had to
be fetched twenty miles, from the town of Inverness. 

A few days after the departure of Houston from Glenbogie two
men were seated with pipes in their mouths on the landing outside
the room called the den to which the passage from the parlour
ran. Here a square platform had been constructed capable of containing
two armchairs, and here the owner of the cottage was accustomed
to sit, when he was disposed, as he called it, to loaf away his
time at Drumcaller. This man was Colonel Jonathan Stubbs, and
his companion at the present moment was Isadore Hamel. 

"I never knew them in Rome," said the Colonel. "I never even
saw Ayala there, though she was so much at my aunt's house. I
was in Sicily part of the time, and did not get back till they
had all quarrelled. I did know the nephew, who was a good-natured
but a vulgar young man. They are vulgar people, I should say."
"You could hardly have found Ayala vulgar?" asked Hamel. 

"Indeed, no. But uncles and aunts and nephews and nieces are
not at all bound to run together. Ayala is the daintiest little
darling I ever saw." 

"I knew their father and mother, and certainly no one would have
called them vulgar." 

"Sisters when they marry of course go off according to their
husbands, and the children follow. In this case one sister became
Tringlish after Sir Tringle, and the other Dormerish, after that
most improvident of human beings, your late friend the artist.
I don't suppose any amount of experience will teach Ayala how
many shillings there are in a pound. No doubt the Honourable
Mrs Traffick knows all about it." 

"I don't think a girl is much improved by knowing how many shillings
there are in a pound," said Hamel. 

"It is useful sometimes." 

"So it might be to kill a sheep and skin it, or to milk a cow
and make cheese; but here, as in other things, one acquirement
will drive out others. A woman, if she cannot be beautiful, should
at any rate be graceful, and if she cannot soar to poetry, should
at least be soft and unworldly." 

"That's all very well in its way, but I go in for roasting, baking,
and boiling. I can bake and I can brew;I can make an Irish stew;Wash
a shirt and iron it too.

That's the sort of girl I mean to go in for if ever I marry;
and when you've got six children and a small income it's apt
to turn out better than grace and poetry." 

"A little of both perhaps," said Hamel. 

"Well, yes; I don't mind a little Byron now and again, so there
is no nonsense. As to Glenbogie, it's right over there across
the lake. You can get a boat at Callerfoot, and a fellow to take
you across and wait for you won't cost you more than three half-crowns.
I suppose Glenbogie is as far from the lake on that side as my
cottage is on this. How you'll get up except by walking I cannot
say, unless you will write a note to Sir Thomas and ask him to
send a horse down for you." 

"Sir Thomas would not accommodate me." 

"You think he will frown if you come after his niece?" 

"I simply want to call on Miss Dormer", said Hamel, blushing,
"because her father was always kind to me." 

"I don't mean to ask any questions," said the Colonel. 

"It is just so as I say. I do not like being in the neighbourhood
without calling on Miss Dormer." 

"I daresay not." 

"But I doubt whether Sir Thomas or Lady Tringle would be at all
inclined to make me welcome. As to the distance, I can walk that
easily enough, and if the door is slammed in my face I can walk
back again." 

Thus it was resolved that early on the following morning after
breakfast Isadore Hamel should go across the lake and make his
way up to Glenbogie. 


CHAPTER 19
ISADORE HAMEL IS ASKED TO LUNCH

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 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 facade 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." 

"What!" 

"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."


CHAPTER 20
STUBBS UPON MATRIMONY

Before that evening was over -- or in the course of the night,
it might be better said, as the two men sat up late with their
pipes -- Hamel told his friend the Colonel exactly what had taken
place that morning over at Glenbogie. "You went for the purpose,
of course?" asked the Colonel. 

"For an off chance." 

"I know that well enough. I never heard of a man's walking twelve
miles to call upon a young lady merely because he knew her father;
and when there was to be a second call within a few weeks, the
first having not been taken in very good part by the young lady's
friends, my inquiring mind told me that there was something more
than old family friendship." 

"Your inquiring mind saw into the truth." 

"And now looks forward to further events. Can she bake and can
she brew?" 

"I do not doubt that she could if she tried." 

"And can she wash a shirt for a man? Don't suppose, my dear fellow,
that I intend to say that your wife will have to wash yours.
Washing a shirt, as read in the poem from which I am quoting,
is presumed to be simply emblematic of household duties in general."
"I take all you say in good part -- as coming from a friend."
"I regard matrimony", said the Colonel, "as being altogether
the happiest state of life for a man -- unless to be engaged
to some lovely creature, in whom one can have perfect confidence,
may be a thought happier. One can enjoy all the ecstatic mental
reflection, all the delights of conceit which come from being
loved, that feeling of superiority to all the world around which
illumines the bosom of the favoured lover, without having to
put one's hand into one's pocket, or having one's pipe put out
either morally or physically. The next to this is matrimony itself,
which is the only remedy for that consciousness of disreputable
debauchery, a savour of which always clings, more or less strongly,
to unmarried men in our rank of life. The chimes must be heard
at midnight, let a young man be ever so well given to the proprieties,
and he must have just a touch of the swingebuckler about him,
or he will seem to himself to be deficient in virility. There
is no getting out of it until a man marry. But then -- " 

"Well; then?" 

"Do you know the man whose long-preserved hat is always brushed
carefully, whose coat is the pattern of neatness, but still a
little threadbare when you look at it -- in the colour of whose
cheek there is still some touch of juvenility, but whose step
is ever heavy and whose brow is always sad? The seriousness of
life has pressed the smiles out of him. He has learned hardly
to want anything for himself but outward decency and the common
necessaries of life. Such little personal indulgences as are
common to you and to me are as strange to him as ortolans or
diamonds." 

"I do not think I do know him." 

"I do -- well. I have seen him in the regiment, I have met him
on the steps of a public office, I have watched him as he entered
his parsonage house. You shall find him coming out of a lawyer's
office, where he has sat for the last nine hours, having supported
nature with two penny biscuits. He has always those few thin
hairs over his forehead, he has always that well-brushed hat,
he has always that load of care on his brow. He is generally
thinking whether he shall endeavour to extend his credit with
the butcher, or resolve that the supply of meat may be again
curtailed without injury to the health of his five daughters."
"That is an ugly picture." 

"But is it true?" 

"In some cases, of course, it is." 

"And yet not ugly all round," said the meditative Colonel, who
had just replenished his pipe. "There are, on the other side,
the five daughters, and the partner of this load of cares. He
knows it is well to have the five daughters, rather than to live
with plenty of beef and mutton -- even with the ortolans if you
will -- and with no one to care whether his body may be racked
in this world or his spirit in the next. I do not say whether
the balance of good or evil be on one side or the other; but
when a man is going to do a thing he should know what it is he
is going to do." 

"The reading of all this," said Hamel, "is, that if I succeed
in marrying Miss Dormer I must have thin locks, and a bad hat,
and a butcher's bill." 

"Other men do." 

"Some, instead, have balances at their bankers, and die worth
thirty, forty, or fifty thousand pounds, to the great consolation
of the five daughters." 

"Or a hundred thousand pounds! There is, of course, no end to
the amount of thousands which a successful professional man may
accumulate. You may be the man; but the question is, whether
you should not have reasonable ground to suppose yourself the
man, before you encumber yourself with the five daughters." 

"It seems to me," said Hamel, "that the need of such assurance
is cowardly." 

"That is just the question which I am always debating with myself.
I also want to rid myself of that swingebuckler flavour. I feel
that for me, like Adam, it is not good that I should be alone.
I would fain ask the first girl, that I could love well enough
to wish to make myself one with her, to be my wife, regardless
of hats, butchers, and daughters. It is a plucky and a fine thing
for a man to feel that he can make his back broad enough for
all burdens. But yet what is the good of thinking that you can
carry a sack of wheat when you are sure that you have not, in
truth, strength to raise it from the ground?" 

"Strength will come," said Hamel. 

"Yes, and the bad hat. And, worse than the bad hat, the soiled
gown; and perhaps with the soiled gown the altered heart -- and
perhaps with the altered heart an absence of all that tenderness
which it is a woman's special right to expect from a man." 

"I should have thought you would have been the last to be so
self-diffident." 

"To be so thoughtful, you mean," said the Colonel. "I am unattached
now, and having had no special duty for the last three months
I have given myself over to thinking in a nasty morbid manner.
It comes, I daresay, partly from tobacco. But there is comfort
in this -- that no such reflections falling out of one man's
mouth ever had the slightest effect in influencing another man's
conduct." 

Hamel had told his friend with great triumph of his engagement
with Lucy Dormer, but the friend did not return the confidence
by informing the sculptor that during the whole of this conversation,
and for many days previous to it, his mind had been concerned
with the image of Lucy's sister. He was aware that Ayala had
been, as it were, turned out from her rich uncle's house, and
given over to the comparative poverty of Kingsbury Crescent.
He himself, at the present moment, was possessed of what might
be considered a comfortable income for a bachelor. He had been
accustomed to live almost more than comfortably; but, having
so lived, was aware of himself that he had not adapted himself
for straitened circumstances. In spite of that advice of his
as to the brewing, baking, and washing capabilities of a female
candidate for marriage, he knew himself well enough to be aware
that a wife red with a face from a kitchen fire would be distasteful
to him. He had often told himself that to look for a woman with
money would be still more distasteful. Therefore he had thought
that for the present, at least, it would be well for him to remain
as he was. But now he had come across Ayala, and though in the
pursuance of his philosophy he had assured himself that Ayala
should be nothing to him, still he found himself so often reverting
to this resolution that Ayala, instead of being nothing, was
very much indeed to him. 

Three days after this Hamel was preparing himself for his departure
immediately after breakfast. "What a beast you are to go", said
the Colonel, "when there can be no possible reason for your going."
"The five daughters and the bad hat make it necessary that a
fellow should do a little work sometimes." 

"Why can't you make your images down here?" 

"With you for a model, and mud out of the Caller for clay." 

"I shouldn't have the slightest objection. In your art you cannot
perpetuate the atrocity of my colour, as the fellow did who painted
my portrait last winter. If you will go, go, and make busts at
unheard-of prices, so that the five daughters may live for ever
on the fat of the land. Can I do any good for you by going over
to Glenbogie?" 

"If you could snub that Mr Traffick, who is of all men the most
atrocious." 

"The power doesn't exist," said the Colonel, "which could snub
the Honourable Septimus. That man is possessed of a strength
which I thoroughly envy -- which is perhaps more enviable than
any other gift the gods can give. Words cannot penetrate that
skin of his. Satire flows off him like water from a duck. Ridicule
does not touch him. The fellest abuse does not succeed in inflicting
the slightest wound. He has learnt the great secret that a man
cannot be cut who will not be cut. As it is worth no man's while
to protract an enmity with such a one as he, he suffers from
no prolonged enmities. He walks unassailable by any darts, and
is, I should say, the happiest man in London." 

"Then I fear you can do nothing for me at Glenbogie. To mollify
Aunt Emmeline would, I fear, be beyond your power. Sir Thomas,
as far as I can see, does not require much mollifying." 

"Sir Thomas might give the young woman a thousand or two." 

"That is not the way in which I desire to keep a good hat on
my head," said Hamel, as he seated himself in the little carriage
which was to take him down to Callerfoot. 

The Colonel remained at Drumcaller till the end of September,
when his presence was required at Aldershot, during which time
he shot a good deal, in obedience to the good-natured behests
of Lord Glentower, and in spite of the up-turned nose of Mr Traffick.
He read much, and smoked much, so that as to the passing of his
time there was not need to pity him, and he consumed a portion
of his spare hours in a correspondence with his aunt, the Marchesa,
and with his cousin Nina. One of his letters from each shall
be given, and also one of the letters written to each in reply.
Nina to her cousin the Colonel

MY DEAR JONATHAN, 

Lady Albury says that you ought to be here, and so you ought.
It is ever so nice. There is a Mr Ponsonby here, and he and I
can beat any other couple at lawn tennis. There is an awning
over the ground which is such a lounge. Playing lawn tennis with
a parasol as those Melcombe girls did is stupid. They were here,
but have gone. One I am quite sure was over head and ears in
love with Mr Ponsonby. These sort of things are always all on
one side, you know. He isn't very much of a man, but he does
play lawn tennis divinely. Take it altogether, I don't think
there is anything out to beat lawn tennis. I don't know about
hunting -- and I don't suppose I ever shall. 

We tried to have Ayala here, but I fear it will not come off.
Lady Albury was good-natured, but at last she did not quite like
writing to Mrs Dosett. So mamma wrote but the lady's answer was
very stiff. She thought it better for Ayala to remain among her
own friends. Poor Ayala! It is clear that a knight will be wanted
to go in armour, and get her out of prison. I will leave it to
you to say who must be the knight. 

I hope you will come for a day or two before you go to Aldershot.
We stay till the 1st of October. You will be a beast if you don't.
Lady Albury says she never means to ask you again. "Oh, Stubbs!"
said Sir Harry; "Stubbs is one of those fellows who never come
if they're asked." Of course we all sat upon him. Then he declared
that you were the dearest friend he had in the world, but that
he never dared to dream that you would ever come to Stalham again.
Perhaps if we can hit it off at last with Ayala, then you would
come. Mamma means to try again. 

Your affectionate cousin, 

NINA

The Marchesa Baldoni to her nephew, Colonel Stubbs

MY DEAR JONATHAN, 

I did my best for my protegee, but I am afraid it will not succeed.
Her aunt Mrs Dosett seems to think that, as Ayala is fated to
live with her, Ayala had better take her fate as she finds it.
The meaning of that is, that if a girl is doomed to have a dull
life she had better not begin it with a little pleasure. There
is a good deal to be said for the argument, but if I were the
girl I should like to begin with the pleasure and take my chance
for the reaction. I should perhaps be vain enough to think that
during the preliminary course I might solve all the difficulty
by my beaux yeux. I saw Mrs Dosett once, and now I have had a
letter from her. Upon the whole, I am inclined to pity poor Ayala.
We are very happy here. The Marchese has gone to Como to look
after some property he has there. Do not be ill-natured enough
to say that the two things go together -- but in truth he is
never comfortable out of Italy. He had a slice of red meat put
before him the other day, and that decided him to start at once.
On the first of October we go back to London, and shall remain
till the end of November. They have asked Nina to come again
in November in order that she may see a hunt. I know that means
that she will try to jump over something, and have her leg broken.
You must be here and not allow it. If she does come here I shall
perhaps go down to Brighton for a fortnight. 

Yes -- I do think Ayala Dormer is a very pretty girl, and I do
think, also, that she is clever. I quite agree that she is ladylike.
But I do not therefore think that she is just such a girl as
such a man as Colonel Jonathan Stubbs ought to marry. She is
one of those human beings who seem to have been removed out of
this world and brought up in another. Though she knows ever so
much that nobody else knows, she is ignorant of ever so much
that everybody ought to know. Wandering through a grove, or seated
by a brook, or shivering with you on the top of a mountain, she
would be charming. I doubt whether she would be equally good
at the top of your table, or looking after your children, or
keeping the week's accounts. She would tease you with poetry,
and not even pretend to be instructed when you told her how an
army ought to be moved. I say nothing as to the fact that she
hasn't got a penny, though you are just in that position which
makes it necessary for a man to get some money with his wife.
I therefore am altogether indisposed to any matrimonial outlook
in that direction. 

Your affectionate aunt, 

BEATRICE BALDONI

Colonel Stubbs to his cousin Nina

DEAR NINA, 

Lady Albury is wrong; I ought not to be at Stalham. What should
I do at Stalham at this time of year, who never shoot partridges,
and what would be the use of attempting lawn tennis when I know
I should be cut out by Mr Ponsonby? If that day in November is
to come off then I'll come and coach you across the country.
You tell Sir Harry that I say so, and that I will bring three
horses for one week. I think it very hard about poor Ayala Dormer,
but what can any knight do in such a case? When a young lady
is handed over to the custody of an uncle or an aunt, she becomes
that uncle's and aunt's individual property. Mrs Dosett may be
the most noxious dragon that ever was created for the mortification
and general misery of an imprisoned damsel, but still she is
omnipotent. The only knight who can be of any service is one
who will go with a ring in his hand, and absolutely carry the
prisoner away by force of the marriage service. Your unfortunate
cousin is so exclusively devoted to the duty of fighting his
country's battles that he has not even time to think of a step
so momentous as that. 

Poor Ayala! Do not be stupid enough to accuse me of pitying her
because I cannot be the knight to release her; but I cannot but
think how happy she would be at Stalham, struggling to beat you,
and Mr Ponsonby at lawn tennis, and then risking a cropper when
the happy days of November should come round. 

Your loving cousin, 

J. S. 

Colonel Stubbs to the Marchesa Baldoni

MY DEAR AUNT, 

Your letter is worthy of the Queen of Sheba, if, as was no doubt
the case, she corresponded with King Solomon. As for Ayala's
fate, if it be her fate to live with Mrs Dosett, she can only
submit to it. You cannot carry her over to Italy, nor would the
Marchese allow her to divide his Italian good things with Nina.
Poor little bird! She had her chance of living amidst diamonds
and bank-notes, with the Tringle millionaires, but threw it away
after some fashion that I do not understand. No doubt she was
a fool, but I cannot but like her the better for it. I hardly
think that a fortnight at Stalham, with all Sir Harry's luxuries
around her, would do her much service. 

As for myself and the top of my table, and the future companion
who is to be doomed to listen to my military lucubrations, I
am altogether inclined to agree with you, seeing that you write
in a pure spirit of worldly good sense. No doubt the Queen of
Sheba gave advice of the same sort to King Solomon. I never knew
a woman to speak confidentially of matrimony otherwise than as
a matter of pounds, shillings, and pence. In counsels so given,
no word of love has ever been known to creep in. Why should it,
seeing that love cannot put a leg of mutton into the pot? Don't
imagine that I say this in a spirit either of censure or satire.
Your ideas are my own, and should I ever marry I shall do so
in strict accordance with your tenets, thinking altogether of
the weekly accounts, and determined to eschew any sitting by
the sides of brooks. 

I have told Nina about my plans. I will be at Stalham in November
to see that she does not break her neck. 

Yours always, 

J. S. 


CHAPTER 21
AYALAXR'S INDIGNATION

Perhaps Mrs Dosett had some just cause for refusing her sanction
for the proposed visit to Albury. If Fate did require that Ayala
should live permanently in Kingsbury Crescent, the gaiety of
a very gay house, and the wealth of a very wealthy house, would
hardly be good preparation for such a life. Up to the time of
her going to the Marchesa in Brook Street, Ayala had certainly
done her best to suit herself to her aunt's manners -- though
she had done it with pain and suffering. She had hemmed the towels
and mended the sheets and had made the rounds to the shops. She
had endeavoured to attend to the pounds of meat and to sympathise
with her aunt in the interest taken in the relics of the joints
as they escaped from the hungry treatment of the two maidens
in the kitchen. Ayala had been clever enough to understand that
her aunt had been wounded by Lucy's indifference, not so much
because she had desired to avail herself of Lucy's labours as
from a feeling that that indifference had seemed to declare that
her own pursuits were mean and vulgar. Understanding this she
had struggled to make those pursuits her own -- and had in part
succeeded. Her aunt could talk to her about the butter and the
washing, matters as to which her lips had been closed in any
conversation with Lucy. That Ayala was struggling Mrs Dosett
had been aware -- but she had thought that such struggles were
good and had not been hopeless. Then came the visit to Brook
Street, and Ayala returned quite an altered young woman. It seemed
as though she neither could nor would struggle any longer. "I
hate mutton bones," she said to her aunt one morning soon after
her return. 

"No doubt we would all like meat joints the best," said her aunt,
frowning. 

"I hate joints too." 

"You have, I dare say, been cockered up at the Marchesa's with
made dishes." 

"I hate dishes," said Ayala, petulantly. 

"You don't hate eating?" 

"Yes, I do. It is ignoble. Nature should have managed it differently.
We ought to have sucked it in from the atmosphere through our
fingers and hairs, as the trees do by their leaves. There should
have been no butchers, and no grease, and no nasty smells from
the kitchen -- and no gin." 

This was worse than all -- this allusion to the mild but unfashionable
stimulant to which Mr Dosett had been reduced by his good nature.
"You are flying in the face of the Creator, Miss," said Aunt
Margaret, in her most angry voice -- "in the face of the Creator
who made everything, and ordained what His creatures should eat
and drink by His infinite wisdom." 

"Nevertheless," said Ayala, "I think we might have done without
boiled mutton." Then she turned to some articles of domestic
needlework which were in her lap so as to show that in spite
of the wickedness of her opinions she did not mean to be idle.
But Mrs Dosett, in her wrath, snatched the work from her niece's
hands and carried it out of the room, thus declaring that not
even a pillowcase in her house should owe a stitch to the hands
of a girl so ungrateful and so blasphemous. 

The wrath wore off soon. Ayala, though not contrite was meek,
and walked home with her aunt on the following morning, patiently
carrying a pound of butter, six eggs, and a small lump of bacon
in a basket. After that the pillowcase was recommitted to her.
But there still was left evidence enough that the girl's mind
had been upset by the luxuries of Brook Street -- evidence to
which Aunt Margaret paid very much attention, insisting upon
it in her colloquies with her husband. "I think that a little
amusement is good for young people," said Uncle Reginald, weakly.
"And for old people too. No doubt about it, if they can get it
so as not to do them any harm at the same time. Nothing can be
good for a young woman which unfits her for that state of life
to which it has pleased God to call her. Ayala has to live with
us. No doubt there was a struggle when she first came from your
sister, Lady Tringle, but she made it gallantly, and I gave her
great credit. She was just falling into a quiet mode of life
when there came this invitation from the Marchesa Baldoni. Now
she has come back quite an altered person, and the struggle has
to be made all over again." Uncle Reginald again expressed his
opinion that young people ought to have a little amusement, but
he was not strong enough to insist very much upon his theory.
It certainly, however, was true that Ayala, though she still
struggled, had been very much disturbed by the visit. 

Then came the invitation to Stalham. There was a very pretty
note from Lady Albury to Ayala herself, saying how much pleasure
she would have in seeing Miss Dormer at her house, where Ayala's
old friends the Marchesa and Nina were then staying. This was
accompanied by a long letter from Nina herself, in which all
the charms of Stalham, including Mr Ponsonby and lawn tennis,
were set forth at full length. Ayala had already heard much about
Stalham and the Alburys from her friend Nina, who had hinted
in a whisper that such an invitation as this might perhaps be
forthcoming. She was ready enough for the visit, having looked
through her wardrobe, and resolved that things which had been
good enough for Brook Street would still be good enough for Stalham.
But the same post had brought a letter for Mrs Dosett, and Ayala
could see, that, as the letter was read, a frown came upon her
aunt's brow, and that the look on her aunt's face was decidedly
averse to Stalham. This took place soon after breakfast, when
Uncle Reginald had just started for his office, and neither of
them for a while said a word to the other of the letter that
had been received. It was not till after lunch that Ayala spoke.
"Aunt," she said, "you have had a letter from Lady Albury?" 

"Yes," said Mrs Dosett, grimly, "I have had a letter from Lady
Albury." 

Then there was another silence, till Ayala, whose mind was full
of promised delights, could not refrain herself longer. "Aunt
Margaret," she said, "I hope you mean to let me go." For a minute
or two there was no reply, and Ayala again pressed her question.
"Lady Albury wants me to go to Stalham." 

"She has written to me to say that she would receive you." 

"And I may go?" 

"I am strongly of opinion that you had better not," said Mrs
Dosett, confirming her decree by a nod which might have suited
Jupiter. 

"Oh, Aunt Margaret, why not?" 

"I think it would be most prudent to decline." 

"But why -- why -- why, Aunt Margaret?" 

"There must be expense." 

"I have money enough for the journey left of my own from what
Uncle Tom gave me," said Ayala, pleading her cause with all her
eloquence. 

"It is not only the money. There are other reasons -- very strong
reasons." 

"What reasons, Aunt Margaret?" 

"My dear, it is your lot to have to live with us, and not with
such people as the Marchesa Baldoni and Lady Albury." 

"I am sure I do not complain." 

"But you would complain after having for a time been used to
the luxuries of Albury Park. I do not say that as finding fault,
Ayala. It is human nature that it should be so." 

"But I won't complain. Have I ever complained?" 

"Yes, my dear. You told me the other day that you did not like
bones of mutton, and you were disgusted because things were greasy.
I do not say this by way of scolding you, Ayala, but only that
you may understand what must be the effect of your going from
such a house as this to such a house as Stalham, and then returning
back from Stalham to such a house as this. You had better be
contented with your position." 

"I am contented with my position," sobbed Ayala. 

"And allow me to write to Lady Albury refusing the invitation."
But Ayala could not be brought to look at the matter with her
aunt's eyes. When her aunt pressed her for an answer which should
convey her consent she would give none, and at last left the
room bitterly sobbing. Turning the matter over in her own bosom
upstairs she determined to be mutinous. No doubt she owed a certain
amount of obedience to her aunt; but had she not been obedient,
had she not worked hard and lugged about that basket of provisions,
and endeavoured to take an interest in all her aunt's concerns?
Was she so absolutely the property of her aunt that she was bound
to do everything her aunt desired to the utter annihilation of
all her hopes, to the extermination of her promised joys? She
felt that she had succeeded in Brook Street. She had met no Angel
of Light, but she was associated with people whom she had liked,
and had been talked to by those to whom it had been a pleasure
to listen. That colonel with the quaint name and the ugly face
was still present to her memory as he had leaned over her shoulder
at the theatre, making her now laugh by his drollery, and now
filling her mind with interest by his description of the scenes
which she was seeing. She was sure that all this, or something
of the same nature, would be renewed for her delight at Stalham.
And was she to be robbed of this -- the only pleasure which seemed
to regain to her in this world -- merely because her aunt chose
to entertain severe notions as to duty and pleasure? Other girls
went out when they were asked. At Rome, when that question of
the dance at the Marchesa's had been discussed, she had had her
own way in opposition to her Aunt Emmeline and her cousin Augusta.
No doubt she had, in consequence partly of her conduct on that
occasion, been turned out of her Uncle Tom's house; but of that
she did not think at the present moment. She would be mutinous,
and would appeal to her Uncle Reginald for assistance. 

But the letter which contained the real invitation had been addressed
to her aunt, and her aunt could in truth answer it as she pleased.
The answer might at this moment be in the act of being written,
and should it be averse Ayala knew very well that she could not
go in opposition to it. And yet her aunt came to her in the afternoon
consulting her again, quite unconquered as to her own opinion,
but still evidently unwilling to write the fatal letter without
Ayala's permission. Then Ayala assured herself that she had rights
of her own, which her aunt did not care to contravene. "I think
I ought to be allowed to go," she said, when her aunt came to
her during the afternoon. 

"When I think it will be bad for you?" 

"It won't be bad. They are very good people. I think that I ought
to be allowed to go." 

"Have you no reliance on those who are your natural guardians?"
"Uncle Reginald is my natural guardian," said Ayala, through
her tears. 

"Very well! If you refuse to be guided by me as though I were
not your aunt, and as you will pay no attention to what I tell
you is proper for you and best, the question must be left till
your uncle comes home. I cannot but be very much hurt that you
should think so little of me. I have always endeavoured to do
the best I could for you, just as though I were your mother."
"I think that I ought to be allowed to go," repeated Ayala. 

As the first consequence of this, the replies to all the three
letters were delayed for the next day's post. Ayala had considered
much with what pretty words she might best answer Lady Albury's
kind note, and she had settled upon a form of words which she
had felt to be very pretty. Unless her uncle would support her,
that would be of no avail, and another form must be chosen. To
Nina she would tell the whole truth, either how full of joy she
was -- or else how cruelly used and how thoroughly broken-hearted.
But she could not think that her uncle would be unkind to her.
Her uncle had been uniformly gentle. Her uncle, when he should
know how much her heart was set upon it, would surely let her
go. 

The poor girl, when she tacitly agreed that her uncle should
be the arbiter in the matter, thus pledging herself to abide
by her uncle's decision, let it be what it might, did not think
what great advantage her aunt would have over her in that discussion
which would be held upstairs while the master of the house was
washing his hands before dinner. Nor did she know of how much
stronger will was her Aunt Margaret than her Uncle Reginald.
While he was washing his hands and putting on his slippers, the
matter was settled in a manner quite destructive of poor Ayala's
hopes. "I won't have it," said Mrs Dosett, in reply to the old
argument that young people ought to have some amusement. "If
I am to be responsible for the girl I must be allowed my own
way with her. It is trouble enough, and very little thanks I
get for it. Of course she hates me. Nevertheless, I can endeavour
to do my duty, and I will. It is not thanks, nor love, nor even
gratitude, that I look for. I am bound to do the best I can by
her because she is your niece, and because she has no other real
friends. I knew what would come of it when she went to that house
in Brook Street. I was soft then and gave way. The girl has moped
about like a miserable creature ever since. If I am not to have
my own way now I will have done with her altogether." Having
heard this very powerful speech, Uncle Reginald was obliged to
give way, and it was settled that after dinner he should convey
to Ayala the decision to which they had come. 

Ayala, as she sat at the dinner-table, was all expectation, but
she asked no question. She asked no question after dinner, while
her uncle slowly, solemnly, and sadly sipped his one beaker of
cold gin and water. He sipped it very slowly, no doubt because
he was anxious to postpone the evil moment in which he must communicate
her fate to his niece. But at last the melancholy glass was drained,
and then, according to the custom of the family, Mrs Dosett led
the way up into the drawing-room, followed by Ayala and her husband.
He, when he was on the stairs, and when the eyes of his wife
were not upon him, tremulously put out his hand and laid it on
Ayala's shoulder, as though to embrace her. The poor girl knew
well that mark of affection. There would have been no need for
such embracing had the offered joys of Stalham been in store
for her. The tears were already in her eyes when she seated herself
in the drawing-room, as far removed as possible from the armchair
which was occupied by her aunt. 

Then her uncle pronounced his judgment in a vacillating voice
-- with a vacillation which was ineffectual of any good to Ayala.
"Ayala," he said, "your aunt and I have been talking over this
invitation to Stalham, and we are of opinion, my dear, that you
had better not accept it." 

"Why not, Uncle Reginald?" 

"There would be expense." 

"I can pay for my own ticket." 

"There would be many expenses, which I need not explain to you
more fully. The truth is, my dear, that poor people cannot afford
to live with rich people, and had better not attempt it." 

"I don't want to live with them." 

"Visiting them is living with them for a time. I am sorry, Ayala,
that we are not able to put you in a position in which you might
enjoy more of the pleasures incidental to your age; but you must
take the things as they are. Looking at the matter all round,
I am sure that your aunt is right in advising that you should
stay at home." 

"It isn't advice at all," said Ayala. 

"Ayala!" exclaimed her aunt, in a tone of indignation. 

"It isn't advice," repeated Ayala. "Of course, if you won't let
me go, I can't." 

"You are a very wicked girl," said Mrs Dosett, "to speak to your
uncle like that, after all that he has done for you." 

"Not wicked," said the uncle. 

"I say, wicked. But it doesn't matter. I shall at once write
to Lady Albury, as you desire, and of course there will be no
further question as to her going." Soon after that Mrs Dosett
sat down to her desk, and wrote that letter to which the Marchesa
had alluded in hers to her nephew. No doubt it was stern and
hard, and of a nature to make such a woman as the Marchesa feel
that Mrs Dosett would not be a pleasant companion for a girl
like Ayala. But it was written with a full conviction that duty
required it; and the words, though hard and stiff, had been chosen
with the purpose of showing that the doing of this disagreeable
duty had been felt to be imperative. 

When the matter had been thus decided, Ayala soon retreated to
her own room. Her very soul was burning with indignation at the
tyranny to which she thought herself subjected. The use of that
weak word, advice, had angered her more than anything. It had
not been advice. It had not been given as advice. A command had
been laid upon her, a most cruel and unjust command, which she
was forced to obey, because she lacked the power of escaping
from her condition of slavery. Advice, indeed! Advice is a thing
with which the advised one may or may not comply, as that advised
one may choose. A slave must obey an order! Her own papa and
her own mamma had always advised her, and the advice had always
been followed, even when read only in the glance of an eye, in
a smile, or a nod. Then she had known what it was to be advised.
Now she was ordered -- as slaves are ordered; and there was no
escape from her slavery! 

She, too, must write her letter, but there was no need now of
that pretty studied phrase, in which she had hoped to thank Lady
Albury fitly for her great kindness. She found, after a vain
attempt or two, that it was hopeless to endeavour to write to
Lady Albury. The words would not come to her pen. But she did
write to Nina: 

DEAR, DEAREST NINA, 

They won't let me go! Oh, my darling, I am so miserable! Why
should they not let me go, when people are so kind, so very kind,
as Lady Albury and your dear mamma? I feel as though I should
like to run from the house, and never come back, even though
I had to die in the streets. I was so happy when I got your letter
and Lady Albury's, and now I am so wretched! I cannot write to
Lady Albury. You must just tell her, with many thanks from me,
that they will not let me go! 

Your unhappy but affectionate friend, 

AYALA


CHAPTER 22
AYALA'S GRATITUDE

There was much pity felt for Ayala among the folk at Stalham.
The sympathies of them all should have been with Mrs Dosett.
They ought to have felt that the poor aunt was simply performing
an unpleasant duty, and that the girl was impracticable if not
disobedient. But Ayala was known to be very pretty, and Mrs Dosett
was supposed to be plain. Ayala was interesting, while Mrs Dosett,
from the nature of her circumstances, was most uninteresting.
It was agreed on all sides, at Stalham, that so pretty a bird
as Ayala should not be imprisoned for ever in so ugly a cage.
Such a bird ought, at least, to be allowed its chance of captivating
some fitting mate by its song and its plumage. That was Lady
Albury's argument -- a woman very good-natured, a little given
to matchmaking, a great friend to pretty girls -- and whose eldest
son was as yet only nine, so that there could be no danger to
herself or her own flock. There was much ridicule thrown on Mrs
Dosett at Stalham, and many pretty things said of the bird who
was so unworthily imprisoned in Kingsbury Crescent. At last there
was something like a conspiracy, the purport of which was to
get the bird out of its cage in November. 

In this conspiracy it can hardly be said that the Marchesa took
an active part. Much as she liked Ayala, she was less prone than
Lady Albury to think that the girl was ill-used. She was more
keenly alive than her cousin -- or rather her cousin's wife --
to the hard necessities of the world. Ayala must be said to have
made her own bed. At any rate there was the bed and she must
lie on it. It was not the Dosetts' fault that they were poor.
According to their means they were doing the best they could
for their niece, and were entitled to praise rather than abuse.
And then the Marchesa was afraid for her nephew. Colonel Stubbs,
in his letter to her, had declared that he quite agreed with
her views as to matrimony; but she was quite alive to her nephew's
sarcasm. Her nephew, though he might in truth agree with her,
nevertheless was sarcastic. Though he was sarcastic, still he
might be made to accede to her views, because he did, in truth,
agree with her. She was eminently an intelligent woman, seeing
far into character, and she knew pretty well the real condition
of her nephew's mind, and could foresee his conduct. He would
marry before long, and might not improbably marry a girl with
some money if one could be made to come in his way, who would
at the same time suit his somewhat fastidious taste. But Ayala
suited his taste, Ayala who had not a shilling, and the Marchesa
thought it only too likely that if Ayala were released from her
cage, and brought to Albury, Ayala might become Mrs Jonathan
Stubbs. That Ayala should refuse to become Mrs Jonathan Stubbs
did not present itself as a possibility to the Marchesa. 

So the matters were when the Marchesa and Nina returned from
Stalham to London, a promise having been given that Nina should
go back to Stalham in November, and be allowed to see the glories
of a hunt. She was not to ride to hounds. That was a matter of
course, but she was to be permitted to see what a pack of hounds
was like, and of what like were the men in their scarlet coats,
and how the huntsman's horn would sound when it should be heard
among the woods and fields. It was already decided that the Colonel
should be there to meet her, and the conspiracy was formed with
the object of getting Ayala out of her cage at the same time.
Stalham was a handsome country seat, in the county of Rufford,
and Sir Harry Albury had lately taken upon himself the duties
of Master of the Rufford and Ufford United Pack. Colonel Stubbs
was to be there with his horses in November, but had, in the
meantime, been seen by Lady Albury, and had been instigated to
do something for the release of Ayala. But what could he do?
It was at first suggested that he should call at Kingsbury Crescent,
and endeavour to mollify the stony heart of Aunt Dosett. But,
as he had said himself, he would be the worst person in the world
to perform such an embassy. "I am not an Adonis, I know," he
said, "nor do I look like a Lothario, but still I am in some
sort a young man, and therefore certain to be regarded as pernicious,
as dangerous and damnable, by such a dragon of virtue as Aunt
Dosett. I don't see how I could expect to have a chance." This
interview took place in London during the latter end of October,
and it was at last decided that the mission should be made by
Lady Albury herself, and made, not to Mrs Dosett, at Kingsbury
Crescent, but to Mr Dosett at his office in Somerset House. "I
don't think I could stand Mrs D.," said Lady Albury. 

Lady Albury was a handsome, fashionable woman, rather tall, always
excellently dressed, and possessed of a personal assurance which
nothing could daunt. She had the reputation of an affectionate
wife and a good mother, but was nevertheless declared by some
of her friends to be "a little fast". She certainly was fond
of comedy -- those who did not like her were apt to say that
her comedy was only fun -- and was much disposed to have her
own way when she could get it. She was now bent upon liberating
Ayala from her cage, and for this purpose had herself driven
into the huge court belonging to Somerset House. 

Mr Dosett was dignified at his office with the use of a room
to himself, a small room looking out upon the river, in which
he spent six hours on six days of the week in arranging the indexes
of a voluminous library of manuscript letter-books. It was rarely
indeed that he was disturbed by the presence of any visitor.
When, therefore, his door was opened by one of the messengers,
and he was informed that Lady Albury desired to see him, he was
for the moment a good deal disturbed. No option, however, was
given to him as to refusing admission to Lady Albury. She was
in the room before the messenger had completed his announcement,
and had seated herself in one of the two spare chairs which the
room afforded as soon as the door was closed. "Mr Dosett," she
said, "I have taken the great liberty of calling to say a few
words about your niece, Miss Ayala Dormer." 

When the lady was first announced, Mr Dosett, in his confusion,
had failed to connect the name which he had heard with that of
the lady who had invited Ayala to her house. But now he recognised
it, and knew who it was that had come to him. "You were kind
enough", he said, "to invite my little girl to your house some
weeks ago." 

"And now I have come to invite her again." 

Mr Dosett was now more disturbed than ever. With what words was
he to refuse the request which this kind but very grand lady
was about to make? How could he explain to her all those details
as to his own poverty, and as to Ayala's fate in having to share
that poverty with him? How could he explain the unfitness of
Ayala's temporary sojourn with people so wealthy and luxurious?
And yet were he to yield in the least how could he face his wife
on his return home to the Crescent? "You are very kind, Lady
Albury," he said. 

"We particularly wish to have her about the end of the first
week in November," said the lady. "Her friend Nina Baldoni will
be there, and one or two others whom she knows. We shall try
to be a little gay for a week or two." 

"I have no doubt it would be gay, and we at home are very dull."
"Do you not think a little gaiety good for young people?" said
her ladyship, using the very argument which poor Mr Dosett had
so often attempted to employ on Ayala's behalf. 

"Yes; a little gaiety," he said, as though deprecating the excessive
amount of hilarity which he imagined to prevail at Stalham. 

"Of course you do," said Lady Albury. "Poor little girl! I have
heard so much about her, and of all your goodness to her. Mrs
Dosett, I know, is another mother to her; but still a little
country air could not but be beneficial. Do say that she shall
come to us, Mr Dosett." 

Then Mr Dosett felt that, disagreeable as it was, he must preach
the sermon which his wife had preached to him, and he did preach
it. He spoke timidly of his own poverty, and the need which there
was that Ayala should share it. He spoke a word of the danger
which might come from luxury, and of the discontent which would
be felt when the girl returned to her own home. Something he
added of the propriety of like living with like, and ended by
praying that Ayala might be excused. The words came from him
with none of that energy which his wife would have used -- were
uttered in a low melancholy drone; but still they were words
hard to answer, and called upon Lady Albury for all her ingenuity
in finding an argument against them. 

But Lady Albury was strong-minded, and did find an argument.
"You mustn't be angry with me," she said, "if I don't quite agree
with you. Of course you wish to do the best you can for this
dear child." 

"Indeed I do, Lady Albury." 

"How is anything then to be done for her if she remains shut
up in your house? You do not, if I understand, see much company
yourselves." 

"None at all." 

"You won't be angry with me for my impertinence in alluding to
it." 

"Not in the least. It is the fact that we live altogether to
ourselves." 

"And the happiest kind of life too for married people," said
Lady Albury, who was accustomed to fill her house in the country
with a constant succession of visitors, and to have engagements
for every night of the week in town. "But for young people it
is not quite so good. How is a young lady to get herself settled
in life?" 

"Settled?" asked Mr Dosett, vaguely. 

"Married," suggested Lady Albury, more plainly. Mr Dosett shook
his head. No idea on the subject had ever flashed across his
mind. To provide bread and meat, a bed and clothes, for his sister's
child he had felt to be a duty -- but not a husband. Husbands
came, or did not -- as the heavens might be propitious. That
Ayala should go to Stalham for the sake of finding a husband
was certainly beyond the extent of his providing care. "In fact
how is a girl to have a chance at all unless she is allowed to
see someone? Of course I don't say this with reference to our
house. There will be no young men there, or anything of that
kind. But, taking a broad view, unless you let a girl like that
have what chances come in her way how is she to get on? I think
you have hardly a right to do it." 

"We have done it for the best." 

"I am sure of that, Mr Dosett. And I hope you will tell Mrs Dosett,
with my compliments, how thoroughly I appreciate her goodness.
I should have called upon her instead of coming here, only that
I cannot very well get into that part of the town." 

"I will tell her what you are good enough to say." 

"Poor Ayala! I am afraid that her other aunt, Aunt Tringle, was
not as good to her as your wife. I have heard about how all that
occurred in Rome. She was very much admired there. I am told
that she is perfectly lovely." 

"Pretty well." 

"A sort of beauty that we hardly ever see now -- and very, very
clever." 

"Ayala is clever, I think." 

"She ought to have her chance. She ought indeed. I don't think
you quite do your duty by such a girl as that unless you let
her have a chance. She is sure to get to know people, and to
be asked from one house to another. I speak plainly, for I really
think you ought to let her come." 

All this sank deeply into the heart of Uncle Reginald. Whether
it was for good or evil it seemed to him at the moment to be
unanswerable. If there was a chance of any good thing for Ayala,
surely it could not be his duty to bar her from that chance.
A whole vista of new views in reference to the treatment of young
ladies was opened to him by the words of his visitor. Ayala certainly
was pretty. Certainly she was clever. A husband with an income
would certainly be a good thing. Embryo husbands with incomes
do occasionally fall in love with pretty girls. But how can any
pretty girl be fallen in love with unless someone be permitted
to see her? At Kingsbury Crescent there was not a man to be seen
from one end of the year to another. It occurred to him now,
for the first time, that Ayala by her present life was shut out
from any chance of marriage. It was manifestly true that he had
no right to seclude her in that fashion. At last he made a promise,
rashly, as he felt at the very moment of making it, that he would
ask his wife to allow Ayala to go to Stalham. Lady Albury of
course accepted this as an undertaking that Ayala should come,
and went away triumphant. 

Mr Dosett walked home across the parks with a troubled mind,
thinking much of all that had passed between him and the lady
of fashion. It was with great difficulty that he could quite
make up his mind which was right -- the lady of fashion or his
wife. If Ayala was to live always as they lived at Kingsbury
Crescent, if it should in process of time be her fate to marry
some man in the same class as themselves, if continued care as
to small pecuniary needs was to be her future lot, then certainly
her comfort would only be disturbed by such a visit as that now
proposed. And was it not probable that such would be the destiny
in store for her? Mr Dosett knew the world well enough to be
aware that all pretty girls such as Ayala cannot find rich husbands
merely by exhibiting their prettiness. Kingsbury Crescent, unalloyed
by the dangers of Stalham, would certainly be the most secure.
But then he had been told that Ayala now had special chances
offered to her, and that he had no right to rob her of those
chances. He felt this the more strongly, because she was not
his daughter -- only his niece. With a daughter he and his wife
might have used their own judgment without check. But now he
had been told that he had no right to rob Ayala of her chances,
and he felt that he had not the right. By the time that he reached
Kingsbury Crescent he had, with many misgivings, decided in favour
of Stalham. 

It was now some weeks since the first invitation had been refused,
and during those weeks life had not been pleasant at the Crescent.
Ayala moped and pined as though some great misfortune had fallen
upon her. When she had first come to the Crescent she had borne
herself bravely, as a man bears a trouble when he is conscious
that he has brought it on himself by his own act, and is proud
of the act which has done it. But when that excitement has gone,
and the trouble still remains, the pride wears off, and the man
is simply alive to his suffering. So it had been with Ayala.
Then had come the visit to Brook Street. When, soon after that,
she was invited to Stalham, it seemed as though a new world was
being opened to her. There came a moment when she could again
rejoice that she had quarrelled with her Aunt Emmeline. This
new world would be a much better world than the Tringle world.
Then had come the great blow, and it had seemed to her as though
there was nothing but Kingsbury Crescent before her for the rest
of her wretched life. 

There was not a detail of all this hidden from the eyes of Aunt
Margaret. Stalham had decided that Aunt Margaret was ugly and
uninteresting. Stalham, according to its own views, was right.
Nevertheless the lady in Kingsbury Crescent had both eyes to
see and a heart to feel. She was hot of temper, but she was forgiving.
She liked her own way, but she was affectionate. She considered
it right to teach her niece the unsavoury mysteries of economy,
but she was aware that such mysteries must be distasteful to
one brought up as Ayala. Even when she had been loudest in denouncing
Ayala's mutiny, her heart had melted in ruth because Ayala had
been so unhappy. She, too, had questioned herself again and again
as to the justness of her decision. Was she entitled to rob Ayala
of her chances? In her frequent discussions with her husband
she still persisted in declaring that Kingsbury Crescent was
safe, and that Stalham would be dangerous. But, nevertheless,
in her own bosom she had misgivings. As she saw the poor girl
mope and weary through one day after another, she could not but
have misgivings. 

"I have had that Lady Albury with me at the office today, and
have almost promised that Ayala shall go to her on the 8th of
November." It was thus that Mr Dosett rushed at once into his
difficulty as soon as he found himself upstairs with his wife.
"You have?" 

"Well, my dear, I almost did. She said a great deal, and I could
not but agree with much of it. Ayala ought to have her chances."
"What chances?" demanded Mrs Dosett, who did not at all like
the expression. 

"Well; seeing people. She never sees anybody here." 

"Nobody is better than some people," said Mrs Dosett, meaning
to be severe on Lady Albury's probable guests. 

"But if a girl sees nobody," said Mr Dosett, "she can have no
-- no -- no chances." 

"She has the chance of wholesome victuals," said Mrs Dosett,
"and I don't know what other chances you or I can give her."
"She might see -- a young man." This Mr Dosett said very timidly.
"A young fiddlestick! A young man! Young men should be waited
for till they come naturally, and never thought about if they
don't come at all. I hate this looking after young men. If there
wasn't a young man for the next dozen years we should do better
-- so as just to get out of the way of thinking about them for
a time." This was Mrs Dosett's philosophy; but in spite of her
philosophy she did yield, and on that night it was decided that
Ayala after all was to be allowed to go to Stalham. 

To Mr Dosett was deputed the agreeable task of telling Ayala
on the next evening what was to befall her. If anything agreeable
was to be done in that sombre house it was always deputed to
the master. 

"What!" said Ayala, jumping from her chair. 

"On the eighth of November," said Mr Dosett. 

"To Stalham?" 

"Lady Albury was with me yesterday at the office, and your aunt
has consented." 

"Oh, Uncle Reginald!" said Ayala, falling on her knees, and hiding
her face on his lap. Heaven had been once more opened to her.
"I'll never forget it," said Ayala, when she went to thank her
aunt -- "never." 

"I only hope it may not do you a mischief." 

"And I beg your pardon, Aunt Margaret, because I was -- I was
-- because I was -- " She could not find the word which would
express her own delinquency, without admitting more than she
intended to admit -- "too self-asserting, considering that I
am only a young girl." That would have been her meaning could
she have found appropriate words. 

"We need not go back to that now," said Aunt Margaret. 


CHAPTER 23
STALHAM PARK

On the day fixed Ayala went down to Stalham. A few days before
she started there came to her a letter, or rather an envelope,
from her uncle Sir Thomas, enclosing a cheque for L#20. The Tringle
women had heard that Ayala had been asked to Stalham, and had
mentioned the visit disparagingly before Sir Thomas. "I think
it very wrong of my poor brother," said Lady Tringle. "She can't
have a shilling even to get herself gloves." This had an effect
which had not been intended, and Sir Thomas sent the cheque for
L#20. Then Ayala felt not only that the heavens were opened to
her but that the sweetest zephyrs were blowing her upon her course.
Thoughts as to gloves had disturbed her, and as to some shoes
which were wanting, and especially as to a pretty hat for winter
wear. Now she could get hat, and shoes and gloves, and pay her
fare, and go down to Stalham with money in her pocket. Before
going she wrote a very pretty note to her Uncle Tom. 

On her arrival she was made much of by everyone. Lady Albury
called her the caged bird, and congratulated her on her escape
from the bars. Sir Harry asked her whether she could ride to
hounds. Nina gave her a thousand kisses. But perhaps her greatest
delight was in finding that Jonathan Stubbs was at Albury. She
had become so intimate with the Colonel that she regarded him
quite like an old friend; and when a girl has a male friend,
though he may be much less loved, or not loved at all, he is
always more pleasant, or at any rate more piquant, than a female
friend. As for love with Colonel Stubbs that was quite out of
the question. She was sure that he would never fall in love with
herself. His manner to her was altogether unlike that of a lover.
A lover would be smooth, soft, poetic, and flattering. He was
always a little rough to her -- sometimes almost scolding her.
But then he scolded her as she liked to be scolded -- with a
dash of fun and a greatly predominating admixture of good nature.
He was like a bear -- but a bear who would always behave himself
pleasantly. She was delighted when Colonel Stubbs congratulated
her on her escape from Kingsbury Crescent, and felt that he was
justified by his intimacy when he called Mrs Dosett a mollified
she-Cerberus. 

"Are you going to make one of my team?" said the Colonel to her
on the morning after her arrival. It was a non-hunting morning,
and the gentlemen were vacant about the house till they went
out for a little shooting later in the day. 

"What team?" said Ayala, feeling that she had suddenly received
a check to her happiness. She knew that the Colonel was alluding
to those hunting joys which were to be prepared for Nina, and
which were far beyond her own reach. That question of riding
gear is terrible to young ladies who are not properly supplied.
Even had time admitted she would not have dared to use her uncle's
money for such a purpose, in the hope that a horse might be lent
to her. She had told herself that it was out of the question,
and had declared to herself that she was too thankful for her
visit to allow any regret on such a matter to cross her mind.
But when the Colonel spoke of his team there was something of
a pang. How she would have liked to be one of such a team! 

"My pony team. I mean to drive two. You mustn't think that I
am taking a liberty when I say that they are to be called Nina
and Ayala." 

There was no liberty at all. Had he called her simply Ayala she
would have felt it to be no more than pleasant friendship, coming
from him. He was so big, and so red, and so ugly, and so friendly!
Why should he not call her Ayala? But as to that team -- it could
not be. "If it's riding," she said demurely, "I can't be one
of the ponies." 

"It is riding -- of course. Now the Marchesa is not here, we
mean to call it hunting in a mild way." 

"I can't," she said. 

"But you've got to do it, Miss Dormer." 

"I haven't got anything to do it with. Of course, I don't mind
telling you." 

"You are to ride the sweetest little horse that ever was foaled
-- just bigger than a pony. It belongs to Sir Harry's sister
who is away, and we've settled it all. There never was a safer
little beast, and he can climb through a fence without letting
you know that it's there." 

"But I mean -- clothes," said Ayala. Then she whispered, "I haven't
got a habit, or anything else anybody ought to have." 

"Ah," said the Colonel; "I don't know anything about that. I
should say that Nina must have managed that. The horse department
was left to me, and I have done my part. You will find that you
will have to go out next Tuesday and Friday. The hounds will
be here on Tuesday, and they will be at Rufford on Friday. Rufford
is only nine miles from here, and it's all settled." 

Before the day was over the difficulty had vanished. Miss Albury's
horse was not only called into requisition but Miss Albury's
habit also. Ayala had a little black hat of her own, which Lady
Albury assured her would do excellently well for the hunting
field. There was some fitting and some trying on, and perhaps
a few moments of preliminary despair; but on the Tuesday morning
she rode away from the hall door at eleven o'clock mounted on
Sprite, as the little horse was called, and felt herself from
head to foot to be one of Colonel Stubbs's team. When at Glenbogie
she had ridden a little, and again in Italy, and being fearless
by nature, had no trepidation to impair the fulness of her delight.
Hunting from home coverts rarely exacts much jumping from ladies.
The woods are big, and the gates are numerous. It is when the
far-away homes of wild foxes are drawn -- those secluded brakes
and gorses where the noble animal is wont to live at a distance
from carriage-roads and other weak refuges of civilisation --
that the riding capacities of ladies must be equal to those of
their husbands and brothers. This present moment was an occasion
for great delight -- at least, so it was found by both Nina and
Ayala. But it was not an opportunity for great glory. Till it
was time for lunch one fox after another ran about the big woods
of Albury in a fashion that seemed perfect to the two girls,
but which nearly broke the heart of old Tony, who was still huntsman
to the Ufford and Rufford United Hunt. "Darm their nasty ways,"
said Tony to Mr Larry Twentyman, who was one of the popular habitues
of the hunt; "they runs one a top of another's brushes, till
there ain't a 'ound living knows t'other from which. There's
always a many on 'em at Albury, but I never knew an Albury fox
worth his grub yet." But there was galloping along roads and
through gates, and long strings of horsemen followed each other
up and down the rides, and an easy coming back to the places
from which they started, which made the girls think that the
whole thing was divine. Once or twice there was a little bank,
and once or twice a little ditch -- just sufficient to make Ayala
feel that no possible fence would be a difficulty to Sprite.
She soon learnt that mode of governing her body which leaping
requires, and when she was brought into lunch at about two she
was sure that she could do anything which the art of hunting
required. But at lunch an edict went forth as to the two girls,
against further hunting for that day. Nina strove to rebel, and
Ayala attempted to be eloquent by a supplicating glance at the
Colonel. But they were told that as the horses would be wanted
again on Friday they had done enough. In truth, Tony had already
trotted off with the hounds to Pringle's Gorse, a distance of
five miles, and the gentlemen who had lingered over their lunch
had to follow him at their best pace. "Pringle's Gorse is not
just the place for young ladies," Sir Harry said, and so the
matter had been decided against Nina and Ayala. 

At about six Sir Harry, Colonel Stubbs, and the other gentlemen
returned, declaring that nothing quicker than their run from
Pringle's Gorse had ever been known in that country. "About six
miles straight on end in forty minutes," said the Colonel, "and
then a kill in the open." 

"He was laid up under a bank," said young Gosling. 

"He was so beat that he couldn't carry on a field farther," said
Captain Batsby, who was staying in the house. 

"I call that the open," said Stubbs. 

"I always think I kill a fox in the open", said Sir Harry, "when
the hounds run into him, because he cannot run another yard with
the country there before him." Then there was a long discussion,
as they stood drinking tea before the fire, as to what "the open"
meant, from which they went to other hunting matters. To all
this Ayala listened with attentive ears, and was aware that she
had spent a great day. Oh, what a difference was there between
Stalham and Kingsbury Crescent! 

The next two days were almost equally full of delight. She was
taken into the stables to see her horse, and as she patted his
glossy coat she felt that she loved Sprite with all her heart.
Oh, what a world of joy was this -- how infinitely superior even
to Queen's Gate and Glenbogie! The gaudy magnificence of the
Tringles had been altogether unlike the luxurious comfort of
Stalham, where everybody was at his ease, where everybody was
good-natured, where everybody seemed to acknowledge that pleasure
was the one object of life! On the evening before the Friday
she was taken out to dinner by Captain Batsby. She was not sure
that she liked Captain Batsby, who made little complimentary
speeches to her. But her neighbour on the other side was Colonel
Stubbs, and she was quite sure that she liked Colonel Stubbs.
"I know you'll go like a bird tomorrow," said Captain Batsby.
"I shouldn't like that, because there would be no jumping," said
Ayala. 

"But you'd be such a beautiful bird." The Captain, as he drawled
out his words, made an eye at her, and she was sure that she
did not like the Captain. 

"At what time are we to start tomorrow?" she said, turning to
the Colonel. 

"Ten, sharp. Mind you're ready. Sir Harry takes us on the drag,
and wouldn't wait for Venus, though she wanted five minutes more
for her back hair." 

"I don't suppose she ever wants any time for her back hair. I
wouldn't if I were a goddess." 

"Then you'd be a very untidy goddess, that's all. I wonder whether
you are untidy." 

"Well -- yes -- sometimes." 

"I hate untidy girls." 

"Thank you, Colonel Stubbs." 

"What I like is a nice prim little woman, who never had a pin
in the wrong place in her life. Her cuffs and collars are always
as stiff as steel, and she never rubs the sleeves of her dresses
by leaning about, like some young ladies." 

"That's what I do." 

"My young woman never sits down lest she should crease her dress.
My young woman never lets her ribbons get tangled. My young woman
can dress upon forty pounds a year, and always look as though
she came out of a band-box." 

"I don't believe you've got a young woman, Colonel Stubbs." 

"Well; no; I haven't -- except in my imagination." 

If so, he too must have his Angel of Light! "Do     you ever
dream about her?" 

"Oh dear, yes. I dream that she does scold so awfully when I
have her to myself. In my dreams, you know, I'm married to her,
and she always wants me to eat hashed mutton. Now, if there is
one thing that makes me more sick than another it is hashed mutton.
Of course I shall marry her in some of my waking moments, and
then I shall have to eat hashed mutton for ever." 

Then Captain Batsby put in another word. "I should so like to
be allowed to give you a lead tomorrow." 

"Oh, thank you -- but I'd rather not have it," said Ayala, who
was altogether in the dark, thinking that "a lead" might be some
present which she would not wish to accept from Captain Batsby.
"I mean that I should like to show you a line if we get a run."
"What is a line?" asked Ayala. 

"A line? Why a line is just a lead -- keep your eye on me and
I'll take the fences where you can follow without coming to grief."
"Oh," said Ayala, "that's a lead, is it? Colonel Stubbs is going
to give my friend and me a lead, as long as we stay here." 

"No man ever ought to coach more than one lady at once," said
the Captain, showing his erudition. "You're sure to come on top
of one another if there are two." 

"But Colonel Stubbs is especially told by the Marchesa to look
after both of us," said Ayala almost angrily. Then she turned
her shoulder to him, and was soon intent upon further instructions
from the Colonel. 

The following morning was fine, and all the ladies in the house
were packed on to the top of Sir Harry's drag. The Colonel sat
behind Sir Harry on the plea that he was wanted to take care
of the two girls. Captain Batsby and three other gentlemen were
put inside, where they consoled themselves with unlimited tobacco.
In this way they were driven to a spot called Rufford Cross Roads,
where they found Tony Tappett sitting perfectly quiescent on
his old mare, while the hounds were seated around him on the
grassy sides of the roads. With him was talking a stout, almost
middle-aged gentleman, in a scarlet coat, and natty pink top
boots, who was the owner of all the country around. This was
Lord Rufford, who a few years since was known as one of the hardest
riders in those parts; but he had degenerated into matrimony,
was now the happy father of half a dozen babies, and was hardly
ever seen to jump over a fence. But he still came out when the
meets were not too distant, and carefully performed that first
duty of an English country gentleman -- the preservation of foxes.
Though he did not ride much, no one liked a little hunting gossip
better than Lord Rufford. It was, however, observed that even
in regard to hunting he was apt to quote the authority of his
wife. 

"Oh, yes, my Lord," said Tony, "there'll sure to be a fox at
Dillsborough. But we'll find one afore we get to Rufford, my
Lord." 

"Lady Rufford says there hasn't been a fox seen in the home woods
this week." 

"Her ladyship will be sure to know," said Tony. 

"Do you remember that fence where poor Major Caneback got his
fall six years ago?" asked the Lord. 

"Seven years next Christmas, my Lord," said Tony. "He never put
a leg across a saddle again, poor fellow! I remember him well,
my Lord; a man who could 'andle a 'orse wonderful, though he
didn't know 'ow to ride to 'ounds; not according to my idea.
To get your animal to carry you through, never mind 'ow long
the thing is; that's my idea of riding to 'ounds, my Lord. The
major was for always making a 'orse jump over everything. I never
wants 'em to jump over nothing I can't help -- I don't, my Lord."
"That's just what her ladyship is always saying to me," said
Lord Rufford, "and I do pretty much what her ladyship tells me."
On this occasion Lady Rufford had been quite right about the
home covers. No doubt she generally was right in any assertion
she made as to her husband's affairs. After drawing them Tony
trotted on towards Dillsborough, running his hounds through a
few little springs, which lay near his way. As they went Colonel
Stubbs rode between the two girls. "Whenever I see Rufford,"
said the Colonel, "he does me a world of good." 

"What good can a fat man like that do you?" said Nina. 

"He is a continual sermon against marriage. If I could see Rufford
once a week I know that I should be safe." 

"He seems to me to be a very comfortable old gentleman," said
Ayala. 

"Old! Seven years ago he was acknowledged to be the one undisputed
paragon of a young man in this county. No one else dreamed of
looking at a young lady if he chose to turn his eyes in that
direction. He was handsome as Apollo -- " 

"He an Apollo!" said Nina. 

"The best Apollo there then was in these parts, and every one
knew that he had forty thousand a year to spend. Now he is supposed
to be the best hand in the house at rocking the cradle." 

"Do you mean to say that he nurses the babies?" asked Ayala.
"He looks as if he did at any rate. He never goes ten miles away
from his door without having Lady Rufford with him, and is always
tucked up at night just at half past ten by her ladyship's own
maid. Ten years ago he would generally have been found at midnight
with cards in his hand and a cigar in his mouth. Now he is allowed
two cigarettes a day. Well, Mr Twentyman, how are you getting
on?" This he said to a good-looking better sort of farmer, who
came up, riding a remarkably strong horse, and dressed in pink
and white cords. 

"Thank ye, Colonel, pretty well, considering how hard the times
are. A man who owns a few acres and tries to farm them must be
on the road to ruin nowadays. That's what I'm always telling
my wife, so that she may know what she has got to expect." Mr
Twentyman had been married just twelve months. 

"She isn't much frightened, I daresay," said the Colonel. 

"She's young, you see," continued the farmer, "and hasn't settled
herself down yet to the sorrows of life." This was that Mr Lawrence
Twentyman who married Kate Masters, the youngest daughter of
old Masters, the attorney at Dillsborough, and sister of Mrs
Morton, wife of the squire of Bragton. "By the holy," said Twentyman
suddenly, "the hounds have put a fox out of that little spinney."


CHAPTER 24
RUFFORD CROSS-ROADS

Ayala, who had been listening attentively to the conversation
of Mr Twentyman, and been feeling that she was being initiated
every moment into a new phase of life -- who had been endeavouring
to make some connection in her mind between the new charms of
the world around her and that world of her dreams that was ever
present to her, and had as yet simply determined that neither
could Lord Rufford or Mr Twentyman have ever been an Angel of
Light -- at once straightened herself in her saddle, and prepared
herself for the doing of something memorable. It was evident
to her that Mr Twentyman considered that the moment for action
had come. He did not gallop off wildly, as did four or five others,
but stood still for a moment looking intently at a few hounds
who, with their tails feathering in the air and with their noses
down, seemed at the same time to be irresolute and determined,
knowing that the scent was there but not yet quite fixed as to
its line. "Half a moment, Colonel," he said, standing up in his
stirrups, with his left hand raised, while his right held his
reins and his whip close down on his horse's neck. "Half a moment!"
He only whispered, and then shook his head angrily, as he heard
the ill-timed shouting of one or two men who had already reached
the other side of the little skirting of trees. "I wish Fred
Botsey's tongue were tied to his teeth," he said, still whispering.
"Now, Colonel, they have it. There's a little lane to the right,
and a gate. After that the country's open, and there's nothing
which the ladies' nags can't do. I know the country so well,
you'd perhaps better come with me for a bit." 

"He knows all about it," said the Colonel to Ayala. "Do as he
tells you." 

Ayala and Nina both were quick enough to obey. Twentyman dashed
along the lane, while the girls followed him with the Colonel
after them. When they were at the hunting gate already spoken
of, old Tony Tappett was with them, trotting, impatient to get
to the hounds, courteously giving place to the ladies -- whom,
however, in his heart, he wished at home in bed -- and then thrusting
himself through the gate in front of the Colonel. "D --  their
pigheaded folly," he said, as he came up to his friend Twentyman
-- "they knows no more about it than if they'd just come from
behind a counter -- 'olloaing, 'olloaing, 'olloaing -- as if
'olloaing'd make a fox break! 'Owsomever 'e's off now, and they've
got Cranbury Brook between them and his line!" This he said in
a squeaking little voice, intended to be jocose and satirical,
shaking his head as he rode. This last idea seemed to give him
great consolation. 

It was the consideration, deep and well-founded, as to the Cranbury
which had induced Larry Twentyman to pause on the road when he
had paused, and then to make for the lane and the gate. The direction
had hardly seemed to be that of the hounds, but Larry knew the
spinney, knew the brook -- knew the fox, perhaps -- and was aware
of the spot at which the brute would cross the water if he did
cross it. The brute did cross the water, and therefore there
was Cranbury Brook between many of the forward riders and his
line. 

Sir Harry was then with them, and two or three other farmers.
But Larry had a lead, and the two girls were with him. Tony Tappett,
though he had got up to his hounds, did not endeavour to ride
straight to them as did Larry Twentyman. He was old and unambitious,
very anxious to know where his hounds were, so that he might
be with them should they want the assistance of his voice and
counsel, anxious to be near enough to take their fox from them
should they run into him, but taking no glory in jumping over
a fence if he could avoid it, creeping about here and there,
knowing from experience nearly every turn in the animal's mind,
aware of every impediment which would delay him, riding fast
only when the impediments were far between, taking no amusement
to himself out of the riding, but with his heart cruelly, bloodily,
ruthlessly set upon killing the animal before him. To kill his
fox he would imperil his neck, but for the glory of riding he
would not soil his boots if he could help it. After the girls
came the Colonel, somewhat shorn of his honour in that he was
no longer giving them a lead, but doing his best to maintain
the pace, which Twentyman was making very good. "Now, young ladies,"
said Twentyman, "give them their heads, and let them do it just
as they please -- alongside of each other, and not too near to
me." It was a brook -- a confluent of Cranbury Brook, and was
wide enough to require a good deal of jumping. It may be supposed
that the two young ladies did not understand much of the instructions
given to them. To hold their breath and be brave was the only
idea present to them. The rest must come from instinct and chance.
The other side of the brook was heaven -- this would be purgatory.
Larry, fearing perhaps that the order as to their not being too
near might not be obeyed, added a little to his own pace so as
to be clear of them. Nevertheless they were only a few strides
behind, and had Larry's horse missed his footing there would
have been a mess. As it was they took the brook side by side
close to each other, and landed full of delight and glory on
the opposite bank. "Bravo! young ladies," shouted Twentyman.
"Oh, Nina, that is divine," said Ayala. Nina was a little too
much out of breath for answering, but simply threw up her eyes
to Heaven and made a flourish with her whip, intended to be expressive
of her perfect joy. 

Away went Larry and away went the girls with him quite unconscious
that the Colonel's horse had balked the brook and then jumped
into it -- quite unconscious that Sir Harry, seeing the Colonel's
catastrophe, had followed Tony a quarter of a mile up the brook
to a ford. Even in the soft bosoms of young ladies "the devil
take the hindmost" will be the motto most appropriate for hunting.
Larry Twentyman, of whom they had never heard before, was now
the god of their idolatry. Where Larry Twentyman might go it
was manifestly their duty to follow, even though they should
never see the poor Colonel again. They recked nothing of the
fox or of the hounds or of the master or even of the huntsman.
They had a man before them to show them the way, and as long
as they could keep him in sight each was determined to be at
any rate as good as the other. To give Larry his due it must
be acknowledged that he was thoroughly thoughtful of them. At
every fence encountered he studied the spot at which they would
be least likely to fall. He had to remember, also, that there
were two of them together, and that he had made himself in a
way responsible for the safety of both. All this he did, and
did well, because he knew his business. With the exception of
the waterjump, the country over which they passed was not difficult.
For a time there was a run of gates, each of which their guide
was able to open for them, and as they came near to Dillsborough
Wood there were gaps in most of the fences; but it seemed to
the girls that they had galloped over monstrous hedges and leapt
over walls which it would almost take a strong man to climb.
The brook, however -- the river as it seemed to them -- had been
the crowning glory. Ayala was sure that that brook would never
be forgotten by her. Even the Angel of Light was hardly more
heavenly than the brook. 

That the fox was running for Dillsborough Wood was a fact well
known both to Tony Tappett and Mr Larry Twentyman. A fox crossing
the brook from the Rufford side would be sure to run to Dillsborough
Wood. When Larry, with the two girls, were just about to enter
the ride, there was old Tony standing up on his horse at the
corner, looking into the covert. And now also a crowd of horsemen
came rushing up, who had made their way along the road,and had
passed up to the wood through Mr Twentyman's farmyard,; for,
as it happened, here it was that Mr Twentyman lived and farmed
his own land. Then came Sir Harry, Colonel Stubbs, and some others
who had followed the line throughout -- the Colonel with his
boots full of water, as he had been forced to get off his horse
in the bed of the brook. Sir Harry, himself, was not in the best
of humours -- as will sometimes be the case with masters when
they fail to see the cream of a run. "I never saw such riding
in my life," said Sir Harry, as though some great sin had been
committed by those to whom he was addressing himself. Larry turned
round, and winked at the two girls, knowing that, if sin had
been committed, they three were the sinners. The girls understood
nothing about it, but still thought that Larry Twentyman was
divine. 

While they were standing about on the rides, Tony was still at
his work. The riding was over, but the fox had to be killed,
and Dillsborough Wood was a covert in which a fox will often
require a large amount of killing. No happier home for the vulpine
deity exists among the shires of England! There are earths there
deep, capacious, full of nurseries; but these, on the present
occasion, were debarred from the poor stranger by the wicked
ingenuity of man. But there were deep dells, in which the brambles
and bracken were so thick that no hound careful of his snout
would penetrate them. The undergrowth of the wood was so interwoven
that no huntsman could see through its depths. There were dark
nooks so impervious that any fox ignorant of the theory of his
own scent must have wondered why a hound should have been induced
to creep into spaces so narrow. From one side to another of the
wood the hunted brute would traverse, and always seem to have
at last succeeded in putting his persecutors at fault. So it
was on this occasion. The run, while it lasted, had occupied,
perhaps, three-quarters of an hour, and during a time equally
long poor old Tony was to be seen scurrying from one side of
the wood to another, and was to be heard loudly swearing at his
attendant whips because the hounds did not follow his footsteps
as quickly as his soul desired. 

"I never mean to put on a pair of top-boots again, as long as
I live," said the Colonel. At this time a little knot of horsemen
was stationed in a knoll in the centre of the wood, waiting till
they should hear the fatal whoop. Among them were Nina, Ayala,
the Colonel, Larry Twentyman, and Captain Batsby. 

"Give up top-boots?" said Larry. "You don't mean to say you'll
ride in black!" 

"Top-boots, black boots, spurs, breeches, and red coat, I renounce
them all from this moment. If ever I'm seen in a hunting field
again it will be in a pair of trousers with overalls." 

"Now, you're joking, Colonel," said Larry. 

"Why won't you wear a red coat any more?" said Ayala. 

"Because I'm disgraced for ever. I came out to coach two young
women, and give them a lead, and all I've done was to tumble
into a brook, while a better man has taken my charge away from
me." 

"Oh, Jonathan, I am so sorry," said Nina, "particularly about
your getting into the water." 

"Oh, Colonel Stubbs, we ought to have stopped," said Ayala. 

"It was my only comfort to see how very little I was wanted,"
said the Colonel. "If I had broke my neck instead of wetting
my feet it would have been just the same to some people." 

"Oh, Jonathan!" said Nina, really shocked. 

"We ought to have stopped. I know we ought to have stopped,"
said Ayala, almost crying. 

"Nobody ever stops for anyone out hunting," said Twentyman, laying
down a great law. 

"I should think not," said Captain Batsby, who had hardly been
off the road all the time. 

"I am sure the Colonel will not be angry with me because I took
the young ladies on," said Larry. 

"The Colonel is such a muff", said the Colonel himself, "that
he will never presume to be angry with anybody again. But if
my cousin and Miss Dormer are not very much obliged to you for
what you have done for them there will be nothing of gratitude
left in the female British bosom. You have probably given to
them the most triumphant moment of their existence." 

"It was their own riding, Colonel; I had nothing to do with it."
"I am so much obliged to you, Sir," said Nina. 

"And so am I," said Ayala, "though it was such a pity that Colonel
Stubbs got into the water." 

At that moment came the long expected call. Tony Tappett had
killed his fox, after crossing and re-crossing through the wood
half a score of times. "Is it all over?" asked Ayala, as they
hurried down the knoll and scurried down the line to get to the
spot outside the wood to which Tony was dragging the carcass
of his defeated enemy. 

"It's all over for him," said Larry. "A good fox he was, but
he'll never run again. He is one of them bred at Littlecotes.
The foxes bred at Littlecotes always run." 

"And is he dead?" asked Nina. "Poor fellow! I wish it wasn't
necessary to kill them." Then they stood by till they saw the
body of the victim thrown up into the air, and fall amongst the
blood-smirched upturned noses of the expectant pack. 

"I call that a pretty little run, Sir Harry," said Larry Twentyman.
"Pretty well," said Sir Harry; "the pace wasn't very great, or
that pony of mine which Miss Dormer is riding could not have
lived with it." 

"Horses, Sir Harry, don't want so much pace, if they are allowed
to go straight. It's when a man doesn't get well away, or has
made a mess with his fences, that he needs an extra allowance
of pace to catch the hounds. If you're once with them and can
go straight you may keep your place without such a deal of legs."
To this Sir Harry replied only by a grunt, as on the present
occasion he had "made a mess with his fences," as Larry Twentyman
had called it. 

"And now, young ladies," said Larry, "I hope you'll come in and
see my missus and her baby, and have a little bit of lunch, such
as it is." 

Nina asked anxiously whether there would not be another fox.
Ayala also was anxious lest in accepting the proffered hospitality
she should lose any of the delights of the day. But it was at
length arranged that a quarter of an hour should be allowed before
Tony took his hounds over to the Bragton coverts. Immediately
Larry was off his horse, rushing into the house and ordering
everyone about it to come forth with bread and cheese and sherry
and beer. In spite of what he had said of his ruin it was known
that Larry Twentyman was a warm man, and that no man in Rufford
gave what he had to give with a fuller heart. His house was in
the middle of the Rufford and Ufford hunting country, and the
consumption there during the hunting months of bread and cheese,
sherry and beer, must have been immense. Everyone seemed to be
intimate with him, and all called for what they wanted as if
they were on their own premises. On such occasions as these Larry
was a proud man; for no one in those parts carried a lighter
heart or was more fond of popularity. 

The parlour inside was by no means big enough to hold the crowding
guests, who therefore munched their bread and cheese and drank
their beer round the front door, without dismounting from their
horses; but Nina and Ayala with their friend the Colonel were
taken inside to see Mrs Twentyman and her baby. "Now, Larry,
what sort of a run was it?" said the young mother. "Where did
you find him, and what line did he take?" 

"I'll tell you all about it when I come back; there are two young
ladies for you now to look after." Then he introduced his wife
and the baby which was in her arms. "The little fellow is only
six weeks old, and yet she wanted to come to the meet. She'd
have been riding to hounds if I'd let her." 

"Why not?" said Mrs Twentyman. "At any rate I might have gone
in the pony carriage and had baby with me. 

"Only six weeks old!" said Nina, stooping down and kissing the
child. 

"He is a darling!" said Ayala. "I hope he'll go out hunting some
day." 

"He'll want to go six times a week if he's anything like his
father," said Mrs Twentyman. 

"And seven times if he's like his mother," said Larry. Then again
they mounted their nags, and trotted off across the high roads
to the Bragton coverts. Mrs Twentyman with her baby in her arms
walked down to the gate at the high road and watched them with
longing eyes, till Tony and the hounds were out of sight. 

Nothing further in the way of hunting was done that day which
requires to be recorded. They drew various coverts and found
a fox or two, but the scent, which had been so strong in the
morning, seemed to have gone, and the glory of the day was over.
The two girls and the Colonel remained companions during the
afternoon, and succeeded in making themselves merry over the
incident of the brook. The Colonel was in truth well pleased
that Larry Twentyman should have taken his place, though he probably
would not have been gratified had he seen Captain Batsby assume
his duties. It had been his delight to see the two girls ride,
and he had been near enough to see them. He was one of those
men who, though fond of hunting, take no special glory in it,
and are devoid of the jealousy of riding. Not to have a good
place in a run was no worse to him than to lose a game of billiards
or a rubber of whist. Let the reader understand that this trait
in his character is not mentioned with approbation. "Always to
excel and to go ahead of everybody" should, the present writer
thinks, be in the heart of every man who rides to hounds. There
was in our Colonel a philosophical way of looking into the thing
which perhaps became him as a man, but was deleterious to his
character as a sportsman. 

"I do hope you've enjoyed yourself, Ayala!" he said, as he lifted
her from her horse. 

"Indeed -- indeed, I have!" said Ayala, not noticing the use
of her Christian name. "I have been so happy, and I'm so much
obliged to you!' 


CHAPTER 25
"YOU ARE NOT HE"

Ayala had been a week at Stalham, and according to the understanding
which had existed she should now have returned to Kingsbury Crescent.
She had come for a week, and she had had her week. Oh, what a
week it had been, so thoroughly happy, without a cloud, filled
full with ecstatic pleasures! Jonathan Stubbs had become to her
the pleasantest of friends. Lady Albury had covered her with
caresses and little presents. Nina was the most perfect of friends.
Sir Harry had never been cross, except for that one moment in
the wood. And as for Sprite -- Sprite had nearly realised her
idea of an Angel of Light. Oh, how happy she had been! She was
to return on the Monday, having thus comprised two Sundays within
her elongated week. She knew that her heaven was to be at an
end; but she was grateful, and was determined in her gratitude
to be happy and cheerful to the close. But early on this Sunday
morning Colonel Stubbs spoke a word to Lady Albury. "That little
girl is so thoroughly happy here. Cannot you prolong it for her
just for another three days?" 

"Is it to be for her -- or for Colonel Stubbs, who is enamoured
of the little girl?" asked Lady Albury. 

"For both," said the Colonel, rather gravely. 

"Are you in earnest?" 

"What do you call in earnest? I do love to see a pretty creature
enjoy herself thoroughly as she does. If you will make her stay
till Thursday Albury will let her ride the little horse again
at Star Cross on Wednesday. 

"Of course she shall stay -- all the season if you wish it. She
is indeed a happy girl if you are in earnest." 

Then it was settled, and Lady Albury in her happiest manner informed
Ayala that she was not to be allowed to take her departure till
after she had ridden Sprite once again. "Sir Harry says that
you have given the little horse quite a name, and that you must
finish off his character for him at Star Cross." As was the heart
of the Peri when the gate of Paradise was opened for her so was
the heart of Ayala. There were to be four days, with the fourth
as a hunting day, before she need think of going! There was an
eternity of bliss before her. 

"But Aunt Margaret!" she said, not, however, doubting for a moment
that she would stay. Who cares for a frowning aunt at the distance
of an eternity. I fear that in the ecstasy of her joy she had
forgotten the promise made, that she would always remember her
aunt's goodness to her. "I will write a note to Mrs Dosett, and
make it all straight," said Lady Albury. The note was written,
and, whether matters were straight or crooked at Kingsbury Crescent,
Ayala remained at Albury. 

Colonel Stubbs had thought about the matter, and determined that
he was quite in earnest. He had, he told himself, enough for
modest living -- for modest living without poverty. More would
come to him when old General Stubbs, his uncle, should die. The
general was already past seventy. What was the use of independence
if he could not allow himself to have the girl whom he really
loved? Had any human being so perfectly lovely as Ayala ever
flashed before his eyes before? Was there ever a sweeter voice
heard from a woman's mouth? And then all her little ways and
motions -- her very tricks -- how full of charm they were! When
she would open her eyes and nod her head, and pout with her lips,
he would declare to himself that he could no longer live without
her. And then every word that fell from her lips seemed to have
something in it of pretty humour. In fact the Colonel was in
love, and had now resolved that he would give way to his love
in spite of his aunt, the Marchesa, and in spite of his own philosophy.
He felt by no means sure of success, but yet he thought that
he might succeed. From the moment in which, as the reader may
remember, he had accosted her at the ball, and desired her to
dance with him in obedience to his aunt's behests, it had been
understood by everyone around him that Ayala had liked him. They
had become fast friends. Ayala allowed him to do many little
things which, by some feminine instinct of her own, would have
been put altogether beyond the reach of Captain Batsby. The Colonel
knew all this, and knew at the same time that he should not trust
to it only. But still he could not but trust to it in some degree.
Lady Albury had told him that Ayala would be a happy girl if
he were in earnest, and he himself was well aware of Ayala's
dependent position, and of the discomforts of Kingsbury Crescent.
Ayala had spoken quite openly to him of Kingsbury Crescent as
to a confidential friend. But on all that he did not lean much
as being in his favour. He could understand that such a girl
as Ayala would not accept a husband merely with the object of
avoiding domestic poverty. Little qualms of doubt came upon him
as he remembered the nature of the girl, so that he confessed
to himself that Lady Albury knew nothing about it. But, nevertheless,
he hoped. His red hair and his ugly face had never yet stood
against him among the women with whom he had lived. He had been
taught by popularity to think himself a popular man -- and then
Ayala had shown so many signs of her friendship! 

There was shooting on Saturday, and he went out with the shooters,
saying nothing to anyone of an intended early return; but at
three o'clock he was back at the house. Then he found that Ayala
was out in the carriage, and he waited. He sat in the library
pretending to read, till he heard the sounds of the carriage
wheels, and then he met the ladies in the hall. "Are they all
home from shooting?" asked Lady Albury. The Colonel explained
that no one was home but himself. He had missed three cock-pheasants
running, and had then come away in disgust. "I am the most ignominious
creature in existence," he said laughing; "one day I tumble into
a ditch three feet wide -- " 

"It was ten yards at least," said Nina, jealous as to the glory
of her jump. 

"And today I cannot hit a bird. I shall take to writing a book
and leave the severer pursuit of sport to more enterprising persons."
Then suddenly turning round he said to Ayala, "Are you good-natured
enough to come and take a walk with me in the shrubbery?" 

Ayala, taken somewhat by surprise at the request, looked up into
Lady Albury's face. "Go with him, my dear, if you are not tired,"
said Lady Albury. "He deserves consolation after all his good
deeds to you." Ayala still doubted. Though she was on terms of
pleasant friendship with the man, yet she felt almost awestruck
at this sudden request that she should walk alone with him. But
not to do so, especially after Lady Albury's injunction, would
have been peculiar. She certainly was not tired and had such
a walk come naturally it would have been an additional pleasure
to her; but now, though she went she hesitated, and showed her
hesitation. 

"Are you afraid to come with me?" he said, as soon as they were
out on the gravel together. 

"Afraid! Oh, dear no, I should not be afraid to go anywhere with
you, I think; only it seems odd that you did not ask Nina too."
"Shall I tell you why?" 

"Why was it?" 

"Because I have something to say to you which I do not wish Nina
to hear just at this moment. And then I thought that we were
such friends that you would not mind coming with me." 

"Of course we are," said Ayala. 

"I don't know why it should be so, but I seem to have known you
years instead of days." 

"Perhaps that is because you knew papa." 

"More likely because I have learnt to know your papa's daughter."
"Do you mean Lucy?" 

"I mean Ayala." 

"That is saying the same thing twice over. You know me because
you know me." 

"Just that. How long do you suppose I have known that Mrs Gregory,
who sat opposite to us yesterday?" 

"How can I tell?" 

"Just fifteen years. I was going to Harrow when she came as a
young girl to stay with my mother. Her people and my people had
known each other for the last fifty years. Since that I have
seen her constantly, and of course we are very intimate." 

"I suppose so." 

"I know as much about her after all that as if we had lived in
two different hemispheres and couldn't speak a word of each other's
language. There isn't a thought or a feeling in common between
us. I ask after her husband and her children, and then tell her
it's going to rain. She says something about the old General's
health, and then there is an end of everything between us. When
next we meet we do it all over again." 

"How very uninteresting!" said Ayala. 

"Very uninteresting. It is because there are so many Mrs Gregorys
about that I like to go down to Drumcaller and live by myself.
Perhaps you're a Mrs Gregory to somebody." 

"Why should I be a Mrs Gregory? I don't think I am at all like
Mrs Gregory." 

"Not to me, Ayala." Now she heard the "Ayala", and felt something
of what it meant. There had been moments at which she had almost
disliked to hear him call her Miss Dormer; but now -- now she
wished that he had not called her Ayala. She strove to assume
a serious expression of face, but having done so she could not
dare to turn it up towards him. The glance of her little anger,
if there was any, fell only upon the ground. "It is because you
are to me a creature so essentially different from Mrs Gregory
that I seem to know you so well. I never want to go to Drumcaller
if you are near me -- or, if I think of Drumcaller, it is that
I might be there with you." 

"I am sure the place is very pretty, but I don't suppose I shall
ever see it." 

"Do you know about your sister and Mr Hamel?" 

"Yes," said Ayala, surprised. "She has told me all about it.
How do you know?" 

"He was staying at Drumcaller -- he and I together with no one
else -- when he went over to ask her. I never saw a man so happy
as when he came back from Glenbogie. He had got all that he wanted
in the world." 

"I do so love him because he loves her." 

"And I love her -- because she loves you." 

"It is not the same, you know," said Ayala, trying to think it
all out. 

"May I not love her? 

"He is to be my brother. That's why I love him. She can't be
your sister." The poor girl, though she had tried to think it
all out, had not thought very far. 

"Can she not?" he said. 

"Of course not. Lucy is to marry Mr Hamel." 

"And whom am I to marry?" Then she saw it all. "Ayala -- Ayala
-- who is to be my wife?" 

"I do not know," she said -- speaking with a gruff voice, but
still in a whisper, with a manner altogether different -- thinking
how well it would be that she should be taken at once back into
the house. 

"Do you know whom I would fain have as my wife?" Then he felt
that it behoved him to speak out plainly. He was already sure
that she would not at once tell him that it should be as he would
have it -- that she would not instantly throw herself into his
arms. But he must speak plainly to her, and then fight his cause
as best he might. "Ayala, I have asked you to come out with me
that I might ask you to be my wife. It is that that I did not
wish Nina to hear at once. If you will put out your hand and
say that it shall be so, Nina and all the world shall know it.
I shall be as proud then as Hamel, and as happy -- happier, I
think. It seems to me that no one can love as I do now, Ayala;
it has grown upon me from hour to hour as I have seen you. When
I first took you away to that dance it was so already. Do you
remember that night at the theatre -- when I had come away from
everything and striven so hard that I might be near to you before
you went back to your home? Ayala, I loved you then so dearly
-- but not as I love you now. When I saw you riding away from
me yesterday, when I could not get over the brook, I told myself
that unless I might catch you at last, and have you all to myself,
I could never again be happy. Do you remember when you stooped
down and kissed that man's baby at the farmhouse? Oh, Ayala,
I thought then that if you would not be my wife -- if you would
not be my wife -- I should never have wife, never should have
baby, never should have home of my own." She walked on by his
side, listening, but she had not a word to say to him. It had
been easy enough to her to reject and to rebuke and to scorn
Tom Tringle, when he had persisted in his suit; but she knew
not with what words to reject this man who stood so high in her
estimation, who was in many respects so perfect, whom she so
thoroughly liked -- but whom, nevertheless she must reject. He
was not the Angel of Light. There was nothing there of the azure
wings upon which should soar the all but celestial being to whom
she could condescend to give herself and her love. He was pleasant,
good, friendly, kind-hearted -- all that a friend or a brother
should be; but he was not the Angel of Light. She was sure of
that. She told herself that she was quite sure of it, as she
walked beside him in silence along the path. "You know what I
mean, Ayala, when I tell you that I love you," he continued.
But still she made no answer. "I have seen at last the one human
being with whom I feel that I can be happy to spend my life,
and, having seen her, I ask her to be my wife. The hope has been
dwelling with me and growing since I first met you. Shall it
be a vain hope? Ayala, may I still hope?" 

"No," she said, abruptly. 

"Is that all?" 

"It is all that I can say." 

"Is that one 'no' to be the end of everything between us?" 

"I don't know what else I ought to say to you, Colonel Stubbs."
"Do you mean that you can never love me?" 

"Never," she said. 

"That is a hard word -- and hardly friendly. Is there to be no
more than one hard word between you and me? Though I did not
venture to think that you could tell me that you loved me, I
looked for something kinder, something gentler than that." From
such a sharp and waspish word as "no",To pluck the sting!

Ayala did not know the lines I have quoted, but the idea conveyed
in them was present clearly to her mind. She would fain have
told him, had she known how to do so, that her heart was very
gentle towards him, was very kind, gentle and kind as a sister's
-- but that she could not love him, so as to become his wife.
"You are not he -- not he, not that Angel of Light, which must
come to me, radiant with poetry, beautiful to the eye, full of
all excellences of art, lifted above the earth by the qualities
of his mind -- such a one as must come to me if it be that I
am ever to confess that I love. You are not he, and I cannot
love you. But you shall be the next to him in my estimation,
and you are already so dear to me that I would be tender to you,
would be gentle -- if only I knew how." It was all there, clear
enough in her mind, but she had not the words. "I don't know
what it is that I ought to say," she exclaimed through her sobs.
"The truth, at any rate," he answered sternly, "but not the truth,
half and half, after the fashion of some young ladies. Do not
think that you should palter with the truth either because it
may not be palatable to me, or seem decorous to yourself. To
my happiness this matter is all important, and you are something
to my happiness, if only because I have risked it on your love.
Tell me -- why cannot you love me?" 

The altered tone of his voice, which now had in it something
of severity, seemed to give her more power. 

"It is because -- " Then she paused. 

"Because why? Out with it, whatever it is. If it be something
that a man may remedy I will remedy it. Do not fear to hurt me.
Is it because I am ugly? That I cannot remedy." She did not dare
to tell him that it was so, but she looked up at him, not dissenting
by any motion of her head. "Then God help me, for ugly I must
remain." 

"It is not that only." 

"Is it because my name is Stubbs -- Jonathan Stubbs?" Now she
did assent, nodding her head at him. He had bade her tell him
the truth, and she was so anxious to do as he bade her! "If it
be so, Ayala, I must tell you that you are wrong -- wrong and
foolish; that you are carried away by a feeling of romance, which
is a false romance. Far be it from me to say that I could make
you happy, but I am sure that your happiness cannot be made and
cannot be marred by such accidents as that. Do you think that
my means are not sufficient?" 

"No -- no," she cried; "I know nothing of your means. If I could
love you I would not condescend to ask -- even to hear." 

"There is no other man, I think?" 

"There is no other man." 

"But your imagination has depicted to you something grander than
I am," -- then she assented quickly, turning round and nodding
her head to him -- "someone who shall better respond to that
spirit of poetry which is within you?" Again she nodded her head
approvingly, as though to assure him that now he knew the whole
truth. "Then, Ayala, I must strive to soar till I can approach
your dreams. But, if you dare to desire things which are really
grand, do not allow yourself to be mean at the same time. Do
not let the sound of a name move you, or I shall not believe
in your aspirations. Now, shall I take you back to the house?"
Back to the house they went, and there was not another word spoken
between them. By those last words of his she had felt herself
to be rebuked. If it were possible that he could ask her again
whether that sound, Jonathan Stubbs, had anything to do with
it, she would let him know now, by some signal, that she no longer
found a barrier in the name. But there were other barriers --
barriers which he himself had not pretended to call vain. As
to his ugliness, that he had confessed he could not remedy; calling
on God to pity him because he was so. And as for that something
grander which he had described, and for which her soul sighed,
he had simply said that he would seek for it. She was sure that
he would not find it. It was not to such as he that the something
grander -- which was to be the peculiar attribute of the Angel
of Light -- could be accorded. But he had owned that the something
grander might exist. 


CHAPTER 26
"THE FINEST HERO THAT I EVER KNEW"

The Colonel and Ayala returned to the house without a word. When
they were passing through the hall she turned to go at once up
the stairs to her own room. As she did so he put out his hand
to her, and she took it. But she passed on without speaking,
and when she was alone she considered it over all in her own
mind. There could be no doubt that she was right. Of that she
was quite sure. It was certainly a fixed law that a girl should
not marry a man unless she loved him. She did not love this man,
and therefore she ought not to marry him. But there were some
qualms at her heart as to the possible reality of the image which
she had created for her own idolatry. And she had been wounded
when he told her that she should not allow herself to be mean
amidst her soarings. She had been wounded, and yet she knew that
he had been right. He had intended to teach her the same lesson
when he told her the absurd story of the woman who had been flung
out of the window. She could not love him; but that name of his
should never again be a reason for not doing so. Let the Angel
of Light come to her with his necessary angelic qualities, and
no want of euphony in a sound should be a barrier to him. Nor
in truth could any outside appearance be an attribute of angelic
light. The Angel of Light might be there even with red hair.
Something as to the truth of this also came across her, though
the Colonel had not rebuked her on that head. 

But how should she carry herself now during the four days which
remained to her at Stalham Park? All the loveliness seemed to
depart from her prospect. She would hardly know how to open her
mouth before her late friend. She suspected that Lady Albury
knew with what purpose the Colonel had taken her out in the shrubbery,
and she would not dare to look Lady Albury in the face. How should
she answer Nina if Nina were to ask her questions about the walk.
The hunt for next Wednesday was no longer a delight to which
she could look forward. How would it be possible that Colonel
Stubbs should direct her now as to her riding, and instruct her
as to her conduct in the hunting field? It would be better for
her that she should return at once to Kingsbury Crescent. 

As she thought of this there did come upon her a reflection that
had she been able to accept Colonel Stubbs's offer there would
have been an end for ever to the miseries of her aunt's house.
She would have been lifted at once into the mode of life in which
the man lived. Instead of being a stranger admitted by special
grace into such an Elysium as that of Stalham Park, she would
become one of those to whom such an Elysium belonged almost of
right. By her own gifts she would have won her way into that
upper and brighter life which seemed to her to be all smiles
and all joy. As to his income she thought nothing and cared nothing.
He lived with men who had horses and carriages, and who spent
their time in pleasurable pursuits. And she would live amidst
ladies who were always arrayed in bright garments, who, too,
had horses and carriages at their command, and were never troubled
by these sordid cares which made life at Kingsbury Crescent so
sad and tedious. One little word would have done it all for her,
would have enabled her to take the step by which she would be
placed among the bright ones of the earth. 

But the remembrance of all this only made her firmer in her resolution.
If there was any law of right and wrong fixed absolutely in her
bosom, it was this -- that no question of happiness or unhappiness,
of suffering or joy, would affect her duty to the Angel of Light.
She owed herself to him should he come to seek her. She owed
herself to him no less, even should he fail to come. And she
owed herself equally whether he should be rich or poor. As she
was fortifying herself with these assurances Nina came to ask
her whether she would not come down to tea. Ayala pleaded headache,
and said that she would rest till dinner. "Has anything happened?"
asked Nina. Ayala simply begged that she might be asked no questions
then, because her head was aching. "If you do not tell me everything,
I shall think you are no true friend," said Nina, as she left
the room. 

As evening drew on she dressed for dinner, and went down into
the drawing-room. In doing so it was necessary to pass through
the billiard-room, and there she found Colonel Stubbs, knocking
about the balls. "Are you dressed for dinner?" he exclaimed;
"I haven't begun to think of it yet, and Sir Harry hates a man
when he comes in late. That wretch Batsby has beaten me four
games." With that he rushed off, putting down the cue with a
rattle, and seeming to Ayala to have recovered altogether from
the late prostration of his spirits. 

In the drawing-room Ayala was for a few minutes alone, and then,
as she was glad to see, three or four ladies all came in at once,
so that no question could be asked her by Lady Albury. They went
into dinner without the Colonel, who was in truth late, and she
was taken in by Mr Gosling, whose pretty little wife was just
opposite to her. On the other side of her sat Lord Rufford, who
had come to Stalham with his wife for a day or two, and who immediately
began to congratulate her on the performance of the day before.
"I am told you jumped the Cranbury Brook," he said. "I should
as soon think of jumping the Serpentine." 

"I did it because somebody told me." 

"Ah," said Lord Rufford, with a sigh, "there is nothing like
ignorance, innocence, and youth combined. But why didn't Colonel
Stubbs get over after you?" 

"Because Colonel Stubbs couldn't," said that gentleman, as he
took his seat in the vacant chair. 

"It may be possible", said Sir Harry, "that a gentleman should
not be able to jump over Cranbury Brook; but any gentleman, if
he will take a little trouble, may come down in time for dinner."
"Now that I have been duly snubbed right and left", said the
Colonel, "perhaps I may eat my soup." 

Ayala, who had expected she hardly knew what further troubles,
and who had almost feared that nobody would speak to her because
she had misbehaved herself, endeavoured to take heart of grace
when she found that all around her, including the Colonel himself,
were as pleasant as ever. She had fancied that Lady Albury had
looked at her specially when Colonel Stubbs took his seat, and
she had specially noticed the fact that his chair had not been
next her own. These little matters she was aware Lady Albury
managed herself, and was aware also that in accordance with the
due rotation of things she and the Colonel should have been placed
together. She was glad that it was not so, but at the same time
she was confident that Lady Albury knew something of what had
passed between herself and her suitor. The evening, however,
went off easily, and nothing occurred to disturb her except that
the Colonel had called her by her Christian name, when as usual
he brought to her a cup of tea in the drawing-room. Oh, that
he would continue to do so, and yet not demand from her more
than their old friendship! 

The next morning was Sunday, and they all went to church. It
was a law at Stalham that every one should go to church on Sunday
morning. Sir Harry himself, who was not supposed to be a peculiarly
religious man, was always angry when any male guest did not show
himself in the enormous family pew. "I call it d --  indecent,"
he has been heard to say. But nobody was expected to go twice
-- and consequently nobody ever did go twice. Lunch was protracted
later than usual. The men would roam about the grounds with cigars
in their mouths, and ladies would take to reading in their own
rooms, in following which occupation they would spend a considerable
part of the afternoon asleep. On this afternoon Lady Albury did
not go to sleep, but contrived to get Ayala alone upstairs into
her little sittingroom. "Ayala," she said, with something between
a smile and a frown, "I am afraid I am going to be angry with
you." 

"Please don't be angry, Lady Albury." 

"If I am right in what I surmise, you had an offer made to you
yesterday which ought to satisfy the heart of almost any girl
in England." Here she paused, but Ayala had not a word to say
for herself. "If it was so, the best man I know asked you to
share his fortune with him." 

"Has he told you?" 

"But he did?" 

"I shall not tell," said Ayala, proudly. 

"I know he did. I knew that it was his intention before. Are
you aware what kind of man is my cousin, Jonathan Stubbs? Has
it occurred to you that in truth and gallantry, in honour, honesty,
courage and real tenderness, he is so perfect as to be quite
unlike to the crowd of men you see?" 

"I do know that he is good," said Ayala. 

"Good! Where will you find anyone good like him? Compare him
to the other men around him, and then say whether he is good!
Can it be possible that you should refuse the love of such a
man as that?" 

"I don't think I ought to be made to talk about it," said Ayala,
hesitating. 

"My dear, it is for your own sake and for his. When you go away
from here it may be so difficult for him to see you again." 

"I don't suppose he will ever want," said Ayala. 

"It is sufficient that he wants it now. What better can you expect
for yourself?" 

"I expect nothing," said Ayala, proudly. "I have got nothing,
and I expect nothing." 

"He will give you everything, simply because he loves you. My
dear, I should not take the trouble to tell you all this, did
I not know that he is a man who ought to be accepted when he
asks such a request as that. Your happiness would be safe in
his hands." She paused, but Ayala had not a word to say. "And
he is not a man likely to renew such a request. He is too proud
for that. I can conceive no possible reason for such a refusal
unless it be that you are engaged. If there be someone else,
then of course there must be an end of it." 

"There is no one else." 

"Then, my dear, with your prospects it is sheer folly. When the
General dies he will have over two thousand a year." 

"As if that had anything to do with it!" said Ayala, holding
herself aloft in her wrath, and throwing angry glances at the
lady. 

"It is what I call romance," said Lady Albury. "Romance can never
make you happy." 

"At any rate it is not riches. What you call romance may be what
I like best. At any rate if I do not love Colonel Stubbs I am
sure I ought not to marry him -- and I won't." 

After this there was nothing further to be said. Ayala thought
that she would be turned out of the room -- almost out of the
house, in disgrace. But Lady Albury, who was simply playing her
part, was not in the least angry. "Well, my dear," she said,
"pray -- pray, think better of it. I am in earnest, of course,
because of my cousin -- because he seems to have put his heart
upon it. He is just the man to be absolutely in love when he
is in love. But I would not speak as I do unless I were sure
that he would make you happy. My cousin Jonathan is to me the
finest hero that I know. When a man is a hero he shouldn't be
broken-hearted for want of a woman's smiles -- should he?" 

"She ought not to smile unless she loves him," said Ayala, as
she left the room. 

The Monday and Tuesday went very quietly. Lady Albury said nothing
more on the great subject, and the Colonel behaved himself exactly
as though there had been no word of love at all. There was nothing
special said about the Wednesday's hunt through the two days,
till Ayala almost thought that there would be no hunt for her.
Nor, indeed, did she much wish for it. It had been the Colonel
who had instigated her to deeds of daring, and under his sanction
that she had ventured to ride. She would hardly know how to go
through the Wednesday -- whether still to trust him, or whether
to hold herself aloof from him. When nothing was said on the
subject till late on the evening of the Tuesday, she had almost
resolved that she would not put on her habit when the morning
came. But just as she was about to leave the drawing-room with
her bed-candle Colonel Stubbs came to her. "Most of us ride to
the meet tomorrow," he said; "but you and Nina shall be taken
in the waggonette so as to save you a little. It is all arranged."
She bowed and thanked him, going to bed almost sorry that it
should have been so settled. When the morning came Nina could
not ride. She had hurt her foot, and, coming early into Ayala's
room, declared with tears that she could not go. "Then neither
shall I," said Ayala, who was at that moment preparing to put
on her habit. 

"But you must. It is all settled, and Sir Harry would be offended
if you did not go. What has Jonathan done that you should refuse
to ride with him because I am lame?" 

"Nothing," said Ayala. 

"Oh, Ayala, do tell me. I should tell you everything. Of course
you must hunt whatever it is. Even though he should have offered
and you refused him, of course you must go." 

"Must I?" said Ayala. 

"Then you have refused him?" 

"I have. Oh, Nina, pray do not speak of it. Do not think of it
if you can help it. Why should everything be disturbed because
I have been a fool?" 

"Then you think you have been a fool?" 

"Other people think so; but if so I shall at any rate be constant
to my folly. What I mean is, that it has been done, and should
be passed over as done with. I am quite sure that I ought not
to be scolded; but Lady Albury did scold me." Then they went
down together to breakfast, Ayala having prepared herself properly
for the hunting field. 

In the waggonette there were with her Lady Albury, Mrs Gosling,
and Nina, who was not prevented by her lameness from going to
the meet. The gentlemen all rode, so that there was no immediate
difficulty as to Colonel Stubbs. But when she had been put on
her horse by his assistance and found herself compelled to ride
away from the carriage, apparently under his especial guidance
her heart misgave her, and she thoroughly wished that she was
at home in the Crescent. Though she was specially under his guidance
there were at first others close around her, and, while they
were on the road going to the covert which they were to draw,
conversation was kept up so that it was not necessary for her
to speak -- but what should she do when she should find herself
alone with him as would certain!y be the case? It soon was the
case. The hounds were at work in a large wood in which she was
told they might possibly pass the best part of the day, and it
was not long before the men had dispersed themselves, some on
this side some on that, and she found herself with no one near
her but the Colonel. "Ayala," he said, "of course you know it
is my duty to look after you, and to do it better if I can than
I did on Friday." 

"I understand," she said. 

"Do not let any remembrance of that walk on Saturday interfere
with your happiness today. Who knows when you may be out hunting
again?" 

"Never!" she said; "I don't suppose I shall ever hunt again."
"Carpe diem," he said laughing. "Do you know what 'carpe diem'
means?" 

"It is Latin perhaps." 

"Yes; and therefore you are not supposed to understand it. This
is what it means. As an hour for joy has come, do not let any
trouble interfere with it. Let it all be, for this day at least,
as though there had been no walk in the Stalham Woods. There
is Larry Twentyman. If I break down as I did on Friday you may
always trust to him. Larry and you are old friends now." 

"Carpe diem," she said to herself. "Oh, yes; if it were only
possible. How is one to carpe diem with one's heart full of troubles?"
And it was the less possible because this man whom she had rejected
was so anxious to do everything for her happiness. Lady Albury
had told her that he was a hero -- that he was perfect in honour,
honesty, and gallantry,; and she felt inclined to own that Lady
Albury was almost right. Yet -- yet how far was he from that
image of manly perfection which her daily thoughts had created
for her! Could she have found an appropriate word with which
to thank him she would have done so; but there was no such word;
and Larry Twentyman was now with them, taking off his hat and
overflowing with compliments. "Oh, Miss Dormer, I am so delighted
to see you out again." 

"How is the baby, Mr Twentyman?" 

"Brisk as a bee, and hungry as a hunter." 

"And how is Mrs Twentyman?" 

"Brisker and hungrier than the baby. What do you think of the
day, Colonel?" 

"A very good sort of day, Twentyman, if we were anywhere out
of these big woods." Larry shook his head solemnly. The Mudcombe
Woods in which they were now at work had been known to occupy
Tony Tappett and his whole pack from eleven o'clock till the
dusk of evening. "We've got to draw them, of course," continued
the Colonel. Then Mr Twentyman discoursed at some length on the
excellence of Mudcombe Woods. What would any county be without
a nursery for young foxes? Gorse-coverts, hedgerows, and little
spinneys would be of no avail unless there were some grandly
wild domain in which maternal and paternal foxes could roam in
comparative security. All this was just as Ayala would have it,
because it enabled her to ask questions, and saved her from subjects
which might be painful to her. 

The day, in truth, was not propitious to hunting even. Foxes
were found in plenty, and two of them were killed within the
recesses of the wood; but on no occasion did they run a mile
into the open. For Ayala it was very well, because she was galloping
hither and thither, and because before the day was over, she
found herself able to talk to the Colonel in her wonted manner;
but there was no great glory for her as had been the glory of
Little Cranbury Brook. 

On the next morning she was taken back to London and handed over
to her aunt in Kingsbury Crescent without another word having
been spoken by Colonel Stubbs in reference to his love. 


CHAPTER 27
LADY ALBURY'S LETTER

"I have had a letter from Lady Albury," said Aunt Margaret, almost
as soon as Ayala had taken off her hat and cloak. 

"Yes, I know, Aunt Margaret. She wrote to ask that I might stay
for four more days. I hope it was not wrong." 

"I have had another letter since that, on Monday about it; I
have determined to show it you. There it is. You had better read
it by yourself, and I will come to you again in half an hour."
Then, very solemnly, but with no trace of ill-humour, Mrs Dosett
left the room. There was something in her tone and gait so exceedingly
solemn that Ayala was almost frightened. Of course, the letter
must be about Colonel Stubbs, and, of course, the writer of it
would find fault with her. She was conscious that she was adding
one to her terribly long list of sins in not consenting to marry
Colonel Stubbs. It was her misfortune that all her friends found
fault with everything that she did. Among them there was not
one, not even Nina, who fully sympathised with her. Not even
to Lucy could she expatiate with a certainty of sympathy in regard
to the Angel of Light. And now, though her aunt was apparently
not angry -- only solemn -- she felt already sure that she was
to be told that it was her duty to marry Colonel Stubbs. It was
only the other day that her aunt was preaching to her as to the
propriety of marrying her cousin Tom. It seemed, she said to
herself, that people thought that a girl was bound to marry any
man who could provide a house for her, and bread to eat, and
clothes to wear. All this passed through her mind as she slowly
drew Lady Albury's letter from the envelope and prepared to read
it. The letter was as follows: 

Albury, Monday, 18th November, 187 --  

DEAR MADAM, 

Your niece will return to you, as you request, on Thursday, but
before she reaches you I think it my duty to inform you of a
little circumstance which has occurred here. My cousin, Colonel
Jonathan Stubbs, who is also the nephew of the Marchesa Baldoni,
has made Miss Dormer an offer. I am bound to add that I did not
think it improbable that it would be so, when I called on your
husband, and begged him to allow your niece to come to us. I
did not then know my cousin's intention as a fact. I doubt whether
he knew it himself; but from what I had heard I thought it probable,
and, as I conceive that any young lady would be fortunate in
becoming my cousin's wife, I had no scruple. 

He has proposed to her, and she has rejected him. He has set
his heart upon the matter, and I am most anxious that he should
succeed, because I know him to be a man who will not easily brook
disappointment where he has set his heart. Of all men I know
he is the most steadfast in his purpose. 

I took the liberty of speaking to your niece on the subject,
and am disposed to think that she is deterred by some feeling
of foolish romance, partly because she does not like the name,
partly because my cousin is not a handsome man in a girl's eyes
-- more probably, however, she has built up to herself some poetic
fiction, and dreams of she knows not what. If it be so, it is
a pity that she should lose an opportunity of settling herself
well and happily in life. She gave as a reason that she did not
love him. My experience is not so long as yours, perhaps, but
such as I have has taught me to think that a wife will love her
husband when she finds herself used well at all points. Mercenary
marriages are, of course, bad; but it is a pity, I think, that
a girl, such as your niece, should lose the chance of so much
happiness by a freak of romance. 

Colonel Stubbs, who is only twenty-eight years of age, has a
staff appointment at Aldershot. He has private means of his own,
on which alone he would be justified in marrying. On the death
of his uncle, General Stubbs, he will inherit a considerable
accession of fortune. He is not, of course, a rich man; but he
has ample for the wants of a family. In all other good gifts,
temper, manliness, truth, and tenderness, I know no one to excel
him. I should trust any young friend of my own into his hands
with perfect safety. 

I have thought it right to tell you this. You will use your own
judgment in saying what you think fit to your niece. Should she
be made to understand that her own immediate friends approve
of the offer, she would probably be induced to accept it. I have
not heard my cousin say what may be his future plans. I think
it possible that, as he is quite in earnest, he will not take
one repulse. Should he ask again, I hope that your niece may
receive him with altered views. 

Pray believe me to be, my dear Madam, 

Yours sincerely, 

ROSALINE ALBURY

Ayala read the letter twice over before her aunt returned to
her, and, as she read it, felt something of a feeling of renewed
kindness come upon her in reference to the writer of it -- not
that she was in the least changed in her own resolution, but
that she liked Lady Albury for wishing to change her. The reasons
given, however, were altogether impotent with her. Colonel Stubbs
had the means of keeping a wife! If that were a reason then also
ought she to marry her cousin, Tom Tringle. Colonel Stubbs was
good and true; but so also very probably was Tom Tringle. She
would not compare the two men. She knew that her cousin Tom was
altogether distasteful to her, while she took delight in the
companionship of the Colonel. But the reasons for marrying one
were to her thinking as strong as for marrying the other. There
could be only one valid excuse for marriage -- that of adoring
the man -- and she was quite sure that she did not adore Colonel
Jonathan Stubbs. Lady Albury had said in her letter, that a girl
would be sure to love a man who treated her well after marriage;
but that would not suffice for her. Were she to marry at all,
it would be necessary that she should love the man before her
marriage. 

"Have you read the letter, my dear?" said Mrs Dosett; as she
entered the room and closed the door carefully behind her. She
spoke almost in a whisper, and seemed to be altogether changed
by the magnitude of the occasion. 

"Yes, Aunt Margaret, I have read it." 

"I suppose it is true?" 

"True! It is true in part." 

"You did meet this Colonel Stubbs?" 

"Oh, yes; I met him." 

"And you had met him before?" 

"Yes, Aunt Margaret. He used to come to Brook Street. He is the
Marchesa's nephew." 

"Did he -- " This question Aunt Margaret asked in a very low
whisper, and her most solemn voice. "Did he make love to you
in Brook Street?" 

"No," said Ayala sharply. 

"Not at all?" 

"Not at all. I never thought of such a thing. I never dreamed
of such a thing when he began talking to me out in the woods
at Stalham on Saturday." 

"Had you been -- been on friendly terms with him?" 

"Very friendly terms. We were quite friends, and used to talk
about all manner of things. I was very fond of him, and never
afraid of anything that he said to me. He was Nina's cousin and
seemed almost to be my cousin too." 

"Then you do like him?" 

"Of course I do. Everybody must like him. But that is no reason
why I should want to marry him." 

Upon this Mrs Dosett sat silent for awhile turning the great
matter over in her thoughts. It was quite clear to her that every
word which Ayala had spoken was true; and probable also that
Lady Albury's words were true. In her inmost thoughts she regarded
Ayala as a fool. Here was a girl who had not a shilling of her
own, who was simply a burden on relatives whom she did not especially
love, who was doomed to a life which was essentially distasteful
to her -- for all this in respect to herself and her house Mrs
Dosett had sense enough to acknowledge -- who seemed devoted
to the society of rich and gay people, and yet would not take
the opportunities that were offered her of escaping what she
disliked and going to that which she loved! Two offers had now
been made to her, both of them thoroughly eligible, to neither
of which would objection have been made by any of the persons
concerned. Sir Thomas had shown himself to be absolutely anxious
for the success of his son. And now it seemed that the grand
relations of this Colonel Stubbs were in favour of the match.
What it was in Ayala that entitled her to such promotion Mrs
Dosett did not quite perceive. To her eyes her niece was a fantastic
girl, pretty indeed, but not endowed with that regular tranquil
beauty which she thought to be of all feminine graces the most
attractive. Why Tom Tringle should have been so deeply smitten
with Ayala had been a marvel to her; and now this story of Colonel
Stubbs was a greater marvel. "Ayala," she said, "you ought to
think better of it." 

"Think better of what, Aunt Margaret?" 

"You have seen what this Lady Albury says about her cousin, Colonel
Stubbs." 

"What has that to do with it?" 

"You believe what she says? If so why should you not accept him?"
"Because I can't," said Ayala. 

"Have you any idea what is to become of your future life?" said
Mrs Dosett, very gravely. 

"Not in the least," said Ayala. But that was a fib, because she
had an idea that in the fullness of time it would be her heavenly
fate to put her hand into that of the Angel of Light. 

"Gentlemen won't come running after you always, my dear." 

This was almost as bad as being told by her Aunt Emmeline that
she had encouraged her cousin Tom. 

"It's a great shame to say that. I don't want anybody to run
after me. I never did." 

"No, my dear; no. I don't think that you ever did." 

Mrs Dosett, who was justice itself, did acknowledge to herself
that of any such fault as that suggested, Ayala was innocent.
Her fault was quite in the other direction, and consisted of
an unwillingness to settle herself and to free her relations
of the burden of maintaining her when proper opportunities arose
for doing so. "I only want to explain to you that people must
-- must -- must make their hay while the sun shines. You are
young now." 

"I am not one-and-twenty yet," said Ayala, proudly. 

"One-and-twenty is a very good time for a girl to   marry --
that is to say if a proper sort of gentleman     asks her." 

"I don't think I ought to be scolded because they   don't seem
to me to be the proper sort. I don't want anybody to come. Nobody
ought to be talked to about it at all. If I cared about anyone
that you or Uncle Reginald did not approve, then you might talk
to me. But I don't think that anything ought to be said about
anybody unless I like him myself." So the conversation was over,
and Mrs Dosett felt that she had been entirely vanquished. 

Lady Albury's letter was shown to Mr Dosett but he refused to
say a word to his niece on the subject. 

In the argument which followed between him and his wife he took
his niece's part, opposing altogether that idea that hay should
be made while the sun shines. "It simply means selling herself,"
declared Mr Dosett. 

"That is nonsense, Reginald. Of course such a girl as Ayala has
to do the best she can with her good looks. What else has she
to depend upon?" 

"My brother-in-law will do something for her." 

"I hope he will -- though I do not think that a very safe reed
to depend upon as she has twice offended him. But of course a
girl thinks of marrying. Ayala would be very much disgusted if
she were told that she was to be an old maid, and live upon L#100
a year supplied by Sir Thomas's bounty. It might have been that
she would have to do it -- but now that chances are open she
ought to take them. She should choose between her cousin Tom
and this Colonel Stubbs; and you should tell her that, if she
will not, you will no longer be responsible for her." 

To this Mr Dosett turned altogether a deaf ear. He was quite
sure that his responsibility must be continued till Ayala should
marry, or till he should die, and he would not make a threat
which he would certainly be unable to carry out. He would be
very glad if Ayala could bring herself to marry either of the
young men. It was a pity that she should feel herself compelled
to refuse offers so excellent. But it was a matter for her own
judgment, and one in which he would not interfere. For two days
this almost led to a coldness between the man and his wife, during
which the sufferings of poor Mrs Dosett were heartrending. 

Not many days after Ayala's return her sister Lucy came to see
her. Certain reasons had caused Lady Tringle to stay at Glenbogie
longer than usual, and the family was now passing through London
on their way to Merle Park. Perhaps it was the fact that the
Trafficks had been effectually extruded from Glenbogie, but would
doubtless turn up at Merle Park, should Lady Tringle take up
her residence there before the autumn was over. That they should
spend their Christmas at Merle Park was an acknowledged thing
-- to mamma Tringle an acknowledged benefit, because she liked
to have her daughter with her; to papa Tringle an acknowledged
evil, because he could not endure to be made to give more than
he intended to give. That they should remain there afterwards
through January, and till the meeting of Parliament, was to be
expected. But it was hoped that they might be driven to find
some home for themselves if they were left homeless by Sir Thomas
for a while. The little plan was hardly successful, as Mr Traffick
had put his wife into lodgings at Hastings, ready to pounce down
on Merle Park as soon as Lady Tringle should have occupied the
house a few days. Lady Tringle was now going there with the rest
of the family, Sir Thomas having been in town for the last six
weeks. 

Lucy took advantage of the day which they passed in London, and
succeeded in getting across to the Crescent. At this time she
had heard nothing of Colonel Stubbs, and was full indeed of her
own troubles. 

"You haven't seen him?" she said to her sister. 

"Seen who?" asked Ayala, who had two "hims" to her bow -- and
thought at the moment rather of her own two "hims" than of Lucy's
one. 

"Isadore. He said that he would call here." Ayala explained that
she had not seen him, having been absent from town during the
last ten days -- during which Mr Hamel had in fact called at
the house. "Ayala," concluded Lucy, "what am I to do?" 

"Stick to him," said Ayala, firmly. 

"Of course I shall. But Aunt Emmeline thinks that I ought to
give him up or -- " 

"Or what?" 

"Or go away," said Lucy, very gravely. 

"Where would you go to?" 

"Oh, where indeed? Of course he would have me, but it would be
ruin to him to marry a wife without a penny when he earns only
enough for his own wants. His father has quarrelled with him
altogether. He says that nobody can prevent our being married
if we please, and that he is quite ready to make a home for me
instantly; but I know that last year he hardly earned more than
two hundred pounds after paying all his expenses, and were I
to take him at his word I should ruin him." 

"Would Uncle Tom turn you out?" 

"He has been away almost ever since Mr Hamel came to Glenbogie,
and I do not know what he will say. Aunt Emmeline declares that
I can only stay with them just as though I were her daughter,
and that a daughter would be bound to obey her." 

"Does Gertrude obey her about Mr Houston?" 

"Gertrude has her own way with her mother altogether. And of
course a daughter cannot really be turned out. If she tells me
to go I suppose I must go." 

"I should ask Uncle Tom," said Ayala. "She could not make you
go out into the street. When she had to get rid of me, she could
send me here in exchange; but she can't say now that you don't
suit, and have me back again." 

"Oh, Ayala, it is so miserable. I feel that I do not know what
to do with myself." 

"Nor do I," said Ayala, jumping up from the bed on which she
was sitting. "It does seem to be so cross-grained. Nobody will
let you marry, and everybody will make me." 

"Do they still trouble you about Tom?" 

"It is not Tom now, Lucy. Another man has come up." 

"As a lover?" 

"Oh, yes; quite so. His name is -- such a name, Lucy -- his name
is Colonel Jonathan Stubbs." 

"That is Isadore's friend -- the man who lives at Drumcaller.
"Exactly. He told me that Mr Hamel was at Drumcaller with him.
And now he wants me to be his wife." 

"Do you not like him?" 

"That is the worst part of it all, Lucy. If I did not like him
I should not mind it half so much. It is just because I like
him so very much that I am so very unhappy. "His hair is just
the colour of Aunt Emmeline's big shawl." 

"What does that signify?" 

"And his mouth stretches almost from ear to ear." 

"I shouldn't care a bit for his mouth." 

"I don't think I do much, because he does look so good-natured
when he laughs. Indeed he is always the most good-natured man
that ever lived." 

"Has he got an income enough for marriage?" asked Lucy, whose
sorrows were already springing from that most fertile source
of sorrowing. 

"Plenty they tell me -- though I do not in the least know what
plenty means." 

"Then, Ayala, why should you not have him?" 

"Because I can't," said Ayala. "How is a girl to love a man if
she does not love him? Liking has nothing to do with it. You
don't think liking ought to have anything to do with it?" 

This question had not been answered when Aunt Margaret came into
the room, declaring that the Tringle manservant, who had walked
across the park with Miss Dormer, was waxing impatient. The sisters,
therefore, were separated, and Lucy returned to Queen's Gate.


CHAPTER 28
MISS DOCIMER

"I tell you fairly that I think you altogether wrong -- that
it is cowardly, unmanly, and disgraceful. I don't mean, you see,
to put what you call a fine point upon it." 

"No, you don't." 

"It is one of those matters on which a person must speak the
truth or not speak at all. I should not have spoken unless you
forced it upon me. You don't care for her in the least." 

"That's true. I do not know that I am especially quick at what
you call caring for young ladies. If I care for anybody it is
for you." 

"I suppose so; but that may as well be dropped for the present.
You mean to marry this girl simply because she has got a lot
of money?" 

"Exactly that -- as you before long will marry some gentleman
only because he has got money." 

"You have no right to say so because I am engaged to no man.
But if I were so it is quite different. Unless I marry I can
be nobody. I can have no existence that I can call my own. I
have no other way of pushing myself into the world's notice.
You are a man." 

"You mean to say that I could become a merchant or a lawyer --
be a Lord Chancellor in time, or perhaps an Archbishop of Canterbury."
"You can live and eat and drink and go where you wish without
being dependent on anyone. If I had your freedom and your means
do you think that I would marry for money?" 

In this dialogue the main part was taken by Mr Frank Houston,
whose ambition it was to marry Miss Gertrude Tringle, and the
lady's part by his cousin and intimate friend, Miss Imogene Docimer.
The scene was a walk through a pine forest on the southern slopes
of the Tyrolean Alps, and the occasion had been made a little
more exhilarating than usual by the fact that Imogene had been
strongly advised both by her brother, Mr Mudbury Docimer, and
by her sister-in law, Mrs Mudbury Docimer, not to take any more
distant rambles with her far-away cousin Frank Houston. In the
teeth of that advice this walk was taken, and the conversation
in the pine wood had at the present moment arrived at the point
above given. 

"I do not know that any two persons were ever further asunder
in an argument than you and I in this," said Frank, not in the
least disconcerted by the severe epithets which had been applied
to him. "I conceive that you are led away by a desire to deceive
yourself, whereas hypocrisy should only be used with the object
of deceiving others." 

"How do I deceive myself?" 

"In making believe that men are generally different from what
they are -- in trying to suppose that I ought to be, if I am
not, a hero. You shall not find a man whose main object is not
that of securing an income. The clergyman who preaches against
gold licks the ground beneath the minister's feet in order that
he may become a bishop. The barrister cares not with what case
he may foul his hands so long as he may become rich. The man
in trade is so aware of his own daily dishonesty that he makes
two separate existences for himself, and endeavours to atone
for his rascality in the City by his performance of all duties
at the West End. I regard myself to be so infinitely cleaner
in my conscience than other men that I could not bring myself
to be a bishop, an attorney-general, or a great merchant. Of
all the ways open to me this seems to me to be the least sordid.
I give her the only two things which she desires -- myself and
a position. She will give me the only thing I desire, which is
some money. When you marry you'll make an equally fine bargain
-- only your wares will be your beauty." 

"You will not give her yourself -- not your heart." 

"Yes, I shall. I shall make the most of her, and shall do so
by becoming as fond of her as I can. Of course I like breeding.
Of course I like beauty. Of course I like that aroma of feminine
charm which can only be produced by a mixture of intellect, loveliness,
taste, and early association. I don't pretend to say that my
future would not be much sweeter before me with you as my wife
-- if only either of us had a sufficiency of income. I acknowledge
that. But then I acknowledge also that I prefer Miss Tringle,
with L#100,000, to you with nothing; and I do not think that
I ought to be called unmanly, disgraceful, and a coward, because
I have courage enough to speak the truth openly to a friend whom
I trust. My theory of life shocks you, not because it is uncommon,
but because it is not commonly declared." 

They were silent for a while as they went on through the path,
and then Miss Docimer spoke to him in an altered voice. "I must
ask you not to speak to me again as one who by any possibility
could have been your wife." 

"Very well. You will not wish me to abandon the privilege of
thinking of past possibilities?" 

"I would -- if it were possible." 

"Quite impossible! One's thoughts, I imagine, are always supposed
to be one's own." 

"You know what I mean. A gentleman will always spare a woman
if he can do so; and there are cases such as have been ours,
in which it is a most imperative duty to do so. You should not
have followed us when you had made up your mind about this young
lady." 

"I took care to let you know, beforehand, that I intended it."
"You should not have thrown the weight upon me. You should not
even have written to me." 

"I wonder what you would have said then -- how loudly you would
have abused me -- had I not written! Would you not have told
me then that I had not the courage to be open with you?" He paused
for an answer, but she made none. "But I do recognize the necessity
of my becoming subject to abuse in this state of affairs. I have
been in no respect false, nor in any way wanting in affection.
When I suggested to you that 600 pounds a year between us, with
an increasing family, and lodgings in Marylebone, would be uncomfortable,
you shuddered at the prospect. When I explained to you that you
would have the worst of it because my club would be open to me,
you were almost angry with me because I seemed to imply that
there could be any other than one decision." 

"There could only be one decision -- unless you were man enough
to earn your bread." 

"But I wasn't. But I ain't. You might as well let that accident
pass, sans dire. Was there ever a moment in which you thought
that I should earn my bread?" 

"Never for a moment did I endow you with the power of doing anything
so manly." 

"Then why throw it in my teeth now? That is not fair. However,
I do own that I have to be abused. I don't see any way in which
you and I are to part without it. But you need not descend to
Billingsgate." 

"I have not descended to Billingsgate, Mr Houston." 

"Upper-world Billingsgate! Cowardice, as an accusation from a
woman to a man, is upper-world Billingsgate. But it doesn't matter.
Of course I know what it means. Do you think your brother wants
me to go away at once?" 

"At once," she said. 

"That would be disagreeable and absurd. You mean to sit to me
for that head?" 

"Certainly not." 

"I cannot in the least understand why not. What has a question
of art to do with marriage or giving in marriage? And why should
Mrs Docimer be so angry with me, when she has known the truth
all along?" 

"There are questions which it is of no avail to answer. I have
come out with you now because I thought it well that we should
have a final opportunity of understanding each other. You understand
me at any rate." 

"Perfectly," he said. "You have taken especial care on this occasion
to make yourself intelligible." 

"So I intended. And as you do understand me, and know how far
I am from approving your philosophy, you can hardly wish to remain
with us longer." Then they walked on together in absolute silence
for above a mile. They had come out of the wood, and were descending,
by a steep and narrow path, to the village in which stood the
hotel at which the party was staying. Another ten minutes would
take them down to the high road. The path here ran by the side
of a rivulet, the course of which was so steep that the waters
made their way down in a succession of little cataracts. From
the other side of the path was a fence, so close to it, that
on this particular spot there was room only for one to walk.
Here Frank Houston stepped in front of his companion, so as to
stop her. "Imogene," he said, "if it is intended that I am to
start by the diligence for Innsbruck this evening, you had better
bid me farewell at once." 

"I have bidden you farewell," she said. 

"Then you have done it in so bitter a mood that you had better
try your hand at it again. Heaven only knows in what manner you
or I may meet again." 

"What does it matter?" she asked. 

"I have always felt that the hearts of men are softer than the
hearts of women. A woman's hand is soft, but she can steel her
heart when she thinks it necessary, as no man can do. Does it
occur to you at this moment that there has been some true affection
between you and me in former days?" 

"I wish it did not." 

"It may be so that I wish it also but there is the fact. No wishing
will enable me to get rid of it. No wishing will save me from
the memory of early dreams and sweet longings and vain triumphs.
There is the remembrance of bright glory made very sad to me
by the meanness of the existing truth. I do not say but that
I would obliterate it if I could; but it is not to be obliterated;
the past will not be made more pleasant to me by any pretence
of present indignation. I should have thought that it would have
been the same with you." 

"There has been no glory," she said, "though I quite acknowledge
the meanness." 

"There has been at any rate some love." 

"Misplaced. You had better let me pass on. I have, as you say,
steeled myself. I will not condescend to any tenderness. In my
brother's presence and my sister's I will wish you goodbye and
express a hope that you may be successful in your enterprises.
Here, by the brook-side, out upon the mountain path, where there
is no one to hear us but our two selves, I will bid you no farewell
softer than that already spoken. Go and do as you propose. You
have my leave. When it shall have been done there shall never
be a word spoken by me against it. But, when you ask me whether
you are right, I will only say that I think you to be wrong.
It may be that you owe nothing to me; but you owe something to
her, and something also to yourself. Now, Mr Houston, I shall
be glad to pass on." 

He shrugged his shoulders and then stepped out of the path, thinking
as he did so how ignorant he had been, after all that had passed,
of much of the character of Imogene Docimer. It could not be,
he had thought, but that she would melt into softness at last.
"I will not condescend to any tenderness," she had said, and
it seemed that she would be as good as her word. He then walked
down before her in silence, and in silence they reached the inn.
"Mr Houston," said Mrs Docimer, before they sat down to dinner
together, "I thought it was understood that you and Imogene should
not go out alone together again." 

"I have taken my place to Innsbruck by the diligence this evening,"
he answered. 

"Perhaps it will be better so, though both Mudbury and I will
be sorry to lose your company." 

"Yes, Mrs Docimer, I have taken my place. Your sister seemed
to think that there would be great danger if I waited till tomorrow
morning when I could have got a pleasant lift in a return carriage.
I hate travelling at night and I hate diligences. I was quite
prepared to post all the way, though it would have ruined me
-- only for this accursed diligence." 

"I am sorry you should be inconvenienced." 

"It does not signify. What a man without a wife may suffer in
that way never does signify. It's just fourteen hours. You wouldn't
like Docimer to come with me." 

"That's nonsense. You needn't go the whole way unless you like.
You could sleep at Brunecken." 

"Brunecken is only twelve miles, and it might be dangerous."
"Of course you choose to turn everything into ridicule." 

"Better that than tears, Mrs Docimer. What's the good of crying?
I can't make myself an elder son. I can't endow Imogene with
a hundred thousand pounds. She told me just now that I might
earn my bread, but she knows that I can't. It's very sad. But
what can be got by being melancholy?" 

"At any rate you had better be away from her." 

"I am going -- this evening. Shall I walk on, half a stage, at
once, without any dinner? I wish you had heard the kind of things
she said to me. You would not have thought that I had gone to
walk with her for my own pleasure." 

"Have you not deserved them?" 

"I think not -- but nevertheless I bore them. A woman, of course,
can say what she pleases. There's Docimer -- I hope he won't
call me a coward." 

Mr Docimer came out on the terrace, on which the two were standing,
looking as sour as death. "He is going by the diligence to Innsbruck
this afternoon," said Mrs Docimer. 

"Why did he come? A man with a grain of feeling would have remained
away." 

"Now, Docimer," said Frank, "pray do not make yourself unpleasant.
Your sister has been abusing me all the morning like a pickpocket,
and your wife looks at me as though she would say just as much
if she dared. After all, what is it I have done that you think
so wicked?" 

"What will everybody think at home", said Mrs Docimer, "when
they know that you're with us again? What chance is she to have
if you follow her about in this way?" 

"I shall not follow her very long," said Frank. "My wings will
soon be cut, and then I shall never fly again." They were at
this time walking up and down the terrace together, and it seemed
for a while that neither of them had another word to say in the
matter of the dispute between them. Then Houston went on again
in his own defence. "Of course it is all bad," he said. "Of course
we have all been fools. You knew it, and allowed it; and have
no right to say a word to me." 

"We thought that when your uncle died there would have been money,"
said Docimer, with a subdued growl. 

"Exactly; and so did I. You do not mean to say that I deceived
either you or her?" 

"There should have been an end of it when that hope was over."
"Of course there should. There should never have been a dream
that she or I could marry on six hundred a year. Had not all
of us been fools, we should have taken our hats off and bade
each other farewell for ever when the state of the old man's
affairs was known. We were fools; but we were fools together;
and none of us have a right to abuse the others. When I became
acquainted with this young lady at Rome, it had been settled
among us that Imogene and I must seek our fortunes apart." 

"Then why did you come after her?" again asked Mr Docimer. 

At this moment Imogene herself joined them on the terrace. "Mary,"
she said to her sister-in-law, "I hope you are not carrying on
this battle with Mr Houston. I have said what there was to be
said." 

"You should have held your tongue and said nothing," growled
her brother. 

"Be that as it may I have said it, and he quite understands what
I think about it. Let us eat our dinner in peace and quietness,
and then let him go on his travels. He has the world free before
him, which he no doubt will open like an oyster, though he does
not carry a sword." Soon after this they did dine, and contented
themselves with abusing the meat and the wine, and finding fault
with Tyrolese cookery, just as though they had no deeper cares
near their hearts. Precisely at six the heavy diligence stopped
before the hotel door, and Houston, who was then smoking with
Docimer on the terrace, got up to bid them adieu. Mrs Docimer
was kind and almost affectionate, with a tear in her eye. "Well
old fellow," said Docimer, "take care of yourself. Perhaps everything
will turn up right some of these days." "Goodbye, Mr Houston,"
said Imogene, just giving him her hand to touch in the lightest
manner possible. "God bless you, Imogene," said he. And there
was a tear also in his eye. But there was none in hers, as she
stood looking at him while he prepared himself for his departure;
nor did she say another word to him as he went. "And now", said
she, when the three of them were left upon the terrace, "I will
ask a great favour of you both. I will beg you not to let there
be another word about Mr Houston among us." After that she rambled
out by herself, and was not seen again by either of them that
evening. 

When she was alone she too shed her tears, though she felt impatient
and vexed with herself as they came into her eyes. It was not
perhaps only for her lost love that she wept. Had no one known
that her love had been given and then lost she might have borne
it without weeping. But now, in carrying on this vain affair
of hers, in devoting herself to a lover who had, with her own
consent, passed away from her, she had spent the sweet fresh
years of her youth, and all those who knew her would know that
it had been so. He had told her that it would be her fate to
purchase for herself a husband with her beauty. It might be so.
At any rate she did not doubt her own beauty. But, if it were
to be so, then the romance and the charm of her life were gone.
She had quite agreed that six hundred a year, and lodgings in
Marylebone, would be quite unendurable; but what was there left
for her that would be endurable? He could be happy with the prospect
of Gertrude Tringle's money. She could not be happy, looking
forward to that unloved husband who was to be purchased by her
beauty. 


CHAPTER 29
AT MERLE PARK. NO. 1

Sir Thomas took the real holiday of the year at Glenbogie --
where he was too far removed from Lombard Street to be drawn
daily into the vortex of his millions. He would stay usually
six weeks at Glenbogie -- which were by no means the happiest
weeks of the year. Of all the grand things of the world which
his energy and industry had produced for him, he loved his millions
the best. It was not because they were his -- as indeed they
were not. A considerable filing off them -- what he regarded
as his percentage -- annually became his own; but it was not
this that he loved. In describing a man's character it is the
author's duty to give the man his due. Sir Thomas liked his own
wealth well enough. Where is the rich man who does not? -- or
where is the poor man who does not wish that he had it to like?
But what he loved were the millions with which Travers and Treason
dealt. He was Travers and Treason, though his name did not even
appear in the firm, and he dealt with the millions. He could
affect the rate of money throughout Europe, and emissaries from
national treasuries would listen to his words. He had been Governor
and Deputy-Governor of the Bank of England. All the City respected
him, not so much because he was rich, as that he was one who
thoroughly understood millions. If Russia required to borrow
some infinite number of roubles, he knew how to arrange it, and
could tell to a rouble at what rate money could be made by it,
and at what rate money would certainly be lost. He liked his
millions, and was therefore never quite comfortable at Glenbogie.
But at Merle Park he was within easy reach of London. At Merle
Park he was not obliged to live, from week's end to week's end,
without a sight of Lombard Street. The family might be at Merle
Park, while he might come down on a Friday and remain till Tuesday
morning. That was the plan proposed for Merle Park. As a fact
he would spend four days in town, and only two down in the country.
Therefore, though he spent his so-named holiday at Glenbogie,
Merle Park was the residence which he loved. 

In this autumn he went up to London long before his family, and
then found them at Merle Park on the Saturday after their arrival
there. They had gone down on the previous Wednesday. On the Saturday,
when he entered the house, the first thing he saw was Mr Traffick's
hat in the hall. This was Saturday, 23rd November, and there
would be three months before Parliament would meet! A curse was
not muttered, but just formed between his teeth, as he saw the
hat. Sir Thomas, in his angriest mood, never went so far as quite
to mutter his curses. Will one have to expiate the anathemas
which are well kept within the barrier of the teeth, or only
those which have achieved some amount of utterance? Sir Thomas
went on, with a servant at his heels, chucking about the doors
rather violently, till he found Mr Traffick alone in the drawing-room.
Mr Traffick had had a glass of sherry and bitters brought in
for his refreshment and Sir Thomas saw the glass on the mantelpiece.
He never took sherry and bitters himself. One glass of wine,
with his two o'clock mutton chop, sufficed him till dinner. It
was all very well to be a Member of Parliament, but, after all,
Members of Parliament never do anything. Men who work don't take
sherry and bitters! Men who work don't put their hats in other
people's halls without leave from the master of the house! "Where's
your mistress?" said Sir Thomas, to the man, without taking any
notice of his son-in-law. The ladies had only just come in from
driving, were very cold, and had gone up to dress. Sir Thomas
went out of the room, again banging the door, and again taking
no notice of Mr Traffick. Mr Traffick put his hand up to the
mantelpiece, and finished his sherry and bitters. 

"My dear," said Mr Traffick to his wife, up in her bedroom, "your
father has come down in one of his tantrums." 

"I knew he would," said Augusta. 

"But it does not signify the least. Give him a kiss when you
see him, and don't seem to notice it. There is not a man in the
world has a higher regard for me than your father, but if anyone
were to see him in one of his tantrums they would suppose he
meant to be uncivil." 

"I hope he won't be downright unkind, Septimus," said his wife.
"Never fear! The kindest-hearted man in the world is your father."
"So he's here!" That was the first word of greeting which Sir
Thomas addressed to his wife in her bedroom. 

"Yes, Tom -- they're here." 

"When did they come?" 

"Well -- to tell the truth, we found them here." 

"The  -- !" But Sir Thomas restrained the word on the right,
or inside, of the teeth. 

"They thought we were to be here a day sooner, and so they came
on the Wednesday morning. They were to come, you know." 

"I wish I knew when they were to go." 

"You don't want to turn your own daughter out of your own house?"
"Why doesn't he get a house of his own for her? For her sake
why doesn't he do it? He has the spending of L#6,000 a year of
my money, and yet I am to keep him! No -- I don't want to turn
my daughter out of my house; but it'll end in my turning him
out." 

When a week had passed by Mr Traffick had not been as yet turned
out. Sir Thomas, when he came back to Merle Park on the following
Friday, condescended to speak to his son-in-law, and to say something
to him as to the news of the day; but this he did in an evident
spirit of preconceived hostility. "Everything is down again,"
he said. 

"Fluctuations are always common at this time of the year," said
Traffick; "but I observe that trade always becomes brisk a little
before Christmas." 

"To a man with a fixed income like you, it doesn't much matter,"
said Sir Thomas. 

"I was looking at it in a public light." 

"Exactly. A man who has an income, and never spends it, need
not trouble himself with private views as to the money market."
Mr Traffick rubbed his hands, and asked whether the new buildings
at the back of the Lombard Street premises were nearly finished.
Mr Traffick's economy had a deleterious effect upon Gertrude,
which she, poor girl, did not deserve. Sir Thomas, deeply resolving
in his mind that he would, at some not very distant date, find
means by which he would rid himself of Mr Traffick, declared
to himself that he would not, at any rate, burden himself with
another son-in-law of the same kind. Frank Houston was, to his
thinking, of the same kind, and therefore he hardened his heart
against Frank Houston. Now Frank Houston, could he have got his
wife with L#6,000 a year -- as Mr Traffick had done -- would
certainly not have troubled the Tringle mansions with too much
of his presence. It would have been his object to remove himself
as far as possible from the Tringles, and to have enjoyed his
life luxuriously with the proceeds of his wife's fortune. But
his hopes in this respect were unjustly impeded by Mr Traffick's
parsimony. Soon after leaving the hotel in the Tyrol at which
we lately saw him, Frank Houston wrote to his lady-love, declaring
the impatience of his ardour, and suggesting that it would be
convenient if everything could be settled before Christmas. In
his letter he declared to Gertrude how very uncomfortable it
was to him to have to discuss money matters with her father.
It was so disagreeable that he did not think that he could bring
himself to do it again. But, if she would only be urgent with
her father, she would of course prevail. Acting upon this Gertrude
determined to be urgent with her father on his second coming
to Merle Park, when, as has been explained, Sir Thomas was in
a frame of mind very much opposed to impecunious sons-in-law.
Previous to attacking her father Gertrude had tried her hand
again upon her mother, but Lady Tringle had declined. "If anything
is to be done you must do it yourself," Lady Tringle had said.
"Papa," said Gertrude, having followed him into a little sitting-room
where he digested and arranged his telegrams when at Merle Park,
"I wish something could be settled about Mr Houston." 

Sir Thomas at this moment was very angry. Mr Traffick had not
only asked for the loan of a carriage to take him into Hastings,
but had expressed a wish that there might be a peculiar kind
of claret served at dinner with which he was conversant and to
which he was much attached. "Then", said he, "you may as well
have it all settled at once." 

"How, papa?" 

"You may understand for good and all that I will have nothing
to do with Mr Houston." 

"Papa, that would be very cruel." 

"My dear, if you call me cruel I will not allow you to come and
talk to me at all. Cruel indeed! What is your idea of cruelty?"
"Everybody knows that we are attached to each other." 

"Everybody knows nothing of the kind. I know nothing of the kind.
And you are only making a fool of yourself. Mr Houston is a penniless
adventurer and is only attached to my money. He shall never see
a penny of it." 

"He is not an adventurer, papa. He is much less like an adventurer
than Mr Traffick. He has an income of his own, only it is not
much." 

"About as much as would pay his bill at the club for cigars and
champagne. You may make your mind at rest, for I will not give
Mr Houston a shilling. Why should a man expect to live out of
my earnings who never did a day's work in his life?" 

Gertrude left the room despondently, as there was nothing more
to be done on the occasion. But it seemed to her as though she
were being used with the utmost cruelty. Augusta had been allowed
to marry her man without a shilling, and had been enriched with
L#120,000. Why should she be treated worse than Augusta? She
was very strongly of opinion that Frank Houston was very much
better than Septimus Traffick. Mr Traffick's aptitude for saving
his money was already known to the whole household. Frank would
never wish to save. Frank would spend her income for her like
a gentleman. Frank would not hang about Glenbogie or Merle Park
till he should be turned out. Everybody was fond of Frank. But
she, Gertrude, had already learnt to despise Mr Traffick, Member
of Parliament though he was. She had already begun to think that
having been chosen by Frank Houston, who was decidedly a man
of fashion, she had proved herself to be of higher calibre than
her sister Augusta. But her father's refusal to her had been
not only very rough but very decided. She would not abandon her
Frank. Such an idea never for a moment crossed her mind. But
what step should she next take? Thinking over it during the whole
of the day she did at last form a plan. But she greatly feared
that the plan would not recommend itself to Mr Frank Houston.
She was not timid, but he might be so. In spite of her father's
anger and roughness she would not doubt his ultimate generosity;
but Frank might doubt it. If Frank could be induced to come and
carry her off from Merle Park and marry her in some manner approved
for such occasions, she would stand the risk of getting the money
afterwards. But she was greatly afraid that the risk would be
too much for Frank. She did not, however, see any other scheme
before her. As to waiting patiently till her father's obdurate
heart should be softened by the greater obduracy of her own love,
there was a tedium and a prolonged dullness in such a prospect
which were anything but attractive to her. Had it been possible
she would have made a bargain with her father. "If you won't
give us L#120,000 let us begin with L#60,000." But even this
she feared would not altogether be agreeable to Frank. Let her
think of it how she would, that plan of being run away with seemed
alone to be feasible -- and not altogether disagreeable. 

It was necessary that she should answer her lover's letter. No
embargo had as yet been put upon her correspondence, and therefore
she could send her reply without external difficulty: 

Dear Frank, [she said,] I quite agree with you about Christmas.
It ought to be settled. But I have very bad news to send to you.
I have been to papa as you told me, but he was very unkind. Nothing
could be worse. He said that you ought to earn your bread, which
is, of course, all humbug. He didn't understand that there ought
to be some gentlemen who never earn their bread. I am sure, if
you had been earning your bread by going to Lombard Street every
day, I shouldn't have ever cared for you. 

He says that he will not give a single shilling. I think he is
angry because Augusta's husband will come and live here always.
That is disgusting, of course. But it isn't my fault. It is either
that, or else some money has gone wrong -- or perhaps he had
a very bad fit of indigestion. He was, however, so savage, that
I really do not know how to go to him again. Mamma is quite afraid
of him, and does not dare say a word, because it was she who
managed about Mr Traffick. 

What ought to be done? Of course, I don't like to think that
you should be kept waiting. I am not sure that I quite like it
myself. I will do anything you propose, and am not afraid of
running a little risk. If we could get married without his knowing
anything about it, I am sure he would give the money afterwards
-- because he is always so good-natured in the long run, and
so generous. He can be very savage, but he would be sure to forgive.
How would it be if I were to go away? I am of age, and I believe
that no one could stop me. If you could manage that we should
get married in that way, I would do my best. I know people can
get themselves married at Ostend. I do not see what else is to
be done. You can write to me at present here, and nothing wrong
will come of it. But Augusta says that if papa were to begin
to suspect anything about my going away he would stop my letters.
Dear Frank, I am yours always, and always most lovingly, 

GERTRUDE

"You needn't be a bit afraid but that I should be quite up to
going off if you could arrange it." 

"I believe, papa," said Mrs Traffick, on the afternoon of the
day on which this was written, "that Gertrude is thinking of
doing something wrong, and therefore I feel it to be my duty
to bring you this letter." Augusta had not been enabled to read
the letter, but had discussed with her sister the propriety of
eloping. "I won't advise it," she had said, "but, if you do,
Mr Houston should arrange to be married at Ostend. I know that
can be done." Some second thought had perhaps told her that any
such arrangement would be injurious to the noble blood of the
Traffick family, and she had therefore "felt it to be her duty"
to extract the letter from the family letter-box, and to give
it to her father. A daughter who could so excellently do her
duty would surely not be turned out before Parliament met. 

Sir Thomas took the letter and said not a word to his elder child.
When he was alone he doubted. He was half-minded to send the
letter on. What harm could the two fools do by writing to each
other? While he held the strings of the purse there could be
no marriage. Then he bethought himself of his paternal authority,
of the right he had to know all that his daughter did -- and
he opened the letter. "There ought to be gentlemen who don't
earn their bread!" "Ought there?" said he to himself. If so,
these gentlemen ought not to come to him for bread. He was already
supporting one such, and that was quite enough. "Mamma is quite
afraid of him, and doesn't dare say a word." That he rather liked.
"I am sure he would give the money afterwards." "I am sure he
would do no such thing," he said to himself, and he reflected
that in such a condition he should rather be delighted than otherwise
in watching the impecunious importunities of his baffled son-in-law.
The next sentence reconciled his girl to him almost entirely.
"He is always so good-natured in the long run, and so generous!"
For "good-natured" he did not care much, but he liked to be thought
generous. Then he calmly tore the letter in little bits, and
threw them into the waste paper basket. 

He sat for ten minutes thinking what he had better do, finding
the task thus imposed upon him to be much more difficult than
the distribution of a loan. At last he determined that, if he
did nothing, things would probably settle themselves. Mr Houston,
when he received no reply from his lady-love, would certainly
be quiescent, and Gertrude, without any assent from her lover,
could hardly arrange her journey to Ostend. Perhaps it might
be well that he should say a word of caution to his wife; but
as to that he did not at present quite make up his mind, as he
was grievously disturbed while he was considering the subject.
"If you please, Sir Thomas," said the coachman, hurrying into
the room almost without the ceremony of knocking -- "if you please,
Phoebe mare has been brought home with both her knees cut down
to the bone." 

"What!" exclaimed Sir Thomas, who indulged himself in a taste
for horseflesh, and pretended to know one animal from another.
"Yes, indeed, Sir Thomas, down to the bone," said the coachman,
who entertained all that animosity against Mr Traffick which
domestics feel for habitual guests who omit the ceremony of tipping.
"Mr Traffick brought her down on Windover Hill, Sir Thomas, and
she'll never be worth a feed of oats again. I didn't think a
man was born who could throw that mare off her feet, Sir Thomas."
Now Mr Traffick, when he had borrowed the phaeton and pair of
horses that morning to go into Hastings, had dispensed with the
services of a coachman, and had insisted on driving himself.


CHAPTER 30
AT MERLE PARK. NO. 2

Has any irascible reader -- any reader who thoroughly enjoys
the pleasure of being in a rage -- encountered suddenly some
grievance which, heavy as it may be, has been more than compensated
by the privilege it has afforded of blowing-up the offender?
Such was the feeling of Sir Thomas as he quickly followed his
coachman out of the room. He had been very proud of his Phoebe
mare, who could trot with him from the station to the house at
the rate of twelve miles an hour. But in his present frame of
mind he had liked the mare less than he disliked his son-in-law.
Mr Traffick had done him this injury, and he now had Mr Traffick
on the hip. There are some injuries for which a host cannot abuse
his guest. If your best Venetian decanter be broken at table
you are bound to look as though you liked it. But if a horse
be damaged a similar amount of courtesy is hardly required. The
well-nurtured gentleman, even in that case, will only look unhappy
and not say a word. Sir Thomas was hardly to be called a well-nurtured
gentleman; and then it must be remembered that the offender was
his son-in-law. "Good heavens!" he exclaimed, hurrying into the
yard. "What is this?" 

The mare was standing out on the pavement with three men around
her, of whom one was holding her head, another was down on his
knees washing her wounds, and the third was describing the fatal
nature of the wounds which she had received. Traffick was standing
at a little distance, listening in silence to the implied rebukes
of the groom. "Good heavens, what is this?" repeated Sir Thomas,
as he joined the conclave. 

"There are a lot of loose stones on that hill," said Traffick,
"and she tripped on one and came down, all in a lump, before
you could look at her. I'm awfully sorry, but it might have happened
to anyone." 

Sir Thomas knew how to fix his darts better than by throwing
them direct at his enemy. "She has utterly destroyed herself,"
said he, addressing himself to the head groom, who was busily
employed with the sponge in his hand. 

"I'm afraid she has, Sir Thomas. The joint-oil will be sure to
run on both knees; the gashes is so mortal deep." 

"I've driven that mare hundreds of times down that hill," said
Sir Thomas, "and I never knew her to trip before." 

"Never, Sir Thomas," said the groom. 

"She'd have come down with you today," said Mr Traffick, defending
himself. 

"It was my own fault, Bunsum. That's all that can be said about
it." Bunsum the groom, kneeling as he was, expressed, by his
grimaces, his complete agreement with this last opinion of his
master. "Of course I ought to have known that he couldn't drive,"
said Sir Thomas. 

"A horse may fall down with anybody," said Mr Traffick. 

"You'd better take her and shoot her," said Sir Thomas, still
addressing the groom. "She was the best thing we had in the stable,
but now she is done for." With that he turned away from the yard
without having as yet addressed a word to his son-in-law. 

This was so intolerable that even Mr Traffick could not bear
it in silence. "I have told you that I am very sorry," said he,
following Sir Thomas closely, "and I don't know what a man can
do more." 

"Nothing -- unless it be not to borrow a horse again." 

"You may be sure I will never do that." 

"I'm not sure of it at all. If you wanted another tomorrow you'd
ask for him if you thought you could get him." 

"I call that very uncivil, Sir Thomas -- and very unkind." 

"Bother!" said Sir Thomas. "It is no good in being kind to a
fellow like you. Did you ever hear what the cabman did who had
a sovereign given to him for driving a mile? He asked the fool
who gave it him to make it a guinea. I am the fool, and, by George,
you are the cabman!" With this Sir Thomas turned into the house
by a small door, leaving his son-in-law to wander round to the
front by himself. 

"Your father has insulted me horribly," he said to his wife,
whom he found up in her bedroom. 

"What is the matter now, Septimus?" 

"That little mare of his, which I have no doubt has come down
half a score of times before, fell with me and cut her knees."
"That's Phoebe," said Augusta. "She was his favourite." 

"It's a kind of thing that might happen to anyone, and no gentleman
thinks of mentioning it. He said such things to me that upon
my word I don't think I can stop in the house any longer." 

"Oh, yes, you will," said the wife. 

"Of course, it is a difference coming from one's father-in-law.
It's almost the same as from one's father." 

"He didn't mean it, Septimus." 

"I suppose not. If he had, I really couldn't have borne it. He
does become very rough sometimes, but I know that at bottom he
has a thorough respect for me. It is only that induces me to
bear it." Then it was settled between husband and wife that they
should remain in their present quarters, and that not a word
further should be said, at any rate by them, about the Phoebe
mare. Nor did Sir Thomas say another word about the mare, but
he added a note to those already written in the tablets of his
memory as to his son-in-law, and the note declared that no hint,
let it be ever so broad, would be effectual with Mr Traffick.
The next day was a Sunday, and then another trouble awaited Sir
Thomas. At this time it was not customary with Tom to come often
to Merle Park. He had his own lodgings in London and his own
club, and did not care much for the rural charms of Merle Park.
But on this occasion he had condescended to appear, and on the
Sunday afternoon informed his father that there was a matter
which he desired to discuss with him. "Father," said he, "I am
getting confoundedly sick of all this." 

"Confounded", said Sir Thomas, "is a stupid foolish word, and
it means nothing." 

"There is a sort of comfort in it, Sir," said Tom; "but if it's
objectionable I'll drop it." 

"It is objectionable." 

"I'll drop it, Sir. But nevertheless I am very sick of it." 

"What are you sick of, Tom?" 

"All this affair with my cousin." 

"Then, if you take my advice, you'll drop that too." 

"I couldn't do that, father. A word is all very well. A man can
drop a word; but a girl is a different sort of thing. One can't
drop a girl, even if one tries." 

"Have you tried, Tom?" 

"Yes, I have. I've done my best to try. I put it out of my mind
for a fortnight and wouldn't think of her. I had a bottle of
champagne every day at dinner and then went to the theatre. But
it was all of no use. I have set my heart on it and I can't give
her up. I'll tell you what I'd like to do. I'd like to give her
a diamond necklace." 

"It wouldn't be the slightest use," said Sir Thomas, shaking
his head. 

"Why not? It's what other men do. I mean it to be something handsome
-- about three hundred pounds." 

"That's a large sum of money for a necklace." 

"Some of them cost a deal more than that." 

"And you'd only throw away your money." 

"If she took it, she'd take me too. If she didn't -- why I should
still have the diamonds. I mean to try any way." 

"Then it's of no use your coming to me." 

"I thought you'd let me have the money. It's no good running
into debt for them. And then if you'd add something of your own
-- a locket, or something of that kind -- I think it would have
an effect. I have seen a necklace at Ricolay's, and if I could
pay ready money for it I could have twenty percent off it. The
price named is three hundred guineas. That would make it L#254
5s. L#250 would buy it if the cheque was offered." 

There was a spirit about the son which was not displeasing to
the father. That idea that the gift, if accepted, would be efficacious,
or if not that it would be rejected -- so that Tom would not
lose his hopes and his diamonds together -- seemed to be sound.
Sir Thomas, therefore, promised the money, with the distinct
understanding that if the gift were not accepted by Ayala it
should be consigned to his own hands. But as for any present
from himself, he felt that this would not be the time for it.
He had called upon his niece and solicited her himself, and she
had been deaf to his words. After that he could not condescend
to send her gifts. "Should she become my promised daughter-in-law
then I would send her presents," said Sir Thomas. 

The poor man certainly received less pleasure from his wealth
than was credited to him by those who knew his circumstances.
Yet he endeavoured to be good to those around him, and especially
good to his children. There had been present to him ever since
the beginning of his successes -- ever since his marriage --
a fixed resolution that he would not be a curmudgeon with his
money, that he would endeavour to make those happy who depended
on him, and that he would be liberal in such settlements for
his children as might be conducive to their happiness and fortunes
in life. In this way he had been very generous to Mr Traffick.
The man was a Member of Parliament, the son of a peer, and laborious.
Why should he expect more? Money was wanting, but he could supply
the money. So he had supplied it, and had been content to think
that a good man should be propped up in the world by his means.
What that had come to the reader knows. He thoroughly detested
his son-in-law, and would have given much to have had his money
back again -- so that Mr Traffick should have had no share in
it. 

Then there was his second daughter! What should be done with
Gertrude? The money should be forthcoming for her too if the
fitting man could be found. But he would have nothing further
to do with a penniless lover, let his position in the world of
fashion, or even in the world of politics, be what it might.
The man should either have wealth of his own, or should be satisfied
to work for it. Houston had been unfortunate in the moment of
his approaches. Sir Thomas had been driven by his angry feelings
to use hard, sharp words, and now was forced to act up to his
words. He declared roughly that Mr Houston should not have a
shilling of his money -- as he had certainly been justified for
doing; and his daughter, who had always been indulged in every
kind of luxury, had at once concocted a plot for running away
from her home! As he thought of the plot it seemed to be wonderful
to him that she should be willing to incur such a danger -- to
be ready without a penny to marry a penniless man -- till he
confessed to himself that, were she to do so, she would certainly
have the money sooner or later. He was capable of passion, capable
of flying out and saying a very severe thing to Septimus Traffick
or another when his temper was hot; but he was incapable of sustained
wrath. He was already aware that if Mr Traffick chose to stay
he would stay -- that if Mr Houston were brave enough to be persistent
he might have both the money and the girl. As he thought of it
all he was angry with himself, wishing that he were less generous,
less soft, less forgiving. 

And now here was Tom -- whom at the present moment he liked the
best of all his children, who of the three was the least inclined
to run counter to him -- ready to break his heart, because he
could not get a little chit of a girl of whom he would probably
be tired in twelve months after he possessed her! Remembering
what Tom had been, he was at a loss to understand how such a
lad should be so thoroughly in love. At the present moment, had
Ayala been purchaseable, he would have been willing to buy her
at a great price, because he would fain have pleased Tom had
it been possible. But Ayala, who had not a penny in the world
-- who never would have a penny unless he should give it her
-- would not be purchased, and would have nothing to do with
Tom! The world was running counter to him, so that he had no
pleasure in his home, no pleasure in his money, no pleasure in
his children. The little back parlour in Lombard Street was sweeter
to him than Merle Park, with all its charms. His daughter Gertrude
wanted to run away from him, while by no inducement could he
get Mr Traffick to leave the house. 

While he was in this humour he met his niece Lucy roaming about
the garden. He knew the whole story of Lucy's love, and had been
induced by his wife to acknowledge that her marriage with the
sculptor was not to be sanctioned. He had merely expressed his
scorn when the unfortunate circumstances of Hamel's birth had
been explained to him again and again. He had ridiculed the horror
felt by his wife at the equally ill-born brothers and sisters
in Rome. He had merely shaken his head when he was told that
Hamel's father never went inside any place of worship. But when
it was explained to him that the young man had, so to say, no
income at all, then he was forced to acknowledge that the young
man ought not to be allowed to marry his niece. 

To Lucy herself he had as yet said nothing on the subject since
he had asked the lover in to lunch at Glenbogie. He heard bad
accounts of her. He had been told by his wife, on different occasions
-- not in the mere way of conversation, but with premeditated
energy of fault-finding -- that Lucy was a disobedient girl.
She was worse than Ayala. She persisted in saying that she would
marry the penniless artist as soon as he should profess himself
to be ready. It had been different, she had tried to explain
to her aunt, before she had been engaged to him. Now she considered
herself to be altogether at his disposal. This had been her plea,
but her plea had been altogether unacceptable to Aunt Emmeline.
"She can do as she pleases, of course," Sir Thomas had said.
That might be all very well; but Aunt Emmeline was strongly of
opinion that an adopted daughter of Queen's Gate, of Glenbogie,
and Merle Park, ought not to be allowed to do as she pleased
with herself. A girl ought not to be allowed to have the luxuries
of palatial residences, and the luxuries of free liberty of choice
at the same time. More than once it had occurred to Sir Thomas
that he would put an end to all these miseries by a mere scratch
of his pen. It need not be L#120,000, or L#100,000, as with a
daughter. A few modest thousands would do it. And then this man
Hamel, though the circumstances of his birth had been unfortunate,
was not an idler like Frank Houston. As far as Sir Thomas could
learn, the man did work, and was willing to work. The present
small income earned would gradually become more. He had a kindly
feeling towards Lucy, although he had been inclined to own that
her marriage with Hamel was out of the question. "My dear," he
said to her, "why are you walking about alone?" She did not like
to say that she was walking alone because she had no one to walk
with her -- no such companion as Isadore would be if Isadore
were allowed to come to Merle Park; so she simply smiled, and
went on by her uncle's side. "Do you like this place as well
as Glenbogie?" he asked. 

"Oh; yes." 

"Perhaps you will be glad to get back to London again?" 

"Oh; no." 

"Which do you like best, then?" 

"They are all so nice, if -- " 

"If what, Lucy?" 

"Caelum non animum mutant qui trans mare currunt," Lucy might
have said, had she known the passage. As it was she put the same
feeling into simpler words, "I should like one as well as the
other, Uncle Tom, if things went comfortably." 

"There's a great deal in that," he said. "I suppose the meaning
is, that you do not get on well with your aunt?" 

"I am afraid she is angry with me, Uncle Tom." 

"Why do you make her angry, Lucy? When she tells you what is
your duty, why do you not endeavour to do it?" 

"I cannot do what she tells me," said Lucy; "and, as I cannot,
I think I ought not to be here." 

"Have you anywhere else to go to?" To this she made no reply,
but walked on in silence. "When you say you ought not to be here,
what idea have you formed in your own mind as to the future?"
"That I shall marry Mr Hamel, some day." 

"Do you think it would be well to marry any man without an income
to live upon? Would it be a comfort to him seeing that he had
just enough to maintain himself, and no more?" These were terrible
questions to her -- questions which she could not answer, but
yet as to which her mind entertained an easy answer. A little
help from him, who was willing to indulge her with so many luxuries
while she was under his roof, would enable her to be an assistance
rather than a burden to her lover. But of this she could not
utter a word. "Love is all very well," continued Sir Thomas,
in his gruffest voice; "but love should be regulated by good
sense. It is a crime when two beggars think of marrying each
other  -- two beggars who are not prepared to live as beggars
do." 

"He is not a beggar," said Lucy, indignantly. "He has begged
nothing; nor have I." 

"Pshaw!" said Sir Thomas; "I was laying down a general rule.
I did not mean to call anybody a beggar. You shouldn't take me
up like that." 

"I beg your pardon, Uncle Tom," she said piteously. 

"Very well; very well; that will do." But still he went on walking
with her, and she felt she could not leave him till he gave her
some signal that she was to go. They continued in this way till
they had come nearly round the large garden; when he stopped,
as he was walking, and addressed her again. "I suppose you write
to him sometimes." 

"Yes," said Lucy, boldly. 

"Write to him at once, and tell him to come and see me in Lombard
Street on Tuesday, at two o'clock. Give me the letter, and I
will take care it is sent to him directly I get to town. Now
you had better go in, for it is getting very cold." 


CHAPTER 31
THE DIAMOND NECKLACE

Tom went up to London intent upon his diamonds. To tell the truth
he had already made the purchase subject to some question of
ready money. He now paid for it after considerable chaffering
as to the odd pounds, which he succeeded in bringing to a successful
termination. Then he carried the necklace away with him, revolving
in his mind the different means of presentation. He thought that
a letter might be best if only he was master of the language
in which such a letter should properly be written. But he entirely
doubted his own powers of composition. He was so modest in this
respect that he would not even make an attempt. He knew himself
well enough to be aware that he was in many respects ignorant.
He would have endeavoured to take the necklace personally to
Ayala had he not been conscious that he could not recommend his
present with such romantic phrases and touches of poetry as would
be gratifying to her fine sense. Were he to find himself in her
presence with the necklace he must depend on himself for his
words; but a letter might be sent in his own handwriting, the
poetry and romance of which might be supplied by another. 

Now it had happened that Tom had formed a marvellous friendship
in Rome with Colonel Stubbs. They had been hunting together in
the Campagna, and Tom had been enabled to accommodate the Colonel
with the loan of a horse when his own had been injured. They
had since met in London, and Stubbs had declared to more than
one of his friends that Tom, in spite of his rings and his jewelry,
was a very good fellow at bottom. Tom had been greatly flattered
by the intimacy, and had lately been gratified by an invitation
to Aldershot in order that the military glories of the camp might
be shown to him. He had accepted the invitation, and a day in
the present week had been fixed. Then it occurred to him suddenly
that he knew no one so fitted to write such a letter as that
demanded as his friend Colonel Jonathan Stubbs. He had an idea
that the Colonel, in spite of his red hair and in spite of a
certain aptitude for drollery which pervaded him, had a romantic
side to his character; and he felt confident that, as to the
use of language, the Colonel was very great indeed. He therefore,
when he went to Aldershot, carefully put the bracelet in his
breast pocket and determined to reveal his secret and to ask
for aid. 

The day of his arrival was devoted to the ordinary pursuits of
Aldershot and the evening to festivities, which were prolonged
too late into the night to enable him to carry out his purpose
before he went to bed. He arranged to leave on the next morning
by a train between ten and eleven, and was told that three or
four men would come in to breakfast at half-past nine. His project
then seemed to be all but hopeless. But at last with great courage
he made an effort. "Colonel," said he, just as they were going
to bed, "I wonder if you could give me half an hour before breakfast.
It is a matter of great importance." Tom, as he said this, assumed
a most solemn face. 

"An hour if you like, my dear boy. I am generally up soon after
six, and am always out on horseback before breakfast as soon
as the light serves." 

"Then if you'll have me called at half past seven I shall be
ever so much obliged to you." 

The next morning at eight the two were closeted together, and
Tom immediately extracted the parcel from his pocket and opened
the diamonds to view. "Upon my word that is a pretty little trinket,"
said the Colonel, taking the necklace in his hand. 

"Three hundred guineas!" said Tom, opening his eyes very wide.
"I daresay." 

"That is, it would have been three hundred guineas unless I had
come down with the ready. I made the fellow give me twenty percent
off. You should always remember this when you are buying jewelry."
"And what is to be done with this pretty thing? I suppose it
is intended for some fair lady's neck." 

"Oh, of course." 

"And why has it been brought down to Aldershot? There are plenty
of fellows about this place who will get their hands into your
pocket if they know that you have such a trinket as that about
you." 

"I will tell you why I brought it," said Tom, very gravely. "It
is, as you say, for a young lady. I intend to make that young
lady my wife. Of course this is a secret, you know." 

"It shall be as sacred as the Pope's toe," said Stubbs. 

"Don't joke about it, Colonel, if you please. It's life and death
to me." 

"I'll keep your secret and will not joke. Now what can I do for
you?" 

"I must send this as a present with a letter. I must first tell
you that she has -- well, refused me." 

"That never means much the first time, old boy." 

"She has refused me half a dozen times, but I mean to go on with
it. If she refuses me two dozen times I'll try her a third dozen."
"Then you are quite in earnest?" 

"I am. It's a kind of thing I know that men laugh about, but
I don't mind telling you that I am downright in love with her.
The governor approves of it." 

"She has got money, probably?" 

"Not a shilling -- not as much as would buy a pair of gloves.
But I don't love her a bit the less for that. As to income, the
governor will stump up like a brick. Now I want you to write
the letter." 

"It's a kind of thing a third person can't do," said the Colonel,
when he had considered the request for a moment. 

"Why not? Yes, you can." 

"Do it yourself, and say just the simplest words as they come
up. They are sure to go further with any girl than what another
man may write. It is impossible that another man should be natural
on such a task as that." 

"Natural! I don't know about natural," said Tom, who was anxious
now to explain the character of the lady in question. "I don't
know that a letter that was particularly natural would please
her. A touch of poetry and romance would go further than anything
natural." 

"Who is the lady?" asked the Colonel, who certainly was by this
time entitled to be so far inquisitive. 

"She is my cousin -- Ayala Dormer." 

"Who?" 

"Ayala Dormer -- my cousin. She was at Rome, but I do not think
you ever saw her there." 

"I have seen her since," said the Colonel. 

"Have you? I didn't know." 

"She was with my aunt, the Marchesa Baldoni." 

"Dear me! So she was. I never put the two things together. Don't
you admire her?" 

"Certainly I do. My dear fellow, I can't write this letter for
you." Then he put down the pen which he had taken up as though
he had intended to comply with his friend's request. "You may
take it as settled that I cannot write it." 

"No?" 

"Impossible. One man should never write such a letter for another
man. You had better give the thing in person -- that is, if you
mean to go on with the matter." 

"I shall certainly go on with it," said Tom, stoutly. 

"After a certain time, you know, reiterated offers do, you know
-- do -- do -- partake of the nature of persecution." 

"Reiterated refusals are the sort of persecution I don't like."
"It seems to me that Ayala -- Miss Dormer, I mean -- should be
protected by a sort of feeling -- feeling of -- of what I may
perhaps call her dependent position. She is peculiarly -- peculiarly
situated." 

"If she married me she would be much better situated. I could
give her everything she wants." 

"It isn't an affair of money, Mr Tringle." 

Tom felt, from the use of the word Mister, that he was in some
way giving offence; but felt also that there was no true cause
for offence. "When a man offers everything," he said, "and asks
for nothing, I don't think he should be said to persecute." 

"After a time it becomes persecution. I am sure Ayala would feel
it so." 

"My cousin can't suppose that I am ill-using her," said Tom,
who disliked the "Ayala" quite as much as he did the "Mister".
"Miss Dormer, I meant. I can have nothing further to say about
it. I can't write the letter, and I should not imagine that Ayala
-- Miss Dormer -- would be moved in the least by any present
that could possibly be made to her. I must go out now, if you
don't mind, for half an hour; but I shall be back in time for
breakfast." 

Then Tom was left alone with the necklace lying on the table
before him. He knew that something was wrong with the Colonel,
but could not in the least guess what it might be. He was quite
aware that early in the interview the Colonel had encouraged
him to persevere with the lady, and had then, suddenly, not only
advised him to desist, but had told him in so many words that
he was bound to desist out of consideration for the lady. And
the Colonel had spoken of his cousin in a manner that was distasteful
to him. He could not analyse his feelings. He did not exactly
know why he was displeased, but he was displeased. The Colonel,
when asked for his assistance, was, of course, bound to talk
about the lady -- would be compelled, by the nature of the confidence,
to mention the lady's name -- would even have been called on
to write her Christian name. But this he should have done with
a delicacy -- almost with a blush. Instead of that Ayala's name
had been common on his tongue. Tom felt himself to be offended,
but hardly knew why. And then, why had he been called Mister
Tringle? The breakfast, which was eaten shortly afterwards in
the company of three or four other men, was not eaten in comfort
-- and then Tom hurried back to London and to Lombard Street.
After this failure Tom felt it to be impossible to go to another
friend for assistance. There had been annoyance in describing
his love to Colonel Stubbs, and pain in the treatment he had
received. Even had there been another friend to whom he could
have confided the task, he could not have brought himself to
encounter the repetition of such treatment. He was as firmly
fixed as ever in his conviction that he could not write the letter
himself. And, as he thought of the words with which he should
accompany a personal presentation of the necklace, he reflected
that in all probability he might not be able to force his way
into Ayala's presence. Then a happy thought struck him. Mrs Dosett
was altogether on his side. Everybody was on his side except
Ayala herself, and that pigheaded Colonel. Would it not be an
excellent thing to entrust the necklace to the hands of his Aunt
Dosett, in order that she might give it over to Ayala with all
the eloquence in her power? Satisfied with this project he at
once wrote a note to Mrs Dosett. 

MY DEAR AUNT, 

I want to see you on most important business. If I shall not
be troubling you, I will call upon you tomorrow at ten o'clock,
before I go to my place of business. 

Yours affectionately, 

T. TRINGLE, Junior 

On the following morning he apparelled himself with all his rings.
He was a good-hearted, well-intentioned young man, with excellent
qualities; but he must have been slow of intellect when he had
not as yet learnt the deleterious effect of all those rings.
On this occasion he put on his rings, his chains, and his bright
waistcoat, and made himself a thing disgusting to be looked at
by any well-trained female. As far as his aunt was concerned
he would have been altogether indifferent as to his appearance,
but there was present to his mind some small hope that he might
be allowed to see Ayala, as the immediate result of the necklace.
Should he see Ayala, then how unfortunate it would be that he
should present himself before the eyes of his mistress without
those adornments which he did not doubt would be grateful to
her. He had heard from Ayala's own lips that all things ought
to be pretty. Therefore he endeavoured to make himself pretty.
Of course he failed -- as do all men who endeavour to make themselves
pretty -- but it was out of the question that he should understand
the cause of his failure. 

"Aunt Dosett, I want you to do me a very great favour," he began,
with a solemn voice. 

"Are you going to a party, Tom?" she said. 

"A party! No -- who gives a party in London at this time of the
day? Oh, you mean because I have just got a few things on. When
I call anywhere I always do. I have got another lady to see,
a lady of rank, and so I just made a change." But this was a
fib. 

"What can I do for you, Tom?" 

"I want you to look at that." Then he brought out the necklace,
and, taking it out of the case, displayed the gems tastefully
upon the table. 

"I do believe they are diamonds," said Mrs Dosett. 

"Yes; they are diamonds. I am not the sort of fellow to get anything
sham. What do you think that little thing cost, Aunt Dosett?"
"I haven't an idea. Sixty pounds, perhaps!" 

"Sixty pounds! Do you go into a jeweller's shop and see what
you could do among diamonds with sixty pounds!" 

"I never go into jewellers' shops, Tom." 

"Nor I, very often. It's a sort of place where a fellow can drop
a lot of money. But I did go into one after this. It don't look
much, does it?" 

"It is very pretty." 

"I think it is pretty. Well, Aunt Dosett, the price for that
little trifle was three -- hundred -- guineas!" As he said this
he looked into his aunt's face for increased admiration. 

"You gave three hundred guineas for it!" 

"I went with ready money in my hand, when I tempted the man with
a cheque to let me have it for two hundred and fifty pounds.
In buying jewelry you should always do that." 

"I never buy jewelry," said Mrs Dosett, crossly. 

"If you should, I mean. Now, I'll tell you what I want you to
do. This is for Ayala." 

"For Ayala!" 

"Yes, indeed. I am not the fellow to stick at a trifle when I
want to carry my purpose. I bought this the other day and gave
ready money for it -- two hundred and fifty pounds -- on purpose
to give it to Ayala. In naming the value -- of course you'll
do that when you give it her -- you might as well say three hundred
guineas. That was the price on the ticket. I saw it myself --
so there won't be any untruth you know." 

"Am I to give it her?" 

"That's just what I want. When I talk to her she flares up, and,
as likely as not, she'd fling the necklace at my head." 

"She wouldn't do that, I hope." 

"It would depend upon how the thing went. When I do talk to her
it always seems that nothing I say can be right. Now, if you
will give it her you can put in all manner of pretty things."
"This itself will be the prettiest thing," said Mrs Dosett. 

"That's just what I was thinking. Everybody agrees that diamonds
will go further with a girl than anything else. When I told the
governor he quite jumped at the idea." 

"Sir Thomas knows you are giving it?" 

"Oh, dear, yes. I had to get the rhino from him. I don't go about
with two hundred and fifty pounds always in my own pocket." 

"If he had sent the money to Ayala how much better it would have
been," said poor Mrs Dosett. 

"I don't think that at all. Who ever heard of making a present
to a young lady in money? Ayala is romantic, and that would have
been the most unromantic thing out. That would not have done
me the least good in the world. It would simply have gone to
buy boots and petticoats and such like. A girl would never be
brought to think of her lover merely by putting on a pair of
boots. When she fastens such a necklace as this round her throat
he ought to have a chance. Don't you think so, Aunt Dosett?"
"Tom, shall I tell you something?" said the aunt. 

"What is it, Aunt Dosett?" 

"I don't believe that you have a chance." 

"Do you mean that?" he asked, sorrowfully. 

"I do." 

"You think that the necklace will do no good?" 

"Not the least. Of course I will offer it to her if you wish
it, because her uncle and I quite approve of you as a husband
for Ayala. But I am bound to tell you the truth. I do not think
the necklace will do you any good." Then he sat silent for a
time, meditating upon his condition. It might be imprudent --
it might be a wrong done to his father to jeopardise the necklace.
How would it be if Ayala were to take the necklace and not to
take him? "Am I to give it?" she asked. 

"Yes," said he, bravely, but with a sigh; "give it her all the
same." 

"From you or from Sir Thomas?" 

"Oh, from me -- from me. If she were told it came from the governor
she'd keep it whether or no. I am sure I hope she will keep it,"
he said, trying to remove the bad impression which his former
words might perhaps have left. 

"You may be sure she will not keep it," said Mrs Dosett, "unless
she should intend to accept your hand. Of that I can hold out
no hope to you. There is a matter, Tom, which I think I should
tell you as you are so straightforward in your offer. Another
gentleman has asked her to marry him." 

"She has accepted him!" exclaimed Tom. 

"No, she has not accepted him. She has refused him." 

"Then I'm just where I was," said Tom. 

"She has refused him, but I think that she is in a sort of way
attached to him; and though he too has been refused I imagine
that his chance is better than yours." 

"And who the d --  is he?" said Tom, jumping up from his seat
in great excitement. 

"Tom!" exclaimed Mrs Dosett. 

"I beg your pardon; but you see this is very important. Who is
the fellow?" 

"He is one Colonel Jonathan Stubbs." 

"Who?" 

"Colonel Jonathan Stubbs." 

"Impossible! It can't be Colonel Stubbs. I know Colonel Stubbs."
"I can assure you it is true, Tom. I have had a letter from a
lady -- a relative of Colonel Stubbs -- telling me the whole
story." 

"Colonel Stubbs!" he said. "That passes anything I ever heard.
She has refused him?" 

"Yes, she has refused him." 

"And has not accepted him since?" 

"She certainly has not accepted him yet." 

"You may give her the necklace all the same," said Tom, hurrying
out of the room. That Colonel Stubbs should have made an offer
to Ayala, and yet have accepted his, Tom Tringle's confidence!


CHAPTER 32
TOM'S DESPAIR

The reader will understand that the fate of the necklace was
very soon decided. Ayala declared that it was very beautiful.
She had, indeed, a pretty taste for diamonds, and would have
been proud enough to call this necklace her own; but, as she
declared to her aunt, she would not accept Tom though he were
made of diamonds from head to foot. Accept Tom, when she could
not even bring herself to think of becoming the wife of Jonathan
Stubbs! If Colonel Stubbs could not be received by her imagination
as an Angel of Light, how immeasurably distant from anything
angelic must be Tom Tringle! "Of course it must go back," she
said, when the question had to be decided as to the future fate
of the necklace. As a consequence poor Mr Dosett was compelled
to make a special journey into the City, and to deposit a well-sealed
parcel in the hands of Tom Tringle himself. "Your cousin sends
her kind regards," he said, "but cannot bring herself to accept
your magnificent present." 

Tom had been very much put about since his visit to the Crescent.
Had his aunt merely told him that his present would be inefficacious,
he would have taken that assurance as being simply her opinion,
and would have still entertained some hopes in the diamonds.
But these tidings as to another lover crushed him altogether.
And such a lover! The very man whom he had asked to write his
letter for him! Why had not Colonel Stubbs told him the truth
when thus his own secret had become revealed by an accident?
He understood it all now -- the "Ayala", and the "Mister", and
the reason why the Colonel could not write the letter. Then he
became very angry with the Colonel, whom he bitterly accused
of falsehood and treason. What right had the Colonel to meddle
with his cousin at all? And how false he had been to say nothing
of what he himself had done when his rival had told him everything!
In this way he made up his mind that it was his duty to hate
Colonel Stubbs, and if possible to inflict some personal punishment
upon him. He was reckless of himself now, and, if he could only
get one good blow at the Colonel's head with a thick stick, would
be indifferent as to what the law might do with him afterwards.
Or perhaps he might be able to provoke Colonel Stubbs to fight
with him. He had an idea that duels at present were not in fashion.
But nevertheless, in such a case as this, a man ought to fight.
He could at any rate have the gratification of calling the Colonel
a coward if he should refuse to fight. 

He was the more wretched because his spirit within him was cowed
by the idea of the Colonel. He did acknowledge to himself that
his chance could be but bad while such a rival as Colonel Stubbs
stood in his way. He tried to argue with himself that it was
not so. As far as he knew, Colonel Stubbs was and would remain
a very much less rich man than himself. He doubted very much
whether Colonel Stubbs could keep a carriage in London for his
wife, while it had been already arranged that he was to be allowed
to do so should he succeed in marrying Ayala. To be a partner
in the house of Travers and Treason was a much greater thing
than to be a Colonel. But, though he assured himself of all this
again and again, still he was cowed. There was something about
the Colonel which did more than redeem his red hair and ugly
mouth. And of this something poor Tom was sensible. Nevertheless,
if occasion should arise he thought that he could "punch the
Colonel's head' -- not without evil consequence to himself --
but still that he could "punch the Colonel's head", not minding
the consequences. 

Such had been his condition of mind when he left the Crescent,
and it was not improved by the receipt of the parcel. He hardly
said a word when his uncle put it into his hands, merely muttering
something and consigning the diamonds to his desk. He did not
tell himself that Ayala must now be abandoned. It would have
been better for him if he could have done so. But all real, springing,
hopeful hope departed from his bosom. This came from the Colonel,
rather than from the rejected necklace. 

"Did you send that jewelry?" his father asked him some days afterwards.
"Yes; I sent it." 

"And what has now become of it?" 

"It is in my desk there." 

"Did she send it back again?" 

"It came back. My Uncle Dosett brought it. I do not want to say
anything more about it, if you please." 

"I am sorry for that, Tom -- very sorry. As you had set your
heart upon it I wish it could have been as you would have it.
But the necklace should not be left there." Tom shook his head
in despair. 

"You had better let me have the necklace. It is not that I should
grudge it to you, Tom, if it could do you any good." 

"You shall have it, Sir." 

"It will be better so. That was the understanding." Then the
necklace was transferred to some receptacle belonging to Sir
Thomas himself, the lock of which might probably be more secure
than that of Tom's desk, and there it remained in its case, still
folded in the various papers in which Mrs Dosett had encased
it. 

Then Tom found it necessary to adopt some other mode of life
for his own consolation and support. He had told his father on
one occasion that he had devoted himself for a fortnight to champagne
and the theatres. But this had been taken as a joke. He had been
fairly punctual at his place of business and had shown no symptoms
of fast living. But now it occurred to him that fast living would
be the only thing for him. He had been quite willing to apply
himself to marriage and a steady life; but fortune had not favoured
him. If he drank too much now, and lay in bed, and became idle,
it was not his fault. There came into his head an idea that Ayala
and Colonel Stubbs between them must look to that. Could he meet
Ayala he would explain to her how his character as a moral man
had been altogether destroyed by her conduct -- and should he
meet Colonel Stubbs he would explain something to him also. 

A new club had been established in London lately called the Mountaineers,
which had secured for itself handsome lodgings in Piccadilly,
and considered itself to be, among clubs, rather a comfortable
institution than otherwise. It did not as yet affect much fashion,
having hitherto secured among its members only two lords -- and
they were lords by courtesy. But it was a pleasant, jovial place,
in which the delights of young men were not impeded by the austerity
of their elders. Its name would be excused only on the plea that
all other names available for a club had already been appropriated
in the metropolis. There was certainly nothing in the club peculiarly
applicable to mountains. But then there are other clubs in London
with names which might be open to similar criticism. It was the
case that many young men engaged in the City had been enrolled
among its members, and it was from this cause, no doubt, that
Tom Tringle was regarded as being a leading light among the Mountaineers.
It was here that the champagne had been drunk to which Tom had
alluded when talking of his love to his father. Now, in his despair,
it seemed good to him to pass a considerable portion of his time
among the Mountaineers. 

"You'll dine here, Faddle?" he said one evening to a special
friend of his, a gentleman also from the City, with whom he had
been dining a good deal during the last week. 

"I suppose I shall," said Faddle, "but ain't we coming it a little
strong? They want to know at the Gardens what the deuce it is
I'm about." The Gardens was a new row of houses, latterly christened
Badminton Gardens, in which resided the father and mother of
Faddle. 

"I've given up all that kind of thing," said Tom. 

"Your people are not in London." 

"It will make no difference when they do come up. I call an evening
in the bosom of one's family about the slowest thing there is.
The bosom must do without me for the future." 

"Won't your governor cut up rough?" 

"He must cut up as he pleases. But I rather fancy he knows all
about it. I shan't spend half as much money this way as if I
had a house and wife and family -- and what we may call a bosom
of one's own." Then they had dinner and went to the theatre,
and played billiards, and had supper, and spent the night in
a manner very delightful, no doubt, to themselves, but of which
their elder friends could hardly have approved. 

There was a good deal of this following upon the episode of the
necklace, and it must be told with regret that our young hero
fell into certain exploits which were by no means creditable
to him. More than one good-humoured policeman had helped him
home to his lodgings; but alas, on Christmas Eve, he fell into
the hands of some guardian of the peace who was not quite sufficiently
good-natured, and Tom passed the night and the greater part of
the following morning, recumbent, he in one cell, and his friend
Faddle in the next, with an intimation that they would certainly
be taken before a magistrate on the day after Christmas Day.
Oh, Ayala! Ayala! It must be acknowledged that you were in a
measure responsible -- and not only for the lamentable condition
of your lover, but also of that of his friend. For, in his softer
moments, Tom had told everything to Faddle, and Faddle had declared
that he would be true to the death to a friend suffering such
unmerited misfortune. Perhaps the fidelity of Faddle may have
owed something to the fact that Tom's pecuniary allowances were
more generous than those accorded to himself. To Ayala must be
attributed the occurrence of these misfortunes. But Tom in his
more fiery moments -- those moments which would come between
the subsidence of actual sobriety and the commencement of intoxication
-- attributed all his misfortunes to the Colonel. "Faddle," he
would say in these moments, "of course I know that I'm a ruined
man. Of course I'm aware that all this is only a prelude to some
ignominious end. I have not sunk to this kind of thing without
feeling it." "You'll be right enough some day, old fellow," Faddle
would reply. "I shall live to be godfather to the first boy."
"Never, Faddle!" Tom replied. "All those hopes have vanished.
You'll never live to see any child of mine. And I know well where
to look for my enemy. Stubbs indeed! I'll Stubbs him. If I can
only live to be revenged on that traitor then I shall die contented.
Though he shot me through the heart, I should die contented."
This had happened a little before that unfortunate Christmas
Eve. Up to this time Sir Thomas, though he had known well that
his son had not been living as he should do, had been mild in
his remonstrances, and had said nothing at Merle Park to frighten
Lady Tringle. But the affair of Christmas Eve came to his ears
with all its horrors. A policeman whom Tom had struck with his
fist in the pit of the stomach had not been civil enough to accept
this mark of familiarity with good humour. He had been much inconvenienced
by the blow, and had insisted upon giving testimony to this effect
before the magistrate. There had been half an hour, he said,
in which he had hung dubious between this world and the next,
so great had been the violence of the blow and so deadly its
direction! The magistrate was one of those just men who find
a pleasure and a duty in protecting the police of the metropolis.
It was no case, he declared, for a fine. What would be a fine
to such a one as Thomas Tringle, junior! And Tom -- Tom Tringle,
the only son of Sir Thomas Tringle, the senior partner in the
great house of Travers and Treason -- was ignominiously locked
up for a week. Faddle, who had not struck the blow, was allowed
to depart with a fine and a warning. Oh, Ayala, Ayala, this was
thy doing! 

When the sentence was known Sir Thomas used all his influence
to extricate his unfortunate son, but in vain. Tom went through
his penalty, and, having no help from champagne, doubtless had
a bad time of it. Ayala, Stubbs, the policeman, and the magistrate,
seemed to have conspired to destroy him. But the week at last
dragged itself out, and then Tom found himself confronted with
his father in the back parlour of the house in Queen's Gate.
"Tom," he said, "this is very bad!" 

"It is bad, Sir," said Tom. 

"You have disgraced me, and your mother, and yourself. You have
disgraced Travers and Treason!" Poor Tom shook his head. "It
will be necessary, I fear, that you should leave the house altogether."
Tom stood silent without a word. "A young man who has been locked
up in prison for a week for maltreating a policeman can hardly
expect to be entrusted with such concerns as those of Travers
and Treason. I and your poor mother cannot get rid of you and
the disgrace which you have entailed upon us. Travers and Treason
can easily get rid of you." Tom knew very well that his father
was, in fact, Travers and Treason, but he did not yet feel that
an opportunity had come in which he could wisely speak a word.
"What have you got to say for yourself, Sir?" demanded Sir Thomas.
"Of course, I'm very sorry," muttered Tom. 

"Sorry, Tom! A young man holding your position in Travers and
Treason ought not to have to be sorry for having been locked
up in prison for a week for maltreating a policeman! What do
you think must be done, yourself?" 

"The man had been hauling me about in the street." 

"You were drunk, no doubt." 

"I had been drinking. I am not going to tell a lie about it.
But he needn't have done as he did. Faddle knows that, and can
tell you." 

"What can have driven you to associate with such a young man
as Faddle? That is the worst part of it. Do you know what Faddle
and Company are -- stock jobbers, who ten years ago hadn't a
thousand pounds in the way of capital among them! They've been
connected with a dozen companies, none of which are floating
now, and have made money out of them all! Do you think that Travers
and Treason will accept a young man as a partner who associates
with such people as that?" 

"I have seen old Faddle's name and yours on the same prospectus
together, Sir." 

"What has that to do with it? You never saw him inside our counter.
What a name to appear along with yours in such an affair as this!
If it hadn't been for that, you might have got over it. Young
men will be young men. Faddle! I think you will have to go abroad
for a time, till it has been forgotten." 

"I should like to stay, just at present, Sir" said Tom. 

"What good can you do?" 

"All the same, I should like to stay, Sir." 

"I was thinking that, if you were to take a tour through the
United States, go across to San Francisco, then up to Japan,
and from thence through some of the Chinese cities down to Calcutta
and Bombay, you might come back by the Euphrates Valley to Constantinople,
see something of Bulgaria and those countries, and so home by
Vienna and Paris. The Euphrates Valley Railway will be finished
by that time, perhaps, and Bulgaria will be as settled as Hertfordshire.
You'd see something of the world, and I could let it be understood
that you were travelling on behalf of Travers and Treason. By
the time that you were back, people in the City would have forgotten
the policeman, and if you could manage to write home three or
four letters about our trade with Japan and China, they would
be willing to forget Faddle." 

"But, Sir -- " 

"Shouldn't you like a tour of that kind?" 

"Very much indeed, Sir -- only -- " 

"Only what, Tom?" 

"Ayala!" said Tom, hardly able to suppress a sob as he uttered
the fatal name. 

"Tom, don't be a fool. You can't make a young woman have you
if she doesn't choose. I have done all that I could for you,
because I saw that you'd set your heart upon it. I went to her
myself, and then I gave two hundred and fifty pounds for that
bauble. I am told I shall have to lose a third of the sum in
getting rid of it." 

"Ricolay told me that he'd take it back at two hundred and twenty,"
said Tom, whose mind, prostrate as it was, was still alive to
consideration of profit and loss. 

"Never mind that for the present," said Sir Thomas. "Don't you
remember the old song? -- 'If she will, she will, you may depend
on't. And if she won't, she won't; and there's an end on't.'
You ought to be a man and pluck up your spirits. Are you going
to allow a little girl to knock you about in that way?" Tom only
shook his head, and looked as if he was very ill. In truth, the
champagne, and the imprisonment, and Ayala together, had altogether
altered his appearance. "We've done what we could about it, and
now it is time to give it over. Let me hear you say that you
will give it over." Tom stood speechless before his father. "Speak
the word, and the thing will be done," continued Sir Thomas,
endeavouring to encourage the young man. 

"I can't," said Tom, sighing. 

"Nonsense!" 

"I have tried, and I can't." 

"Tom, do you mean to say that you are going to lose everything
because a chit of a girl like that turns up her nose at you?"
"It's no use my going while things are like this," said Tom.
"If I were to get to New York, I should come back by the next
ship. As for letters about business, I couldn't settle my mind
to anything of the kind." 

"Then you're not the man I took you to be," said the father.
"I could be man enough", said Tom, clenching his fist, "if I
could get hold of Colonel Stubbs." 

"Colonel who?" 

"Stubbs! Jonathan Stubbs! I know what I'm talking about. I'm
not going to America, nor China, nor anything else, till I've
polished him off. It's all very well your abusing me, but you
don't know what it is I have suffered. As for being called a
man I don't care about it. What I should like best would be to
get Ayala on one side and Stubbs on the other, and then all three
to go off the Duke of York's Column together. It's no good talking
about Travers and Treason. I don't care for Travers and Treason
as I am now. If you'll get Ayala to say that she'll have me,
I'll go to the shop every morning at eight and stay till nine;
and as for the Mountaineers it may all go to the d --  for me."
Then he rushed out of the room, banging the door after him. 

Sir Thomas, when he was thus left, stood for a while with his
hands in his trousers' pockets, contemplating the condition of
his son. It was wonderful to him that a boy of his should be
afflicted in this manner. When he had been struck by the juvenile
beauties of Emmeline Dosett he had at once asked the young lady
to share his fortunes with him, and the young lady had speedily
acceded to his request. Then he had been married, and that was
all he had ever known of the troubles of love. He could not but
think, looking back at it as he did now from a distance, that
had Emmeline been hardhearted he would have endured the repulse
and have passed on speedily to some other charmer. But Tom had
been wounded after a fashion which seemed to him to have been
very uncommon. It might be possible that he should recover in
time, but while undergoing recovery he would be ruined -- so
great were the young man's sufferings! Now Sir Thomas, though
he had spoken to Tom with all the severity which he had been
able to assume, though he had abused Faddle, and had vindicated
the injured dignity of Travers and Treason with all his eloquence;
though he had told Tom it was unmanly to give way to his love,
yet, of living creatures, Tom was at this moment the dearest
to his heart. He had never for an instant entertained the idea
of expelling Tom from Travers and Treason because of the policeman,
or because of Faddle. What should he do for the poor boy now?
Was there any argument, any means of persuasion, by which he
could induce that foolish little girl to accept all the good
things which he was ready to do for her? Could he try yet once
again himself, with any chance of success? 

Thinking of all this, he stood there for an hour alone with his
hands in his trousers' pockets. 


CHAPTER 33
ISADORE HAMEL IN LOMBARD STREET

In following the results of Tom's presentation of the necklace
we have got beyond the period which our story is presumed to
have reached. Tom was in durance during the Christmas week, but
we must go back to the promise which had been made by her uncle,
Sir Thomas, to Lucy about six weeks before that time. The promise
had extended only to an undertaking on the part of Sir Thomas
to see Isadore Hamel if he would call at the house in Lombard
Street at a certain hour on a certain day. Lucy was overwhelmed
with gratitude when the promise was made. A few moments previously
she had been indignant because her uncle had appeared to speak
of her and her lover as two beggars -- but Sir Thomas had explained
and in some sort apologised, and then had come the promise which
to Lucy seemed to contain an assurance of effectual aid. Sir
Thomas would not have asked to see the lover had he intended
to be hostile to the lover. Something would be done to solve
the difficulty which had seemed to Lucy to be so grave. She would
not any longer be made to think that she should give up either
her lover or her home under her uncle's roof. This had been terribly
distressing to her because she had been well aware that on leaving
her uncle's house she could be taken in only by her lover, to
whom an immediate marriage would be ruinous. And yet she could
not undertake to give up her lover. Therefore her uncle's promise
had made her very happy, and she forgave the ungenerous allusion
to the two beggars. 

The letter was written to Isadore in high spirits. "I do not
know what Uncle Tom intends, but he means to be kind. Of course
you must go to him, and if I were you I would tell him everything
about everything. He is not strict and hard like Aunt Emmeline.
She means to be good too, but she is sometimes so very hard.
I am happier now because I think something will be done to relieve
you from the terrible weight which I am to you. I sometimes wish
that you had never come to me in Kensington Gardens, because
I have become such a burden to you." 

There was much more in which Lucy no doubt went on to declare
that, burden as she was, she intended to be persistent. Hamel,
when he received this letter, was resolved to keep the appointment
made for him, but his hopes were not very high. He had been angry
with Lady Tringle -- in the first place, because of her treatment
of himself at Glenbogie, and then much more strongly, because
she had been cruel to Lucy. Nor did he conceive himself to be
under any strong debt of gratitude to Sir Thomas, though he had
been invited to lunch. He was aware that the Tringles had despised
him, and he repaid the compliment with all his heart by despising
the Tringles. They were to him samples of the sort of people
which he thought to be of all the most despicable. They were
not only vulgar and rich, but purse-proud and conceited as well.
To his thinking there was nothing of which such people were entitled
to be proud. Of course they make money -- money out of money,
an employment which he regarded as vile -- creating nothing either
useful or beautiful. To create something useful was, to his thinking,
very good. To create something beautiful was almost divine. To
manipulate millions till they should breed other millions was
the meanest occupation for a life's energy. It was thus, I fear,
that Mr Hamel looked at the business carried on in Lombard Street,
being as yet very young in the world and seeing many things with
distorted eyes. 

He was aware that some plan would be proposed to him which might
probably accelerate his marriage, but was aware also that he
would be very unwilling to take advice from Sir Thomas. Sir Thomas,
no doubt, would be coarse and rough, and might perhaps offer
him pecuniary assistance in a manner which would make it impossible
for him to accept it. He had told himself a score of times that,
poor as he was, he did not want any of the Tringle money. His
father's arbitrary conduct towards him had caused him great misery.
He had been brought up in luxury, and had felt it hard enough
to be deprived of his father's means because he would not abandon
the mode of life that was congenial to him. But having been thus,
as it were, cast off by his father, he had resolved that it behoved
him to depend only on himself. In the matter of his love he was
specially prone to be indignant and independent. No one had a
right to dictate to him, and he would follow the dictation of
none. To Lucy alone did he acknowledge any debt, and to her he
owed everything. But even for her sake he could not condescend
to accept Sir Thomas's money, and with his money his advice.
Lucy had begged him in her letter to tell everything to her uncle.
He would tell Sir Thomas everything as to his income, his prospects,
and his intentions, because Sir Thomas as Lucy's uncle would
be entitled to such information. But he thought it very improbable
that he should accept any counsel from Sir Thomas. 

Such being the condition of Hamel's mind it was to be feared
that but little good would come from his visit to Lombard Street.
Lucy had simply thought that her uncle, out of his enormous stores,
would provide an adequate income. Hamel thought that Sir Thomas,
out of his enormous impudence, would desire to dictate everything.
Sir Thomas was, in truth, anxious to be good-natured, and to
do a kindness to his niece; but was not willing to give his money
without being sure that he was putting it into good hands. 

"Oh, you're Hamel," said a young man to him, speaking to him
across the counter in the Lombard Street office. This was Tom,
who, as the reader will remember, had not yet got into his trouble
on account of the policeman. 

Tom and Hamel had never met but once before, for a few moments
in the Coliseum at Rome, and the artist, not remembering him,
did not know by whom he was accosted in this familiar manner.
"That is my name, Sir," said Hamel. "Here is my card. Perhaps
you will do me the kindness to take it to Sir Thomas Tringle."
"All right, old fellow; I know all about it. He has got Puxley
with him from the Bank of England just at this moment. Come through
into this room. He'll soon have polished off old Puxley." Tom
was no more to Hamel than any other clerk, and he felt himself
to be aggrieved; but he followed Tom into the room as he was
told, and then prepared to wait in patience for the convenience
of the great man. "So you and Lucy are going to make a match
of it," said Tom. 

This was terrible to Hamel. Could it be possible that all the
clerks in Lombard Street talked of his Lucy in this way, because
she was the niece of their senior partner? Were all the clerks,
as a matter of course, instructed in the most private affairs
of the Tringle family? "I am here in obedience to directions
from Sir Thomas," said Hamel, ignoring altogether the impudent
allusion which the young man had made. 

"Of course you are. Perhaps you don't know who I am?" 

"Not in the least," said Hamel. 

"I am Thomas Tringle, junior," said Tom, with a little accession
of dignity. 

"I beg your pardon; I did not know," said Hamel. 

"You and I ought to be thick", rejoined Tom, "because I'm going
in for Ayala. Perhaps you've heard that before?" 

Hamel had heard it and was well aware that Tom was to Ayala an
intolerable burden, like the old man of the sea. He had heard
of Tom as poor Ayala's pet aversion -- as a lover not to be shaken
off though he had been refused a score of times. Ayala was to
the sculptor only second in sacredness to Lucy. And now he was
told by Tom himself that he was -- "going in for Ayala". The
expression was so distressing to his feelings that he shuddered
when he heard it. Was it possible that anyone should say of him
that he was "going in" for Lucy? At that moment Sir Thomas opened
the door, and grasping Hamel by the hand led him away into his
own sanctum. 

"And now, Mr Hamel," said Sir Thomas, in his cheeriest voice,
"how are you?" Hamel declared that he was very well, and expressed
a hope that Sir Thomas was the same. "I am not so young as I
was, Mr Hamel. My years are heavier and so is my work. That's
the worst of it. When one is young and strong one very often
hasn't enough to do. I daresay you find it so sometimes." 

"In our profession", said Hamel, "we go on working though very
often we do not sell what we do." 

"That's bad," said Sir Thomas. 

"It is the case always with an artist before he has made a name
for himself. It is the case with many up to the last day of a
life of labour. An artist has to look for that, Sir Thomas."
"Dear me! That seems very sad. You are a sculptor, I believe?"
"Yes, Sir Thomas." 

"And the things you make must take a deal of room and be very
heavy." At this Mr Hamel only smiled. "Don't you think if you
were to call an auction you'd get something for them?" At this
suggestion the sculptor frowned but condescended to make no reply.
Sir Thomas went on with his suggestion. "If you and half a dozen
other beginners made a sort of gallery among you, people would
buy them as they do those things in the Marylebone Road and stick
them up somewhere about their grounds. It would be better than
keeping them and getting nothing." Hamel had in his studio at
home an allegorical figure of Italia United, and another of a
Prostrate Roman Catholic Church, which in his mind's eye he saw
for a moment stuck here or there about the gardens of some such
place as Glenbogie! Into them had been infused all the poetry
of his nature and all the conviction of his intelligence. He
had never dreamed of selling them. He had never dared to think
that any lover of Art would encourage him to put into marble
those conceptions of his genius which now adorned his studio,
standing there in plaster of Paris. But to him they were so valuable,
they contained so much of his thoughts, so many of his aspirations,
that even had the marble counterparts been ordered and paid for
nothing would have induced him to part with the originals. Now
he was advised to sell them by auction in order that he might
rival those grotesque tradesmen whose business it is to populate
the gardens of wealthy but tasteless Britons! It was thus that
the idea represented itself to him. He simply smiled; but Sir
Thomas did not fail to appreciate the smile. 

"And now about this young lady?" said Sir Thomas, not altogether
in so good a humour as he had been when he began his suggestion.
"It's a bad look out for her when, as you say, you cannot sell
your work when you've done it." 

"I think you do not quite understand the matter, Sir Thomas."
"Perhaps not. It certainly does seem unintelligible that a man
should lumber himself up with a lot of things which he cannot
sell. A tradesman would know that he must get into the bankruptcy
court if he were to go on like that. And what is sauce for the
goose will be sauce for the gander also." Mr Hamel again smiled
but held his tongue. "If you can't sell your wares how can you
keep a wife?" 

"My wares, as you call them, are of two kinds. One, though no
doubt made for sale, is hardly saleable. The other is done to
order. Such income as I make comes from the latter." 

"Heads," suggested Sir Thomas. 

"Busts they are generally called." 

"Well, busts. I call them heads. They are heads. A bust, I take
it, is -- well, never mind." Sir Thomas found a difficulty in
defining his idea of a bust. "A man wants to have something more
or less like someone to put up in a church and then he pays you."
"Or perhaps in his library. But he can put it where he likes
when he has bought it." 

"Just so. But there ain't many of those come in your way, if
I understand right." 

"Not as many as I would wish." 

"What can you net at the end of the year? That's the question."
Lucy had recommended him to tell Sir Thomas everything; and he
had come there determined to tell at any rate everything referring
to money. He had not the slightest desire to keep the amount
of his income from Sir Thomas. But the questions were put to
him in so distasteful a way that he could not bring himself to
be confidential. "It varies with various circumstances, but it
is very small." 

"Very small? Five hundred a year?" This was ill-natured, because
Sir Thomas knew that Mr Hamel did not earn five hundred a year.
But he was becoming acerbated by the young man's manner. 

"Oh dear, no," said Hamel. 

"Four hundred?" 

"Nor four hundred -- nor three. I have never netted three hundred
in one year after paying the incidental expenses." 

"That seems to me to be uncommonly little for a man who is thinking
of marrying. Don't you think you had better give it up?" 

"I certainly think nothing of the kind." 

"Does your father do anything for you?" 

"Nothing at all." 

"He also makes heads?" 

"Heads -- and other things." 

"And sells them when he has made them." 

"Yes, Sir Thomas; he sells them. He had a hard time once, but
now he is run after. He refuses more orders than he can accept."
"And he won't do anything for you." 

"Nothing. He has quarrelled with me." 

"That is very bad. Well now, Mr Hamel, would you mind telling
me what your ideas are?" Sir Thomas, when he asked the question,
still intended to give assistance, was still minded that the
young people should by his assistance be enabled to marry. But
he was strongly of opinion that it was his duty, as a rich and
protecting uncle, to say something about imprudence, and to magnify
difficulties. It certainly would be wrong for an uncle, merely
because he was rich, to give away his money to dependent relatives
without any reference to those hard principles which a possessor
of money always feels it to be his business to inculcate. And
up to this point Hamel had done nothing to ingratiate himself.
Sir Thomas was beginning to think that the sculptor was an impudent
prig, and to declare to himself that, should the marriage ever
take place, the young couple would not be made welcome at Glenbogie
or Merle Park. But still he intended to go on with his purpose,
for Lucy's sake. Therefore he asked the sculptor as to his ideas
generally. 

"My idea is that I shall marry Miss Dormer, and support her on
the earnings of my profession. My idea is that I shall do so
before long, in comfort. My idea also is, that she will be the
last to complain of any discomfort which may arise from my straitened
circumstances at present. My idea is that I am preparing for
myself a happy and independent life. My idea also is -- and I
assure you that of all my ideas this is the one to which I cling
with the fondest assurance -- that I will do my very best to
make her life happy when she comes to grace my home." 

There was a manliness in this which would have touched Sir Thomas
had he been in a better humour, but, as it was, he had been so
much irritated by the young man's manner, that he could not bring
himself to be just. "Am I to understand that you intend to marry
on something under three hundred a year? 

Hamel paused for a moment before he made his reply. "How am I
to answer such a question," he said, at last, "seeing that Miss
Dormer is in your hands, and that you are unlikely to be influenced
by anything that I may say?" 

"I shall be very much influenced," said Sir Thomas. 

"Were her father still alive, I think we should have put our
heads together, and between us decided on what might have been
best for Lucy's happiness." 

"Do you think that I'm indifferent to her happiness?" demanded
Sir Thomas. 

"I should have suggested to him," continued Hamel, not noticing
the last question, "that she should remain in her own home till
I could make one for her worthy of her acceptance. And then we
should have arranged among us what would have been best for her
happiness. I cannot do this with you. If you tell her tomorrow
that she must give up either your protection or her engagement
with me, then she must come to me, and make the best of all the
little that I can do for her." 

"Who says that I'm going to turn her out?" said Sir Thomas, rising
angrily from his chair. 

"I do not think that anyone has said this of you." 

"Then why do you throw it in my teeth?" 

"Because your wife has threatened it." 

Then Sir Thomas boiled over in his anger. "No one has threatened
it. It is untrue. You are guilty both of impertinence and untruth
in saying so." Here Hamel rose from his chair, and took up his
hat. "Stop, young man, and hear what I have to say to you. I
have done nothing but good to my niece." 

"Nevertheless, it is true, Sir Thomas, that she has been told
by your wife that she must either abandon me or the protection
of your roof. I find no fault with Lady Tringle for saying so.
It may have been the natural expression of a judicious opinion.
But when you ask after my intentions in reference to your niece
I am bound to tell you that I propose to subject her to the undoubted
inconveniences of my poor home, simply because I find her to
be threatened with the loss of another." 

"She has not been threatened, Sir." 

"You had better ask your wife, Sir Thomas. And, if you find that
what I have said is true, I think you will own that I have been
obliged to explain as I have done. As you have told me to my
face that I have been guilty of untruth, I shall now leave you."
With this he walked out of the room, and the words which Sir
Thomas threw after him had no effect in recalling him. 

It must be acknowledged that Hamel had been very foolish in referring
to Aunt Emmeline's threat. Who does not know that words are constantly
used which are intended to have no real effect? Who does not
know that an angry woman will often talk after this fashion?
But it was certainly the fact that Aunt Emmeline had more than
once declared to Lucy that she could not be allowed to remain
one of that family unless she would give up her lover. Lucy,
in her loyal endeavours to explain to her lover her own position,
had told him of the threat, and he, from that moment, had held
himself prepared to find a home for his future wife should that
threat be carried into execution. Sir Thomas was well aware that
such words had been spoken, but he knew his wife, and knew how
little such words signified. His wife, without his consent, would
not have the power to turn a dog from Merle Park. The threat
had simply been an argument intended to dissuade Lucy from her
choice; and now it had been thrown in his teeth just when he
had intended to make provision for this girl, who was not, in
truth, related to him, in order that he might ratify her choice!
He was very angry with the young prig who had thus rushed out
of his presence. He was angry, too, with his wife, who had brought
him into his difficulty by her foolish threat. But he was angry,
also, with himself, knowing that he had been wrong to accuse
the man of a falsehood. 


CHAPTER 34
"I NEVER THREATENED TO TURN YOU OUT"

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 other, and the sooner they are
married the better." 

"But he can't marry her because he has got nothing." 

"Papa will do something." 

"That's just what your papa won't. The man has been to your father
in the City and there has been ever such a row. He spoke ill
of me because I endeavoured to do my duty by the ungrateful girl.
I am sure I have got a lesson as to taking up other people's
children. I endeavoured to do an act of charity, and see what
has come of it. I don't believe in charity." 

"That is wicked, mamma. Faith, Hope, and Charity! But you've
got to be charitable before you begin the others." 

"I don't think it is wicked. People would do best if they were
made to go along on what they've got of their own." This seemed
to Augusta to be a direct blow at Septimus and herself. "Of course
I know what you mean, mamma." 

"I didn't mean anything." 

"But, if people can't stay for a few weeks in their own parents'
houses, I don't know where they are to stay." 

"It isn't weeks, Augusta; it's months. And as to parents, Lord
Boardotrade is Mr Traffick's parent. Why doesn't he go and stay
with Lord Boardotrade?" Then Augusta got up and marched with
stately step out of the room. After this it was not possible
that Lucy would find much immediate grace in her aunt's eyes.
From the moment that Lucy had received her letter there came
upon her the great burden of answering it. She was very anxious
to do exactly as Hamel had counselled her. She was quite alive
to the fact that Hamel had been imprudent in Lombard Street;
but not the less was she desirous to do as he bade her -- thinking
it right that a woman should obey someone, and that her obedience
could be due only to him. But in order to obey him she must consult
her aunt. "Aunt Emmeline," she said that afternoon, "I want to
ask you something." 

"What is it now?" said Aunt Emmeline, crossly. 

"About Mr Hamel." 

"I don't want to hear any more about Mr Hamel. I have heard quite
enough of Mr Hamel." 

"Of course I am engaged to him, Aunt Emmeline." 

"So I hear you say. I do not think it very dutiful of you to
come and talk to me about him, knowing as you do what I think
about him." 

"What I want to ask is this. Ought I to stay here or ought I
to go away?" 

"I never heard such a girl! Where are you to go to? What makes
you ask the question?" 

"Because you said that I ought to go if I did not give him up."
"You ought to give him up." 

"I cannot do that, aunt." 

"Then you had better hold your tongue and say nothing further
about it. I don't believe he earns enough to give you bread to
eat and decent clothes to wear. What would you do if children
were to come year after year? If you really love him I wonder
how you can think of being such a millstone round a man's neck!"
This was very hard to bear. It was so different from the delicious
comfort of his letter. "I do not for a moment believe that we
should want." "I have never for one moment doubted my own ultimate
success." But after all was there not more of truth in her aunt's
words, hard and cruel as they were? And on these words, such
as they were, she must found her answer to her lover; for he
had bade her ask her aunt what she was to do as to staying or
preparing herself for an immediate marriage. Then, before the
afternoon was over, she wrote to Hamel as follows: 

DEAR ISADORE, 

I have got ever so much to say, but I shall begin by doing as
you told me in your postscript. I won't quite scold you, but
I do think you might have been a little gentler with poor Uncle
Tom. I do not say this because I at all regret anything which
perhaps he might have done for us. If you do not want assistance
from him certainly I do not. But I do think that he meant to
be kind; and, though he may not be quite what you call a gentleman
of fine feeling, yet he has taken me into his house when I had
no other to go to, and in many respects has been generous to
me. When he said that you were to go to him in Lombard Street,
I am sure that he meant to be generous. And, though it has not
ended well, yet he meant to be kind to both of us. 

There is what you will call my scolding; though, indeed, dearest,
I do not intend to scold at all. Nor am I in the least disappointed
except in regard to you. This morning I have been to Aunt Emmeline,
as you desired, and I must say that she was very cross. Of course
I know that it is because she is my own aunt that Uncle Tom has
me here at all; and I feel that I ought to be very grateful to
her. But, in spite of all that you say, laughing at Uncle Tom
because he wants you to sell your grand work by auction, he is
much more good-natured than Aunt Emmeline. I am quite sure my
aunt never liked me, and that she will not be comfortable till
I am gone. But when I asked her whether I ought to stay, or to
go, she told me to hold my tongue, and say nothing further about
it. Of course, by this, she meant that I was to remain, at any
rate for the present. 

My own dearest, I do think this will be best, though I need not
tell you how I look forward to leaving this, and being always
with you. For myself I am not a bit afraid, though Aunt Emmeline
said dreadful things about food and clothes, and all the rest
of it. But I believe much more in what you say, that success
will be sure to come. But still will it not be wise to wait a
little longer? Whatever I may have to bear here, I shall think
that I am bearing it for your dear sake; and then I shall be
happy. 

Believe me to be always and always your own 

LUCY

This was written and sent on a Wednesday, and nothing further
was said either by Lucy herself, or by her aunt, as to the lover,
till Sir Thomas came down to Merle Park on the Saturday evening.
On his arrival he seemed inclined to be gracious to the whole
household, even including Mr Traffick, who received any attention
of that kind exactly as though the most amicable arrangements
were always existing between him and his father-in-law. Aunt
Emmeline, when it seemed that she was to encounter no further
anger on account of the revelation which Hamel had made in Lombard
Street, also recovered her temper, and the evening was spent
as though there were no causes for serious family discord. In
this spirit, on the following morning, they all went to church,
and it was delightful to hear the flattering words with which
Mr Traffick praised Merle Park, and everything belonging to it,
during the hour of lunch. He went so far as to make some delicately
laudatory hints in praise of hospitality in general, and especially
as to that so nobly exercised by London merchant princes. Sir
Thomas smiled as he heard him, and, as he smiled, he resolved
that, as soon as the Christmas festivities should be over, the
Honourable Septimus Traffick should certainly be turned out of
that house. 

After lunch there came a message to Lucy by a page-boy, who was
supposed to attend generally to the personal wants of Aunt Emmeline,
saying that her uncle would be glad of her attendance for a walk.
"My dear," said he, "have you got your thick boots on? Then go
and put 'em on. We will go down to the Lodge, and then come home
round by Windover Hill." She did as she was bade, and then they
started. "I want to tell you", said he, "that this Mr Hamel of
yours came to me in Lombard Street." 

"I know that, Uncle Tom." 

"He has written to you, then, and told you all about it?" 

"He has written to me, certainly, and I have answered him." 

"No doubt. Well, Lucy, I had intended to be kind to your Mr Hamel,
but, as you are probably aware, I was not enabled to carry out
my intentions. He seems to be a very independent sort of young
man." 

"He is independent, I think." 

"I have not a word to say against it. If a man can be independent
it is so much the better. If a man can do everything for himself,
so as to require neither to beg nor to borrow, it will be much
better for him. But, my dear, you must understand that a man
cannot be independent with one hand, and accept assistance with
the other, at one and the same time." 

"That is not his character, I am sure," said Lucy, striving to
hide her indignation while she defended her lover's character.
"I do not think it is. Therefore he must remain independent,
and I can do nothing for him." 

"He knows that, Uncle Tom." 

"Very well. Then there's an end of it. I only want to make you
understand that I was willing to assist him, but that he was
unwilling to be assisted. I like him all the better for it, but
there must be an end of it." 

"I quite understand, Uncle Tom." 

"Then there's one other thing I've got to say. He accused me
of having threatened to turn you out of my house. Now, my dear
-- " Hereupon Lucy struggled to say a word, hardly knowing what
word she ought to say, but he interrupted her -- "Just hear me
out till I've done, and then there need not be another word about
it. I never threatened to turn you out." 

"Not you, Uncle Tom," she said, endeavouring to press his arm
with her hand. 

"If your aunt said a word in her anger you should not have made
enough of it to write and tell him." 

"I thought she meant me to go, and then I didn't know whom else
to ask." 

"Neither I nor she, nor anybody else, ever intended bo turn you
out. I have meant to be kind to you both -- to you and Ayala;
and if things have gone wrong I cannot say that it has been my
fault. Now, you had better stay here, and not say a word more
about it till he is ready to take you. That can't be yet for
a long time. He is making, at present, not more than two hundred
a year. And I am sure it must be quite as much as he can do to
keep a coat on his back with such an income as that. You must
make up your mind to wait -- probably for some years. As I told
you before, if a man chooses to have the glory of independence
he must also bear the inconvenience. Now, my dear, let there
be an end of this, and never say again that I want to turn you
out of my house." 


CHAPTER 35
TOM TRINGLE SENDS A CHALLENGE

The next six weeks went on tranquilly at Merle Park without a
word spoken about Hamel. Sir Thomas, who was in the country as
little as possible, showed his scorn to his son-in-law simply
by the paucity of his words, speaking to him, when he did speak
to him, with a deliberate courtesy which Mr Traffick perfectly
understood. It was that dangerous serenity which so often presages
a storm. "There is something going to be up with your father,"
he said to Augusta. Augusta replied that she had never seen her
father so civil before. "It would be a great convenience", continued
the Member of Parliament, "if he could be made to hold his tongue
till Parliament meets; but I'm afraid that's too good to expect."
In other respects things were comfortable at Merle Park, though
they were not always comfortable up in London. Tom, as the reader
knows, was misbehaving himself sadly at the Mountaineers. This
was the period of unlimited champagne, and of almost total absence
from Lombard Street. It was seldom that Sir Thomas could get
hold of his son, and when he did that broken-hearted youth would
reply to his expostulations simply by asserting that if his father
would induce Ayala to marry him everything should go straight
in Lombard Street. Then came the final blow. Tom was of course
expected at Merle Park on Christmas Eve, but did not make his
appearance either then or on Christmas Day. Christmas fell on
a Wednesday, and it was intended that the family should remain
in the country till the following Monday. On the Thursday Sir
Thomas went up to town to make inquiries respecting his heir,
as to whom Lady Tringle had then become absolutely unhappy. In
London he heard the disastrous truth. Tom, in his sportive mood,
had caused serious inconvenience to a most respectable policeman,
and was destined to remain another week in the hands of the Philistines.
Then, for a time, all the other Tringle troubles were buried
and forgotten in this great trouble respecting Tom. Lady Tringle
was unable to leave her room during the period of incarceration.
Mr Traffick promised to have the victim liberated by the direct
interference of the Secretary of State, but failed to get anything
of the kind accomplished. The girls were completely cowed by
the enormity of the misfortune; so that Tom's name was hardly
mentioned except in sad and confidential whispers. But of all
the sufferers Sir Thomas suffered the most. To him it was a positive
disgrace, weighing down every moment of his life. At Travers
and Treason he could not hold up his head boldly and open his
mouth loudly as had always been his wont. At Travers and Treason
there was not a clerk who did not know that "the governor" was
an altered man since this misfortune had happened to the hope
of the firm. What passed between Sir Thomas and his son on the
occasion has already been told in a previous chapter. That Sir
Thomas, on the whole, behaved with indulgence must be acknowledged;
but he felt that his son must in truth absent himself from Lombard
Street for a time. 

Tom had been advised by his father to go forth and see the world.
A prolonged tour had been proposed to him which to most young
men might seem to have great attraction. To him it would have
had attraction enough, had it not been for Ayala. There would
have been hardly any limit to the allowance made to him, and
he would have gone forth armed with introductions, which would
have made every port a happy home to him. But as soon as the
tour was suggested he resolved at once that he could not move
himself to a distance from Ayala. What he expected -- what he
even hoped -- he could not tell himself. But while Ayala was
in London, and Ayala was unmarried, he could not be made to take
himself far away. 

He was thoroughly ashamed of himself. He was not at all the man
who could bear a week of imprisonment and not think himself disgraced.
For a day or two he shut himself up altogether in his lodgings,
and never once showed himself at the Mountaineers. Faddle came
to him, but he snubbed Faddle at first, remembering all the severe
things his father had said about the Faddles in general. But
he soon allowed that feeling to die away when the choice seemed
to be between Faddle and solitude. Then he crept out in the dark
and ate his dinners with Faddle at some tavern, generally paying
the bill for both of them. After dinner he would play half a
dozen games of billiards with his friend at some unknown billiard-room,
and then creep home to his lodgings -- a blighted human being!
At last, about the end of the first week in January, he was induced
to go down to Merle Park. There Mr and Mrs Traffick were still
sojourning, the real grief which had afflicted Sir Thomas having
caused him to postpone his intention in regard to his son-in-law.
At Merle Park Tom was cosseted and spoilt by the women very injudiciously.
It was not perhaps the fact that they regarded him as a hero
simply because he had punched a policeman in the stomach and
then been locked up in vindication of the injured laws of his
country; but that incident in combination with his unhappy love
did seem to make him heroic. Even Lucy regarded him with favour
because of his constancy to her sister; whereas the other ladies
measured their admiration for his persistency by the warmth of
their anger against the silly girl who was causing so much trouble.
His mother told him over and over again that his cousin was not
worth his regard; but then, when he would throw himself on the
sofa in an agony of despair -- weakened perhaps as much by the
course of champagne as by the course of his love -- then she,
too, would bid him hope, and at last promised that she herself
would endeavour to persuade Ayala to look at the matter in a
more favourable light. "It would all be right if it were not
for that accursed Stubbs," poor Tom would say to his mother.
"The man whom I called my friend! The man I lent a horse to when
he couldn't get one anywhere else! The man to whom I confided
everything, even about the necklace! If it hadn't been for Stubbs
I never should have hurt that policeman! When I was striking
him I thought that it was Stubbs!" Then the mother would heap
feminine maledictions on the poor Colonel's head, and so together
they would weep and think of revenge. 

From the moment Tom had heard Colonel Stubbs's name mentioned
as that of his rival he had meditated revenge. It was quite true
when he said that he had been thinking of Stubbs when he struck
the policeman. He had consumed the period of his confinement
in gnashing his teeth, all in regard to our poor friend Jonathan.
He told his father that he could not go upon his long tour because
of Ayala. But in truth his love was now so mixed up with ideas
of vengeance that he did not himself know which prevailed. If
he could first have slaughtered Stubbs then perhaps he might
have started! But how was he to slaughter Stubbs? Various ideas
occurred to his mind. At first he thought that he would go down
to Aldershot with the biggest cutting-whip he could find in any
shop in Piccadilly; but then it occurred to him that at Aldershot
he would have all the British army against him, and that the
British army might do something to him worse even than the London
magistrate. Then he would wait till the Colonel could be met
elsewhere. He ascertained that the Colonel was still at Stalham,
where he had passed the Christmas, and he thought how it might
be if he were to attack the Colonel in the presence of his friends,
the Alburys. He assured himself that, as far as personal injury
went, he feared nothing. He had no disinclination to be hit over
the head himself, if he could be sure of hitting the Colonel
over the head. If it could be managed that they two should fly
at each other with their fists, and be allowed to do the worst
they could to each other for an hour, without interference, he
would be quite satisfied. But down at Stalham that would not
be allowed. All the world would be against him, and nobody there
to see that he got fair play. If he could encounter the man in
the streets of London it would be better; but were he to seek
the man down at Stalham he would probably find himself in the
County Lunatic Asylum. What must he do for his revenge? He was
surely entitled to it. By all the laws of chivalry, as to which
he had his own ideas, he had a right to inflict an injury upon
a successful -- even upon an unsuccessful -- rival. Was it not
a shame that so excellent an institution as duelling should have
been stamped out? Wandering about the lawns and shrubberies at
Merle Park he thought of all this, and at last he came to a resolution.
The institution had been stamped out, as far as Great Britain
was concerned. He was aware of that. But it seemed to him that
it had not been stamped out in other more generous countries.
He had happened to notice that a certain enthusiastic politician
in France had enjoyed many duels, and had never been severely
repressed by the laws of his country. Newspaper writers were
always fighting in France, and were never guillotined. The idea
of being hanged was horrible to him -- so distasteful that he
saw at a glance that a duel in England was out of the question.
But to have his head cut off, even if it should come to that,
would be a much less affair. But in Belgium, in Italy, in Germany,
they never did cut off the heads of the very numerous gentlemen
who fought duels. And there were the Southern States of the American
Union, where he fancied that men might fight duels as they pleased.
He would be ready to go even to New Orleans at a day's notice
if only he could induce Colonel Stubbs to meet him there. And
he thought that, if Colonel Stubbs really possessed half the
spirit which seemed to be attributed to him by the British army
generally, he would come, if properly invoked, and fight such
a duel as this, whether at New Orleans or at some other well-chosen
blood-allowing spot on the world's surface. Tom was prepared
to go anywhere for blood. 

But the invocation must be properly made. When he had wanted
another letter of another kind to be written for him, the Colonel
himself was the man to whom he had gone for assistance. And,
had his present enemy been any other than the Colonel himself,
he would have gone to the Colonel in preference to anyone else
for aid in this matter. There was no one, in truth, in whom he
believed so thoroughly as in the Colonel. But that was out of
the question. Then he reflected what friend might now stand him
in stead. He would have gone to Houston, who wanted to marry
his sister; but Houston seemed to have disappeared, and he did
not know where he might be found. There was his brother-in-law,
Traffick -- but he feared lest Traffick might give him over once
more into the hands of the police. He thought of Hamel, as being
in a way connected with the family; but he had seen so little
of Hamel, and had so much disliked what he had seen, that he
was obliged to let that hope go by. There was no one left but
Faddle whom he could trust. Faddle would do anything he was told
to do. Faddle would carry the letter, no doubt, or allow himself
to be named as a proposed second. But Faddle could not write
the letter. He felt that he could write the letter himself better
than Faddle. 

He went up to town, having sent a mysterious letter to Faddle,
bidding his friend attend him in his lodgings. He did not yet
dare to go to the Mountaineers, where Faddle would have been
found. But Faddle came, true to the appointment. "What is it,
now?" said the faithful friend. "I hope you are going back to
Travers and Treasons'. That is what I should do, and walk in
just as though nothing had happened." 

"Not if you were me, you wouldn't." 

"That makes a difference, of course." 

"There is something else to be done before I can again darken
the doors of Travers and Treason -- if I should ever do so!"
"Something particular?" 

"Something very particular. Faddle, I do think you are a true
friend." 

"You may say that. I have stuck to you always -- though you don't
know the kind of things my people say to me about it. They say
I am going to ruin myself because of you. The governor threatened
to put me out of the business altogether. But I'm a man who will
be true to my friend, whatever happens. I think you have been
a little cool to me, lately; but even that don't matter." 

"Cool! If you knew the state that I'm in you wouldn't talk of
a fellow being cool! I'm so knocked about it all that I don't
know what I'm doing." 

"I do take that into consideration." 

"Now, I'll tell you what I'm going to do." Then he stood still,
and looked Faddle full in the face. Faddle, sitting awe-struck
on his chair, returned the gaze. He knew that a moment of supreme
importance was at hand. "Faddle, I'll shoot that fellow down
like a dog." 

"Will you, indeed?" 

"Like a dog -- if I can get at him. I should have no more compunction
in taking his life than a mere worm. Why should I, when I know
that he has sapped the very juice of my existence?" 

"Do you mean -- do you mean -- that you would -- murder him?"
"It would not be murder. Of course it might be that he would
shoot me instead. Upon the whole, I think I should like that
best." 

"Oh; a duel!" said Faddle. 

"That's what I mean. Murder him! Certainly not. Though I should
like nothing half so well as to thrash him within an inch of
his life. I would not murder him. My plan is this -- I shall
write to him a letter inviting him to meet me in any corner of
the globe that he may select. Torrid zone or Arctic circle will
be all the same to me. You will have to accompany me as my second."
Faddle shivered with excitement and dread of coming events. Among
other ideas there came the thought that it might be difficult
to get back from the Arctic circle without money if his friend
Tom should happen to be shot dead in that locality. "But first
of all", continued Tom, "you will have to carry a letter." 

"To the Colonel?" suggested Faddle. 

"Of course. The man is now staying with friends of his named
Albury at a place called Stalham. From what I hear they are howling
swells. Sir Harry Albury is Master of the Hounds, and Lady Albury
when she is up in London has all the Royal Family constantly
at her parties. Stubbs is a cousin of his; but you must go right
away up to him among 'em all, and deliver the letter into his
hands without minding 'em a bit. 

"Couldn't it go by post?" 

"No; this kind of letter mustn't go by post. You have to be able
to swear that you delivered it yourself into his own hands. And
then you must wait for an answer. Even though he should want
a day to think of it, you must wait." 

"Where am I to stay, Tom?" 

"Well; it may be they'll ask you to the house, because, though
you carry the letter for me, you are not supposed to be his enemy.
If so, put a jolly face on it, and enjoy yourself as well as
you can. You must seem, you know, to be just as big a swell as
anybody there. But if they don't ask you, you must go to the
nearest inn. I'll pay the bill." 

"Shall I go today?" asked Faddle. 

"I've got to write the letter first. It'll take a little time,
so that you'd better put it off till tomorrow. If you will leave
me now I'll write it, and if you will come back at six we'll
go and have a bit of dinner at Bolivia's." This was an eating-house
in the neighbourhood of Leicester Square, to which the friends
had become partial during this troubled period of their existence.
"Why not come to the Mountaineers, old boy?" Tom shook his head,
showing that he was not yet up to such festivity as that; and
then Faddle took his departure. 

Tom at once got out his pen and paper, and began to write his
letter. It may be imagined that it was not written off-hand,
or without many struggles. When it was written it ran as follows:
SIR, 

You will not, I think, be surprised to hear from me in anything
but a friendly spirit. I went down to you at Aldershot as to
a friend whom I could trust with my bosom's dearest secret, and
you have betrayed me. I told you of my love, a love which has
long burned in my heart, and you received my confidence with
a smile, knowing all the time that you were my rival. I leave
it to you to say what reply you can make as to conduct so damning,
so unmanly, so dastardly -- and so very unlike a friend as this!
However, there is no place here for words. You have offered me
the greatest insult and the greatest injury which one man can
inflict upon another! There is no possibility of an apology,
unless you are inclined to say that you will renounce for ever
your claim upon the hand of Miss Ayala Dormer. This I do not
expect, and, therefore, I call upon you to give me that satisfaction
which is all that one gentleman can offer to another. After the
injury you have done me I think it quite impossible that you
should refuse. 

Of course, I know that duels cannot be fought in England because
of the law. I am sorry that the law should have been altered,
because it allows so many cowards to escape the punishment they
deserve. [Tom, as he wrote this, was very proud of the keenness
of the allusion.] I am quite sure, however, that a man who bears
the colours of a colonel in the British army will not try to
get off by such a pretext. [He was proud, too, about the colours.]
France, Belgium, Italy, the United States, and all the world,
are open! I will meet you wherever you may choose to arrange
a meeting. I presume that you will prefer pistols. 

I send this by the hands of my friend, Mr Faddle, who will be
prepared to make arrangements with you or with any friend on
your behalf. He will bring back your reply, which no doubt will
be satisfactory. 

I am, Sir, your most obedient servant, 

THOMAS TRINGLE, junior 

When, after making various copies, Tom at last read the letter
as finally prepared, he was much pleased with it, doubting whether
the Colonel himself could have written it better, had the task
been confided to his hands. When Faddle came, he read it to him
with much pride, and then committed it to his custody. After
that they went out and ate their dinner at Bolivia's with much
satisfaction, but still with a bearing of deep melancholy, as
was proper on such an occasion. 


CHAPTER 36
TOM TRINGLE GETS AN ANSWER

Faddle as he went down into the country made up his mind that
the law which required such letters to be delivered by hand was
an absurd law. The post would have done just as well, and would
have saved a great deal of trouble. These gloomy thoughts were
occasioned by a conviction that he could not carry himself easily
or make himself happy among such "howling swells" as these Alburys.
If they should invite him to the house the matter would be worse
that way than the other. He had no confidence in his dress coat,
which he was aware had been damaged by nocturnal orgies. It is
all very well to tell a fellow to be as "big a swell" as anybody
else, as Tom had told him. But Faddle acknowledged to himself
the difficulty of acting up to such advice. Even the eyes of
Colonel Stubbs turned upon him after receipt of the letter would
oppress him. 

Nevertheless he must do his best, and he took a gig at the station
nearest to Albury. He was careful to carry his bag with him,
but still he lived in hope that he would be able to return to
London the same day. When he found himself within the lodges
of Stalham Park he could hardly keep himself from shivering and,
when he asked the footman at the door whether Colonel Stubbs
was there, he longed to be told that Colonel Stubbs had gone
away on the previous day to some -- he did not care what -- distant
part of the globe. But Colonel Stubbs had not gone away. Colonel
Stubbs was in the house. 

Our friend the Colonel had not suffered as Tom had suffered since
his rejection -- but nevertheless he had been much concerned.
He had set his heart upon Ayala before he had asked her, and
could not bring himself to change his heart because she had refused
him. He had gone down to Aldershot and had performed his duties,
abstaining for the present from repeating his offer. The offer
of course must be repeated, but as to the when, the where, and
the how, he had not as yet made up his mind. Then Tom Tringle
had come to him at Aldershot communicating to him the fact that
he had a rival -- and also the other fact that the other rival
like himself had hitherto been unsuccessful. It seemed improbable
to him that such a girl as Ayala should attach herself to such
a man as her cousin Tom. But nevertheless he was uneasy. He regarded
Tom Tringle as a miracle of wealth, and felt certain that the
united efforts of the whole family would be used to arrange the
match. Ayala had refused him also, and therefore, up to the present
moment, the chances of the other man were no better than his
own. When Tom left him at Aldershot he hardly remembered that
Tom knew nothing of his secret, whereas Tom had communicated
to him his own. It never for a moment occurred to him that Tom
would quarrel with him; although he had seen that the poor fellow
had been disgusted because he had refused to write the letter.
On Christmas Eve he had gone down to Stalham, and there he had
remained discussing the matter of his love with Lady Albury.
To no one else in the house had the affair been mentioned, and
by Sir Harry he was supposed to remain there only for the sake
of the hunting. With Sir Harry he was of all guests the most
popular, and thus it came to pass that his prolonged presence
at Stalham was not matter of special remark. Much of his time
he did devote to hunting, but there were half hours devoted in
company with Lady Albury to Ayala's perfection and Ayala's obstinacy.
Lady Albury was almost inclined to think that Ayala should be
given up. Married ladies seldom estimate even the girls they
like best at their full value. It seems to such a one as Lady
Albury almost a pity that such a one as Colonel Stubbs should
waste his energy upon anything so insignificant as Ayala Dormer.
The speciality of the attraction is of course absent to the woman,
and unless she has considered the matter so far as to be able
to clothe her thoughts in male vestments, as some women do, she
cannot understand the longing that is felt for so small a treasure.
Lady Albury thought that young ladies were very well, and that
Ayala was very well among young ladies; but Ayala in getting
Colonel Stubbs for a husband would, as Lady Albury thought, have
received so much more than her desert that she was now almost
inclined to be angry with the Colonel. "My dear friend," he said
to her one day, "you might as well take it for granted. I shall
go after my princess with all the energy which a princess merits."
"The question is whether she be a princess," said Lady Albury.
"Allow me to say that that is a point on which I cannot admit
a doubt. She is a princess to me, and just at present I must
be regarded as the only judge in the matter." 

"She shall be a goddess, if you please," said Lady Albury. 

"Goddess, princess, pink, or pearl -- any name you please supposed
to convey perfection shall be the same to me. It may be that
she is in truth no better, or more lovely, or divine, than many
another young lady who is at the present moment exercising the
heart of many another gentleman. You know enough of the world
to be aware that every Jack has his Gill. She is my Gill, and
that's an end of it." 

"I hope then that she may be your Gill." 

"And, in order that she may, you must have her here again. I
should absolutely not know how to go to work were I to find myself
in the presence of Aunt Dosett in Kingsbury Crescent." In answer
to this Lady Albury assured him that she would be quite willing
to have the girl again at Stalham if it could be managed. She
was reminding him, however, how difficult it had been on a previous
occasion to overcome the scruples of Mrs Dosett, when a servant
brought in word to Colonel Stubbs that there was a man in the
hall desirous of seeing him immediately on particular business.
Then the servant presented our friend Faddle's card. 

MR SAMUEL FADDLE, 1, Badminton Gardens. 

"Yes, Sir;" said the servant. "He says he has a letter which
he must put into your own particular hands." 

"That looks like a bailiff," said Lady Albury, laughing. Colonel
Stubbs, declaring that he had no special reason to be afraid
of any bailiff, left the room and went down into the hall. 

At Stalham the real hall of the house was used as a billiard-room,
and here, leaning against the billiard table, the Colonel found
poor Faddle. When a man is compelled by some chance circumstance
to address another man whom he does not know, and whom by inspection
he feels he shall never wish to know, he always hardens his face,
and sometimes also his voice. So it was with the Colonel when
he looked at Faddle. A word he did say, not in words absolutely
uncivil, as to the nature of the business in hand. Then Faddle,
showing his emotion by a quaver in his voice, suggested that
as the matter was one of extreme delicacy some more private apartment
might be provided. Upon this Stubbs led the way into a little
room which was for the most part filled with hunting gear, and
offered the stranger one of the three chairs which it contained.
Faddle sat down, finding himself so compelled, though the Colonel
still remained standing, and then extracted the fatal epistle
from his pocket. "Colonel Stubbs," said he, handing up the missive,
"I am directed by my friend, Mr Thomas Tringle, junior, to put
this letter into your own hand. When you have read it I shall
be ready to consult with you as to its contents." These few words
he had learnt by heart on his journey down, having practised
them continually. 

The Colonel took the letter, and turning to the window read it
with his back to the visitor. He read it twice from beginning
to end in order that he might have time to resolve whether he
would laugh aloud at both Faddle and Tringle, or whether it might
not be better to endeavour to soften the anger of poor Tom by
a message which should be at any rate kindly worded. "This is
from my friend, Tom Tringle," he said. 

"From Mr Thomas Tringle, junior," said Faddle, proudly. 

"So I perceive. I am sorry to think that he should be in so much
trouble. He is one of the best fellows I know, and I am really
grieved that he should be unhappy. This, you know, is all nonsense."
"It is not nonsense at all, Colonel Stubbs." 

"You must allow me to be the judge of that, Mr Faddle. It is
at any rate nonsense to me. He wants me to go somewhere and fight
a duel -- which I should not do with any man under any circumstances.
Here there is no possible ground for any quarrel whatsoever --
as I will endeavour to explain, myself, to my friend, Mr Tringle.
I shall be sure to write to him at once -- and so I will bid
you good afternoon." 

But this did not at all suit poor Faddle after so long a journey.
"I thought it probable that you would write, Colonel Stubbs,
and therefore I am prepared to wait. If I cannot be accommodated
here I will wait -- will wait elsewhere." 

"That will not be at all necessary. We have a post to London
twice a day." 

"You must be aware, Colonel Stubbs, that letters of this sort
should not be sent by post." 

"The kind of letter I shall write may be sent by post very well.
It will not be bellicose, and therefore there can be no objection."
"I really think, Colonel Stubbs, that you are making very little
of a very serious matter." 

"Mr Faddle, I really must manage my own affairs after my own
way. Would you like a glass of sherry? If not, I need hardly
ask you to stay here any longer." Upon that he went out into
the billiard-room and rang the bell. Poor Faddle would have liked
the glass of sherry, but he felt that it would be incompatible
with the angry dignity which he assumed, and he left the house
without another word or even a gesture of courtesy. Then he returned
to London, having taken his bag and dress coat all the way to
Stalham for nothing. 

Tom's letter was almost too good to be lost, but there was no
one to whom the joke could be made known except Lady Albury.
She, he was sure, would keep poor Tom's secret as well as his
own, and to her he showed the letter. "I pity him from the bottom
of my heart," he said. Lady Albury declared that the writer of
such a letter was too absurd for pity. "Not at all. Unless he
really loved her he wouldn't have been so enraged. I suppose
he does think that I injured him. He did tell me his story, and
I didn't tell him mine. I can understand it all, though I didn't
imagine he was such a fool as to invite me to travel all round
the world because of the harsh laws of Great Britain. Nevertheless,
I shall write to him quite an affectionate letter, remembering
that, should I succeed myself, he will be my first cousin by
marriage." 

Before he went to bed that night he wrote his letter, and the
reader may as well see the whole correspondence: 

MY DEAR TRINGLE, 

If you will think of it all round you will see that you have
got no cause of quarrel with me any more than I have with you.
If it be the case that we are both attached to your cousin, we
must abide her decision whether it be in favour of either of
us, or, as may be too probably the case, equally adverse to both
of us. If I understand your letter rightly, you think that I
behaved unfairly when I did not tell you of my own affairs upon
hearing yours from your own lips. Why should I? Why should I
have been held to be constrained to tell my secret because you,
for your own sake, had told me yours? Had I been engaged to your
cousin -- which I regret to say is very far from the case --
I should have told you, naturally. I should have regarded the
matter as settled, and should have acquainted you with a fact
which would have concerned you. But as such was not a fact, I
was by no means bound to tell you how my affairs stood. This
ought to be clear to you, and I hope will be when you have read
what I say. 

I may as well go on to declare that under no circumstances should
I fight a duel with you. If I thought I had done wrong in the
matter I would beg your pardon. I can't do that as it is -- though
I am most anxious to appease you -- because I have done you no
wrong. 

Pray forget your animosity -- which is in truth unfounded --
and let us be friends as we were before. 

Yours very sincerely, 

JONATHAN STUBBS

Faddle reached London the evening before the Colonel's letter,
and again dined with his friend at Bolivia's. At first they were
both extremely angry, acerbating each other's wrath. Now that
he was safe back in London Faddle thought that he would have
enjoyed an evening among the "swells" of Stalham, and felt himself
to be injured by the inhospitable treatment he had received --
"after going all the way down there, hardly to be asked to sit
down." 

"Not asked to sit down!" 

"Well, yes, I was -- on a miserable cane-bottomed chair in a
sort of cupboard. And he didn't sit down. You may call them swells,
but I think your Colonel Stubbs is a very vulgar sort of fellow.
When I told him the post isn't the proper thing for such a letter,
he only laughed. I suppose he doesn't know what is the kind of
thing among gentlemen." 

"I should think he does know," said Tom. 

"Then why doesn't he act accordingly? Would you believe it; he
never so much as asked me whether I had a mouth on. It was just
luncheon time, too." 

"I suppose they lunch late." 

"They might have asked me. I shouldn't have taken it. He did
say something about a glass of sherry, but it was in that sort
of tone which tells a fellow that he is expected not to take
it. And then he pretended to laugh. I could see that he was shaking
in his shoes at the idea of having to fight. He go to the torrid
zone! He would much rather go to a police office if he thought
that there was any fighting on hand. I should dust his jacket
with a stick if I were you." 

Later on in the evening Tom declared that this was what he would
do, but, before he came to that, a third bottle of Signor Bolivia's
champagne had been made to appear. The evening passed between
them not without much enjoyment. On the opening of that third
cork the wine was declared to be less excellent than what had
gone before, and Signor Bolivia was evoked in person. A gentleman
named Walker, who looked after the establishment, made his appearance,
and with many smiles, having been induced to swallow a bumper
of the compound himself, declared, with a knowing shake of the
head and an astute twinkle of the eye, that the wine was not
equal to the last. He took a great deal of trouble, he assured
them, to import an article which could not be surpassed, if it
could be equalled, in London, always visiting Epernay himself
once a year for the purpose of going through the wine-vaults.
Let him do what he would an inferior bottle -- or, rather, a
bottle somewhat inferior -- would sometimes make its way into
his cellar. Would Mr Tringle let him have the honour of drawing
another cork, so that the exact amount of difference might be
ascertained? Tom gave his sanction; the fourth cork was drawn;
and Mr Walker, sitting down and consuming the wine with his customers,
was enabled to point out to a hair's breadth the nature and the
extent of the variation. Tringle still thought that the difference
was considerable. Faddle was, on the whole, inclined to agree
with Signor Bolivia. It need hardly be said that the four bottles
were paid for -- or rather scored against Tringle, who at the
present time had a little account at the establishment. 

"Show a fellar fellar's letters morrer." Such or something like
it was Faddle's last request to his friend as they bade each
other farewell for the night in Pall Mall. But Faddle was never
destined to see the Colonel's epistle. On his attempting to let
himself in at Badminton Gardens, he was kidnapped by his father
in his night-shirt and dressing-gown; and was sent out of London
on the following morning by long sea down to Aberdeen, whither
he was intrusted to the charge of a stern uncle. Our friend Tom
saw nothing more of his faithful friend till years had rolled
over both their heads. 

By the morning post, while Tom was still lying sick with headache
-- for even with Signor Bolivia's wine the pulling of many corks
is apt to be dangerous -- there came the letter from the Colonel.
Bad as Tom was, he felt himself constrained to read it at once,
and learned that neither the torrid zone or Arctic circle would
require his immediate attendance. He was very sick, and perhaps,
therefore, less high in courage than on the few previous days.
Partly, perhaps, from that cause, but partly, also, from the
Colonel's logic, he did find that his wrath was somewhat abated.
Not but what it was still present to his mind that if two men
loved the same girl as ardently, as desperately, as eternally
as he loved Ayala, the best thing for them would be to be put
together like the Kilkenny cats, till whatever remnant should
be left of one might have its chance with the young lady. He
still thought that it would be well that they should fight to
the death, but a glimmering of light fell upon his mind as to
the Colonel's abnegation of all treason in the matter. "I suppose
it wasn't to be expected that he should tell," he said to himself.
"Perhaps I shouldn't have told in the same place. But as to forgetting
animosity that is out of the question! How is a man to forget
his animosity when two men want to marry the same girl?" 

About three o'clock on that day he dressed himself, and sat waiting
for Faddle to come to him. He knew how anxious his friend would
be to see the Colonel's letter. But Faddle by this time had passed
the Nore, and had added seasickness to his other maladies. Faddle
came to him no more, and the tedious hours of the afternoon wore
themselves away in his lodgings till he found his solitude to
be almost more unbearable than his previous misfortunes. At last
came the time when he must go out for his dinner. He did not
dare to attempt the Mountaineers. And as for Bolivia, Bolivia
with his corks, and his eating-house, and his vintages, was abominable
to him. About eight o'clock he slunk into a quiet little house
on the north side of Oxford Street, and there had two mutton
chops, some buttered toast, and some tea. As he drank his tea
he told himself that on the morrow he would go back to his mother
at Merle Park, and get from her such consolation as might be
possible. 


CHAPTER 37
GERTRUDE IS UNSUCCESSFUL

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 ecarte. 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." 

"To be married!" she exclaimed. 

"Married at Ostend! Would your mother like that?" 

"Mother! Oh, dear!" 

"I'll be shot if I know what you're after, Gertrude. If you've
got anything to say you'd better speak out. I want to go up to
the house now." 

They had now taken one or two turns between the lodge and a point
in the road from which the house could be observed, and at which
Tom could still be seen wandering about, thinking no doubt of
Ayala. Here Frank stopped as though determined not to turn to
the lodge again. It was wonderful to Gertrude that he should
not have understood what she had already said. When he talked
of her mother going with them to the Ostend marriage she was
almost beside herself. This lover of hers was a man of the world
and must have heard of elopements. But now had come a time in
which she must be plain, unless she made up her mind to abandon
her plan altogether. "Frank," she said, "if you were to run away
with me, then we could be married at Ostend." 

"Run away with you!" 

"It wouldn't be the first time that such a thing has been done."
"The commonest thing in the world, my dear, when a girl has got
her money in her own hands. Nothing I should like so much." 

"Money! It's always money. It's nothing but the money, I believe."
"That's unkind, Gertrude." 

"Ain't you unkind? You won't do anything I ask." 

"My darling, that hashed mutton and those baked potatoes are
too clear before my eyes." 

"You think of nothing, I believe, but your dinner." 

"I think, unfortunately, of a great many other things. Hashed
mutton is simply symbolical. Under the head of hashed mutton
I include poor lodgings, growlers when we get ourselves asked
to eat a dinner at somebody's table, limited washing bills, table
napkins rolled up in their dirt every day for a week, antimacassars
to save the backs of the chairs, a picture of you darning my
socks while I am reading a newspaper hired at a halfpenny from
the public house round the corner, a pint of beer in the pewter
between us -- and perhaps two babies in one cradle because we
can't afford to buy a second." 

"Don't, Sir." 

"In such an emergency I am bound to give you the advantage both
of my experience and imagination." 

"Experience!" 

"Not about the cradles! That is imagination. My darling, it won't
do. You and I have not been brought up to make ourselves happy
on a very limited income." 

"Papa would be sure to give us the money," she said, eagerly.
"In such a matter as this, where your happiness is concerned,
my dear, I will trust no one." 

"My happiness!" 

"Yes, my dear, your happiness! I am quite willing to own the
truth. I am not fitted to make you happy, if I were put upon
the hashed mutton regime as I have described to you. I will not
run the risk -- for your sake." 

"For your own, you mean," she said. 

"Nor for my own, if you wish me to add that also." 

Then they walked up towards the house for some little way in
silence. "What is it you intend, then?" she asked. 

"I will ask your father once again." 

"He will simply turn you out of the house," she said. Upon this
he shrugged his shoulders, and they walked on to the hall door
in silence. 

Sir Thomas was not at Merle Park, nor was he expected home that
evening. Frank Houston could only therefore ask for Lady Tringle,
and her he saw together with Mr and Mrs Traffick. In presence
of them all nothing could be said of love affairs; and, after
sitting for half an hour, during which he was not entertained
with much cordiality, he took his leave, saying that he would
do himself the honour of calling on Sir Thomas in the City. While
he was in the drawing-room Gertrude did not appear. She had retired
to her room, and was there resolving that Frank Houston was not
such a lover as would justify a girl in breaking her heart for
him. 

And Frank as he went to town brought his mind to the same way
of thinking. The girl wanted something romantic to be done, and
he was not disposed to do anything romantic for her. He was not
in the least angry with her, acknowledging to himself that she
had quite as much a right to her way of looking at things as
he had to his. But he felt almost sure that the Tringle alliance
must be regarded as impossible. If so, should he look out for
another heiress, or endeavour to enjoy life, stretching out his
little income as far as might be possible -- or should he assume
altogether a new character, make a hero of himself, and ask Imogene
Docimer to share with him a little cottage in whatever might
be the cheapest spot to be found in the civilised parts of Europe?
If it was to be hashed mutton and a united cradle he would prefer
Imogene Docimer to Gertrude Tringle for his companion. 

But there was still open to him the one further chance with Sir
Thomas; and this chance he could try with the comfortable feeling
that he might be almost indifferent as to what Sir Thomas might
say. To be prepared for either lot is very self-assuring when
any matter of difficulty has to be taken in hand. On arriving
at the house in Lombard Street he soon found himself ushered
once more into Sir Thomas's presence. "Well, Mr Houston, what
can I do for you today?" asked the man of business, with a pleasant
smile. 

"It is the old story, Sir Thomas." 

"Don't you think, Mr Houston, that there is something -- a little
-- unmanly shall I call it, in coming so often about the same
thing?" 

"No, Sir Thomas, I do not. I think my conduct has been manly
throughout." 

"Weak, perhaps, would have been a better word. I do not wish
to be uncourteous, and I will therefore withdraw unmanly. Is
it not weak to encounter so many refusals on the same subject?"
"I should feel myself to have been very strong if after so many
refusals I were to be successful at last." 

"There is not the least chance of it." 

"Why should there be no chance if your daughter's happiness depends
upon it?" 

"There is no chance, because I do not believe that my daughter's
happiness does depend upon it. She is foolish, and has made a
foolish proposition to you." 

"What proposition?" asked Houston, in surprise, having heard
nothing of that intercepted letter. 

"That journey to Ostend, with the prospect of finding a good-natured
clergyman in the town! I hardly think you would be fool enough
for that." 

"No, Sir Thomas, I should not do that. I should think it wrong."
This he said quite gravely, asking no questions; but was very
much at a loss to know where Sir Thomas had got his information.
"I am sure you would think it foolish: and it would be foolish.
I pledge you my word, that were you to do such a thing I should
not give you a shilling. I should not let my girl starve; but
I should save her from suffering in such a manner as to let you
have no share of the sustenance I provided for her." 

"There is no question of that kind," said Frank, angrily. 

"I hope not -- only as I know that the suggestion has been made
I have thought it well to tell you what would be my conduct if
it were carried out." 

"It will not be carried out by me," said Frank. 

"Very well; I am glad to hear it. To tell the truth, I never
thought that you would run the risk. A gentleman of your sort,
when he is looking for a wife with money, likes to have the money
quite certain." 

"No doubt," said Frank, determined not to be browbeaten. 

"And now, Mr Houston, let me say one word more to you and then
we may part, as I hope, good friends. I do not mean my daughter
Gertrude to marry any man such as you are -- by that I mean an
idle gentleman without means. Should she do so in my teeth she
would have to bear the punishment of sharing that poor gentleman's
idleness and poverty. While I lived she would not be allowed
absolutely to want, and when I died there would be some trifle
for her, sufficient to keep the wolf from the door. But I give
you my solemn word and honour that she shall never be the means
of supplying wealth and luxury to such a husband as you would
be. I have better purposes for my hard-earned money. Now, good-day."
With that he rose from his chair and put out his hand. Frank
rose also from his chair, took the hand that was offered him,
and stepped out of Travers and Treason into Lombard Street, with
no special desire to shake the dust off his feet as he did so.
He felt that Sir Thomas had been reasonable -- and he felt also
that Gertrude Tringle would perhaps have been dear at the money.
Two or three days afterwards he despatched the following little
note to poor Gertrude at Merle Park: 

DEAR GERTRUDE, 

I have seen your father again, and found him to be absolutely
obdurate. I am sure he is quite in earnest when he tells me that
he will not give his daughter to an impoverished idle fellow
such as I am. Who shall say that he is wrong? I did not dare
to tell him so, anxious as I was that he should change his purpose.
I feel myself bound in honour, believing, as I do, that he is
quite resolved in his purpose, to release you from your promise.
I should feel that I was only doing you an injury were I to ask
you to be bound by an engagement which could not, at any rate
for many years, be brought to a happy termination. 

As we may part as sincere friends I hope you will consent to
keep the little token of my regard which I gave you. 

FRANK HOUSTON


CHAPTER 38
FRANK HOUSTON IS PENITENT

"And now the Adriatic's free to wed another," said Houston to
himself, as he put himself into a cab, and had himself carried
to his club. There he wrote that valedictory letter to Gertrude
which is given at the end of the last chapter. Had he reason
to complain of his fate, or to rejoice? He had looked the question
of an establishment full in the face -- an establishment to be
created by Sir Thomas Tringle's money, to be shared with Sir
Thomas Tringle's daughter, and had made up his mind to accept
it, although the prospects were not, as he told himself, "altogether
rosy". When he first made up his mind to marry Gertrude -- on
condition that Gertrude should bring with her, at any rate, not
less than three thousand a year -- he was quite aware that he
would have to give up all his old ways of life, and all his little
pleasures. He would become son-in-law to Sir Thomas Tringle,
with a comfortable house to live in; with plenty to eat and drink,
and, probably, a horse or two to ride. If he could manage things
at their best, perhaps he might be able to settle himself at
Pau, or some other place of the kind, so as to be as far away
as possible from Tringle influences. But his little dinners at
one club, his little rubbers of whist at the other club, his
evenings at the opera, the pleasant smiles of the ladies, whom
he loved in a general way -- these would be done with for ever!
Earn his own bread! Why, he was going to earn his bread, and
that in most disagreeable manner. He would set up an establishment,
not because such an establishment would have any charms for him,
but because he was compelled by lack of money to make some change
in his present manner of life. And yet the time had been when
he had looked forward to a marriage as the happiest thing that
could befall him. As far as his nature could love, he had loved
Imogene Docimer. There had come a glimpse upon him of something
better than the little dinners and the little rubbers. There
had been a prospect of an income -- not ample, as would have
been that forthcoming from Sir Thomas -- but sufficient for a
sweet and modest home, in which he thought that it would have
sufficed for his happiness to paint a few pictures, and read
a few books, and to love his wife and children. Even as to that
there had been a doubt. There was a regret as to the charms of
London life. But, nevertheless, he had made up his mind -- and
she, without any doubt, had made up hers. Then that wicked uncle
had died, and was found to have expended on his own pursuits
the money which was to have been left to his nephew. Upon that
there was an explanation between Frank and Imogene; and it was
agreed that their engagement should be over, while a doubtful
and dangerous friendship was to be encouraged between them. 

Such was the condition of things when Frank first met Gertrude
Tringle at Rome, now considerably more than twelve months since.
When Gertrude had first received his proposition favourably he
had written to Imogene a letter in that drolling spirit common
to him, in which he declared his purpose -- or rather, not his
purpose, but his untoward fate, should the gods be unkind to
him. She had answered him after the same fashion, saying, that
in regard to his future welfare she hoped that the gods would
prove unkind. But had he known how to read all that her letter
expressed between the lines, he would have perceived that her
heart was more strongly moved than his own. Since that time he
had learned the lesson. There had been a letter or two; and then
there had been that walk in the wood on the Italian side of the
Tyrolese Alps. The reader may remember how he was hurried away
in the diligence for Innsbruck, because it was considered that
his further sojourn in the same house with Imogene was dangerous.
He had gone, and even as he went had attempted to make a joke
of the whole affair. But it had not been quite a joke to him
even then. There was Imogene's love and Imogene's anger -- and
together with these an aversion towards the poor girl whom he
intended to marry -- which became the stronger the more strongly
he was convinced both of Imogene's love and of her anger. 

Nevertheless, he persevered -- not with the best success, as
has already been told. Now, as he left the house in Lombard Street,
and wrote what was intended to be his last epistle to Gertrude,
he was driven again to think of Miss Docimer. Indeed he had in
his pocket, as he sat at his club, a little note which he had
lately received from that lady, which, in truth, had disturbed
him much when he made his last futile efforts at Merle Park and
in Lombard Street. The little note was as follows: 

DEAR FRANK, 

One little friendly word in spite of our storm on the Tyrolese
hillside! If Miss Tringle is to be the arbiter of "your fate
-- why, then, let there be an end of everything between us. I
should not care to be called upon to receive such a Mrs Frank
Houston as a dear friend. But if Tringle pere should at the last
moment prove hardhearted, then let me see you again. 

Yours, 

I.

With this letter in his pocket he had gone down to Merle Park,
determined to put an end to the Tringle affair in one way or
the other. His duty, as he had planned it to himself, would not
be altered by Imogene's letter; but if that duty should become
impracticable -- why, then, it would be open to him to consider
whatever Imogene might have to say to him. 

The Docimers were now in London, where it was their custom to
live during six months of the year,; but Houston had not been
at their house since he had parted from them in the Tyrol. He
had spent but little of his time in London since the autumn,
and, when there, had not been anxious to see people who had,
at any rate, treated him somewhat roughly. But now it would be
necessary that he should answer Imogene's letter. What should
be the nature of such answer he certainly had not as yet decided;
nor could he have decided before those very convincing assurances
of Sir Thomas Pringle. That matter was at any rate over, and
now the "Adriatic might wed another," -- if the Adriatic thought
well to do so. The matter, however, was one which required a
good deal of consideration. He gave to it ten minutes of intense
thought, during which he consumed a cup of coffee and a cigarette;
and then, throwing away the burnt end of the paper, he hurried
into the morning-room, and wrote to the lady as follows: 

DEAR IMOGENE, 

You will not have to press to your bosom as my wife the second
daughter of Sir Thomas Tringle, Bart. The high honour of that
alliance has at last been refused by him in very plain language.
Had she become Mrs Frank Houston, I do not doubt but you would
have done your duty to your own cousin. That lot, however, has
not been written for me in the Book of Fates. The father is persistent
in looking upon me as an idle profligate adventurer; and though
he has been kind enough to hint more than once that it might
be possible for me to achieve the young lady, he has succeeded
in convincing me that I never should achieve anything beyond
the barren possession of her beauty. A wife and family on my
present very moderate income would be burdensome; and, therefore,
with infinite regrets, I have bade adieu to Miss Tringle. 

I have not hitherto been to see either you or your brother or
Mrs Docimer because I have been altogether unaware whether you
or your brother or Mrs Docimer would be glad to see me. As you
say yourself, there was a storm on the Tyrolese hillside -- in
which there was more than one wind blowing at the same time.
I do not find fault with anybody -- perhaps a storm was needed
to clear the air. But I hate storms. I do not pretend to be a
very grand fellow, but I do endeavour not to be disagreeable.
Your brother, if you remember, was a little hard. But, in truth,
I say this only to account for my apparent incivility. 

And, perhaps, with another object -- to gain a little time before
I plunge into the stern necessity of answering all that you say
in your very comprehensive letter of five lines. The first four
lines I have answered. There will be no such Mrs Frank Houston
as that suggested. And then, as to the last line. Of course,
you will see me again, and that very speedily. So it would seem
that the whole letter is answered. 

But yet it is not answered. There is so much in it that whole
sheets would not answer it. A quire of notepaper stuffed full
would hardly contain all that I might find to say in answer to
it -- on one side and the other. Nay, I might fill as many reams
of folio as are required for a three-volume novel. And then I
might call it by one of two names, The Doubts of Frank Houston,
or The Constancy of Imogene Docimer -- as I should at last bring
my story to one ending or the other. But the novel would contain
that fault which is so prevalent in the novels of the present
day. The hero would be a very namby-pamby sort of a fellow, whereas
the heroine would be too perfect for human nature. 

"The hero would be always repeating to himself a certain line
out of a Latin poet, which, of all lines, is the most heart-breaking:
The better course I see and know -- The worser one is where I
go.

But then in novels the most indifferent hero comes out right
at last. Some god comes out of a theatrical cloud and leaves
the poor devil ten thousand a year and a title. He isn't much
of a hero when he does go right under such inducements, but he
suffices for the plot, and everything is rose-coloured. I would
be virtuous at a much cheaper rate -- if only a young man with
his family might have enough to eat and drink. What is your idea
of the lowest income at which a prudent -- say not idiotically-quixotic
hero -- might safely venture to become heroic? 

Now I have written to you a long letter, and think that I have
indicated to you the true state of my feelings. Whatever may
turn up I do not think I shall go fortune-hunting again. If half
a million in female hands were to throw itself at my head, there
is no saying whether I might not yield. But I do not think that
I shall again make inquiry as to the amount of booty supposed
to be within the walls of a city, and then sit down to besiege
the city with regular lines of approach. It is a disgusting piece
of work. I do not say but what I can lie, and did lie foully
on the last siege operation; but I do not like it. And then to
be told that one is unmanly by the father, and a coward by the
young lady, as occurred to me in this affair, is disheartening.
They were both right, though I repudiated their assertions. This
might be borne as a prelude to success; but, as part of a failure,
it is disgusting. At the present moment I am considering what
economy might effect as to a future bachelor life, and am meditating
to begin with a couple of mutton chops and half a pint of sherry
for my dinner today. I know I shall break down and have a woodcock
and some champagne. 

I will come to you about three on Sunday. If you can manage that
your brother should go out and make his calls, and your sister
attend divine service in the afternoon, it would be a comfort.
Yours always, 

F. HOUSTON

It was a long rambling letter, without a word in it of solid
clearly-expressed meaning; but Imogene, as she read it, understood
very well its real purport. She understood more than its purport,
for she could see by it -- more clearly than the writer did himself
-- how far her influence over the man had been restored, and
how far she might be able to restore it. But was it well that
she should regain her influence? Her influence regained would
simply mean a renewed engagement. No doubt the storm on the hillside
had come from the violence of true love on her part! No doubt
her heart had been outraged by the idea that he should give himself
up to another woman after all that had passed between them. She
had been devoted to him altogether; but yet she had been taught
by him to regard her love as a passion which of its nature contained
something of the ridiculous. He had never ceased gently to laugh
at himself, even in her presence, because he had subjected himself
to her attraction. She had caught up the same spirit -- or at
any rate the expression of spirit -- and, deceived by that, he
had thought that to relieve herself from the burden of her love
would be as easy to her as to him. In making this mistake he
had been ignorant of the intrinsic difference in the nature of
a man's and of a woman's heart, and had been unaware that that,
which to a man at his best can only be a part of his interest
in his life's concerns, will to a woman be everything. She had
attempted to follow his lead when it did not seem that by doing
so she would lose anything. But when the moment of trial came
she had not in truth followed his lead at all. She made the attempt,
and in making the attempt gave him her permission to go from
her; but when she realised the fact that he was gone -- or going
-- then she broke down utterly. Then there came these contentions
between her and her brother, and that storm on the hillside.
After that she passed some months of wretchedness. There was
no possibility for her to droll away her love. She had taught
herself to love the man whether he were good or whether he were
bad -- whether he were strong-hearted or whether he were fickle
-- and the thing was there present to her, either as a permanent
blessing, or, much more probably, a permanent curse. As the months
went on she learned, though she never saw Frank himself, that
his purpose of marrying Gertrude Tringle was not likely to be
carried out. Then at last she wrote that comprehensive letter
of five lines -- as Houston had called it. It had been intended
to be comprehensive, and did, in fact, contain much more than
it seemed to say. "If you can bring yourself to return to me,
and to endure whatever inconveniences may be incidental to your
doing so, I hereby declare that I will do the same; and I declare
also that I can find for myself no other content in the world
except what may come to me from such an agreement between us."
It was this that she said in that last line, in which she had
begged him to come to her if at the last moment "Tringle pere"
should prove to be hardhearted. All troubles of poverty, all
the lingering annoyance of waiting, all her possible doubts as
to his future want of persistency, would be preferable to the
great loss which she found herself unable to endure. 

Yes; it would be very well that both her brother and her sister-in-law
should be absent when he came to her. To neither of them had
she said a word of her last correspondence -- to neither of them
a word of her renewed hopes. For the objections which might be
raised by either of them would she care little if she could succeed
with Frank. But while that success was still doubtful it would
be well to get at any rate the assistance of her sister-in-law.
On the Sunday afternoon Mr Docimer would certainly be away from
the house. It was his custom to go off among his friends almost
immediately after lunch, and his absence might be counted on
as assured. But with his wife it was different. The project of
sending her to church was quite out of the question. Mrs Docimer
generally went to church of a Sunday morning, and then always
considered herself to have performed the duties of the day. Nor
did Imogene like the idea of this appointment with her lover
without a word spoken about it to her sister-in-law. "Mary,"
she said, "Frank Houston is coming here on Sunday." 

"Frank!" exclaimed Mrs Docimer. "I thought we were to consider
ourselves as altogether separated from that fortunate youth."
"I don't see why." 

"Well; he left us not with the kindest possible feelings in the
Tyrol; and he has allowed ever so many months to pass by without
coming to see us. I asked Mudbury whether we should have him
to dinner one day last week, and he said it would be better to
let him go his own way." 

"Nevertheless, he is coming here on Sunday." 

"Has he written to you?" 

"Yes, he has written to me -- in answer to a line from me. I
told him that I wished to see him." 

"Was that wise?" 

"Wise or not, I did so." 

"Why should you wish to see him?" 

"Am I to tell you the truth or a lie?" 

"Not a lie, certainly. I will not ask for the truth if the truth
be unpalatable to you." 

"It is unpalatable -- but yet I might as well tell it you. I
wrote to ask him to come and see me, because I love him so dearly."
"Oh, Imogene!" 

"It is the truth." 

"Did you tell him so?" 

"No; I told him nothing. I merely said, that, if this match was
over between him and that girl of Sir Thomas Tringle, then he
might come and see me again. That was all that I said. His letter
was very much longer, but yet it did not say much. However, he
is to come, and I am prepared to renew our engagement should
he declare that he is willing to do so." 

"What will Mudbury say?" 

"I do not care very much what he says. I do not know that I am
bound to care. If I have resolved to entangle myself with a long
engagement, and Mr Houston is willing to do the same, I do not
think that my brother should interfere. I am my own mistress,
and am dealing altogether with my own happiness. 

"Imogene, we have discussed this so often before." 

"Not a doubt; and with such effect that with my permission Frank
was enabled to ask this young woman with a lot of money to marry
him. Had it been arranged, I should have had no right to find
fault with him, however sore of heart I might have been. All
that has fallen through, and I consider myself quite entitled
to renew my engagement again. I shall not ask him, you may be
sure of that." 

"It comes to the same thing, Imogene." 

"Very likely. It often happens that ladies mean that to be expressed
which it does not become them to say out loud. So it may be with
me on this occasion. Nevertheless, the word, if it have to be
spoken, will have to be spoken by him. What I want you to do
now is to let me have the drawing-room alone at three o'clock
on Sunday. If anything has to be said it will have to be said
without witnesses." 

With some difficulty Mrs Docimer was induced to accede to the
request, and to promise that, at any rate for the present, nothing
should be said to her husband on the subject. 


CHAPTER 39
CAPTAIN BATSBY

In the meantime, poor Ayala, whose days were running on in a
very melancholy manner under her aunt's wings in Kingsbury Crescent,
was creating further havoc and disturbing the bosom of another
lover. At Stalham she had met a certain Captain Batsby, and had
there attracted his attention. Captain Batsby had begged her
to ride with him on one of those hunting days, and had offered
to give her a lead -- having been at the moment particularly
jealous of Colonel Stubbs. On that day both Ayala and Nina had
achieved great honour -- but this, to the great satisfaction
of Captain Batsby, had not been achieved under the leadership
of Colonel Stubbs. Larry Twentyman, long famous among the riding-men
of the Ufford and Rufford United Hunt, had been the hero of the
hour. Thus Captain Batsby's feelings had been spared, and after
that he had imagined that any kindly feelings which Ayala might
have had for the Colonel had sunk into abeyance. Then he had
sought some opportunity to push himself into Ayala's favour,
but hitherto his success in that direction had not been great.
Captain Batsby was regarded by the inhabitants of Stalham as
a nuisance -- but as a nuisance which could not be avoided. He
was half-brother to Sir Harry, whose mother had married, as her
second husband, a certain opulent Mr Batsby out of Lancashire.
They were both dead now, and nothing of them remained but this
Captain. He was good-natured, simple, and rich, and in the arrangement
of the Albury-cum-Batsby affairs, which took place after the
death of Mrs Batsby, made himself pleasant to everybody concerned.
Sir Harry, who certainly had no particular affection for his
half-brother, always bore with him on this account; and Lady
Albury was equally gracious, mindful of the wisdom of keeping
on good terms with a rich relation. It was as yet quite on the
cards that the Batsby money might come to some of the Albury
scions. 

But the Captain was anxious to provide himself with a wife who
might be the mother of scions of his own. In fact he had fallen
fearfully in love with Ayala, and was quite resolved to ask her
to be his wife when he found that she was just on the point of
flying from Stalham. He had intended to be quicker in his operations,
but had lacked opportunity. On that last hunting day the Colonel
had always been still in his way, and circumstances had never
seemed to favour him when he endeavoured to have a few words
in private with the young lady. Then she was gone, and he could
only learn respecting her that she lived with her aunt, Mrs Dosett,
in Kingsbury Crescent. 

"I'm blessed if Benjamin isn't smitten with that girl!" Benjamin
was Captain Batsby, and that girl was of course Ayala Dormer.
The man who blessed himself was Sir Harry Albury, and the observation
was addressed to his wife. This took place within an hour of
Ayala's departure from Stalham. 

"Benjamin in love with Ayala Dormer! I don't believe a word of
it," said Lady Albury. It was not surprising that she should
not believe it. There was her special favourite, Colonel Stubbs,
infatuated by the same girl; and, as she was aware, Tom Tringle,
the heir of Travers and Treason, was in the same melancholy condition.
And, after all, according to her thinking, there was nothing
in the girl to justify all this fury. In her eyes Ayala was pretty,
but no more. She would have declared that Ayala had neither bearing,
nor beauty, nor figure. A bright eye, a changing colour, and
something of vivacity about her mouth, was all of which Ayala
had to boast. Yet here were certainly the heir of the man of
millions, and that Crichton of a Colonel, both knocked off their
legs. And now she was told that Captain Batsby, who always professed
himself hard to please in the matter of young ladies, was in
the same condition. "Do you mean to say he told you?" she asked.
"No," said Sir Harry; "he is not at all the man to do that. In
such a matter he is sure to have a great secret, and be sure
also to let his secret escape in every word that he speaks. You
will find that what I say is truth." 

Before the day was out Lady Albury did find her husband to be
correct. Captain Batsby, though he was very jealous of his secret,
acknowledged to himself the necessity of having one confidant.
He could hardly, he thought, follow Ayala without some assistance.
He knew nothing of Mrs Dosett, nothing of Kingsbury Crescent,
and very little as to Ayala herself. He regarded Lady Albury
as his chosen friend, and generally communicated to her whatever
troubles he might have. These had consisted chiefly of the persecutions
to which he had been subjected by the mothers of portionless
young ladies. How not to get married off against his will had
been the difficulty of his life. His half-sister-in-law had hitherto
preserved him, and therefore to her he now went for assistance
in this opposite affair. "Rosalind," he said in his gravest voice,
"what do you think I have to tell you?" 

Lady Albury knew what was coming, but of course she hid her knowledge.
"I hope Mrs Motherly has not written to you again," she said.
Mrs Motherly was a lady who had been anxious that her daughter
should grace Captain Batsby's table, and had written to him letters,
asking him his intentions. 

"Oh, dear; nothing of that kind. I do not care a straw for Mrs
Motherly or the girl either. I never said a word to her that
anyone could make a handle of. But I want to say a word to somebody
now." 

"What sort of a word is it to be, Ben?" 

"Ah," he groaned. "Rosalind, you must understand that I never
was so much in earnest in my life!" 

"You are always in earnest." 

Then he sighed very deeply. "I shall expect you to help me through
this matter, Rosalind." 

"Do I not always help you?" 

"Yes; you do. But you must stick to me now like wax. What do
you think of that young lady, Miss Dormer?" 

"I think she is a pretty girl; and the gentlemen tell me that
she rides bravely." 

"Don't you consider her divine?" he asked. 

"My dear Ben, one lady never considers another to be divine.
Among ourselves we are terribly human, if not worse. Do you mean
to tell me that you are in love with Ayala Dormer?" 

"You have guessed it," said he. "You always do guess everything."
"I generally do guess as much as that, when young gentlemen find
young ladies divine. Do you know anything about Miss Dormer?"
"Nothing but her beauty -- nothing but her wit -- nothing but
her grace! I know all that, and I don't seem to want to know
any more." 

"Then you must be in love! In the first place she hasn't got
a sixpence in the world." 

"I don't want sixpences," said the Captain, proudly. 

"And in the next place I am not at all sure that you would like
her people. Father and mother she has none." 

"Then I cannot dislike them." 

"But she has uncles and aunts, who are, I am afraid, objectionable.
She lives with a Mr Dosett, who is a clerk in Somerset House
-- a respectable man, no doubt, but one whom you would not perhaps
want at your house very often." 

"I don't care about uncles and aunts," said Captain Batsby. "Uncles
and aunts can always be dropped much easier than fathers and
mothers. At any rate I am determined to go on, and I want you
to put me in the way. How must I find her?" 

"Go to No. 10, Kingsbury Crescent, Bayswater. Ask for Mrs Dosett
and tell her what you've come about. When she knows that you
are well off she will not turn a deaf ear to you. What the girl
may do it is beyond me to say. She is very peculiar." 

"Peculiar?" said the Captain with another sigh. 

Lady Albury did, in truth, think Ayala was very peculiar, seeing
that she had refused two such men as Tom Tringle in spite of
his wealth, and Colonel Stubbs in spite of his position. This
she had done though she had no prospects of her own before her,
and no comfortable home at the present! Might it not be more
than probable that she would also refuse Captain Batsby, who
was less rich than the one and certainly less known to the world
than the other? But as to this it was not necessary that she
should say anything. To assist Colonel Stubbs she was bound by
true affection for the man. In regard to her husband's half-brother
she was only bound to seem to assist him. "I can write a line
to Mrs Dosett, if you wish it," she said, "or to Miss Dormer."
"I wish you would. It would be best to the aunt, and just tell
her that I am fairly well off. She'll tell Ayala I could make
quite a proper settlement on her. That kind of thing does go
a long way with young ladies." 

"It ought to do at any rate," said Lady Albury. "It certainly
does with the old ladies." Then the matter was settled. She was
to write to Mrs Dosett and inform that lady that Captain Batsby
intended to call at Kingsbury Crescent in the form of a suitor
for Miss Ayala Dormer's hand. She would go on to explain that
Captain Batsby was quite in a position to marry and maintain
a wife. 

"And if she should accept me you'll have her down here, Rosalind?"
Here was a difficulty, as it was already understood that Ayala
was to be again brought down to Stalham on the Colonel's account;
but Lady Albury could make the promise, as, should the Captain
be accepted, no harm would in that case be done to the Colonel.
She was, however, tolerably sure that the Captain would not be
accepted. "And, if she shouldn't take me all at once, still you
might have her," suggested the lover. As to this, which was so
probable, there would be a great difficulty. Ayala was to be
seduced into coming again to Stalham if possible -- but specially
on the Colonel's behoof. In such a case it must be done behind
the Captain's back. Lady Albury saw the troubles which were coming,
but nevertheless she promised that she would see what could be
done. All this having been settled, Captain Batsby took his leave
and went off to London. 

Mrs Dosett, when she received Lady Albury's letter, was very
much surprised. She too failed to understand what there was in
Ayala to produce such a multiplicity of suitors, one after another.
When Lucy came to her and had begun to be objectionable, she
had thought that she might some day be relieved from her troubles
by the girl's marriage. Lucy, to her eyes, was beautiful, and
mistress of a manner likely to be winning in a man's eyes, though
ungracious to herself. But in regard to Ayala she had expressed
nothing of the kind. Ayala was little, and flighty, and like
an elf -- as she had remarked to her husband. But now, within
twelve months, three lovers had appeared, and each of them suitable
for matrimonial purposes. She could only tell her husband, and
then tell Ayala. 

"Captain Batsby! I don't believe it!" said Ayala, almost crying.
If Colonel Stubbs could not be made to assume the garb of an
Angel of Light what was she to think of Captain Batsby? 

"You can read Lady Albury's letter." 

"I don't want to read Lady Albury's letter. I won't see him.
I don't care what my uncle says. I don't care what anybody says.
Yes, I do know him. I remember him very well. I spoke to him
once or twice, and I did not like him at all." 

"You said the same of Colonel Stubbs." 

"I didn't say the same of Colonel Stubbs. He is a great deal
worse than Colonel Stubbs." 

"And you said just the same of Tom." 

"He is the same as Tom -- just as bad. It is no good going on
about him, Aunt Margaret. I won't see him. If I were locked up
in a room with him I wouldn't speak a word to him. He has no
right to come." 

"A gentleman, my dear, has always a right to ask a lady to be
his wife if he has got means." 

"You always say so, Aunt Margaret, but I don't believe it. There
should be -- there should have been -- I don't know what; but
I am quite sure the man has no right to come to me, and I won't
see him." To this resolution Ayala clung, and, as she was very
firm about it, Mrs Dosett, after consultation with her husband,
at last gave way, and consented to see Captain Batsby herself.
In due time Captain Batsby came. At any knock heard at the door
during this period Ayala flew out of the drawing-room into her
own chamber; and at the Captain's knock she flew with double
haste, feeling sure that his was the special knock. The man was
shown up, and in a set speech declared his purpose to Mrs Dosett,
and expressed a hope that Lady Albury might have written on the
subject. Might he be allowed to see the young lady? 

"I fear that would be of no service, Captain Batsby." 

"Of no service?" 

"On receiving Lady Albury's letter I was of course obliged to
tell my niece the honour you proposed to do her." 

"I am quite in earnest, you know," said the Captain. 

"So I suppose, as Lady Albury would not have written, nor would
you have come on such a mission. But so is my niece in earnest."
"She will, at any rate, hear what I have got to say." 

"She would rather not," said Mrs Dosett. "She thinks that it
would only be painful to both of you. As she has quite made up
her mind that she cannot accept the honour you propose to do
her, what good would it serve?" 

"Is Miss Dormer at home?" asked the Captain, suddenly. Mrs Dosett
hesitated for a while, anxious to tell a lie on the matter, but
fearing to do so. "I suppose she is at home," continued the urgent
lover. 

"Miss Dormer is at present in her own chamber." 

"Then I think I ought to see her," continued the Captain. "She
can't know at present what is my income." 

"Lady Albury has told us that it is sufficient." 

"But that means nothing. Your niece cannot be aware that I have
a very pretty little place of my own down in Berkshire. 

"I don't think it would make a difference," said Mrs Dosett.
"Or that I shall be willing to settle upon her a third of my
income. It is not many gentlemen who will do as much as that
for a young lady, when the young lady has nothing of her own."
"I am sure you are very generous." 

"Yes, I am. I always was generous. And I have no impediments
to get rid of; not a trouble of that kind in all the world. And
I don't owe a shilling. Very few young men, who have lived as
much in the world as I have, can say that." 

"I am sure your position is all that is desirable." 

"That's just it. No position could be more desirable. I should
give up the service immediately as soon as I was married." At
that Mrs Dosett bowed, not knowing what words to find for further
conversation. "After that," continued the Captain, "do you mean
to say that I am not to be allowed to see the young lady?" 

"I cannot force her to come down, Captain Batsby." 

"I would if I were you." 

"Force a young lady?" 

"Something ought to be done," said he, beginning almost to whine.
"I have come here on purpose to see her, and I am quite prepared
to do what is handsome. My half-sister, Lady Albury, had her
down at Stalham, and is quite anxious to have her there again.
I suppose you have no objection to make to me, Mrs Dosett?" 

"Oh, dear no." 

"Or Mr Dosett?" 

"I do not say that he has, Captain Batsby; but this is a matter
in which a young lady's word must be paramount. We cannot force
her to marry you, or even to speak to you." The Captain still
went on with entreaties, till Mrs Dosett found herself so far
compelled to accede to him as to go up to Ayala's room and beg
her to come down and answer this third suitor with her own voice.
But Ayala was immovable. When her aunt came near her she took
hold of the bed as though fearing an attempt would be made to
drag her out of the room. She again declared that if she were
forced into the room below nothing could oblige her to speak
even a word. 

"As for thanking him," she said, "you can do that yourself, Aunt
Margaret, if you like. I am not a bit obliged to him; but, if
you choose to say so, you may; only pray do tell him to go away
-- and tell him never, never to come back any more." Then Mrs
Dosett returned to the drawing-room, and declared that her embassy
had been quite in vain. 

"In all my life," said Captain Batsby, as he took his leave,
"I never heard of such conduct before." 

Nevertheless, as he went away he made up his mind that Lady Albury
should get Ayala again down to Stalham. He was very angry, but
his love remained as hot as ever. 

"As I did not succeed in seeing her," he said, in a letter to
his half-sister, "of course I do not know what she might have
said to me herself. I might probably have induced her to give
me another hearing. I put it all down to that abominable aunt,
who probably has some scheme of her own, and would not let Miss
Dormer come down to me. If you will have her again at Stalham,
everything may be made to go right." 

At home, in Kingsbury Crescent, when Ayala had gone to bed, both
Mr and Mrs Dosett expressed themselves as much troubled by the
peculiarity of Ayala's nature. Mrs Dosett declared her conviction
that that promised legacy from Uncle Tom would never be forthcoming,
because he had been so much offended by the rejection of his
own son. And even should the legacy remain written in Sir Thomas's
will, where would Ayala find a home if Mr Dosett were to die
before the baronet? This rejection of suitors -- of fit, well-to-do,
unobjectionable suitors -- was held by Mrs Dosett to be very
wicked, and a direct flying in the face of Providence. "Does
she think", said Mrs Dosett, urging the matter with all her eloquence
to her husband, "that young men with incomes are to be coming
after her always like this?" Mr Dosett shook his head and scratched
it at the same time, which was always a sign with him that he
was not at all convinced by the arguments used, but that he did
not wish to incur further hostility by answering them. "Why shouldn't
she see an eligible man when he comes recommended like this?"
"I suppose, my dear, she didn't think him nice enough." 

"Nice! pshaw! I call it a direct flying in the face of Providence.
If he were ever so nasty and twice as old she ought to think
twice about it in her position. There is poor Tom, they say,
absolutely ill. The housekeeper was over here from Queen's Gate
the other day, and she declares that that affair about the policeman
all came from his being in love. And now he has left the business
and has gone to Merle Park, because he is so knocked in a heap
that he cannot hold up his head." 

"I don't see why love should make a man punch a policeman's breath
out of him," said Mr Dosett. 

"Of course Tom was foolish; but he would do very well if she
would have him. Of course your sister, and Sir Thomas, and all
of them, will be very furious. What right will she have to expect
money after that?" 

"Tom is an ass," said Mr Dosett. 

"I suppose Colonel Stubbs is an ass too. What I want to know
is what it is she looks for. Like any other girl, she expects
to get married some day, I suppose; but she has been reading
poetry, and novels, and trash, till she has got her head so full
of nonsense that she doesn't know what it is she does want. I
should like to shake her till I shook all the romance out of
her. If there is anything I do hate it is romance, while bread
and meat, and coals, and washing, are so dear." With this Mrs
Dosett took herself and her troubles up to her bedroom. 

Mr Dosett sat for a while gazing with speculative eyes at the
embers of the fire. He was conscious in his heart that some part
of that attack upon romance in general was intended for himself.
Though he did not look to be romantic, especially when seated
at his desk in Somerset House, with his big index-book before
him, still there was left about him some touch of poetry, and
an appreciation of the finer feelings of our nature. Though he
could have wished that Ayala should have been able to take one
of these three well-to-do suitors, who were so anxious to obtain
her hand, still he could not bring himself not to respect her,
still he was unable not to love her, because she was steadfastly
averse to accept as a husband a man for whom she had no affection.
As he looked at the embers he asked himself how it ought to be.
Here was a girl whose only gift in life was her own personal
charm. That that charm must be powerful was evident from the
fact that she could attract such men as these. Of the good things
of the world, of a pleasant home, of ample means, and of all
that absence of care which comes from money, poor Mr Dosett had
by no means a poor appreciation. That men are justified in seeking
these good things by their energy, industry, and talents, he
was quite confident. How was it with a girl who had nothing else
but her beauty -- or, perhaps, her wit -- in lieu of energy and
industry? Was she justified in carrying her wares also into the
market, and making the most of them? The embers had burned so
low, and he had become so cold before he had settled the question
in his own mind, that he was obliged to go up to bed, leaving
it unsettled. 


CHAPTER 40
AUNT EMMELINE'S NEW PROPOSITION

A few days after this, just as the bread and cheese had been
put on the table for the modest mid-day meal at Kingsbury Crescent,
there came a most unwonted honour on Mrs Dosett. It was a call
from no less a person than Lady Tringle herself, who had come
all the way up from Merle Park on purpose. It was a Saturday.
She had travelled by herself and intended to go back on the same
day with her husband. This was an amount of trouble which she
very seldom gave herself, not often making a journey to London
during the periods of her rural sojourn; and, when she began
by assuring her sister-in-law that she made the journey with
no object but that of coming to Kingsbury Crescent, Mrs Dosett
was aware that something very important was to be communicated.
Mrs Dosett and Ayala were together in the dining-room when Lady
Tringle appeared, and the embracings were very affectionate.
They were particularly affectionate towards Ayala, who was kissed
as though nothing had ever happened to interfere with the perfect
love existing between the aunt and the niece. They were more
than friendly, almost sisterly towards Mrs Dosett, whom in truth
Lady Tringle met hardly more than once in a year. It was very
manifest that Aunt Emmeline wanted to have something done. "Now,
my darling," she said, turning to Ayala, "if you would not mind
going away for ten minutes, I could say a few words on very particular
business to your aunt." Then she gave her niece a tender little
squeeze and assumed her sweetest smile. 

It will be as well to go back a little and tell the cause which
had produced this unexpected visit. There had been very much
of real trouble at Merle Park. Everything was troublesome. Gertrude
had received her final letter from her lover, had declared herself
to be broken-hearted, and was evincing her sorrow by lying in
bed half the day, abstaining from her meals, and relieving herself
from famine by sly visits to the larder. It was supposed that
her object was to bend the stony heart of her father, but the
process added an additional trouble to her mother. Then the Trafficks
were a sore vexation. It was now nearly the end of January and
they were still at Merle Park. There had been a scene in which
Sir Thomas had been very harsh. "My dear," he had said to his
wife, "I find that something must be done to the chimney of the
north room. The workmen must be in it by the first of February.
See and have all the furniture taken out before they come." Now
the north room was the chamber in which the Trafficks slept,
and the Trafficks were present when the order was given. No one
believed the story of the chimney. This was the mode of expulsion
which Sir Thomas had chosen on the spur of the moment. Mr Traffick
said not a word, but in the course of the morning Augusta expostulated
with her mother. This was also disagreeable. Then the condition
of Tom was truly pitiable. All his trust in champagne, all his
bellicose humour, had deserted him. He moped about the place
the most miserable of human beings, spending hour after hour
in imploring his mother's assistance. But Lucy with her quiet
determination, and mute persistency in waiting, was a source
of almost greater annoyance to her aunt than even her own children.
That Lucy should in any degree have had her way with Mr Hamel,
had gone against the grain with her. Mr Hamel, to her thinking,
was a person to be connected with whom would be a disgrace. She
was always speaking of his birth, of his father's life, and of
those Roman iniquities. She had given way for a time when she
had understood that her husband intended to give the young people
money enough to enable them to marry. In that case Lucy would
at once be taken away from the house. But now all that had come
to an end. Sir Thomas had given no money, and had even refused
to give any money. Nevertheless he was peacefully indulgent to
Lucy, and was always scolding his wife because she was hostile
to Lucy's lover. 

In this emergency she induced him to accede to a proposition,
by which one of her miseries would be brought to an end and another
might perhaps be remedied. A second exchange should be made.
Lucy should be sent back to Kingsbury Crescent, and Ayala should
once more be brought into favour at Merle Park, Queen's Gate,
and Glenbogie. "Your brother will never put up with it," said
Sir Thomas. Lady Tringle was not afraid of her brother, and thought
that by soft words she might even talk over her sister-in-law.
Ayala, she knew, had been troublesome in Kingsbury Crescent.
She was sure, she said, Ayala's whims would of their nature be
more troublesome to such a woman as Mrs Dosett than Lucy's obstinacy.
Ayala had no doubt been pert and disobedient at Glenbogie and
at Rome, but there had been an unbending obduracy about Lucy
which had been more distasteful to Aunt Emmeline than even Ayala's
pert disobedience. "It will be the only way", she had said to
Sir Thomas, "to put Tom on his legs again. If the girl comes
back here she will be sure to have him at last." There was much
in this which to Sir Thomas was weak and absurd. That prolonged
journey round by San Francisco, Japan, and Pekin, was the remedy
which recommended itself to him. But he was less able to despatch
Tom at once to Japan than the elder Faddle had been to send off
the younger Faddle to the stern realities of life in Aberdeen.
He was quite willing that Tom should marry Ayala if it could
be arranged, and therefore he gave his consent. 

So armed, Lady Tringle had come up to Kingsbury Crescent, and
was now about to undertake a task, which she acknowledged to
herself to be difficult. She, in the first place, had had her
choice and had selected a niece. Then she had quarrelled with
her own selection, and had changed nieces. This had been done
to accommodate her own fancy; and now she wanted to change the
nieces back again! She felt aware that her request was unreasonable,
and came, therefore, determined to wrap it up in her blandest
smiles. 

When Ayala had left the room Mrs Dosett sat mute in attention.
She was quite aware that something very much out of the ordinary
way was to be asked of her. In her ordinary way Lady Tringle
never did smile when she came to Kingsbury Crescent. She would
be profuse in finery, and would seem to throw off sparks of wealth
at every word she spoke. Now even her dress had been toned down
to her humbler manner, and there was no touch of her husband's
purse in her gait. "Margaret," she said, "I have a proposition
of great importance to make to you." Mrs Dosett opened her eyes
wider and sat still mute. "That poor girl is not -- is not --
is not doing perhaps the very best for herself here at Kingsbury
Crescent." 

"Why is she not doing the best for herself?" asked Mrs Dosett,
angrily. 

"Do not for a moment suppose that I am finding fault either with
you or my brother." 

"You'd be very wrong if you did." 

"No doubt -- but I am not finding fault. I know how very generous
you have both been. Of course Sir Thomas is a rich man, and what
he gives to one of the girls comes to nothing. Of course it is
different with you. It is hard upon my brother to have any such
burden put upon him; and it is very good both in him and you
to bear it." 

"What is it you want us to do now, Emmeline?" 

"Well -- I was going to explain. I do think it a great pity that
Tom and Ayala should not become man and wife. If ever any young
man ever did love a girl I believe that he loves her." 

"I think he does." 

"It is dreadful. I never saw anything like it. He is just for
all the world like those young men we read of who do all manner
of horrible things for love -- smothering themselves and their
young women with charcoal, or throwing them into the Regent's
Canal. I am constantly afraid of something happening. It was
all because of Ayala that he got into that terrible row at the
police court -- and then we were afraid he was going to take
to drink. He has given all that up now." 

"I am very glad he has given drink up. That wouldn't do him any
good." 

"He is quite different now. The poor fellow hardly takes anything.
He will sit all the afternoon smoking cigarettes and sipping
tea. It is quite sad to see him. Then he comes and talks to me,
and is always asking me to make Ayala have him." 

"I don't think that anybody can ever make Ayala do anything."
"Not quite by talking to her. I dare say not. I did not mean
to say a word to her about it just now." 

"We can do nothing, I fear," said Mrs Dosett. 

"I was going to suggest something. But I wanted first to say
a word or two about poor Lucy." They were just at present all
"poor" to Lady Tringle -- Ayala, Lucy, Tom, and Gertrude. Even
Augusta was poor because she was to be turned out of her bedroom.
"Is she in trouble?" 

"Oh, dear, yes. But," she added, thinking well to correct herself,
so that Mrs Dosett might not imagine that she would have to look
forward to troubles with Lucy, "she could arrange her affairs,
no doubt, if she were not with us. She is engaged to that Mr
Isadore Hamel, the sculptor." 

"So I have heard." 

"He does not earn very much just at present, I fear. Sir Thomas
did offer to help him, but he was perhaps a little hoity-toity,
giving himself airs. That, however, did not come off, and there
they are, waiting. I don't mean to say a word against poor Lucy.
I think it a pity, you know; but perhaps it was natural enough.
He isn't what I should have liked for a niece who was living
with me just as though she was my daughter; but I couldn't help
that." 

"But what are we to do, Emmeline?" 

"Let them just change places again." 

"Change again! Ayala go to you and Lucy come back here!" 

"Just that. If Ayala were with us she would be sure to get used
to Tom at last. And then Lucy could manage her affairs with Mr
Hamel so much better if she were with you." 

"Why should she manage her affairs better if she were with us?"
Lady Tringle was aware that this was the weak part of her case.
On the poor Ayala and poor Tom side of the question there was
a good deal which might be said. Then, though she might not convince,
she might be eloquent. But, touching Lucy, she could say nothing
which did not simply signify that she wanted to get rid of the
girl. Now, Mrs Dosett had also wanted to get rid of Lucy when
the former exchange had been made. "What I mean is, that, if
she were away, Sir Thomas would be more likely to do something
for her." This was an invention at the spur of the moment. 

"Do you not feel that the girls should not be chucked about like
balls from a battledore?" asked Mrs Dosett. 

"For their own good, Margaret. I only propose it for their own
good. You can't but think it would be a good thing for Ayala
to be married to our Tom." 

"If she liked him." 

"Why shouldn't she like him? You know what that means. Poor Ayala
is young, and a little romantic. She would be a great deal happier
if all that could be knocked out of her. She has to marry somebody,
and the sooner she settles down the better. Sir Thomas will do
anything for them -- a horse and carriage, and anything she could
set her heart upon! There is nothing Sir Thomas would not do
for Tom so as to get him put upon his legs again." 

"I don't think Ayala would go." 

"She must, you know," whispered Lady Tringle, "if we both tell
her." 

"And Lucy?" 

"She must too," again whispered Lady Tringle. "It they are told
they are to go, what else can they do? Why shouldn't Ayala wish
to come?" 

"There were quarrels before." 

"Yes -- because of Augusta. Augusta is married now." Lady Tringle
could not quite say that Augusta was gone. 

"Will you speak to Ayala?" 

"Perhaps it would come better from you, Margaret, if you agree
with me." 

"I am not sure that I do. I am quite sure that your brother would
not force her to go, whether she wished it or not. No doubt we
should be glad if the marriage could be arranged. But we cannot
force a girl to marry, and her aversion in this case is so strong
-- " 

"Aversion!" 

"Aversion to being married, I mean. It is so strong that I do
not think she will go of her own accord to any house where she
is likely to meet her cousin. I dare say she may be a fool. I
say nothing about that. Of course, she shall be asked; and, if
she wishes to go, then Lucy can be asked too. But of course it
must all depend upon what your brother says." 

Then Lady Tringle took her leave without again seeing Ayala herself,
and as she went declared her intention of calling at Somerset
House. She would not think it right, she said, in a matter of
such importance, to leave London without consulting her brother.
It might be possible, she thought, that she would be able to
talk her brother over; whereas his wife, if she had the first
word, might turn him the other way. 

"Is Aunt Emmeline gone?" asked Ayala, when she came down. "I
am glad she has gone, because I never know how to look when she
calls me dear. I know she hates me." 

"I hope not, Ayala." 

"I am sure she does, because I hated Augusta. I do hate Augusta,
and my aunt hates me. The only one of the lot I like is Uncle
Tom." 

Then the proposition was made, Ayala sitting with her mouth wide
open as the details, one after another, were opened out to her.
Her aunt did it with exquisite fairness, abstaining from opening
out some of the details which might be clear enough to Ayala
without any explanation. Her Aunt Emmeline was very anxious to
have her back again -- the only reason for her former expulsion
having been the enmity of Augusta. Her Uncle Tom and her aunt,
and, no doubt, Gertrude, would be very glad to receive her. Not
a word was said about Tom. Then something was urged as to the
material comforts of the Tringle establishments, and of the necessary
poverty of Kingsbury Crescent. 

"And Lucy is to have the poverty?" said Ayala, indignantly. 

"I think it probable, my dear, that before long Lucy will become
the wife of Mr Hamel." 

"And you want to get rid of me?" demanded Ayala. 

"No, my dear; not so. You must not think that for a moment. The
proposition has not originated with me at all. I am endeavouring
to do my duty by explaining to you the advantages which you would
enjoy by going to your Aunt Emmeline, and which you certainly
cannot have if you remain here. And I must tell you, that, if
you return to Sir Thomas, he will probably provide for you. You
know what I mean by providing for you?" 

"No, I don't," said Ayala, who had in her mind some dim idea
that her cousin Tom was supposed to be a provision. She was quite
aware that her Aunt Margaret, in her explanation as hitherto
given, had not mentioned Tom's name, and was sure that it had
not been omitted without reason. 

"By providing, I mean that if you are living in his house he
will leave you something in his will -- as would be natural that
he should do for a child belonging to him. Your Uncle Reginald'
-- this she said in a low and very serious tone -- "will, I fear,
have nothing to leave to you." Then there was silence for some
minutes, after which Mrs Dosett asked the important question,
"Well, Ayala, what do you think about it?" 

"Must I go?" said Ayala. "May I stay?" 

"Yes, my dear; you may certainly stay if you wish it." 

"Then I will stay," said Ayala, jumping up on to her feet. "You
do not want to turn me out, Aunt Margaret?" Then she went down
on her knees, and, leaning on her aunt's lap, looked up into
her face. "If you will keep me I will try to be good." 

"My dear, you are good. I have nothing to complain of. Of course
we will keep you. Nobody has thought for a moment of bidding
you go. But you should understand that when your aunt made the
proposition I was bound to tell it you." Then there was great
embracing and kissing, and Ayala felt that she was relieved from
a terrible danger. She had often declared that no one could make
her marry her cousin Tom; but it had seemed to her for a moment
that if she were given up bodily to the Tringles no mode of escape
would be open to her short of suicide. There had been a moment
almost of regret that she had never brought herself to regard
Jonathan Stubbs as an Angel of Light. 

At Somerset House Lady Tringle made her suggestion to her brother
with even more flowery assurance of general happiness than she
had used in endeavouring to persuade his wife. Ayala would, of
course, be married to Tom in the course of the next six months,
and during the same period Lucy, no doubt, would be married to
that very enterprising but somewhat obstinate young man, Mr Hamel.
Thus there would be an end to all the Dormer troubles; "and you,
Reginald," she said, "will be relieved from a burden which never
ought to have been laid upon your shoulder." 

"We will think of it," he said very gravely, over and over again.
Beyond that "we will think of it" he could not be induced to
utter a word. 


CHAPTER 41
"A COLD PROSPECT!"

Three days were allowed to Frank Houston to consider within his
own mind what he would say for himself and what he would propose
finally to do when he should see Miss Docimer on the appointed
Sunday. He was called upon to decide whether, after so many resolutions
made to the contrary, he would now at last bring himself to encounter
poverty and a family -- genteel poverty with about seven hundred
and fifty pounds a year between himself and his wife. He had
hitherto been very staunch on the subject, and had unfortunately
thought that Imogene Docimer had been as firmly fixed in her
determination. His theory had in itself been good. If two people
marry they are likely, according to the laws of nature, to have
very soon more than two. In the process of a dozen years they
may not improbably become ever so many more than two. Funds which
were barely enough, if enough, for two, would certainly fail
to be enough for half a dozen. His means were certainly not enough
for himself, as he had hitherto found them. Imogene's means were
less even than his own. Therefore, it was clear that he and Imogene
ought not to marry and encounter the danger of all those embryo
mouths. There was a logic about it which had seemed to him to
be unanswerable. It was a logic which applied to his case above
all others. The man who had a hope of earning money need not
be absolutely bound by it. To him the money might come as quickly
as the mouths. With the cradles would arrive the means of buying
the cradles. And to the man who had much more than enough for
himself -- to such a man as he had expected to be while he was
looking forward to the coffin of that iniquitous uncle -- the
logic did not apply at all. In defending himself, both to himself
and to Imogene, he was very strong upon that point. A man who
had plenty and would not divide his plenty with another might
with truth be called selfish. Rich old bachelors might with propriety
be called curmudgeons. But was it right that a man should be
abused -- even by a young lady to whom, under more propitious
circumstances, he had offered his heart -- when he declared himself
unwilling to multiply suffering by assisting to bring into the
world human beings whom he would be unable to support? He had
felt himself to be very strong in his logic, and had unfortunately
made the mistake of supposing that it was as clear to Imogene
as to himself. 

Then he had determined to rectify the inconvenience of his position.
It had become manifest to him whilst he was waiting for his uncle's
money that not only were his own means insufficient for married
life but even for single comfort. It would always come to pass
that when he had resolved on two mutton chops and half a pint
of sherry the humble little meal would spread itself into woodcock
and champagne. He regarded it as an unkindness in Providence
that he should not have been gifted with economy. Therefore,
he had to look about him for a remedy; and, as Imogene was out
of the question, he found a remedy in Gertrude Tringle. He had
then believed that everything was settled for him -- not, indeed,
in a manner very pleasant, but after a fashion that would make
life possible to him. Sir Thomas had given one of his daughters,
with a large sum of money, to such a man as Septimus Traffick
-- a man more impecunious than himself, one whom Frank did not
hesitate to pronounce to be much less of a gentleman. That seat
in the House of Commons was to him nothing. There were many men
in the House of Commons to whom he would hardly condescend to
speak. To be the younger son of a latter-day peer was to him
nothing. He considered himself in all respects to be a more eligible
husband than Septimus Traffick. Therefore he had entertained
but little doubt when he found himself accepted by Gertrude herself
and her mother. Then by degrees he had learned to know something
of the young lady to whom he intended to devote himself; and
it had come to pass that the better he had known the less he
had liked her. Nevertheless he had persevered, groaning in spirit
as he thought of the burden with which he was about to inflict
himself. Then had come the release. Sir Thomas had explained
to him that no money would be forthcoming; and the young lady
had made to him a foolish proposition, which, as he thought,
fully justified him in regarding the match as at an end. 

And then he had three days in which to make up his mind. It may
be a question whether three days are ever much better than three
minutes for such a purpose. A man's mind will very generally
refuse to make itself up until it be driven and compelled by
emergency. The three days are passed not in forming but in postponing
judgment. In nothing is procrastination so tempting as in thought.
So it came to pass, that through the Thursday, the Friday, and
the Saturday, Frank Houston came to no conclusion, though he
believed that every hour of the time was devoted to forming one.
Then, as he ate his dinner on Saturday night at his club, a letter
was brought to him, the handwriting of which was familiar to
him. This letter assisted him little in thinking. 

The letter was from Gertrude Tringle, and need not be given in
its entirety. There was a good deal of reproach, in that he had
been so fickle as to propose to abandon her at the first touch
of adversity. Then she had gone on to say, that, knowing her
father a great deal better than he could do, she was quite satisfied
that the money would be all right. But the last paragraph of
the letter shall be given. "Papa has almost yielded already.
I have been very ill' -- here the extent of her malady was shown
by the strength of the underscoring with which the words were
made significant -- "very ill indeed," she went on to say, "as
you will understand if you have ever really loved me. I have
kept my bed almost ever since I got your cruel letter." Bed and
cruel were again strenuously underscored. "It has made papa very
unhappy, and, though he has said nothing to myself, he has told
mamma that if I am really in earnest he will do something for
us." The letter was long, but this is all the reader need see
of it. But it must be explained that the young lady had greatly
exaggerated her mother's words, and that her mother had exaggerated
those which Sir Thomas had spoken. "She is a stupid idiot," Sir
Thomas had said to his wife. "If she is obedient, and does her
duty, of course I shall do something for her some day." This
had been stretched to that promise of concession which Gertrude
communicated to her lover. 

This was the assistance which Frank Houston received in making
up his mind on Saturday night. If what the girl said was true,
there was still open to him the manner of life which he had prepared
for himself; and he did believe the announcement to be true.
Though Sir Thomas had been so persistent in his refusals, his
experience in life had taught him to believe that a parent's
sternness is never a match for a daughter's obstinacy. Had there
been a touch of tenderness in his heart to the young lady herself
he would not have abandoned her so easily. But he had found his
consolation when giving up his hope of Sir Thomas's money. Now,
should he again take to the girl, and find his consolation in
accepting the money? Should he resolve upon doing so, this would
materially affect any communication which he might make to Imogene
on the following day. 

While thus in doubt he went into the smoking-room and there he
found any thinking to be out of the question. A great question
was being debated as to club law. One man had made an assertion.
He had declared that another man had been seen playing cards
in a third man's company. A fourth man had, thereupon, put his
hat on his head, and had declared contumaciously that the "assertion
was not true". Having so declared he had contumaciously stalked
out of the room, and had banged the door after him -- very contumaciously
indeed. The question was whether the contumacious gentleman had
misbehaved himself in accordance with the rules of the club,
and, if so, what should be done to him. Not true is as bad as
"false", "False". applied to a gentleman in a club, must be matter
either of an apology or expulsion. The objectionable word had,
no doubt, been said in defence of an absent man, and need not,
perhaps, have been taken up had the speaker not at once put on
his hat and stalked out of the room, and banged the door. It
was asserted that a lie may be given by the way in which a door
is banged. And yet no club punishes the putting on of hats, or
stalking off, or the banging of doors. It was a difficult question,
and occupied Frank Houston till two o'clock in the morning, to
the exclusion of Gertrude Tringle and Imogene Docimer. 

On the Sunday morning he was not up early, nor did he go to church.
The contumacious gentleman was a friend of his, whom he knew
that no arguments would induce to apologise. He believed also
that gentleman No. 3 might have been seen playing cards with
gentleman No. 2 -- so that there was no valid excuse for the
banging of the door. He was much exercised by the points to be
decided, so that when he got into a cab to be taken to Mrs Docimer's
house he had hardly come to any other conclusion than that one
which had arisen to him from a comparison between the two young
ladies. Imogene was nearly perfect, and Gertrude was as nearly
the reverse as a young lady could be with the proper number of
eyes in her head and a nose between them. The style of her letter
was abominable to him. "Very ill indeed -- as you will understand,
if you ever really loved me!" There was a mawkish clap-trap about
it which thoroughly disgusted him. Everything from Imogene was
straightforward and downright whether it were love or whether
it were anger. But then to be settled with an income of L#3,000
a year would relieve him from such a load of care! 

"And so Tringle pere does not see the advantage of such a son-in-law,"
said Imogene, after the first greetings were over between them.
The greetings had been very simple -- just a touch of the hand,
just a civil word -- civil, but not in the least tender, just
an inclination of the head, and then two seats occupied with
all the rug between them. 

"Yes, indeed!" said Frank. "The man is a fool, because he will
probably get somebody who will behave less well to his daughter,
and make a worse use of his money. 

"Just so. One can only be astonished at his folly. Is there no
hope left?" 

"A glimmer there is." 

"Oh, indeed!" 

"I got a letter last night from my lady-love, in which she tells
me that she is very ill, and that her sickness is working upon
her father's bowels." 

"Frank!" 

"It is the proper language -- working upon her father's bowels
of compassion. Fathers always have bowels of compassion at last."
"You will return then, of course?" 

"What do you say?" 

"As for myself -- or as for you?" 

"As a discreet and trusty counsellor. To me you have always been
a trusty counsellor." 

"Then I should put a few things into a bag, go down to Merle
Park, and declare that, in spite of all the edicts that ever
came from a father's mouth, you cannot absent yourself while
you know that your Gertrude is ill." 

"And so prepare a new cousin for you to press to your bosom."
"If you can endure her for always, why should not I for an hour
or two, now and again?" 

"Why not, indeed? In fact, Imogene, this enduring, and not enduring
-- even this living, and not living -- is, after all, but an
affair of the imagination. Who can tell but that, as years roll
on, she may be better looking even than you?" 

"Certainly." 

"And have as much to say for herself?" 

"A great deal more that is worth hearing." 

"And behave herself as a mother of a family with quite as much
propriety?" 

"In all that I do not doubt that she would be my superior." 

"More obedient I am sure she would be." 

"Or she would be very disobedient." 

"And then she can provide me and my children with ample comforts."
"Which I take it is the real purpose for which a wife should
be married." 

"Therefore," said he -- and then he stopped. 

"And therefore there should be no doubt." 

"Though I hate her", he said, clenching his fist with violence
as he spoke, "with every fibre of my heart -- still you think
there should be no doubt?" 

"That, Frank, is violent language -- and foolish." 

"And though I love you so intensely that whenever I see her the
memory of you becomes an agony to me." 

"Such language is only more violent and more foolish." 

"Surely not, if I have made up my mind at last, that I never
will willingly see Miss Tringle again. Here he got up, and walking
across the rug, stood over her, and waited as though expecting
some word from her. But she, putting her two hands up to her
head, and brushing her hair away from her forehead, looked up
to him for what further words might come to him. "Surely not,"
he continued, "if I have made up my mind at last, that nothing
shall ever again serve to rob me of your love -- if I may still
hope to possess it." 

"Oh, Frank!'she said, "how mean I am to be a creature obedient
to the whistle of such a master as you!" 

"But are you obedient?" 

"You know that well enough. I have had no Gertrude with whom
I have vacillated, whether for the sake of love or lucre. Whatever
you may be -- whether mean or noble -- you are the only man with
whom I can endure to live, for whom I would endure to die. Of
course I had not expected that your love should be like mine.
How should it be so, seeing that you are a man and that I am
but a woman." Here he attempted to seat himself by her on the
sofa, which she occupied, but she gently repulsed him, motioning
him towards the chair which he had occupied. "Sit there, Frank,"
she said, "so that we may look into each other's faces and talk
seriously. Is it to come to this then, that I am to ruin you
at last?" 

"There will be no ruin." 

"But there will, if we are married now. Shall I tell you the
kind of life which would satisfy me?" 

"Some little place abroad?" he asked. 

"Oh, dear, no! No place to which you would be confined at all.
If I may remain as I am, knowing that you intend to marry no
one else, feeling confident that there is a bond binding us together
even though we should never become man and wife, I should be,
if not happy, at least contented." 

"That is a cold prospect." 

"Cold -- but not ice-cold, as would have been the other. Cold,
but not wretchedly cold, as would be the idea always present
to me that I had reduced you to poverty. Frank, I am so far selfish
that I cannot bear to abandon the idea of your love. But I am
not so far selfish as to wish to possess it at the expense of
your comfort. Shall it be so?" 

"Be how?" said he, speaking almost in anger. 

"Let us remain just as we are. Only you will promise me, that
as I cannot be your wife there shall be no other. I need hardly
promise you that there will be no other husband." Now he sat
frowning at her, while she, still pressing back her hair with
her hands, looked eagerly into his face. "If this will be enough
for you," she said, "it shall be enough for me." 

"No, by G -- d!" 

"Frank!" 

"It will certainly not be enough for me. I will have nothing
to do with so damnable a compact." 

"Damnable!" 

"Yes; that is what I call it. That is what any man would call
it -- and any woman too, who would speak her mind." 

"Then, Sir, perhaps you will be kind enough to make your proposition.
I have made mine, such as it is, and am sorry that it should
not have been received at any rate with courtesy." But as she
said this there was a gleam of a bright spirit in her eyes, such
as he had not seen since first the name of Gertrude had been
mentioned to her. 

"Yes," said he. "You have made your proposition, and now it is
only fair that I should make mine. Indeed, I made it already
when I suggested that little place abroad. Let it be abroad or
at home, or of what nature it may -- so that you shall be there,
and I with you, it shall be enough for me. That is my proposition;
and, if it be not accepted, then I shall return to Miss Tringle
and all the glories of Lombard Street." 

"Frank -- " she said. Then, before she could speak another word,
he had risen from his seat, and she was in his arms. "Frank,"
she continued, pushing back his kisses, "how impossible it is
that I should not be obedient to you in all things! I know --
I know that I am agreeing to that which will cause you some day
to repent." 

"By heavens, no!" said he. "I am changed in all that." 

"A man cannot change at once. Your heart is soft, but your nature
remains the same. Frank, I could be so happy at this moment if
I could forget the picture which my imagination points to me
of your future life. Your love, and your generous words, and
the look out of your dear eyes, are sweet to me now, as when
I was a child, whom you first made so proud by telling her that
she owned your heart. If I could only revel in the return of
your affections -- " 

"It is no return," said he. "There has never been a moment in
which my affections have not been the same." 

"Well, then -- in these permitted signs of your affection --
if it were not that I cannot shut out the future! Do not press
me to name any early day, because no period of my future life
will be so happy to me as this." 

"Is there any reason why I should not intrude?" said Mrs Docimer,
opening the door when the above conversation had been extended
for perhaps another hour. 

"Not in the least, as far as I'm concerned," said Frank. "A few
words have been spoken between us, all of which may be repeated
to you if Imogene can remember them." 

"Every one of them," said Imogene; "but I hardly think that I
shall repeat them." 

"I suppose they have been very much a matter of course," said
Mrs Docimer -- "the old story repeated between you two for the
fourth or fifth time. Considering all things, do you think that
I should congratulate you?" 

"I ask for no congratulation," said Imogene. 

"You may certainly congratulate me," said Frank. After that the
conversation became tame, and the happy lover soon escaped from
the house into the street. When there he found very much to occupy
his mind. He had certainly made his resolution at last, and had
done so in a manner which would now leave him no power of retrogression.
The whole theory of his life had -- with a vengeance -- been
thrown to the winds. "The little place abroad," -- or elsewhere
-- was now a settled certainty. He had nearly got the better
of her. He had all but succeeded in putting down his own love
and hers by a little gentle ridicule, and by a few half-wise
phrases which she at the moment had been unable to answer; but
she now had in truth vanquished him by the absolute sincerity
of her love. 


CHAPTER 42
ANOTHER DUEL

Frank Houston on that Sunday afternoon became an altered man.
The reader is not to suppose by this that he is declared to have
suddenly thrown off all his weaknesses, and to have succeeded
in clothing himself in an armour of bright steel, proof for the
rest of his life against all temptations. Such suits of armour
are not to be had at a moment's notice; nor, as I fear, can a
man ever acquire one quite perfect at all points who has not
begun to make it for himself before Houston's age. But he did
on that day dine off the two mutton chops, and comforted himself
with no more than the half pint of sherry. It was a great beginning.
Throughout the whole evening he could not be got for a moment
to join any of the club juntas which were discussing the great
difficulty of the contumacious gentleman. "I think he must really
be going to be married at last!" one club pundit said when a
question was asked as to Houston's singular behaviour on the
occasion. 

He was indeed very sober -- so sober that he left the smoking-room
as soon as his one silent cigar was finished, and went out alone
in order that he might roam the streets in thoughtful solitude.
It was a clear frosty night, and as he buttoned his greatcoat
around him he felt that the dry cold air would do him good, and
assist his meditations. At last then everything was arranged
for him, and he was to encounter exactly that mode of life which
he had so often told himself to be most unfit for him. There
were to be the cradles always full, and his little coffer so
nearly empty! And he had done it all for himself. She, Imogene,
had proposed a mode of life to him which would at any rate have
saved him from this; but it had been impossible that he should
accept a plan so cruel to her when the proposition came from
herself. It must all soon be done now. She had asked that a distant
day might be fixed for their marriage. Even that request, coming
from her, made it almost imperative upon him to insist upon an
early day. It would be well for him to look upon tomorrow, or
a few morrows whose short distance would be immaterial, as the
time fixed. 

No -- there should be no going back now! So he declared to himself,
endeavouring to prepare the suit of armour for his own wearing.
Pau might be the best place -- or perhaps one of those little
towns in Brittany. Dresden would not do, because there would
be society at Dresden, and he must of course give up all ideas
of society. He would have liked Rome; but Rome would be far too
expensive and then residents in Rome require to be absent three
or four months every year. He and his wife and large family --
he had no doubt in life as to the large family -- would not be
able to allow themselves any recreation such as that. He thought
he had heard that the ordinary comforts of life were cheap in
the west of Ireland -- or, if not cheap, unobtainable, which
would be the same thing. Perhaps Castlebar might be a good locality
for his nursery. There would be nothing to do at Castlebar --
no amusement whatever for such a one as himself, no fitting companion
for Imogene. But then amusement for himself and companions for
Imogene must of course be out of the question. He thought that
perhaps he might turn his hand to a little useful gardening --
parsnips instead of roses -- while Imogene would be at work in
the nursery. He would begin at once and buy two or three dozen
pipes, because tobacco would be so much cheaper than cigars.
He knew a shop at which were to be had some very pretty new-fashioned
meerschaums, which, he had been told, smokers of pipes found
to be excellent. But, whether it should be Pau or whether it
should be Castlebar, whether it should be pipes, or whether,
in regard to economy, no tobacco at all, the question now was
at any rate settled for him. He felt rather proud of his gallantry,
as he took himself home to bed, declaring to himself that he
would answer that last letter from Gertrude in a very few words
and in a very decided tone. 

There would be many little troubles. On the Monday morning he
got up early thinking that as a family man such a practice would
be necessary for him. When he had disturbed the house and nearly
driven his own servant mad by demanding breakfast at an altogether
unaccustomed hour, he found that he had nothing to do. There
was that head of Imogene for which she had only once sat, and
at which he had occasionally worked from memory because of her
refusal to sit again; and he thought for a moment that this might
be good employment for him now. But his art was only an expense
to him. He could not now afford for himself paint and brushes
and canvas, so he turned the half-finished head round upon his
easel. Then he took out his banker's book, a bundle of bills
and some blotted scraps of ruled paper, with which he set himself
to work to arrange his accounts. When he did this he must certainly
have been in earnest. But he had not as yet succeeded in seeing
light through his figures when he was interrupted by the arrival
of a letter which altogether arrested his attention. It was from
Mudbury Docimer, and this was the letter --  

DEAR HOUSTON, 

Of course I think that you and Imogene are two fools. She has
told me what took place here yesterday, and I have told her the
same as I tell you. I have no power to prevent it; but you know
as well as I do that you and she cannot live together on the
interest of sixteen thousand pounds. When you've paid everything
that you owe I don't suppose there will be so much as that. It
had been arranged between you that everything should be over;
and if I had thought that anything of the kind would have occurred
again I would have told them not to let you into the house. What
is the good of two such people as you making yourselves wretched
for ever, just to satisfy the romance of a moment? I call it
wicked. So I told Imogene, and so I tell you. 

You have changed your mind so often that of course you may change
it again. I am sure that Imogene expects that you will. Indeed
I can hardly believe that you intend to be such a Quixote. But
at any rate I have done my duty. She is old enough to look after
herself, but as long as she lives with me as my sister. I shall
tell her what I think; and until she becomes your wife -- which
I hope she never will be -- I shall tell you the same. 

Yours truly 

MUDBURY DOCIMER

"He always was a hard, unfeeling fellow," said Frank to himself.
Then he put the letter by with a crowd of others, assuring himself
that it was one which required no answer. 

On the afternoon he called at the house, as he did again on the
Tuesday; but on neither day did he succeed in seeing Imogene.
This he thought to be hard, as the pleasure of her society was
as sweet to him as ever, though he was doubtful as to his wisdom
in marrying her. On the Wednesday morning he received a note
from her asking him not to come at once because Mudbury had chosen
to put himself into a bad humour. Then a few words of honey were
added; "Of course you know that nothing that he can say will
make a change. I am too well satisfied to allow of any change
that shall not come from you yourself." He was quite alive to
the sweetness of the honey, and declared to himself that Mudbury
Docimer's ill-humour was a matter to him of no concern whatever.
But on the Wednesday there came also another letter -- in regard
to which it will be well that we should travel down again to
Merle Park. An answer altogether averse to the proposed changes
as to the nieces had been received from Mrs Dosett. "As Ayala
does not wish it, of course nothing can be done." Such was the
decision as conveyed by Mrs Dosett. It seemed to Lady Tringle
that this was absurd. It was all very well extending charity
to the children of her deceased sister, Mrs Dormer; but all the
world was agreed that beggars should not be choosers. "As Ayala
does not wish it." Why should not Ayala wish it? What a fool
must Ayala be not to wish it! Why should not Ayala be made to
do as she was told, whether she wished it or not? Such were the
indignant questions which Lady Tringle asked of her husband.
He was becoming sick of the young ladies altogether -- of her
own girls as well as the Dormer girls. "They are a pack of idiots
together," he said, "and Tom is the worst of the lot." With this
he rushed off to London, and consoled himself with his millions.
Mrs Dosett's letter had reached Merle Park on the Tuesday morning,
Sir Thomas having remained down in the country over the Monday.
Gertrude, having calculated the course of the post with exactness,
had hoped to get a reply from Frank to that last letter of hers
-- dated from her sick bed, but written in truth after a little
surreptitious visit to the larder after the servants' dinner
-- on the Sunday morning. This had been possible, and would have
evinced a charming alacrity on the part of her lover. But this
she had hardly ventured to expect. Then she had looked with anxiety
to the arrival of letters on the Monday afternoon, but had looked
in vain. On the Tuesday morning she had felt so certain that
she had contrived to open the post-bag herself in spite of illness
-- but there had been nothing for her. Then she sent the dispatch
which reached Frank on the Wednesday morning, and immediately
afterwards took to her bed again with such a complication of
disorders that the mare with the broken knees was sent at once
into Hastings for the doctor. 

"A little rice will be the best thing for her," said the doctor.
"But the poor child takes nothing -- literally nothing," said
Lady Tringle, who was frightened for her child. Then the doctor
went on to say that arrowroot would be good, and sago, but offered
no other prescription. Lady Tringle was disgusted by his ignorance,
and thought that it might be well to send up to London for some
great man. The doctor bowed, and made up his mind that Lady Tringle
was an ass. But, being an honest man, and also tender-hearted,
he contrived to get hold of Tom before he left the house. 

"Your sister's health is generally good?" he said. Tom assented.
As far as he knew, Gertrude had always been as strong as a horse.
"Eats well?" asked the doctor. Tom, who occasionally saw the
family at lunch, gave a description of his sister's general performance.
"She is a fine healthy young lady," said the doctor. Tom gave
a brother's ready adhesion to the word healthy, but passed over
the other epithet as being superfluous. "Now, I'll tell you what
it is," said the doctor. "Of course I don't want to inquire into
any family secrets." 

"My father, you know," said Tom, "won't agree about the man she's
engaged to." 

"That is it? I knew there was some little trouble, but I did
not want to ask any questions. Your mother is unnecessarily frightened,
and I have not wished to disturb her. Your sister is taking plenty
of nourishment?" 

"She does not come to table, nor yet have it in her own room."
"She gets it somehow. I can say that it is so. Her veins are
full, and her arms are strong. Perhaps she goes into the kitchen.
Have a little tray made ready for her, with something nice. She
will be sure to find it, and when she has found it two or three
times she will know that she has been discovered. If Lady Tringle
does send for a physician from London you could perhaps find
an opportunity of telling him what I have suggested. Her mamma
need know nothing about it." This took place on the Tuesday,
and on the Wednesday morning Gertrude knew that she had been
discovered -- at any rate by Tom and the doctor. "I took care
to keep a wing for you," said Tom; "I carved them myself at dinner."
As he so addressed her he came out from his hiding-place in the
kitchen about midnight, and surprised her in the larder. She
gave a fearful scream, which, however, luckily was not heard
through the house. "You won't tell mamma, Tom, will you?" Tom
promised that he would not, on condition that she would come
down to breakfast on the following morning. This she did, and
the London physician was saved a journey. 

But, in the meantime, Gertrude's second letter had gone up to
Frank, and also a very heartrending epistle from Lady Tringle
to her husband. "Poor Gertrude is in a very bad state. If ever
there was a girl really broken-hearted on account of love, she
is one. I did not think she would ever set her heart upon a man
with such violent affection. I do think you might give way when
it becomes a question of life and death. There isn't anything
really against Mr Houston." Sir Thomas, as he read this, was
a little shaken. He had hitherto been inclined to agree with
Rosalind, "That men have died from time to time, and worms have
eaten them, but not for love." But now he did not know what to
think about it. There was Tom undoubtedly in a bad way, and here
was Gertrude brought to such a condition, simply by her love,
that she refused to take her meals regularly! Was the world come
to such a pass that a father was compelled to give his daughter
with a large fortune to an idle adventurer, or else to be responsible
for his daughter's life? Would Augusta have pined away and died
had she not been allowed to marry her Traffick? Would Lucy pine
and die unless money were given to her sculptor? Upon the whole,
Sir Thomas thought that the cares of his family were harder to
bear than those of his millions. In regard to Gertrude, he almost
thought that he would give way, if only that he might be rid
of that trouble. 

It must be acknowledged that Frank Houston, when he received
the young lady's letter, was less soft-hearted than her father.
The letter was, or should have been, heart-rending: 

YOU CRUEL MAN, 

You must have received my former letter, and though I told you
that I was ill and almost dying you have not heeded it! Three
posts have come, and I have not had a line from you. In your
last you were weak enough to say that you were going to give
it all up because you could not make papa do just what you wanted
all at once. Do you know what it is to have taken possession
of a young lady's heart; or is it true, as Augusta says of you,
that you care for nothing but the money? If it is so, say it
at once and let me die. As it is I am so very ill that I cannot
eat a mouthful of anything, and have hardly strength left to
me to write this letter. 

But I cannot really believe what Augusta says, though I daresay
it may have been so with Mr Traffick. Perhaps you have not been
to your club, and so you have not got my former letter. Or it
may be that you are ill yourself. If so, I do wish that I could
come and nurse you, though indeed I am so ill that I am quite
unable to leave my bed. 

At any rate, pray write immediately -- and do come! Mamma seems
to think that papa will give way because I am so ill. If so,
I shall think my illness the luckiest thing in the world. 

You must believe, dearest Frank, that I am now, as ever, yours
most affectionately, 

GERTRUDE

Frank Houston was less credulous than Sir Thomas, and did not
believe much in the young lady's sickness. It was evident that
the young lady was quite up to the work of deceiving her father
and mother, and would no doubt be willing to deceive himself
if anything could be got by it. But, whether she were ill or
whether she were well, he could offer her no comfort. Nevertheless,
he was bound to send her some answer, and with a troubled spirit
he wrote as follows: 

MY DEAR MISS TRINGLE, 

It is to me a matter of inexpressible grief that I should have
to explain again that I am unable to persist in seeking the honour
of your hand in opposition to the absolute and repeated refusals
which I have received from your father. It is so evident that
we could not marry without his consent that I need not now go
into that matter. But I think myself bound to say that, considering
the matter in all its bearing, I must regard our engagement as
finally at an end. Were I to hesitate in saying this very plainly
I think I should be doing you an injury. 

I am sorry to hear that you are unwell, and trust that you may
soon recover your health. 

Your sincere friend, 

FRANK HOUSTON

On the next morning Gertrude was still in her bed, having there
received her letter, when she sent a message to her brother.
Would Tom come and see her? Tom attended to her behest, and then
sat down by her bedside on being told in a mysterious voice that
she had to demand from him a great service. "Tom," she said,
"that man has treated me most shamefully and most falsely." 

"What man?" 

"What man? Why, Frank Houston. There has never been any other
man. After all that has been said and done he is going to throw
me over." 

"The governor threw him over," said Tom. 

"That amounts to nothing. The governor would have given way,
of course, and if he hadn't that was no matter of his. After
he had had my promise he was bound to go on with it. Don't you
think so?" 

"Perhaps he was," said Tom, dubiously. 

"Of course he was. What else is the meaning of a promise? Now
I'll tell you what you must do. You must go up to London and
find him out. You had better take a stick with you, and then
ask him what he means to do." 

"And if he says he'll do nothing?" 

"Then, Tom, you should call him out. It is just the position
in which a brother is bound to do that kind of thing for his
sister. When he has been called out, then probably he'll come
round, and all will be well." 

The prospect was one which Tom did not at all like. He had had
one duel on his hands on his own account, and had not as yet
come through it with flying colours. There were still momentum
which he felt that he would be compelled at last to take to violence
in reference to Colonel Stubbs. He was all but convinced that
were he to do so he would fall into some great trouble, but still
it was more than probable that his outraged feelings would not
allow him to resist. But this second quarrel was certainly unnecessary.
"That's all nonsense, Gertrude," he said, "I can do nothing of
the kind." 

"You will not?" 

"Certainly not. It would be absurd. You ask Septimus and he will
tell you that it is so." 

"Septimus, indeed!" 

"At any rate, I won't. Men don't call each other out nowadays.
I know what ought to be done in these kind of things, and such
interference as that would be altogether improper." 

"Then, Tom," said she, raising herself in bed, and looking round
upon him, "I will never call you my brother again!' 


CHAPTER 43
ONCE MORE!

"Probably you are not aware, Sir, that I am not at present the
young lady's guardian." This was said at the office in Lombard
Street by Sir Thomas, in answer to an offer made to him by Captain
Batsby for Ayala's hand. Captain Batsby had made his way boldly
into the great man's inner room, and had there declared his purpose
in a short and businesslike manner. He had an ample income of
his own, he said, and was prepared to make a proper settlement
on the young lady. If necessary, he would take her without any
fortune -- but it would, of course, be for the lady's comfort
and for his own if something in the way of money were forthcoming.
So much he added, having heard of this uncle's enormous wealth,
and having also learned the fact that if Sir Thomas were not
at this moment Ayala's guardian he had been not long ago. Sir
Thomas listened to him with patience, and then replied to him
as above. 

"Just so, Sir Thomas. I did hear that. But I think you were once;
and you are still her uncle." 

"Yes; I am her uncle." 

"And when I was so ill-treated in Kingsbury Crescent I thought
I would come to you. It could not be right that a gentleman making
an honourable proposition -- and very liberal, as you must acknowledge
-- should not be allowed to see the young lady. It was not as
though I did not know her. I had been ten days in the same house
with her. Don't you think, Sir Thomas, I ought to have been allowed
to see her?" 

"I have nothing to do with her," said Sir Thomas -- "that is,
in the way of authority." Nevertheless, before Captain Batsby
left him, he became courteous to that gentleman, and though he
could not offer any direct assurance he acknowledged that the
application was reasonable. He was, in truth, becoming tired
of Ayala, and would have been glad to find a husband whom she
would accept, so that she might be out of Tom's way. He had been
quite willing that Tom should marry the girl if it were possible,
but he began to be convinced that it was impossible. He had offered
again to open his house to her, with all its wealth, but she
had refused to come into it. His wife had told him that, if Ayala
could be brought back in place of Lucy, she would surely yield.
But Ayala would not allow herself to be brought back. And there
was Tom as bad as ever. If Ayala were once married then Tom could
go upon his travels, and come back, no doubt, a sane man. Sir
Thomas thought it might be well to make inquiry about this Captain,
and then see if a marriage might be arranged. Mrs Dosett, he
told himself, was a hard stiff woman, and would never get the
girl married unless she allowed such a suitor as this Captain
Batsby to have access to the house. He did make inquiry, and
before the week was over had determined that if Ayala would become
Mrs Batsby there might probably be an end to one of his troubles.
As he went down to Merle Park he arranged his plan. He would,
in the first place, tell Tom that Ayala had as many suitors as
Penelope, and that one had come up now who would probably succeed.
But when he reached home he found that his son was gone. Tom
had taken a sudden freak, and had run up to London. "He seemed
quite to have got a change," said Lady Tringle. 

"I hope it was a change for the better as to that stupid girl."
Lady Tringle could not say that there had been any change for
the better, but she thought that there had been a change about
the girl. Tom had, as she said, quite "brisked up", had declared
that he was not going to stand this thing any longer, had packed
up three or four portmanteaus, and had had himself carried off
to the nearest railway station in time for an afternoon train
up to London. "What is he going to do when he gets there?" asked
Sir Thomas. Lady Tringle had no idea what her son intended to
do, but thought that something special was intended in regard
to Ayala. 

"He is an ass," said the father 

"You always say he is an ass," said the mother complaining. 

"No doubt I do. What else am I to call him?" Then he went on
and developed his scheme. "Let Ayala be asked to Merle Park for
a week -- just for a week -- and assured that during that time
Tom would not be there. Then let Captain Batsby also be invited."
Upon this there followed an explanation as to Captain Batsby
and his aspirations. Tom must be relieved after some fashion,
and Sir Thomas declared that no better fashion seemed to present
itself. Lady Tringle received her orders with sundry murmurings,
still grieving for her son's grief -- but she assented, as she
always did assent, to her husband's propositions. 

Now we will accompany Tom up to London. The patient reader will
perhaps have understood the condition of his mind when in those
days of his sharpest agony he had given himself up to Faddle
and champagne. By these means he had brought himself into trouble
and disgrace, of which he was fully conscious. He had fallen
into the hands of the police and had been harassed during the
whole period by headache and nausea. Then had come the absurdity
of his challenge to Colonel Stubbs, the folly of which had been
made plain to him by the very letter which his rival had written
to him. There was good sense enough about the poor fellow to
enable him to understand that the police court, and the prison,
that Faddle and the orgies at Bolivia's, that his challenge and
the reply to it, were alike dishonourable to him. Then had come
a reaction, and he spent a miserable fortnight down at Merle
Park, doing nothing, resolving on nothing, merely moping about
and pouring the oft-repeated tale of his woes into his mother's
bosom. These days at Merle Park gave him back at any rate his
health, and rescued him from the intense wretchedness of his
condition on the day after the comparison of Bolivia's wines.
In this improved state he told himself that it behoved him even
yet to do something as a man, and he came suddenly to the bold
resolution of having -- as he called it to himself -- another
"dash at Ayala". 

How the "dash" was to be made he had not determined when he left
home. But to this he devoted the whole of the following Sunday.
He had received a lachrymose letter from his friend Faddle, at
Aberdeen, in which the unfortunate youth had told him that he
was destined to remain in that wretched northern city for the
rest of his natural life. He had not as yet been to the Mountaineers
since his mishap with the police, and did not care to show himself
there at present. He was therefore altogether alone, and, walking
all alone the entire round of the parks, he at last formed his
resolution. 

On the following morning when Mr Dosett entered his room at Somerset
House, a little after half past ten o'clock, he found his nephew
Tom there before him, and waiting for him. Mr Dosett was somewhat
astonished, for he too had heard of Tom's misfortunes. Some ill-natured
chronicle of Tom's latter doings had spread itself among the
Tringle and Dosett sets, and Uncle Reginald was aware that his
nephew had been forced to relinquish his stool in Lombard Street.
The vices of the young are perhaps too often exaggerated, so
that Mr Dosett had heard of an amount of champagne consumed and
a number of policemen wounded, of which his nephew had not been
altogether guilty. There was an idea at Kingsbury Crescent that
Tom had gone nearly mad, and was now kept under paternal care
at Merle Park. When, therefore, he saw Tom blooming in health,
and brighter than usual in general appearance, he was no doubt
rejoiced, but also surprised, at the change. "What, Tom!" he
said; "I'm glad to see you looking so well. Are you up in London
again?" 

"I'm in town for a day or two," said Tom. 

"And what can I do for you?" 

"Well, Uncle Reginald, you can do a great deal for me if you
will. Of course you've heard of all those rows of mine?" 

"I have heard something." 

"Everybody has heard," said Tom, mournfully. "I don't suppose
anybody was ever knocked so much about as I've been for the last
six months." 

"I'm sorry for that, Tom." 

"I'm sure you are, because you're always good-natured. Now I
wonder if you will do a great thing to oblige me." 

"Let us hear what it is," said Uncle Reginald. 

"I suppose you know that there is only one thing in the world
that I want. "Mr Dosett thought that it would be discreet to
make no reply to this, but, turning his chair partly round, he
prepared to listen very attentively to what his nephew might
have to say to him. "All this about the policeman and the rest
of it has simply come from my being so unhappy about Ayala."
"It wouldn't be taken as a promise of your being a good husband,
Tom, when you get into such a mess as that." 

"That's because people don't understand," said Tom. "It is because
I am so earnest about it, and because I can't bear the disappointment!
There isn't one at Travers and Treason who doesn't know that
if I'd married Ayala I should have settled down as quiet a young
man as there is in all London. You ask the governor else himself.
As long as I thought there was any hope I used to be there steady
as a rock at half past nine. Everybody knew it. So I should again,
if she'd only come round." 

"You can't make a young lady come round, as you call it." 

"Not make her; no. Of course you can't make a girl. But persuading
goes a long way. Why shouldn't she have me? As to all these rows,
she ought to feel at any rate that they're her doing. And what
she's done it stands to reason she could undo if she would. It
only wants a word from her to put me all right with the governor
-- and to put me all right with Travers and Treason too. Nobody
can love her as I do." 

"I do believe that nobody could love her better," said Mr Dosett,
who was beginning to be melted by his nephew's earnestness. 

"Oughtn't that to go for something? And then she would have everything
that she wishes. She might live anywhere she pleased -- so that
I might go to the office every day. She would have her own carriage,
you know." 

"I don't think that would matter much with Ayala." 

"It shows that I'm in a position to ask her," said Tom. "If she
could only bring herself not to hate me -- " 

"There is a difference, Tom, between hating and not loving."
"If she would only begin to make a little way, then I could hope
again. Uncle Reginald, could you not tell her that at any rate
I would be good to her?" 

"I think you would be good to her," he said. 

"Indeed, I would. There is nothing I would not do for her. Now
will you let me see her just once again, and have one other chance?"
This was the great thing which Tom desired from his uncle, and
Mr Dosett was so much softened by his nephew's earnestness that
he did promise to do as much as this -- to do as much as this,
at least, if it were in his power. Of course, Ayala must be told.
No good could be done by surprising her by a visit. But he would
endeavour so to arrange it that, if Tom were to come to him on
the following afternoon, they two should go to the Crescent together,
and then Tom should remain and dine there -- or go away before
dinner, as he might please, after the interview. This was settled,
and Tom left Somerset House, rejoicing greatly at his success.
It seemed to him that now at last a way was open to him. 

Uncle Reginald, on his return home, took his niece aside and
talked to her very gently and very kindly. "Whether you like
him or whether you do not, my dear, he is so true to you that
you are bound to see him again when he asks it." At first she
was very stout, declaring that she would not see him. Of what
good could it be, seeing that she would rather throw herself
into the Thames than marry him? Had she not told him so over
and over again, as often as he had spoken to her? Why would he
not just leave her alone? But against all this her uncle pleaded
gently but persistently. He had considered himself bound to promise
so much on her behalf, and for his sake she must do as he asked.
To this, of course, she yielded. And then he said many good things
of poor Tom. His constancy was a great virtue. A man so thoroughly
in love would no doubt make a good husband. And then there would
be the assent of all the family, and an end, as far as Ayala
was concerned, of all pecuniary trouble. In answer to this she
only shook her head, promising, however, that she would be ready
to give Tom an audience when he should be brought to the Crescent
on the following day. 

Punctually at four Tom made his appearance at Somerset House,
and started with his uncle as soon as the index-books had been
put in their places. Tom was very anxious to take his uncle home
in a cab, but Mr Dosett would not consent to lose his walk. Along
the Embankment they went, and across Charing Cross into St James's
Park, and then by Green Park, Hyde Park, and Kensington Gardens,
all the way to Notting Hill. Mr Dosett did not walk very fast,
and Tom thought they would never reach Kingsbury Crescent. His
uncle would fain have talked about the weather, of politics,
or the hardships of the Civil Service generally; but Tom would
not be diverted from his one subject. Would Ayala be gracious
to him? Mr Dosett had made up his mind to say nothing on the
subject. Tom must plead his own cause. Uncle Reginald thought
that he knew such pleading would be useless, but still would
not say a word to daunt the lover. Neither could he say a word
expressive of hope. As they were fully an hour and a half on
their walk, this reticence was difficult. 

Immediately on his arrival, Tom was taken up into the drawing-room.
This was empty, for it had been arranged that Mrs Dosett should
be absent till the meeting was over. "Now I'll look for this
child," said Uncle Reginald, in his cheeriest voice as he left
Tom alone in the room. Tom, as he looked round at the chairs
and tables, remembered that he had never received as much as
a kind word or look in the room, and then great drops of perspiration
broke out all over his brow. All that he had to hope for in the
world must depend upon the next five minutes -- might depend
perhaps upon the very selection of the words which he might use.
Then Ayala entered the room and stood before him. 

"Ayala," he said, giving her his hand. 

"Uncle Reg says that you would like to see me once again." 

"Of course I want to see you once, and twice -- and always. Ayala,
if you could know it! If you could only know it!" Then he clasped
his two hands high upon his breast, not as though appealing to
her heart, but striking his bosom in very agony. "Ayala, I feel
that, if I do not have you as my own, I can only die for the
want of you. Ayala, do you believe me?" 

"I suppose I believe you, but how can I help it?" 

"Try to help it! Try to try and help it! Say a word that you
will perhaps help it by and bye." Then there came a dark frown
upon her brow -- not, indeed, from anger, but from a feeling
that so terrible a task should be thrown upon her. "I know you
think that I am common." 

"I have never said a word, Tom, but that I could not love you."
"But I am true -- true as the sun. Would I come again after all
if it were not that I cannot help coming? You have heard that
I have been -- been misbehaving myself?" 

"I have not thought about that." 

"It has been so because I have been so wretched. Ayala, you have
made me so unhappy. Ayala, you can make me the happiest man there
is in London this day. I seem to want nothing else. As for drink,
or clubs, or billiards, and all that, they are nothing to me
-- unless when I try to forget that you are so -- so unkind to
me!" 

"It is not unkind, not to do as you ask me." 

"To do as I ask you -- that would be kind. Oh, Ayala, cannot
you be kind to me?" She shook her head, still standing in the
place which she had occupied from the beginning. "May I come
again? Will you give me three months, and then think of it? If
you would only say that, I would go back to my work and never
leave it." But she still shook her head. "Must I never hope?"
"Not for that, Tom. How can I help it?" 

"Not help it?" 

"No. How can I help it? One does not fall in love by trying --
nor by trying prevent it." 

"By degrees you might love me -- a little." She had said all
that she knew how to say, and again shook her head. "It is that
accursed Colonel," he exclaimed, forgetting himself as he thought
of his rival. 

"He is not accursed," said Ayala, angrily. 

"Then you love him?" 

"No! But you should not ask. You have no right to ask. It is
not proper." 

"You are not engaged to him?" 

"No; I am not engaged to him. I do not love him. As you will
ask, I tell you. But you should not ask; and he is not accursed.
He is better than you -- though I do not love him. You should
not have driven me to say this. I do not ask you questions."
"There is none that I would not answer. Stay, Ayala," for now
she was going to leave the room. "Stay yet a moment. Do you know
that you are tearing my heart in pieces? Why is it that you should
make me so wretched? Dear Ayala -- dearest Ayala -- stay yet
a moment." 

"Tom, there is nothing more that I can say. I am very, very sorry
if you are unhappy. I do think that you are good and true; and
if you will shake hands with me, there is my hand. But I cannot
say what you want me to say." Tom took her by the hand and tried
to hold her, without, however, speaking to her again. But she
slid away from him and left the room, not having for a moment
sat down in his presence. 

When the door was closed he stood awhile looking round him, trying
to resolve what he might do or what he might say next. He was
now at any rate in the house with her, and did not know whether
such an opportunity as that might ever occur to him again. He
felt that there were words within his bosom which, if he could
only bring them up to his mouth, would melt the heart of a stone.
There was his ineffable love, his whole happiness at stake, his
purpose -- his holy purpose -- to devote himself, and all that
he had, to her well-being. Of all this he had a full conception
within his own heart, if only he could express it so that others
should believe him! But of what use was it now? He had had this
further liberty of speech accorded to him, and in it he had done
nothing, made no inch of progress. She had hardly spoken a dozen
words to him, but of those she had spoken two remained clear
upon his memory. He must never hope, she had said; and she had
said also that that other man was better than he. Had she said
that he was dearer, the word would hardly have been more bitter.
All the old feeling came upon him of rage against his rival,
and of a desire that something desperate should be done by which
he might wreak his vengeance. 

But there he was standing alone in Mrs Dosett's drawing-room,
and it was necessary that he should carry himself off. As for
dining in that house, sitting down to eat and drink in Ayala's
presence after such a conversation as that which was past, that
he felt to be quite out of the question. He crammed his hat upon
his head, left the room, and hurried down the stairs towards
the door. 

In the passage he was met by his uncle, coming out of the dining-room.
"Tom," he said, "you'll stay and eat your dinner?" 

"No, indeed," said Tom, angrily. 

"You shouldn't let yourself be disturbed by little trifles such
as these," said his uncle, trying to put a good face upon the
matter. 

"Trifles!" said Tom Tringle. "Trifles!" And he banged the door
after him as he left the house. 


CHAPTER 44
IN THE HAYMARKET

It was now the beginning of February. As Tom and his uncle had
walked from Somerset House the streets were dry and the weather
fine; but, as Mr Dosett had remarked, the wind was changing a
little out of the east and threatened rain. When Tom left the
house it was already falling. It was then past six, and the night
was very dark. He had walked there with a top coat and umbrella,
but he had forgotten both as he banged the door after him in
his passion; and, though he remembered them as he hurried down
the steps, he would not turn and knock at the door and ask for
them. He was in that humour which converts outward bodily sufferings
almost into a relief. When a man has been thoroughly ill-used
in greater matters it is almost a consolation to him to feel
that he has been turned out into the street to get wet through
without his dinner -- even though he may have turned himself
out. 

He walked on foot, and as he walked became damp and dirty, till
he was soon wet through. As soon as he reached Lancaster Gate
he went into the park, and under the doubtful glimmer of the
lamps trudged on through the mud and slush, not regarding his
path, hardly thinking of the present moment in the full appreciation
of his real misery. What should he do with himself? What else
was there now left to him? He had tried everything and had failed.
As he endeavoured to count himself up, as it were, and tell himself
whether he were worthy of a happier fate than had been awarded
to him, he was very humble -- humble, though so indignant! He
knew himself to be a poor creature in comparison with Jonathan
Stubbs. Though he could not have been Stubbs had he given his
heart for it, though it was absolutely beyond him to assume one
of those tricks of bearing one of those manly, winning ways,
which in his eyes was so excellent in the other man, still he
saw them and acknowledged them, and told himself that they would
be all powerful with such a girl as Ayala. Though he trusted
to his charms and his rings, he knew that his charms and his
rings were abominable, as compared with that outside look and
natural garniture which belonged to Stubbs, as though of right
-- as though it had been born with him. Not exactly in those
words, but with a full inward sense of the words, he told himself
that Colonel Stubbs was a gentleman -- whereas he acknowledged
himself to be a cad. How could he have hoped that Ayala should
accept such a one, merely because he would have a good house
of his own and a carriage? As he thought of all this, be hardly
knew which he hated most -- himself or Jonathan Stubbs. 

He went down to the family house in Queen's Gate, which was closed
and dark -- having come there with no special purpose, but having
found himself there, as though by accident, in the neighbourhood.
Then he knocked at the door, which, after a great undoing of
chains, was opened by an old woman, who with her son had the
custody of the house when the family were out of town. Sir Thomas
in these days had rooms of his own in Lombard Street in which
he loved to dwell, and would dine at a City club, never leaving
the precincts of the City throughout the week. The old woman
was an old servant, and her son was a porter at the office. "Mr
Tom! Be that you? Why you are as wet as a mop!" He was wet as
any mop, and much dirtier than a mop should be. There was no
fire except in the kitchen, and there he was taken. He asked
for a greatcoat, but there was no such thing in the house, as
the young man had not yet come home. Nor was there any food that
could be offered him, or anything to drink; as the cellar was
locked up, and the old woman was on board wages. But he sat crouching
over the fire, watching the steam as it came up from his damp
boots and trousers. "And ain't you had no dinner, Mr Tom?" said
the old woman. Tom only shook his head. "And ain't you going
to have none?" The poor wretch again shook his head. "That's
bad, Mr Tom." Then she looked up into his face. "There is something
wrong I know, Mr Tom. I hears that from Jem. Of course he hears
what they do be saying in Lombard Street." 

"What is it they say, Mrs Tapp?" 

"Well -- that you ain't there as you used to be. Things is awk'ard,
and Sir Thomas, they say, isn't best pleased. But of course it
isn't no affair of mine, Mr Tom." 

"Do they know why?" he asked. 

"They do say it's some'at about a young lady." 

"Yes; by heavens!" said Tom, jumping up out of his chair. "Oh,
Mrs Tapp, you can't tell the condition I'm in. A young lady indeed!
D --  the fellow!" 

"Don't 'ee now, Mr Tom." 

"D --  the fellow! But there's no good in my standing here cursing.
I'll go off again. You needn't say that I've been here, Mrs Tapp?"
"But you won't go out into the rain, Mr Tom?" 

"Rain -- what matters the rain?" Then he started again, disregarding
all her prayers, and went off eastward on foot, disdaining the
use of a cab because he had settled in his mind on no place to
which he would go. 

Yes; they knew all about it, down to the very porters at the
office. Everyone had heard of his love for Ayala; and everyone
had heard also that Ayala had scorned him. Not a man or woman
connected by ever so slight a tie to the establishment was unaware
that he had been sent away from his seat because of Ayala! All
this might have been borne easily had there been any hope; but
now he was forced to tell himself that there was none. He saw
no end to his misery -- no possibility of escape. Where was he
to go in this moment of his misery for any shred of comfort?
The solitude of his lodgings was dreadful to him; nor had he
heart enough left to him to seek companionship at his club. 

At about ten o'clock he found himself, as it were, by accident,
close to Mr Bolivia's establishment. He was thoroughly wet through,
jaded, wretched, and in want of sustenance. He turned in, and
found the place deserted. The diners had gone away, and the hour
had not come at which men in quest of later refreshment were
wont to make their appearance. But there were still one or two
gas-lights burning; and he threw himself wearily into a little
box or partition nearest to the fire. Here Signor Bolivia himself
came to him, asking in commiserating accents what had brought
him thither in so wretched a plight. "I have left my coat and
umbrella behind," said Tom, trying to pluck up a little spirit
-- "and my dinner too." 

"No dinner, Mr Tringle; and you wet through like that! What shall
I get you, Mr Tringle?" But Tom declared that he would have no
dinner. He was off his appetite altogether, he said. He would
have a bottle of champagne and a devilled biscuit. Mr Walker,
who, as we are aware, put himself forward to the world generally
as Signor Bolivia, felt for the moment a throb of pity, which
overcame in his heart the innkeeper's natural desire to make
the most he could of his customer. "Better have a mutton chop
and a little drop of brandy and water hot." 

"I ain't up to it, Bolivia," said the young man. "I couldn't
swallow it if I had it. Give us the bottle of champagne and the
devilled biscuit." Then Mr Walker -- for Bolivia was in truth
Walker -- fetched the wine and ordered the biscuit; and poor
Tom was again brought back to the miserable remedy to which he
had before applied himself in his misfortune. There he remained
for about an hour, during a part of which he slept; but before
he left the house he finished the wine. As he got up to take
his departure Mr Walker scanned his gait and bearing, having
a friendly feeling for the young man, and not wishing him to
fall again into the hands of the police. But Tom walked forth
apparently as sober as a judge, and as melancholy as a hangman.
As far as Mr Walker could see the liquor had made no impression
on him. "If I were you, Mr Tringle," said the keeper of the eating-house,
"I'd go home at once, because you are so mortal wet." 

"All right," said Tom, going out into the pouring rain. 

It was then something after eleven, and Tom instead of taking
the friendly advice which had been offered to him, walked, as
fast as he could, round Leicester Square; and as he walked the
fumes of the wine mounted into his head. But he was not drunk
-- not as yet so drunk as to misbehave himself openly. He did
not make his way round the square without being addressed, but
he simply shook off from him those who spoke to him. His mind
was still intent upon Ayala. But now he was revengeful rather
than despondent. The liquor had filled him once again with a
desire to do something. If he could destroy himself and the Colonel
by one and the same blow, how fitting a punishment would that
be for Ayala! But how was he to do it? He would throw himself
down from the top of the Duke of York's column, but that would
be nothing unless he could force the Colonel to take the jump
with him! He had called the man out and he wouldn't come! Now,
with the alcohol in his brain, he again thought that the man
was a coward for not coming. Had not such a meeting been from
time immemorial the resource of gentlemen injured as he now was
injured? The Colonel would not come when called -- but could
he not get at him so as to strike him? If he could do the man
a real injury he would not care what amount of punishment he
might be called upon to bear. 

He hurried at last out of the square into Coventry Street and
down the Haymarket. His lodgings were in Duke Street, turning
out of Piccadilly -- but he could not bring himself to go home
to his bed. He was unutterably wretched, but yet he kept himself
going with some idea of doing something, or of fixing some purpose.
He certainly was tipsy now, but not so drunk as to be unable
to keep himself on his legs. He gloried in the wet, shouting
inwardly to himself that he in his misery was superior to all
accidents of the weather. Then he stood for awhile watching the
people as they came out of the Haymarket Theatre. He was at this
time a sorry sight to be seen. His hat was jammed on to his head
and had been almost smashed in the jamming. His coat reeking
wet through was fastened by one button across his chest. His
two hands were thrust into his pockets, and the bottle of champagne
was visible in his face. He was such a one -- to look at -- that
no woman would have liked to touch nor any man to address. In
this guise he stood there amidst the crowd, foremost among those
who were watching the ladies as they got into their vehicles.
"And she might be as good as the best of them, and I might be
here to hand her into her own carriage' -- said he to himself
-- "if it were not for that intruder!" 

At that moment the intruder was there before him, and on his
arm was a lady whom he was taking across to a carriage, at the
door of which a servant in livery was standing. They were followed
closely by a pretty young girl who was picking her steps after
them alone. These were Lady Albury and Nina, whom Colonel Stubbs
had escorted to the play. 

"You will be down by the twentieth?" said the elder lady. 

"Punctual as the day comes," said the Colonel. 

"And mind you have Ayala with you," said the younger. 

"If Lady Albury can manage it with her aunt of course I will
wait upon her," said the Colonel. Then the door of the carriage
was shut, and the Colonel was left to look for a cab. He had
on an overcoat and an opera hat, but otherwise was dressed as
for dinner. On one side a link-boy was offering him assistance,
and on another a policeman tendering him some service. He was
one of those who by their outward appearance always extort respect
from those around them. 

As long as the ladies had been there -- during the two minutes
which had been occupied while they got into the carriage -- Tom
had been restrained by their presence. He had been restrained
by their presence even though he had heard Ayala's name and had
understood the commission given to the man whom he hated. Had
Colonel Stubbs luckily followed the ladies into the carriage
Tom, in his fury, would have taken himself off to his bed. But
now -- there was his enemy within a yard of him! Here was the
opportunity the lack of which seemed, a few moments since, to
be so grievous to him! He took two steps out from the row in
which he stood and struck his rival high on his breast with his
fist. He had aimed at the Colonel's face but in his eagerness
had missed his mark. "There," said he, "there! You would not
fight me, and now you have got it." Stubbs staggered, and would
have fallen but for the policeman. Tom, though no hero, was a
strong young man, and had contrived to give his blow with all
his force. The Colonel did not at first see from whom the outrage
had come, but at once claimed the policeman's help. 

"We've got him, Sir -- we've got him," said the policeman. 

"You've got me," said Tom, "but I've had my revenge." Then, though
two policemen and one waterman were now holding him, he stretched
himself up to his full height and glared at his enemy in the
face. 

"It's the chap who gave that hawful blow to Thompson in the bow'ls!"
said one of the policemen, who by this time had both Tom's arms
locked behind his own. 

Then the Colonel knew who had struck him. "I know him," said
the Colonel to the policeman. "It is a matter of no consequence."
"So do we, Sir. He's Thomas Tringle, junior." 

"He's a friend of mine," said the Colonel. "You must let him
come with me." 

"A friend, is he?" said an amateur attendant. The policeman,
who had remembered the cruel onslaught made on his comrade, looked
very grave, and still held Tom tight by the arms. "A very hugly
sort of friend," said the amateur. Tom only stretched himself
still higher, but remained speechless. 

"Tringle," said the Colonel, "this was very foolish, you know
-- a most absurd thing to do! Come with me, and we will talk
it all over." 

"He must come along with us to the watch-house just at present,"
said the policeman. "And you, Sir, if you can, had better please
to come with us. It ain't far across to Vine Street, but of course
you can have a cab if you like it." This was ended by two policemen
walking off with Tom between them, and by the Colonel following
in a cab, after having administered divers shillings to the amateur
attendants. Though the journey in the cab did not occupy above
five minutes, it sufficed him to determine what step he should
take when he found himself before the night officers of the watch.
When he found himself in the presence of the night officer he
had considerable difficulty in carrying out his purpose. That
Tom should be locked up for the night, and be brought before
the police magistrate next morning to answer for the outrage
he had committed, seemed to the officers to be a matter of course.
It was long before the Colonel could persuade the officer that
this little matter between him and Mr Tringle was a private affair,
of which he at least wished to take no further notice. "No doubt,"
he said, "he had received a blow on his chest, but it had not
hurt him in the least." 

"'E 'it the gen'leman with all his might and main," said the
policeman. 

"It is quite a private affair," said the Colonel. "My name is
Colonel Stubbs; here is my card. Sir  --  is a particular friend
of mine." He named a pundit of the peace, very high in the estimation
of all policemen. "If you will let the gentleman come away with
me I will be responsible for him tomorrow, if it should be necessary
to take any further step in the matter." This he said very eagerly,
and with all the authority which he knew how to use. Tom, in
the meantime, stood perfectly motionless, with his arms folded
akimbo on his breast, wet through, muddy, still tipsy, a sight
miserable to behold. 

The card and the Colonel's own name, and the name of the pundit
of the peace together, had their effect, and after a while. Tom
was dismissed in the Colonel's care. The conclusion of the evening's
affair was, for the moment, one which Tom found very hard to
bear. It would have been better for him to have been dragged
off to a cell, and there to have been left to his miserable solitude.
But as he went down through the narrow ways leading from the
police office out into the main street he felt that he was altogether
debarred from making any further attack upon his protector. He
could not strike him again, as he might have done had he escaped
from the police by his own resources. His own enemy had saved
him from durance, and he could not, therefore, turn again upon
his enemy. 

"In heaven's name, my dear fellow," said the Colonel, "what good
do you expect to get by that? You have hit me a blow when you
knew that I was unprepared, and, therefore, unarmed. Was that
manly?" To this Tom made no reply. "I suppose you have been drinking?"
And Stubbs, as he asked this question, looked into his companion's
face. "I see you have been drinking. What a fool you are making
of yourself!" 

"It is that girl," said Tom. 

"Does that seem to you to be right? Can you do yourself any good
by that? Will she be more likely to listen to you when she hears
that you have got drunk, and have assaulted me in the street?
Have I done you any harm?" 

"She says that you are better than me," replied Tom. 

"If she does, is that my doing? Come, old fellow, try to be a
man. Try to think of this thing rightly. If you can win the girl
you love, win her; but, if you cannot, do not be such an ass
as to suppose that she is to love no one because she will not
love you. It is a thing which a man must bear if it comes in
his way. As far as Miss Dormer is concerned, I am in the same
condition as you. But do you think that I should attack you in
the street if she began to favour you tomorrow?" 

"I wish she would; and then I shouldn't care what you did." 

"I should think you a happy fellow, certainly; and for a time
I might avoid you, because your happiness would remind me of
my own disappointment; but I should not come behind your back
and strike you! Now, tell me where you live, and I will see you
home." Then Tom told him where he lived, and in a few minutes
the Colonel had left him within his own hall door. 


CHAPTER 45
THERE IS SOMETHING OF THE ANGEL ABOUT HIM

The little accident which was recorded at the close of the last
chapter occurred on a Tuesday night. On the following afternoon
Tom Tringle, again very much out of spirits, returned to Merle
Park. There was now nothing further for him to do in London.
He had had his last chance with Ayala, and the last chance had
certainly done him no good. Fortune, whether kindly or unkindly,
had given him an opportunity of revenging himself upon the Colonel;
he had taken advantage of the opportunity, but did not find himself
much relieved by what he had done. His rival's conduct had caused
him to be thoroughly ashamed of himself. It had at any rate taken
from him all further hope of revenge. So that now there was nothing
for him but to take himself back to Merle Park. On the Wednesday
he heard nothing further of the matter; but on the Thursday Sir
Thomas came down from London, and, showing to poor Tom a paragraph
in one of the morning papers, asked whether he knew anything
of the circumstance to which reference was made. The paragraph
was as follows: 

That very bellicose young City knight who at Christmas time got
into trouble by thrashing a policeman within an inch of his life
in the streets, and who was then incarcerated on account of his
performance, again exhibited his prowess on Tuesday night by
attacking Colonel  --  an officer than whom none in the army
is more popular -- under the portico of the Haymarket theatre.
We abstain from mentioning the officer's name -- which is, however,
known to us. The City knight again fell into the hands of the
police and was taken to the watch-house. But Colonel  --  who
knew something of his family, accompanied him, and begged his
assailant off. The officer on duty was most unwilling to let
the culprit go; but the Colonel used all his influence and was
successful. This may be all very well between the generous Colonel
and the valiant knight. But if the young man has any friends
they had better look to him. A gentleman with such a desire for
the glories of battle must be restrained if he cannot control
his propensities when wandering about the streets of the metropolis.
"Yes," said Tom -- who scorned to tell a lie in any matter concerning
Ayala. "It was me. I struck Colonel Stubbs, and he got me off
at the police office." 

"And you're proud of what you've done?" 

"No, Sir, I'm not. I'm not proud of anything. Whatever I do or
whatever I say seems to go against me." 

"He didn't go against you as you call it." 

"I wish he had with all my heart. I didn't ask him to get me
off. I struck him because I hated him; and whatever might have
happened I would sooner have borne it than be like this." 

"You would sooner have been locked up again in prison?" 

"I would sooner anything than be as I am." 

"I tell you what it is, Tom," said the father. "If you remain
here any longer with this bee in your bonnet you will be locked
up in a lunatic asylum, and I shall not be able to get you out
again. You must go abroad." To this Tom made no immediate answer.
Lamentable as was his position, he still was unwilling to leave
London while Ayala was living there. Were he to consent to go
away for any lengthened period, by doing so he would seem to
abandon his own claim. Hope he knew there was none; but yet,
even yet, he regarded himself as one of Ayala's suitors. "Do
you think it well", continued the father, "that you should remain
in London while such paragraphs as these are being written about
you?" 

"I am not in London now," said Tom. 

"No, you are not in London while you are at Merle Park -- of
course. And you will not go up to London without my leave. Do
you understand that?" Here Tom again was silent. "If you do,"
continued his father, "you shall not be received down here again,
nor at Queen's Gate, nor will the cheques for your allowance
be honoured any longer at the bank. In fact if you do not obey
me I will throw you off altogether. This absurdity about your
love has been carried on long enough." And so it came to be understood
in the family that Tom was to be kept in mild durance at Merle
Park till everything should have been arranged for his extended
tour about the world. To this Tom himself gave no positive assent,
but it was understood that when the time came he would yield
to his father's commands. 

It had thus come to pass that the affray at the door of the Haymarket
became known to so much of the world at large as interested itself
in the affairs either of Colonel Stubbs or of the Tringles. Other
paragraphs were written in which the two heroes of the evening
were designated as Colonel J --  S --  and as T --  T --  junior,
of the firm of T --  and T --  in the City. All who pleased could
read these initials, and thus the world was aware that our Colonel
had received a blow, and had resented the affront only by rescuing
his assailant from the hands of the police. A word was said at
first which seemed to imply that the Colonel had not exhibited
all the spirit which might have been expected from him. Having
been struck should he not have thrashed the man who struck him
-- or at any rate have left the ruffian in the hands of the policemen
for proper punishment? But many days had not passed over before
the Colonel's conduct had been viewed in a different light, and
men and women were declaring that he had done a manly and a gallant
thing. The affair had in this way become sufficiently well known
to justify the allusion made to it in the following letter from
Lady Albury to Ayala: 

Stalham, Tuesday, 11th February, 187 --  

MY DEAR AYALA, 

It is quite indispensable for the happiness of everybody, particularly
that of myself and Sir Harry that you should come down here on
the twentieth. Nina will be here on her farewell visit before
her return to her mother. Of course you have heard that it is
all arranged between her and Lord George Bideford, and this will
be the last opportunity which any of us will have of seeing her
once again before her martyrdom. The world is to be told that
he is to follow her to Rome, where they are to be married --
no doubt by the Pope himself under the dome of St Peter's. But
my belief is that Lord George is going to travel with her all
the way. If he is the man I take him to be he will do so, but
of course it would be very improper. 

You, however, must of course come and say pretty things to your
friend; and, as you cannot go to Rome to see her married, you
must throw your old shoe after her when she takes her departure
from Stalham. I have written a line to your aunt to press my
request for this visit. This she will no doubt show to you, and
you, if you please, can show her mine in return. 

And now, my dear, I must explain to you one or two other arrangements.
A certain gentleman will certainly not be here. It was not my
fault that a certain gentleman went to Kingsbury Crescent. The
certain gentleman is, as you are aware, a great friend of ours,
and was entitled to explain himself if it so seemed good to him;
but the certain gentleman was not favoured in that enterprise
by the Stalham interest. At any rate, the certain gentleman will
not be at Stalham on this occasion. So much for the certain gentleman.
Colonel Stubbs will be here, and, as he will be coming down on
the twentieth, would be glad to travel by the same train, so
that he may look after your ticket and your luggage, and be your
slave for the occasion. He will leave the Paddington Station
by the 4 P.M. train if that will suit you. 

We all think that he behaved beautifully in that little affair
at the Haymarket theatre. I should not mention it only that everybody
has heard of it. Almost any other man would have struck the poor
fellow again; but he is one of the very few who always know what
to do at the moment without taking time to think of it. 

Mind you come like a good girl. 

Your affectionate friend, 

ROSALINE ALBURY

It was in this way that Ayala heard what had taken place between
her cousin Tom and Colonel Stubbs. Some hint of a fracas between
the two men had reached her ears; but now she asked various questions
of her aunt, and at last elicited the truth. Tom had attacked
her other lover in the street -- had attacked Colonel Stubbs
because of his injured love, and had grossly misbehaved himself.
As a consequence he would have been locked up by the police had
not the Colonel himself interfered on his behalf. This to Ayala
seemed to be conduct worthy almost of an Angel of Light. 

Then the question of the proposed visit was discussed -- first
with her aunt, and then with herself. Mrs Dosett was quite willing
that her niece should go to Stalham. To Mrs Dosett's thinking,
a further journey to Stalham would mean an engagement with Colonel
Stubbs. When she had read Lady Albury's letter she was quite
sure that that had been Lady Albury's meaning. Captain Batsby
was not to receive the Stalham interest -- but that interest
was to be used on the part of Colonel Stubbs. She had not the
slightest objection. It was clear to her that Ayala would have
to be married before long. It was out of the question that one
man after another should fall in love with her violently, and
that nothing should come of it. Mrs Dosett had become quite despondent
about Tom. There was an amount of dislike which it would be impossible
to overcome. And as for Captain Batsby there could be no chance
for a man whom the young lady could not be induced even to see.
But the other lover, whom the lady would not admit that she loved
-- as to whom she had declared that she could never love him
-- was held in very high favour. "I do think it was so noble
not to hit Tom again," she had said. Therefore, as Colonel Stubbs
had a sufficient income, there could be no reason why Ayala should
not go again to Stalham. So it was that Mrs Dosett argued with
herself, and such was the judgment which she expressed to Ayala.
But there were difficulties. Ayala's little stock of cash was
all gone. She could not go to Stalham without money, and that
money must come out of her Uncle Reginald's pocket. She could
not go to Stalham without some expenditure, which, as she well
knew, it would be hard for him to bear. And then there was that
terrible question of her clothes! When that suggestion had been
made of a further transfer of the nieces a cheque had come from
Sir Thomas. "If Ayala comes to us she will want a few things,"
Sir Thomas had said in a note to Mrs Dosett. But Mr Dosett had
chosen that the cheque should be sent back when it was decided
that the further transfer should not take place. The cheque had
been sent back, and there had been an end of it. There must be
a morning dress, and there must be another hat, and there must
be boots. So much Mrs Dosett acknowledged. Let them do what they
might with the old things, Mrs Dosett acknowledged that so much
as that would at least be necessary. "We will both go to work,"
Mrs Dosett said, "and we will ask your uncle what he can do for
us." I think she felt that she had received some recompense when
Ayala kissed her. 

It was after this that Ayala discussed the matter with herself.
She had longed to go once again to Stalham -- "dear Stalham",
as she called it to herself. And as she thought of the place
she told herself that she loved it because Lady Albury had been
so kind to her, and because of Nina, and because of the hunting,
and because of the general pleasantness and luxury of the big
comfortable house. And yes; there was something to be said, too,
of the pleasantness of Colonel Stubbs. Till he had made love
to her he had been, perhaps, of all these fine new friends the
pleasantest. How joyous his voice had sounded to her! How fraught
with gratification to her had been his bright ugly face! How
well he had known how to talk to her, and to make her talk, so
that everything had been easy with her! How thoroughly she remembered
all his drollery on that first night at the party in London --
and all his keen sayings at the theatre -- and the way he had
insisted that she should hunt! She thought of little confidences
she had had with him, almost as though he had been her brother!
And then he had destroyed it all by becoming her lover! 

Was he to be her lover still; and if so would it be right that
she should go again to Stalham, knowing that she would meet him
there? Would it be right that she should consent to travel with
him -- under his special escort? Were she to do so would she
not be forced to do more -- if he should again ask her? It was
so probable that he would not ask her again! It was so strange
that such a one should have asked her! 

But if he did ask her? Certainly he was not like that Angel of
Light whom she had never seen, but of whom the picture in her
imagination was as clearly drawn as though she were in his presence
daily. No -- there was a wave of hair and a shape of brow, and
a peculiarity of the eye, with a nose and mouth cut as sharp
as chisel could cut them out of marble, all of which graced the
Angel but none of which belonged to the Colonel. Nor were these
the chief of the graces which made the Angel so glorious to her.
There was a depth of poetry about him, deep and clear, pellucid
as a lake among grassy banks, which made all things of the world
mean when compared to it. The Angel of Light lived on the essence
of all that was beautiful, altogether unalloyed by the grossness
of the earth. That such a one should come in her way! Oh, no;
she did not look for it! But, having formed such an image of
an angel for herself, would it be possible that she should have
anything less divine, less beautiful, less angelic? 

Yes; there was something of the Angel about him; even about him,
Colonel Jonathan Stubbs. But he was so clearly an Angel of the
earth, whereas the other one, though living upon the earth, would
be of the air, and of the sky, of the clouds, and of the heaven,
celestial. Such a one she knew she had never seen. She partly
dreamed that she was dreaming. But if so had not her dream spoilt
her for all else? Oh, yes; indeed he was good, this red-haired
ugly Stubbs. How well had he behaved to Tom! How kind he had
been to herself! How thoughtful of her he was! If it were not
a question of downright love -- of giving herself up to him,
body and soul, as it were -- how pleasant would it be to dwell
with him! For herself she would confess that she loved earthly
things -- such as jumping over the brook with Larry Twentyman
before her to show her the way. But for her love, it was necessary
that there should be an Angel of Light. Had she not read that
angels had come from heaven and taken in marriage the daughters
of men? 

But was it right that she should go to Stalham, seeing that there
were two such strong reasons against it? She could not go without
costing her uncle money, which he could ill afford; and if she
did go would she -- would she not confess that she had abandoned
her objection to the Colonel's suit? She, too, understood something
of that which had made itself so plain to her aunt. "Your uncle
thinks it is right that you should go," her aunt said to her
in the drawing-room that evening; "and we will set to work tomorrow
and do the best that we can to make you smart." 

Her uncle was sitting in the room at the time and Ayala felt
herself compelled to go to him and kiss him, and thank him for
all his kindness. "I am so sorry to cost you so much money, Uncle
Reginald," she said. 

"It will not be very much, my dear," he answered. "It is hard
that young people should not have some amusement. I only hope
they will make you happy at Stalham." 

"They always make people happy at Stalham," said Ayala, energetically.
"And now, Ayala," said her aunt, "you can write your letter to
Lady Albury before we go out tomorrow. Give her my compliments,
and tell her that as you are writing I need not trouble her."
Ayala, when she was alone in her bedroom, felt almost horrified
as she reflected that in this manner the question had been settled
for her. It had been impossible for her to reject her uncle's
liberal offer when it had been made. She could not find the courage
at that moment to say that she had thought better of it all,
and would decline the visit. Before she was well aware of what
she was doing she had assented, and had thus, as it were. thrown
over all the creations of her dream. And yet, as she declared
herself, not even Lady Albury could make her marry this man,
merely because she was at her house. She thought that, if she
could only avoid that first journey with Colonel Stubbs in the
railway, still she might hold her own. But, were she to travel
with him of her own accord, would it not be felt that she would
be wilfully throwing herself in his way? Then she made a little
plan for herself, which she attempted to carry out when writing
her letter to Lady Albury on the following morning. What was
the nature of her plan, and how she effected it, will be seen
in the letter which she wrote: 

Kingsbury Crescent, Thursday

DEAR LADY ALBURY, 

It is so very good of you to ask me again, and I shall be so
happy to visit Stalham once more! I should have been very sorry
not to see dear Nina before her return to Italy. I have written
to congratulate her of course, and have told her what a happy
girl I think she is. Though I have not seen Lord George I take
all that from her description. As she is going to be his wife
immediately, I don't at all see why he should not go back with
her to Rome. As for being married by the Pope, I don't think
he ever does anything so useful as that. I believe he sits all
day and has his toe kissed. That is what they told me at Rome.
I am very glad of what you tell me about the certain gentleman,
because I don't think I could have been happy at Stalham if he
had been there. It surprised me so much that I could not think
that he meant it in earnest. We never hardly spoke to each other
when we were in the house together. 

Perhaps, if you don't mind, and I shan't be in the way, [here
she began to display the little plan which she had made for her
own protection] I will come down by an earlier train than you
mention. There is one at 2.15, and then I need not be in the
dark all the way. You need not say anything about this to Colonel
Stubbs, because I do not at all mind travelling by myself. 

Yours affectionately, 

AYALA

This was her little plan. But she was very innocent when she
thought that Lady Albury would be blind to such a scheme as that.
She got three words from Lady Albury, saying that the 2.15 train
would do very well, and that the carriage would be at the station
to meet her. Lady Albury did not also say in her note that she
had communicated with Colonel Stubbs on the subject, and informed
him that he must come up from Aldershot earlier than he intended
in order that he might adapt himself to Ayala's whims. "Foolish
little child!" said Lady Albury to herself. "As if that would
make any difference!" It was clear to Lady Albury that Ayala
must surrender now that she was coming to Stalham a second time,
knowing that the Colonel would be there. 


CHAPTER 46
AYALA GOES AGAIN TO STALHAM

The correspondence between Lady Albury and Colonel Stubbs was
close and frequent, the friendship between them being very close.
Ayala had sometimes asked herself why Lady Albury should have
been so kind and affectionate to her, and had failed to find
any sufficient answer. She had been asked to Stalham at first
-- so far as she knew -- because she had been intimate at Rome
with the Marchesa Baldoni. Hence had apparently risen Lady Albury's
great friendship, which had seemed even to herself to be strange.
But in truth the Marchesa had had very little to do with it --
nor had Lady Albury become attached to Ayala for Ayala's own
sake. To Lady Albury Colonel Stubbs was -- as she declared to
herself very often -- "her own real brother". She had married
a man very rich, well known in the world, whom she loved very
well; and she was not a woman who in such a position would allow
herself to love another man. That there might certainly be no
danger of this kind she was continually impressing on her friend
the expediency of marriage -- if only he could find someone good
enough to marry. Then the Colonel had found Ayala. Lady Albury
at the beginning of all this was not inclined to think that Ayala
was good enough. Judging at first from what she heard and then
from what she saw, she had not been very favourable to Ayala.
But when her friend had insisted -- had declared that his happiness
depended on it -- had shown by various signs that he certainly
would carry out his intentions, if not at Stalham then elsewhere,
Lady Albury had yielded herself to him, and had become Ayala's
great friend. If it was written in the book that Ayala was to
become Mrs Stubbs then it would certainly be necessary that she
and Ayala should be friends. And she herself had such confidence
in Jonathan Stubbs as a man of power, that she did not doubt
of his success in any matter to which he might choose to devote
himself. The wonder had been that Ayala should have rejected
the chance when it had come in her way. The girl had been foolish,
allowing herself to be influenced by the man's red hair and ill-sounding
name -- not knowing a real pearl when she saw it. So Lady Albury
had thought -- having only been partially right in so thinking
-- not having gone to the depth of Ayala's power of dreaming.
She was very confident, however, that the girl, when once again
at Stalham, would yield herself easily; and therefore she went
to work, doing all that she could to smoothen love's road for
her friend Jonathan. Her woman's mind had seen all those difficulties
about clothes, and would have sent what was needful herself had
she not feared to offend both the Dosetts and Ayala. Therefore
she prepared a present which she could give to the girl at Stalham
without offence. If it was to be the girl's high fate to become
Mrs Jonathan Stubbs, it would be proper that she should be adorned
and decked, and made beautiful among others of her class -- as
would become the wife of such a hero. 

Of all that passed between her and Ayala word was sent down to
Aldershot. "The stupid little wretch will throw you out, I know,"
wrote Lady Albury, "by making you start two hours before you
have done your work. But you must let your work do itself for
this occasion. There is nothing like a little journey together
to make people understand each other." 

The Colonel was clearly determined to have the little journey
together. Whatever might be the present military duties at Aldershot,
the duties of love were for the nonce in the Colonel's mind more
imperative. Though his Royal Highness had been coming that afternoon
to inspect all the troops, still he would have resolved so to
have arranged matters as to travel down with Ayala to Stalham.
But not only was he determined to do this, but he found it necessary
also to arrange a previous meeting with Lady Albury before that
important twentieth of the month. This he did by making his friend
believe that her presence in London for a few hours would be
necessary for various reasons. She came up as he desired, and
there he met her at her hotel in Jermyn Street. On his arrival
here he felt that he was almost making a fool of himself by the
extent of his anxiety. In his nervousness about this little girl
he was almost as insane as poor Tom Tringle, who, when she despised
his love, was altogether unable to control himself. "If I cannot
persuade her at last, I shall be knocking somebody over the head,
as he did." It was thus he was talking to himself as he got out
of the cab at the door of the hotel. 

"And now, Jonathan," said Lady Albury, "what can there possibly
be to justify you in giving me all this trouble? 

"You know you had to come up about that cook's character." 

"I know that I have given that as a reason to Sir Harry; but
I know also that I should have gone without a cook for a twelve
month had you not summoned me." 

"The truth is I could not get down to Stalham and back without
losing an additional day, which I cannot possibly spare. With
you it does not very much matter how many days you spare." 

"Nor how much money I spend, nor how much labour I take, so that
I obey all the commands of Colonel Jonathan Stubbs! What on earth
is there that I can say or do for you more?" 

"There are one or two things", said he, "that I want you to understand.
In the first place, I am quite in earnest about this." 

"Don't I know that you're in earnest?" 

"But perhaps you do not understand the full extent of my earnestness.
If she were to refuse me ultimately I should go away." 

"Go away! Go where?" 

"Oh; that I have not at all thought of -- probably to India,
as I might manage to get a regiment there. But in truth it would
matter very little." 

"You are talking like a goose." 

"That is very likely, because in this matter I think and feel
like a goose. It is not a great thing in a man to be turned out
of his course by some undefined feeling which he has as to a
young woman. But the thing has occurred before now, and will
occur again, in my case, if I am thrown over." 

"What on earth is there about the girl?" asked Lady Albury. "There
is that precious brother-in-law of ours going to hang himself
incontinently because she will not look at him. And that unfortunate
friend of yours, Tom Tringle, is, if possible, worse than Ben
Batsby or yourself." 

"If two other gentlemen are in the same condition it only makes
it the less singular that I should be the third. At any rate,
I am the third." 

"You do not mean to liken yourself to them?" 

"Indeed I do. As to our connection with Miss Dormer, I can see
no difference. We are all in love with her, and she has refused
us all. It matters little whether a man's ugliness or his rings
or his natural stupidity may have brought about this result.
"You are very modest, Jonathan." 

"I always was, only you never could see it. I am modest in this
matter; but not for that reason the less persistent in doing
the best I can for myself. My object now in seeing you is to
let you understand that it is -- well, not life and death, because
she will not suffice either to kill me or to keep me alive --
but one of those matters which, in a man's career, are almost
as important to him as life and death. She was very decided in
her refusal." 

"So is every girl when a first offer is made to her. How is any
girl so to arrange her thoughts at a moment's notice as to accept
a man off-hand?" 

"Girls do do so." 

"Very rarely, I think; and when they do they are hardly worth
having," said Lady Albury, laying down the law on the matter
with great precision. "If a girl accept a man all at once when
she has had, as it were, no preparation for such a proposal,
she must always surely be in a state of great readiness for matrimonial
projects. When there has been a prolonged period of spooning
then of course it is quite a different thing. The whole thing
has in fact been arranged before the important word has been
spoken." 

"What a professor in the art you are!" said he. 

"The odd thing is, that such a one as you should be so ignorant.
Can't you understand that she would not come to Stalham if her
mind were made up against you? I said nothing of you as a lover,
but I took care to let her know that you were coming. You are
very ready to put yourself in the same boat with poor Ben Batsby
or that other unfortunate wretch. Would she, do you think, have
consented to come had she known that Ben would have been there,
or your friend Tom Tringle?" 

There was much more of it, but the upshot was -- as the Colonel
had intended that it should be -- that Lady Albury was made to
understand that Ayala's goodwill was essential to his happiness.
"Of course I will do my best," she said, as he parted from her.
"Though I am not quite as much in love with her myself as you
are, yet I will do my best." Then when she was left alone, and
was prosecuting her inquiries about the new cook, and travelling
back in the afternoon to Stalham, she again considered how wonderful
a thing it was such a girl as Ayala, so small, apparently so
unimportant, so childish in her manner, with so little to say
for herself, should become a person of such terrible importance.
The twentieth came, and at ten minutes before two Ayala was at
the Paddington Railway Station. The train, which was to start
at 2.15, had been chosen by herself so that she might avoid the
Colonel, and there she was, with her aunt, waiting for it. Mrs
Dosett had thought it to be her duty to see her off, and had
come with her in the cab. There were the two boxes laden with
her wardrobe, such as it was. Both she and her aunt had worked
hard; for though -- as she had declared to herself -- there was
no special reason for it, still she had wished to look her best.
As she saw the boxes put into the van, and had told herself how
much shabbier they were than the boxes of other young ladies
who went visiting to such houses as Stalham, she rejoiced that
Colonel Stubbs was not there to see them. And she considered
whether it was possible that Colonel Stubbs should recognise
a dress which she had worn at Stalham before, which was now to
appear in a quite altered shape. She wondered also whether it
would be possible that Colonel Stubbs should know how poor she
was. As she was thinking of all this there was Colonel Stubbs
on the platform. 

She had never doubted but that her little plan would be efficacious.
Nor had her aunt doubted -- who had seen through the plan, though
not a word had been spoken between them on the subject. Mrs Dosett
had considered it to be impossible that a Colonel engaged on
duties of importance at Aldershot should run away from them to
wait upon a child like Ayala -- even though he had professed
himself to be in love with the child. She had never seen the
Colonel, and on this occasion did not expect to see him. But
there he was, all suddenly, shaking hands with Ayala. 

"My aunt, Mrs Dosett," whispered Ayala. Then the Colonel began
to talk to the elder lady as though the younger lady were a person
of very much less importance. Yes, he had run up from Aldershot
a little earlier than he had intended. There had been nothing
particular to keep him down at Aldershot. It had always been
his intention to go to Stalham on this day, and he was glad of
the accident which was bringing Miss Dormer there just at the
same time. He spent a good deal of his time at Stalham because
Sir Harry and he, who were in truth cousins, were as intimate
as brothers. He always lived at Stalham when he could get away
from duty and was not in London. Stalham was a very nice place
certainly; one of the most comfortable houses he knew in England.
So he went on till he almost made Mrs Dosett believe, and did
make Ayala believe, that his visit to Stalham had nothing to
do with herself. And yet Mrs Dosett knew that the offer had been
made. Ayala bethought herself that she did not care so much for
the re-manufactured frock after all, nor yet for the shabby appearance
of the boxes. The real Angel of Light would not care for her
frock nor for her boxes; and certainly would not be indifferent
after the fashion of -- of -- ! Then she began to reflect that
she was making a fool of herself. 

She was put into the carriage, Mr Dosett having luckily decided
against the use of the second class. Going to such a house as
Stalham Ayala ought, said Mr Dosett, to go as any other lady
would. Had it been himself or his wife it would have been very
different; but for Ayala, on such an occasion as this, he would
be extravagant. Ayala was therefore put into her seat while the
Colonel stood at the door outside, still talking to Mrs Dosett.
"I don't think she will be let to come away at the end of a week,"
said the Colonel. "Sir Harry doesn't like people to come away
very soon." Ayala heard this, and thought that she remembered
that Sir Harry himself was very indifferent as to the coming
and going of the visitors. "They go up to London about the end
of March," said the Colonel, "and if Miss Dormer were to return
about a week before it would do very well." 

"Oh, no," said Ayala, putting her head out of the window; "I
couldn't think of staying so long as that." Then the last final
bustle was made by the guard; the Colonel got in, the door was
shut, and Mrs Dosett, standing on the platform, nodded her head
for the last time. 

There were only four persons in the carriage. In the opposite
corner there were two old persons probably a husband and wife,
who had been very careful as to a foot-warming apparatus, and
were muffled up very closely in woollen and furs. "If you don't
mind shutting the door, Sir," said the old gentleman, rather
testily, "because my wife has a pain in her face." The door absolutely
was shut when the words were spoken, but the Colonel made some
sign of closing all the apertures. But there was a ventilator
above, which the old lady spied. "It you don't mind shutting
that hole up there, Sir, because my husband is very bad with
neuralgia." The Colonel at once got up and found that the ventilator
was fast closed, so as not to admit a breath of air. "There are
draughts come in everywhere," said the old gentleman. "The Company
ought to be prosecuted." "I believe the more people they kill
the better they like it," said the old lady. Then the Colonel
looked at Ayala with a very grave face, with no hint at a smile,
with a face which must have gratified even the old lady and gentleman.
But Ayala understood the face, and could not refrain from a little
laugh. She laughed only with her eyes -- but the Colonel saw
it. 

"The weather has been very severe all day," said the Colonel,
in a severe voice. 

Ayala protested that she had not found it cold at all. "Then,
Miss, I think you must be made of granite," said the old lady.
"I hope you'll remember that other people are not so fortunate."
Ayala again smiled, and the Colonel made another effort as though
to prevent any possible breath of air from making its way into
the interior of the vehicle. 

There was silence among them for some minutes, and then Ayala
was quite surprised by the tone in which her friend addressed
her. "What an ill-natured girl you must be", said he, "to have
put me to such a terrible amount of trouble all on purpose."
"I didn't," said Ayala. 

"Yes, you did. Why wouldn't you come down by the four o'clock
train as I told you? Now I've left everything undone, and I shouldn't
wonder if I get into such a row at the Horse Guards that I shall
never hear the end of it. And now you are not a bit grateful."
"Yes, I am grateful; but I didn't want you to come at all," she
said. 

"Of course I should come. I didn't think you were so perverse."
"I'm not perverse, Colonel Stubbs." 

"When young persons are perverse, it is my opinion they oughtn't
to be encouraged," said the old lady from her corner. 

"My dear, you know nothing about it," said the old gentleman.
"Yes, I do," said the old lady. "I know all about it. Whatever
she does a young lady ought not to be perverse. I do hate perversity.
I am sure that hole up there must be open, Sir, for the wind
does come in so powerful." Colonel Stubbs again jumped up and
poked at the ventilator. 

In the meantime Ayala was laughing so violently that she could
with difficulty prevent herself from making a noise, which; she
feared, would bring down increased wrath upon her from the old
lady. That feigned scolding from the Colonel at once brought
back upon her the feeling of sudden and pleasant intimacy which
she had felt when he had first come and ordered her to dance
with him at the ball in London. It was once again with her as
though she knew this man almost more intimately, and certainly
more pleasantly, than any of her other acquaintances. Whatever
he said she could answer him now, and pretend to scold him, and
have her joke with him as though no offer had ever been made.
She could have told him now all the story of that turned dress,
if that subject had come naturally to her, or have laughed with
him at her own old boxes, and confided to him any other of the
troubles of her poverty, as if they were jokes which she could
share at any rate with him. Then he spoke again. "I do abominate
a perverse young woman," he said. Upon this Ayala could no longer
constrain herself, but burst into loud laughter. 

After a while the two old people became quite familiar, and there
arose a contest, in which the lady took part with the Colonel,
and the old man protected Ayala. The Colonel spoke as though
he were quite in earnest, and went on to declare that the young
ladies of the present time were allowed far too much licence.
"They never have their own bread to earn," he said, "and they
ought to make themselves agreeable to other people who have more
to do." 

"I quite agree with you, Sir," said the old lady. "They should
run about and be handy. I like to see a girl that can jump about
the house and make herself useful." 

"Young ladies ought to be young ladies," said the old man, putting
his mouth for a moment up out of his comforter. 

"And can't a young lady be useful and yet be a young lady?" said
the Colonel. 

"It is her special province to be ornamental," said the old gentleman.
"I like to see young ladies ornamental. I don't think young ladies
ought to be scolded, even if they are a little fractious." 

"I quite agree with you, Sir," said Ayala. And so the fight went
on with sundry breaks and changes in the matter under discussion
till the station for Stalham had been reached. The old gentleman,
indeed, seemed to lose his voice before the journey was half
over, but the lady persevered, so that she and the Colonel became
such fast friends that she insisted on shaking hands with him
when he left the carriage. 

"How could you be so wicked as to go on hoaxing her like that?"
said Ayala, as soon as they were on the platform. 

"There was no hoax at all. I was quite in earnest. Was not every
word true that I said? Now come and get into the carriage quickly,
or you will be as bad as the old gentleman himself." 

Ayala did get into the carriage quickly, where she found Nina.
The two girls were full of conversation as they went to Stalham;
but through it all Ayala could not refrain from thinking how
the Jonathan Stubbs of today had been exactly like that Jonathan
Stubbs she had first known -- and how very unlike a lover. 


CHAPTER 47
CAPTAIN BATSBY AT MERLE PARK

When Ayala went to Stalham Captain Batsby went to Merle Park.
They had both been invited by Lady Tringle, and when the letter
was written to Ayala she was assured that Tom should not be there.
At that time Tom's last encounter with the police had not as
yet become known to the Tringles, and the necessity of keeping
Tom at the house in the country was not manifest. The idea had
been that Captain Batsby should have an opportunity of explaining
himself to Ayala. The Captain came; but, as to Ayala, Mrs Dosett
sent word to say that she had been invited to stay some days
just at that time with her friend Lady Albury at Stalham. 

What to do with Captain Batsby had been felt to be a difficulty
by Lady Albury. It was his habit to come to Stalham some time
in March and there finish the hunting season. It might be hoped
that Ayala's little affair might be arranged early in March,
and then, whether he came or whether he did not, it would be
the same to Ayala. But the Captain himself would be grievously
irate when he should hear the trick which would have been played
upon him. Lady Albury had already desired him not to come till
after the first week in March, having fabricated an excuse. She
had been bound to keep the coast clear both for Ayala's sake
and the Colonel's; but she knew that when her trick should be
discovered there would be unmeasured wrath. "Why the deuce don't
you let the two men come and then the best man may win!" said
Sir Harry who did not doubt but that, in such a case, the Colonel
would prove to be the best man. Here too there was another difficulty.
When Lady Albury attempted to explain that Ayala would not come
unless she were told that she would not meet the Captain, Sir
Harry declared that there should be no such favour. "Who the
deuce is this little girl," he asked, "that everybody should
be knocked about in this way for her?" Lady Albury was able to
pacify the husband, but she feared that any pacifying of the
Captain would be impossible. There would be a family quarrel
-- but even that must be endured for the Colonel's sake. 

In the meantime the Captain was kept in absolute ignorance of
Ayala's movements, and went down to Merle Park hoping to meet
her there. He must have been very much in love, for Merle Park
was by no means a spot well adapted for hunting. Hounds there
were in the neighbourhood, but he turned up his nose at the offer
when Sir Thomas suggested that he might bring down a hunter.
Captain Batsby, when he went on hunting expeditions, never stirred
without five horses, and always confined his operations to six
or seven favoured counties. But Ayala just at present was more
to him than hunting, and therefore, though it was now the end
of February, he went to Merle Park. 

"It was all Sir Thomas's doing." It was thus that Lady Tringle
endeavoured to console herself when discussing the matter with
her daughters. The Honourable Septimus Traffick had now gone
up to London, and was inhabiting a single room in the neighbourhood
of the House. Augusta was still at Merle Park, much to the disgust
of her father. He did not like to tell her to be gone; and would
indeed have been glad enough of her presence had it not been
embittered by the feeling that he was being "done". But there
she remained, and in discussing the affairs of the Captain with
her mother and Gertrude was altogether averse to the suggested
marriage for Ayala. To her thinking Ayala was not entitled to
a husband at all. Augusta had never given way in the affair of
Tom -- had declared her conviction that Stubbs had never been
in earnest;, and was of opinion that Captain Batsby would be
much better off at Merle Park without Ayala than he would have
been in that young lady's presence. When he arrived nothing was
said to him at once about Ayala. Gertrude, who recovered from
the great sickness occasioned by Mr Houston's misconduct, though
the recovery was intended only to be temporary, made herself
as pleasant as possible. Captain Batsby was made welcome, and
remained three days before he sought an opportunity of asking
a question about Ayala. 

During this time he found Gertrude to be a very agreeable companion,
but he made Mrs Traffick his first confidant. "Well, you know,
Captain Batsby, to tell you the truth, we are not very fond of
our cousin." 

"Sir Thomas told me she was to be here." 

"So we know. My father is perhaps a little mistaken about Ayala."
"Was she not asked?" demanded Captain Batsby, beginning to think
that he had been betrayed. 

"Oh, yes; she was asked. She has been asked very often, because
she is mamma's niece, and did live with us once for a short time.
But she did not come. In fact she won't go anywhere, unless --
" 

"Unless what?" 

"You know Colonel Stubbs?" 

"Jonathan Stubbs. Oh dear, yes; very intimately. He is a sort
of connection of mine. He is my half-brother's second cousin
by the father's side.' 

"Oh indeed! Does that make him very near?" 

"Not at all. I don't like him, if you mean that. He always takes
everything upon himself down at Stalham." 

"What we hear is that Ayala is always running after him." 

"Ayala running after Jonathan?" 

"Haven't you heard of that?" asked Mrs Traffick. "Why -- she
is at Stalham with the Alburys this moment, and I do not doubt
that Colonel Stubbs is there also. She would not have gone had
she not been sure of meeting him." 

This disturbed the Captain so violently that for two or three
hours he kept himself apart, not knowing what to do with himself
or where to betake himself. Could this be true about Jonathan
Stubbs? There had been moments of deep jealousy down at Stalham;
but then he had recovered from that, having assured himself that
he was wrong. It had been Larry Twentyman and not Jonathan Stubbs
who had led the two girls over the brook -- into which Stubbs
had simply fallen, making himself an object of pity. But now
again the Captain believed it all. It was on this account, then,
that his half-sister-in-law, Rosaline, had desired him to stay
away from Stalham for the present! He knew well how high in favour
with Lady Albury was that traitor Stubbs; how it was by her favour
that Stubbs, who was no more than a second cousin, was allowed
to do just what be pleased in the stables, while Sir Harry himself,
the Master of the Hounds, confined himself to the kennel! He
was determined at first to leave Merle Park and start instantly
for Stalham, and had sent for his servant to begin the packing
of his things; but as he thought of it more maturely he considered
that his arrival at Stalham would be very painful to himself
as well as to others. For the others he did not much care, but
he saw clearly that the pain to himself would be very disagreeable.
No one at Stalham would be glad to see him. Sir Harry would be
disturbed, and the other three persons with whom he was concerned
-- Lady Albury, Stubbs, and Ayala -- would be banded together
in hostility against him. What chance would he have under such
circumstances? Therefore he determined that he would stay at
Merle Park yet a little longer. 

And, after all, was Ayala worth the trouble which he had proposed
to take for her? How much had he offered her, how scornfully
had his offer been received, and how little had she to give him
in return! And now he had been told that she was always running
after Jonathan Stubbs! Could it be worth his while to run after
a girl who was always running after Jonathan Stubbs? Was he not
much higher in the world than Jonathan Stubbs, seeing that he
had, at any rate, double Stubbs's income? Stubbs was a red-haired,
ugly, impudent fellow, who made his way wherever he went simply
by "cheek'! Upon reflection, he found that it would be quite
beneath him to run after any girl who could so demean herself
as to run after Jonathan Stubbs. Therefore he came down to dinner
on that evening with all his smiles, and said not a word about
Ayala to Sir Thomas, who had just returned from London. 

"Is he very much provoked?" Sir Thomas asked his wife that evening.
"Provoked about what?" 

"He was expressly told that he would meet Ayala here." 

"He seems to be making himself very comfortable, and hasn't said
a word to me about Ayala. I am sick of Ayala. Poor Tom is going
to be really ill." Then Sir Thomas frowned, and said nothing
more on that occasion. 

Tom was certainly in an uncomfortable position, and never left
his bed till after noon. Then he would mope about the place,
moping even worse than he did before, and would spend the evening
all alone in the housekeeper's room, with a pipe in his mouth,
which he seemed hardly able to take the trouble to keep alight.
There were three or four other guests in the house, including
two honourable Miss Trafficks, and a couple of young men out
of the City, whom Lady Tringle hoped might act as antidotes to
Houston and Hamel. But with none of them would Tom associate.
With Captain Batsby he did form some little intimacy; driven
to it, no doubt, by a community of interest. "I believe you were
acquainted with my cousin, Miss Dormer, at Stalham?" asked Tom.
At that moment the two were sitting over the fire in the housekeeper's
room, and Captain Batsby was smoking a cigar, while Tom was sucking
an empty pipe. 

"Oh, yes," said Captain Batsby, pricking up his ears, "I saw
a good deal of her." 

"A wonderful creature!" ejaculated Tom. 

"Yes, indeed!" 

"For a real romantic style of beauty, I don't suppose that the
world ever saw her like before. Did you?" 

"Are you one among your cousin's admirers?" demanded the Captain.
"Am I?" asked Tom, surprised that there should be anybody who
had not as yet heard his tragic story. "Am I one of her admirers?
Why -- rather! Haven't you heard about me and Stubbs?" 

"No, indeed." 

"I thought that everybody had heard that. I challenged him, you
know." 

"To fight a duel?." 

"Yes; to fight a duel. I sent my friend Faddle down with a letter
to Stalham, but it was of no use. Why should a man fight a duel
when he has got such a girl as Ayala to love him?" 

"That is quite true, then?" 

"I fear so! I fear so! Oh, yes; it is too true. Then you know;"
-- and as he came to this portion of his story he jumped up from
his chair and frowned fiercely -- "then, you know, I met him
under the portico of the Haymarket, and struck him." 

"Oh -- was that you?" 

"Indeed it was." 

"And he did not do anything to you?" 

"He behaved like a hero," said Tom. "I do think that he behaved
like a hero -- though of course I hate him." The bitterness of
expression was here very great. "He wouldn't let them lock me
up. Though, in the matter of that, I should have been best pleased
if they would have locked me up for ever, and kept me from the
sight of the world. Admire that girl, Captain Batsby! I don't
think that I ever heard of a man who loved a girl as I love her.
I do not hesitate to say that I continue to walk the world --
in the way of not committing suicide, I mean -- simply because
there is still a possibility while she has not as yet stood at
the hymeneal altar with another man. I would have shot Stubbs
willingly, though I knew I was to be tried for it at the Old
Bailey -- and hung! I would have done it willingly -- willingly;
or any other man." After that Captain Batsby thought it might
be prudent not to say anything especial as to his own love. 

And how foolish would it be for a man like himself, with a good
fortune of his own, to marry any girl who had not a sixpence!
The Captain was led into this vain thought by the great civility
displayed to him by the ladies of the house. With Lucy, whom
he knew to be Ayala's sister, he had not prospered very well.
It came to his ears that she was out of favour with her aunt,
and he therefore meddled with her but little. The Tringle ladies,
however, were very kind to him -- so kind that he was tempted
to think less than ever of one who had been so little courteous
to him as Ayala. Mrs Traffick was of course a married woman,
and it amounted to nothing. But Gertrude -- ! All the world knew
that Septimus Traffick without a shilling of his own had become
the happy possessor of a very large sum of money. He, Batsby,
had more to recommend him than Traffick! Why should not he also
become a happy possessor? He went away for a week's hunting into
Northamptonshire, and then, at Lady Tringle's request, came back
to Merle Park. 

At this time Miss Tringle had quite recovered her health. She
had dropped all immediate speech as to Mr Houston. Had she not
been provoked, she would have allowed all that to drop into oblivion.
But a married sister may take liberties. "You are well rid of
him, I think," said Augusta. Gertrude heaved a deep sigh. She
did not wish to acknowledge herself to be rid of him until another
string were well fitted to her bow. "After all, a man with nothing
to do in the world, with no profession, no occupation, with no
money -- " 

"Mr Traffick had not got very much money of his own." 

"He has a seat in Parliament, which is very much more than fortune,
and will undoubtedly be in power when his party comes in. And
he is a man of birth. But Frank Houston had nothing to recommend
him." 

"Birth!" said Gertrude, turning up her nose. 

"The Queen, who is the fountain of honour, made his father a
nobleman, and that constitutes birth." This the married sister
said with stern severity of manner, and perfect reliance on the
constitutional privileges of her Sovereign. 

"I don't know that we need talk about it," said Gertrude. 

"Not at all. Mr Houston has behaved very badly, and I suppose
there is an end of him as far as this house is concerned. Captain
Batsby seems to me to be a very nice young man, and I suppose
he has got money. A man should certainly have got money -- or
an occupation." 

"He has got both," said Gertrude, which, however, was not true,
as Captain Batsby had left the service. 

"Have you forgotten my cousin so soon?" Gertrude asked one day,
as she was walking with the happy Captain in the park. The Captain,
no doubt, had been saying soft things to her. 

"Do you throw that in my teeth as an offence?" 

"Inconstancy in men is generally considered as an offence," said
Gertrude. What it might be in women she did not just then declare.
"After all I have heard of your cousin since I have been here,
I should hardly have thought that it would be reckoned so in
this case." 

"You have heard nothing against her from me." 

"I am told that she has treated your brother very badly." 

"Poor Tom!" 

"And that she is flirting with a man I particularly dislike."
"I suppose she does make herself rather peculiar with that Colonel
Stubbs." 

"And, after all, only think how little I saw of her! She is pretty."
"So some people think. I never saw it myself," said Gertrude.
"We always thought her a mass of affectation. We had to turn
her out of the house once, you know. She was living here, and
then it was that her sister had to come in her place. It is not
their fault that they have got nothing -- poor girls! They are
mamma's nieces, and so papa always has one of them." After that
forgiveness was accorded to the Captain on account of his fickle
conduct, and Gertrude consented to accept of his services in
the guise of a lover. That this was so Mrs Traffick was well
aware. Nor was Lady Tringle very much in the dark. Frank Houston
was to be considered as good as gone, and if so it would be well
that her daughter should have another string. She was tired of
the troubles of the girls around her, and thought that as Captain
Batsby was supposed to have an income he would do as a son-in-law.
But she had not hitherto been consulted by the young people,
who felt among themselves that there still might be a difficulty.
The difficulty lay with Sir Thomas. Sir Thomas had brought Captain
Batsby there to Merle Park as Ayala's lover, and as he had been
very little at home was unaware of the changes which had taken
place. And then Gertrude was still supposed to be engaged to
Mr Houston, although this lover had been so violently rejected
by himself. The ladies felt that, as he was made of sterner stuff
than they, so would it be more difficult to reconcile him to
the alterations which were now proposed in the family arrangements.
Who was to bell the cat? "Let him go to papa in the usual way,
and ask his leave," said Mrs Traffick. 

"I did suggest that," said Gertrude, "but he seems not to like
to do it quite yet." 

"Is he such a coward as that?" 

"I do not know that he is more a coward than anybody else. I
remember when Septimus was quite afraid to go near papa. But
then Benjamin has got money of his own, which does make a difference."
"It's quite untrue saying that Septimus was ever afraid of papa.
Of course he knows his position as a Member of Parliament too
well for that. I suppose the truth is, it's about Ayala." 

"It is a little odd about Ayala," said Gertrude, resuming her
confidential tone. "It is so hard to make papa understand about
these kind of things. I declare I believe he thinks that I never
ought to speak to another man because of that scoundrel Frank
Houston." 

All this was in truth so strange to Sir Thomas that he could
not understand any of the existing perplexities. Why did Captain
Batsby remain as a guest at Merle Park? He had no special dislike
to the man, and when Lady Tringle had told him that she had asked
the Captain to prolong his visit he had made no objection. But
why should the man remain there, knowing as he did now that there
was no chance of Ayala's coming to Merle Park? At last, on a
certain Saturday evening, he did make inquiry on the subject.
"What on earth is that man staying here for?" he said to his
wife. 

"I think he likes the place." 

"Perhaps he likes the place as well as Septimus Traffick, and
means to live here always!" Such allusions as these were constant
with Sir Thomas, and were always received by Lady Tringle with
dismay and grief. "When does he mean to go away?" asked Sir Thomas,
gruffly. 

Lady Tringle had felt that the time had come in which some word
should be said as to the Captain's intentions; but she feared
to say it. She dreaded to make the clear explanation to her husband.
"Perhaps", said she, "he is becoming fond of some of the young
ladies." 

"Young ladies! What young ladies? Do you mean Lucy?" 

"Oh dear no!" said Lady Tringle. 

"Then what the deuce do you mean? He came here after Ayala, because
I wanted to have all that nonsense settled about Tom. Ayala is
not here, nor likely to be here; and I don't know why he should
stay here philandering away his time. I hate men in a country
house who are thorough idlers. You had better take an opportunity
of letting him know that he has been here long enough." 

All this was repeated by Lady Tringle to Mrs Traffick, and by
Mrs Traffick to Gertrude. Then they felt that this was no time
for Captain Batsby to produce himself to Sir Thomas as a suitor
for his youngest daughter. 


CHAPTER 48
THE JOURNEY TO OSTEND

"No doubt it will be very hard to make papa understand." This
was said by Gertrude to her new lover a few days after that order
had been given that the lover should be sent away from Merle
Park. The purport of the order in all its severity had not been
conveyed to Captain Batsby. The ladies had felt -- Gertrude had
felt very strongly -- that were he informed that the master of
the house demanded his absence he would take himself off at once.
But still something had to be said -- and something done. Captain
Batsby was, just at present, in a matrimonial frame of mind.
He had come to Merle Park to look for a wife, and, as he had
missed one, was, in his present mood, inclined to take another.
But there was no knowing how long this might last. Augusta had
hinted that "something must be done, either with papa's consent
or without it". Then there had come the conversation in which
Gertrude acknowledged the existing difficulty. "Papa, too, probably,
would not consent quite at once." 

"He must think it very odd that I am staying here," said the
Captain. 

"Of course it is odd. If you could go to him and tell him everything!"
But the Captain, looking at the matter all round, thought that
he could not go to Sir Thomas and tell him anything. Then she
began gently to introduce the respectable clergyman at Ostend.
It was not necessary that she should refer at length to the circumstances
under which she had studied the subject, but she gave Captain
Batsby to understand that it was one as to which she had picked
up a good deal of information. 

But the money! "If Sir Thomas were made really angry, the consequences
would be disastrous," said the Captain. But Gertrude was of a
different way of thinking. Her father was, no doubt, a man who
could be very imperious, and would insist upon having his own
way as long as his own way was profitable to him. But he was
a man who always forgave. 

"If you mean about the money," said Gertrude, "I am quite sure
that it would all come right." He did mean about the money, and
was evidently uneasy in his mind when the suggested step was
made manifest to him. Gertrude was astonished to see how long
and melancholy his face could become. "Papa was never unkind
about money in his life," said Gertrude. "He could not endure
to have any of us poor." 

On the next Saturday Sir Thomas again came down, and still found
his guest at Merle Park. We are now a little in advance of our
special story, which is, or ought to be, devoted to Ayala. But,
with the affairs of so many lovers and their loves, it is almost
impossible to make the chronicle run at equal periods throughout.
It was now more than three weeks since Ayala went to Stalham,
and Lady Albury had written to the Captain confessing something
of her sin, and begging to be forgiven. This she had done in
her anxiety to keep the Captain away. He had not answered his
sister-in-law's letter, but, in his present frame of mind, was
not at all anxious to finish up the hunting season at Stalham.
Sir Thomas, on his arrival, was very full of Tom's projected
tour. He had arranged everything -- except in regard to Tom's
own assent. He had written to New York, and had received back
a reply from his correspondent assuring him that Tom should be
made most heartily welcome. It might be that Tom's fighting propensities
had not been made known to the people of New York. Sir Thomas
had taken a berth on board of one of the Cunard boats, and had
even gone so far as to ask the Captain to come down for a day
or two to Merle Park. He was so much employed with Tom that he
could hardly afford time and consideration to Captain Batsby
and his affairs. Nevertheless he did ask a question, and received
an answer with which he seemed to be satisfied. "What on earth
is that man staying here for?" he said to his wife. 

"He is going on Friday," replied Lady Tringle, doubtingly --
almost as though she thought that she would be subjected to further
anger because of this delay. But Sir Thomas dropped the subject,
and passed on to some matter affecting Tom's outfit. Lady Tringle
was very glad to change the subject, and promised that everything
should be supplied befitting the hottest and coldest climates
on the earth's surface. 

"She sails on the nineteenth of April." said Sir Thomas to his
son. 

"I don't think I could go as soon as that, Sir," replied Tom,
whining. 

"Why not? There are more than three weeks yet, and your mother
will have everything ready for you. What on earth is there to
hinder you?" 

"I don't think I could go -- not on the nineteenth of April."
"Well then, you must. I have taken your place, and Firkin expects
you at New York. They'll do everything for you there, and you'll
find quite a new life. I should have thought you'd have been
delighted to get away from your wretched condition here." 

"It is wretched," said Tom; "but I'd rather not go quite so soon."
"Why not?" 

"Well, then -- " 

"What is it, Tom? It makes me unhappy when I see you such a fool."
"I am a fool! I know I am a fool!" 

"Then make a new start of it. Cut and run, and begin the world
again. You're young enough to forget all this." 

"So I would, only -- " 

"Only what?" 

"I suppose she is engaged to that man Stubbs! If I knew it for
certain then I would go. If I went before, I should only come
back as soon as I got to New York. If they were once married
and it were all done with I think I could make a new start."
In answer to this his father told him that he must go on the
nineteenth of April, whether Ayala were engaged or disengaged,
married or unmarried -- that his outfit would be bought, his
cabin would be ready, circular notes for his use would be prepared,
and everything would be arranged to make his prolonged tour as
comfortable as possible; but that if he did not start on that
day all the Tringle houses would be closed against him, and he
would be turned penniless out into the world. "You'll have to
learn that I'm in earnest," said Sir Thomas, as he turned his
back and walked away. Tom took himself off to reflect whether
it would not be a grand thing to be turned penniless out into
the world -- and all for love! 

By the early train on Monday Sir Thomas returned to London, having
taken little or no heed of Captain Batsby during his late visit
to the country. Even at Merle Park Captain Batsby's presence
was less important than it would otherwise have been to Lady
Tringle and Mrs Traffick, because of the serious nature of Sir
Thomas's decision as to his son. Lady Tringle perhaps suspected
something. Mrs Traffick, no doubt, had her own ideas as to her
sister's position; but nothing was said and nothing was done.
Both on the Wednesday and on the Thursday Lady Tringle went up
to town to give the required orders on Tom's behalf. On the Thursday
her elder daughter accompanied her, and returned with her in
the evening. On their arrival they learnt that neither Captain
Batsby nor Miss Gertrude had been seen since ten o'clock; that
almost immediately after Lady Tringle's departure in the morning
Captain Batsby had caused all his luggage to be sent into Hastings;
and that it had since appeared that a considerable number of
Miss Gertrude's things were missing. There could be no doubt
that she had caused them to be packed up with the Captain's luggage.
"They have gone to Ostend, mamma," said Augusta. "I was sure
of it, because I've heard Gertrude say that people can always
get themselves married at Ostend. There is a clergyman there
on purpose to do it." 

It was at this time past seven o'clock, and Lady Tringle when
she heard the news was so astounded that she did not at first
know how to act. It was not possible for her to reach Dover that
night before the night boat for Ostend should have started --
even could she have done any good by going there. Tom was in
such a condition that she hardly dared to trust him; but it was
settled at last that she should telegraph at once to Sir Thomas,
in Lombard Street, and that Tom should travel up to London by
the night train. 

On the following morning Lady Tringle received a letter from
Gertrude, posted by that young lady at Dover as she passed through
on her road to Ostend. It was as follows: 

DEAR MAMMA, 

You will be surprised on your return from London to find that
we have gone. After much thinking about it we determined it would
be best, because we had quite made up our mind not to be kept
separated. Ben was so eager about it that I was obliged to yield.
We were afraid that if we asked papa at once he would not have
given his consent. Pray give him my most dutiful love, and tell
him that I am sure he will never have occasion to be ashamed
of his son-in-law. I don't suppose he knows, but it is the fact
that Captain Batsby has about three thousand a year of his own.
It is very different from having nothing, like that wretch Frank
Houston, or, for that matter, Mr Traffick. Ben was quite in a
position to ask papa, but things had happened which made us both
feel that papa would not like it just at present. We mean to
be married at Ostend, and then will come back as soon as you
and papa say that you will receive us. In the meantime I wish
you would send some of my clothes after me. Of course I had to
come away with very little luggage, because I was obliged to
have my things mixed up with Ben's. I did not dare to have my
boxes brought down by the servants. Could you send me the green
silk in which I went to church the last two Sundays, and my pink
gauze, and the grey poplin? Please send two or three flannel
petticoats, as I could not put them among his things, and as
many cuffs and collars as you can cram in. I suppose I can get
boots at Ostend, but I should like to have the hat with the little
brown feather. There is my silk jacket with the fur trimming;
I should like to have that. I suppose I shall have to be married
without any regular dress, but I am sure papa will make up my
trousseau to me afterwards. I lent a little lace fichu to Augusta;
tell her I shall so like to have it. 

Give papa my best love, and Augusta, and poor Tom, and accept
the same from your affectionate daughter, 

GERTRUDE

"I suppose I must not add the other name yet." 

Sir Thomas did not receive the telegram till eleven o'clock,
when he returned from dinner, and could do nothing that night.
On the next morning he was disturbed soon after five o'clock
by Tom, who had come on the same errand. "Idiots!" exclaimed
Sir Thomas, "What on earth can they have gone to Ostend for?
And what can you do by coming up?" 

"My mother thought that I might follow them to Ostend." 

"They wouldn't care for you. No one will care for you until you
have got rid of all this folly. I must go. Idiots! Who is to
marry them at Ostend? If they are fools enough to want to be
married, why shouldn't they get married in England?" 

"I suppose they thought you wouldn't consent." 

"Of course I shan't consent. But why should I consent a bit more
because they have gone to Ostend? I don't suppose anybody ever
had such a set of fools about him as I have." This would have
been hard upon Tom had it not been that he had got beyond the
feeling of any hardness from contempt or contumely. As he once
said of himself, all sense of other injury had been washed out
of him by Ayala's unkindness. 

On that very day Sir Thomas started for Ostend, and reached the
place about two o'clock. Captain Batsby and Gertrude had arrived
only during the previous night, and Gertrude, as she had been
very sick was still in bed. Captain Batsby was not in bed. Captain
Batsby had been engaged since an early hour in the morning looking
for that respectable clergyman of the Church of England of whose
immediate services he stood in need. By the time that Sir Thomas
had reached Ostend he had found that no such clergyman was known
in the place. There was a regular English clergyman who would
be very happy to marry him -- and to accept the usual fees --
after the due performance of certain preliminaries as ordained
by the law, and as usual at Ostend. The lady, no doubt, could
be married at Ostend, after such preliminaries -- as she might
have been married also in England. All this was communicated
by the Captain to Gertrude -- who was still very unwell -- at
her bedroom door. Her conduct during this trying time was quite
beyond reproach -- and also his -- as Captain Batsby afterwards
took an opportunity of assuring her father. 

"What on earth, Sir, is the meaning of all this?" said Sir Thomas,
encountering the man who was not his son-in-law in the sitting-room
of the hotel. 

"I have just run away with your daughter, Sir Thomas. That is
the simple truth." 

"And I have got the trouble of taking her back again." 

"I have behaved like a gentleman through it all, Sir Thomas,"
said the Captain, thus defending his own character and the lady's.
"You have behaved like a fool. What on earth am I to think of
it, Sir? You were asked down to my house because you gave me
to understand that you proposed to ask my niece, Miss Dormer,
to be your wife; and now you have run away with my daughter.
Is that behaviour like a gentleman?" 

"I must explain myself." 

"Well, Sir?" Captain Batsby found the explanation very difficult;
and hummed and hawed a great deal. "Do you mean to say that it
was a lie from beginning to end about Miss Dormer?" Great liberties
of speech are allowed to gentlemen whose daughters have been
run away with, and whose hospitality has been outraged. 

"Oh dear no. What I said then was quite true. It was my intention.
But -- but -- ." The perspiration broke out upon the unhappy
man's brow as the great immediate trouble of his situation became
clear to him. "There was no lie -- no lie at all. I beg to assure
you, Sir Thomas, that I am not a man to tell a lie." 

"How has it all been, then?" 

"When I found how very superior a person your daughter was!"
"It isn't a month since she was engaged to somebody else," said
the angry father, forgetting all propriety in his indignation.
"Gertrude?" demanded Captain Batsby. 

"You are two fools. So you gave up my niece?" 

"Oh dear yes, altogether. She didn't come to Merle Park, you
know. How was I to say anything to her when you didn't have her
there?" 

"Why didn't you go away then, instead of remaining under a false
pretence? Or why, at any rate, didn't you tell me the truth?"
"And what would you have me to do now?" asked Captain Batsby.
"Go to the d -- " said Sir Thomas, as he left the room, and went
to his daughter's chamber. 

Gertrude had heard that her father was in the house, and endeavoured
to hurry herself into her clothes while the interview was going
on between him and her father. But she was not yet perfectly
arrayed when her father burst into her room. "Oh, papa," she
said, going down on her knees, "you do mean to forgive us?" 

"I mean to do nothing of the kind. I mean to carry you home and
have you locked up." 

"But we may be married!" 

"Not with my leave. Why didn't you come and ask if you wanted
to get yourselves married? Why didn't you tell me?" 

"We were ashamed." 

"What has become of Mr Houston, whom you loved so dearly?" 

"Oh, papa!" 

"And the Captain was so much attached to Ayala!" 

"Oh, papa!" 

"Get up, you stupid girl. Why is it that my children are so much
more foolish than other people's? I don't suppose you care for
the man in the least." 

"I do, I do. I love him with all my heart." 

"And as for him -- how can he care for you when it is but the
other day he was in love with your cousin?" 

"Oh, papa!" 

"What he wants is my money, of course." 

"He has got plenty of money, papa." 

"I can understand him, fool as he is. There is something for
him to get. He won't get it, but he might think it possible.
As for you, I cannot understand you at all. What do you expect?
It can't be for love of a hatchet-faced fellow like that, whom
you had never seen a fortnight ago." 

"It is more than a month ago, papa." 

"Frank Houston was, at any rate, a manly-looking fellow." 

"He was a scoundrel," said Gertrude, now standing up for the
first time. 

"A good-looking fellow was Frank Houston; that at least may be
said for him," continued the father, determined to exasperate
his daughter to the utmost. "I had half a mind to give way about
him, because he was a manly, outspoken fellow, though he was
such an idle dog. If you'd gone off with him, I could have understood
it -- and perhaps forgiven it," he added. 

"He was a scoundrel!" screamed Gertrude, remembering her ineffectual
attempts to make her former lover perform this same journey.
"But this fellow! I cannot bring myself to believe that you really
care for him." 

"He has a good income of his own, while Houston was little better
than a beggar." 

"I'm glad of that," said Sir Thomas, "because there will be something
for you to live upon. I can assure you that Captain Batsby will
never get a shilling of my money. Now, you had better finish
dressing yourself, and come down and eat your dinner with me
if you've got any appetite. You will have to go back to Dover
by the boat tonight." 

"May Ben dine with us?" asked Gertrude, timidly. "Ben may go
to the d -- . At any rate he had better not show himself to me
again," said Sir Thomas. 

The lovers, however, did get an opportunity of exchanging a few
words, during which it was settled between them that as the young
lady must undoubtedly obey her father's behests, and return to
Dover that night, it would be well for Captain Batsby to remain
behind at Ostend. Indeed, he spoke of making a little tour as
far as Brussels, in order that he might throw off the melancholy
feelings which had been engendered. "You will come to me again,
Ben," she said. Upon this he looked very grave. "You do not mean
to say that after all this you will desert me?" 

"He has insulted me so horribly!" 

"What does that signify? Of course he is angry. If you could
only hear how he has insulted me." 

"He says that you were in love with somebody else not a month
since." 

"So were you, Ben, for the matter of that." He did, however,
before they parted, make her a solemn promise that their engagement
should remain an established fact, in spite both of father and
mother. 

Gertrude, who had now recovered the effects of her seasickness
-- which, however, she would have to encounter again so very
quickly -- contrived to eat a hearty dinner with her father.
There, however, arose a little trouble. How should she contrive
to pack up the clothes which she had brought with her, and which
had till lately been mixed with the Captain's garments? She did,
however, at last succeed in persuading the chamber-maid to furnish
her with a carpet-bag, with which in her custody she arrived
safely on the following day at Merle Park. 


CHAPTER 49
THE NEW FROCK

Ayala's arrival at Stalham was full of delight to her. There
was Nina with all her new-fledged hopes and her perfect assurance
in the absolute superiority of Lord George Bideford to any other
man either alive or dead. Ayala was quite willing to allow this
assurance to pass current, as her Angel of Light was as yet neither
alive nor dead. But she was quite certain -- wholly certain --
that when the Angel should come forth he would be superior to
Lord George. The first outpourings of all this took place in
the carriage as Nina and Ayala were driven from the station to
the house, while the Colonel went home alone in a dog-cart. It
had been arranged that nothing should be said to Ayala about
the Colonel, and in the carriage the Colonel's name was not mentioned.
But when they were all in the hall at Stalham, taking off their
cloaks and depositing their wraps, standing in front of the large
fire, Colonel Stubbs was there. Lady Albury was present also,
welcoming her guests, and Sir Harry, who had already come home
from hunting, with one or two other men in red coats and top
breeches, and a small bevy of ladies who were staying in the
house. Lady Albury was anxious to know how her friend had sped
with Ayala, but at such a moment no question could be asked.
But Ayala's spirits were so high that Lady Albury was at a loss
to understand whether the whole thing had been settled by Jonathan
with success -- or whether, on the other hand, Ayala was so happy
because she had not been troubled by a word of love. 

"He has behaved so badly, Lady Albury," said Ayala. 

"What -- Stubbs?" asked Sir Harry, not quite understanding all
the ins and outs of the matter. 

"Yes, Sir Harry. There was an old lady and an old gentleman.
They were very funny and he would laugh at them." 

"I deny it," said the Colonel. 

"Why shouldn't he laugh at them if they were funny?" asked Lady
Albury. 

"He knew it would make me laugh out loud. I couldn't help myself,
but he could be as grave as a judge all the time. So he went
on till the old woman scolded me dreadfully." 

"But the old man took your part," said the Colonel. 

"Yes -- he did. He said that I was ornamental." 

"A decent and truth-speaking old gentleman," said one of the
sportsmen in top boots. 

"Quite so -- but then the old lady said that I was perverse,
and Colonel Stubbs took her part. If you had been there, Lady
Albury, you would have thought that he had been in earnest."
"So I was," said the Colonel. 

All this was very pleasant to Ayala. It was a return to the old
joyousness when she had first discovered the delight of having
such a friend as Colonel Stubbs. Had he flattered her, paid her
compliments, been soft and delicate to her -- as a lover might
have been -- she would have been troubled in spirit and heavy
at heart. But now it seemed as though all that love-making had
been an episode which had passed away, and that the old pleasant
friendship still remained. As yet, while they were standing there
in the hall, there had come no moment for her to feel whether
there was anything to regret in this. But certainly there had
been comfort in it. She had been able to appear before all her
Stalham friends, in the presence even of the man himself, without
any of that consciousness which would have oppressed her had
he come there simply as her acknowledged lover, and had she come
there conscious before all the guests that it was so. 

Then they sat for a while drinking tea and eating buttered toast
in the drawing-room. A supply of buttered toast fully to gratify
the wants of three or four men just home from hunting has never
yet been created by the resources of any establishment. But the
greater marvel is that the buttered toast has never the slightest
effect on the dinner which is to follow in an hour or two. During
this period the conversation turned chiefly upon hunting -- which
is of all subjects the most imperious. It never occurs to a hunting
man to suppose that either a lady, or a bishop, or a political
economist, can be indifferent to hunting. There is something
beyond millinery -- beyond the interests of the church -- beyond
the price of wheat -- in that great question whether the hounds
did or did not change their fox in Gobblegoose Wood. On the present
occasion Sir Harry was quite sure that the hounds did carry their
fox through Gobblegoose Wood, whereas Captain Glomax, who had
formerly been master of the pack which now obeyed Sir Harry,
was perfectly certain that they had got upon another animal,
who went away from Gobblegoose as fresh as paint. He pretended
even to ridicule Sir Harry for supposing that any fox could have
run at that pace up Buddlecombe Hill who had travelled all the
way from Stickborough Gorse. To this Sir Harry replied resentfully
that the Captain did not know what were the running powers of
a dog-fox in March. Then he told various stories of what had
been done in this way at this special period of the year. Glomax,
however, declared that he knew as much of a fox as any man in
England, and that he would eat both the foxes, and the wood,
and Sir Harry, and, finally, himself, if the animal which had
run up Buddlecombe Hill was the same which they brought with
them from Stickborough Gorse into Gobblegoose Wood. So the battle
raged, and the ladies no doubt were much interested -- as would
have been the bishop had he been there, or the political economist.
After this Ayala was taken up into her room, and left to sit
there by herself for a while till Lady Albury should send her
maid. "My dear," said Lady Albury, "there is something on the
bed which I expect you to wear tonight. I shall be broken-hearted
if it doesn't fit you. The frock is a present from Sir Harry;
the scarf comes from me. Don't say a word about it. Sir Harry
always likes to make presents to young ladies." Then she hurried
out of the room while Ayala was still thanking her. Lady Albury
had at first intended to say something about the Colonel as they
were sitting together over Ayala's fire, but she had made up
her mind against this as soon as she saw their manner towards
each other on entering the house. If Ayala had accepted him at
a word as they were travelling together, then there would be
need of no further interference in the matter. But if not, it
would be better that she should hold her peace for the present.
Ayala's first instinct was to look at the finery which had been
provided for her. It was a light grey silk, almost pearl colour,
as to which she thought she had never seen anything so lovely
before. She measured the waist with her eye, and knew at once
that it would fit her. She threw the gauzy scarf over her shoulders
and turned herself round before the large mirror which stood
near the fireplace. "Dear Lady Albury!" she exclaimed; "dear
Lady Albury!" It was impossible that she should have understood
that Lady Albury's affection had been shown to Jonathan Stubbs
much rather than to her when those presents were prepared. 

She got rid of her travelling dress and her boots, and let down
her hair, and seated herself before the fire that she might think
of it all in her solitude. Was she or was she not glad -- glad
in sober earnest, glad now the moment of her mirth had passed
by, the mirth which had made her return to Stalham so easy for
her -- was she or was she not glad that this change had come
upon the Colonel, this return to his old ways? She had got her
friend again, but she had lost her lover. She did not want the
lover. She was sure of that. She was still sure that if a lover
would come to her who would be in truth acceptable -- such a
lover as would enable her to give herself up to him altogether,
and submit herself to him as her lord and master -- he must be
something different from Jonathan Stubbs. That had been the theory
of her life for many months past, a theory on which she had resolved
to rely with all her might from the moment in which this man
had spoken to her of his love. Would she give way and render
up herself and all her dreams simply because the man was one
to be liked? She had declared to herself again and again that
it should not be so. There should come the Angel of Light or
there should come no lover for her. On that very morning as she
was packing up her boxes at Kingsbury Crescent she had arranged
the words in which, should he speak to her on the subject in
the railway train, she would make him understand that it could
never be. Surely he would understand if she told him so simply,
with a little prayer that his suit might not be repeated. His
suit had not been repeated. Nothing apparently had been further
from his intention. He had been droll, pleasant, friendly --
just like his old dear self. For in truth the pleasantness and
the novelty of his friendship had made him dear to her. He had
gone back of his own accord to the old ways, without any little
prayer from her. Now was she contented? As the question would
thrust itself upon her in opposition to her own will, driving
out the thoughts which she would fain have welcomed, she gazed
listlessly at the fire. If it were so, then for what purpose,
then for what reason, had Lady Albury procured for her the pale
grey pearl-coloured dress? 

And why were all these grand people at Stalham so good to her
-- to her, a poor little girl, whose ordinary life was devoted
to the mending of linen and to the furtherance of economy in
the use of pounds of butter and legs of mutton? Why was she taken
out of her own sphere and petted in this new luxurious world?
She had a knowledge belonging to her -- if not quite what we
may call common sense -- which told her that there must be some
cause. Of some intellectual capacity, some appreciation of things
and words which were divine in their beauty, she was half conscious.
It could not be, she felt, that without some such capacity she
should have imaged to herself that Angel of Light. But not for
such capacity as that had she been made welcome at Stalham. As
for her prettiness, her beauty of face and form, she thought
about them not at all -- almost not at all. In appearing in that
pale-pearl silk, with that gauzy scarf upon her shoulders, she
would take pride. Not to be shamed among other girls by the poorness
of her apparel was a pride to her. Perhaps to excel some others
by the prettiness of her apparel might be a pride to her. But
of feminine beauty, as a great gift bestowed upon her, she thought
not at all. She would look in the mirror for the effect of the
scarf, but not for the effect of the neck and shoulders beneath
it. Could she have looked in any mirror for the effect of the
dreams she had thus dreamed -- ah! that would have been the mirror
in which she would have loved yet feared to look! 

Why was Lady Albury so kind to her? Perhaps Lady Albury did not
know that Colonel Stubbs had changed his mind. She would know
it very soon, and then, maybe, everything would be changed. As
she thought of this she longed to put the pearl silk dress aside,
and not to wear it as yet -- to put it aside so that it might
never be worn by her if circumstances should so require. It was
to be hoped that the man had changed his mind -- and to be hoped
that Lady Albury would know that he had done so. Then she would
soon see whether there was a change. Could she not give a reason
why she should not wear the dress this night? As she sat gazing
at the fire a tear ran down her cheek. Was it for the dress she
would not wear, or for the lover whom she would not love? 

The question as to the dress was settled for her very soon. Lady
Albury's maid came into the room -- not a chit of a girl without
a thought of her own except as to her own grandness in being
two steps higher than the kitchen-maid -- but a well-grown, buxom,
powerful woman, who had no idea of letting such a young lady
as Ayala do anything in the matter of dress but what she told
her. When Ayala suggested something as to the next evening in
reference to the pale-pearl silk the buxom powerful woman pooh-poohed
her down in a moment. What -- after Sir Harry had taken so much
trouble about having it made; having actually inquired about
it with his own mouth. "Tonight, Miss; you must wear it tonight!
My lady would be quite angry!" "My lady not know what you wear!
My lady knows what all the ladies wear -- morning, noon, and
night." That little plan of letting the dress lie by till she
should know how she should be received after Colonel Stubbs's
change of mind had been declared, fell to the ground altogether
under the hands of the buxom powerful woman. 

When she went into the drawing-room some of the guests were assembled.
Sir Harry and Lady Albury were there, and so was Colonel Stubbs.
As she walked in Sir Harry was standing well in front of the
fire, in advance of the rug, so as to be almost in the middle
of the room. Captain Glomax was there also, and the discussion
about the foxes was going on. It had occurred to Ayala that as
the dress was a present from Sir Harry she must thank him. So
she walked up to him and made a little curtsey just before him.
"Am I nice, Sir Harry?" she said. 

"Upon my word", said Sir Harry, "that is the best spent ten-pound
note I ever laid out in my life." Then he took her by the hand
and gently turned her round, so as to look at her and her dress.
"I don't know whether I am nice, but you are," she said, curtseying
again. Everybody felt that she had had quite a little triumph
as she subsided into a seat close by Lady Albury, who called
her. As she seated herself she caught the Colonel's eye, who
was looking at her. She fancied that there was a tear in it.
Then he turned himself and looked away into the fire. 

"You have won his heart for ever," said Lady Albury. 

"Whose heart?" asked Ayala, in her confusion. 

"Sir Harry's heart. As for the other, cela va sans dire. You
must go on wearing it every night for a week or Sir Harry will
want to know why you have left it off. If the woman had made
it on you it couldn't have fitted better. Baker' -- Baker was
the buxom female -- "said that she knew it was right.You did
that very prettily to Sir Harry. Now go up and ask Colonel Stubbs
what he thinks of it." 

"Indeed, I won't," said Ayala. Lady Albury, a few minutes afterwards,
when she saw Ayala walking away towards the drawing-room leaning
on the Colonel's arm, acknowledged to herself that she did at
last understand it. The Colonel had been able to see it all,
even without the dress, and she confessed in her mind that the
Colonel had eyes with which to see, and ears with which to hear,
and a judgment with which to appreciate. "Don't you think that
girl very lovely?" she said to Lord Rufford, on whose arm she
was leaning. 

"Something almost more than lovely," said Lord Rufford, with
unwonted enthusiasm. 

It was acknowledged now by everybody. "Is it true about Colonel
Stubbs and Miss Dormer?" whispered Lady Rufford to her hostess
in the drawing-room. 

"Upon my word, I never inquire into those things," said Lady
Albury. "I suppose he does admire her. Everybody must admire
her." 

"Oh yes;" said Lady Rufford. "She is certainly very pretty. Who
is she, Lady Albury?" Lady Rufford had been a Miss Penge, and
the Penges were supposed to be direct descendants from Boadicea.
"She is Miss Ayala Dormer. Her father was an artist, and her
mother was a very handsome woman. When a girl is as beautiful
as Miss Dormer, and as clever, it doesn't much signify who she
is." Then the direct descendant from Boadicea withdrew holding
an opinion much at variance with that expressed by her hostess.
"Who is that young lady who sat next to you?" asked Captain Glomax
of Colonel Stubbs, after the ladies had gone. 

"She is a Miss Ayala Dormer." 

"Did I not see her out hunting with you once or twice early in
the season?" 

"You saw her out hunting, no doubt, and I was there. I did not
specially bring her. She was staying here, and rode one of Albury's
horses." 

"Take her top and bottom, and all round," said Captain Glomax,
"she is the prettiest little thing I've seen for many a day.
When she curtseyed to Sir Harry in the drawing-room I almost
thought that I should like to be a marrying man myself." Stubbs
did not carry on the conversation, having felt displeased rather
than otherwise by the admiration expressed. 

"I didn't quite understand before", said Sir Harry to his wife
that night, "what it was that made Jonathan so furious about
that girl; but I think I see it now." 

"Fine feathers make fine birds," said his wife, laughing. 

"Feathers ever so fine," said Sir Harry, "don't make well-bred
birds." 

"To tell the truth," said Lady Albury, "I think we shall all
have to own that Jonathan has been right." 

This took place upstairs, but before they left the drawing-room
Lady Albury whispered a few words to her young friend. "We have
had a terrible trouble about you, Ayala." 

"A trouble about me, Lady Albury? I should be so sorry." 

"It is not exactly your fault -- but we haven't at all known
what to do with that unfortunate man." 

"What man?" asked Ayala, forgetful at the moment of all men except
Colonel Stubbs. 

"You naughty girl! Don't you know that my brother-in-law is broken-hearted
about you?" 

"Captain Batsby!" whispered Ayala, in her faintest voice. 

"Yes; Captain Batsby. A Captain has as much right to be considered
as a Colonel in such a matter as this." Here Ayala frowned, but
said nothing. "Of course, I can't help it, who may break his
heart, but poor Ben is always supposed to be at Stalham just
at this time of the year, and now I have been obliged to tell
him one fib upon another to keep him away. When he comes to know
it all, what on earth will he say to me?" 

"I am sure it has not been my fault," said Ayala. 

"That's what young ladies always say when gentlemen break their
hearts." 

When Ayala was again in her room, and had got rid of the buxom
female who came to assist her in taking off her new finery, she
was aware of having passed the evening triumphantly. She was
conscious of admiration. She knew that Sir Harry had been pleased
by her appearance. She was sure that Lady Albury was satisfied
with her, and she had seen something in the Colonel's glance
that made her feel that he had not been indifferent. But in their
conversation at the dinner table he had said nothing which any
other man might not have said, if any other man could have made
himself as agreeable. Those hunting days were all again described
with their various incidents, with the great triumph over the
brook, and Twentyman's wife and baby, and fat Lord Rufford, who
was at the moment sitting there opposite to them; and the ball
in London, with the lady who was thrown out of the window; and
the old gentleman and the old lady of today who had been so peculiar
in their remarks. There had been nothing else in their conversation,
and it surely was not possible that a man who intended to put
himself forward as a lover should have talked in such fashion
as that! But then there were other things which occurred to her.
Why had there been that tear in his eye? And that "cela va sans
dire" which had come from Lady Albury in her railing mood --
what had that meant? Lady Albury, when she said that, could not
have known that the Colonel had changed his purpose. 

But, after all, what is a dress, let it be ever so pretty? The
Angel of Light would not care for her dress, let her wear what
she might. Were he to seek her because of her dress, he would
not be the Angel of Light of whom she had dreamed. It was not
by any dress that she could prevail over him. She did rejoice
because of her little triumph -- but she knew that she rejoiced
because she was not an Angel of Light herself. Her only chance
lay in this, that the angels of yore did come down from heaven
to ask for love and worship from the daughters of men. 

As she went to bed, she determined that she would still be true
to her dream. Not because folk admired a new frock would she
be ready to give herself to a man who was only a man -- a man
of the earth really; who had about him no more than a few of
the real attributes of an Angel of Light. 


CHAPTER 50
GOBBLEGOOSE WOOD ON SUNDAY

The next two days were not quite so triumphant to Ayala as had
been the evening of her arrival. 

There was hunting on both of those days, the gentlemen having
gone on the Friday away out of Sir Harry's country to the Brake
hounds. Ayala and the Colonel had arrived on the Thursday. Ayala
had not expected to be asked to hunt again -- had not even thought
about it. It had been arranged before on Nina's account, and
Nina now was not to hunt any more. Lord George did not altogether
approve of it, and Nina was quite in accord with Lord George
-- though she had held up her whip and shaken it in triumph when
she jumped over the Cranbury Brook. And the horse which Ayala
had ridden was no longer in the stables. "My dear, I am so sorry;
but I'm afraid we can't mount you," Lady Albury said. In answer
to this Ayala declared that she had not thought of it for a moment.
But yet the days seemed to be dull with her. Lady Rufford was
-- well -- perhaps a little patronising to her, and patronage
such as that was not at all to Ayala's taste. "Lady Albury seems
to be quite a kind friend to you," Lady Rufford said. Nothing
could be more true. The idea implied was true also -- the idea
that such a one as Ayala was much in luck's way to find such
a friend as Lady Albury. It was true no doubt; but, nevertheless,
it was ungracious, and had to be resented. "A very kind friend,
indeed. Some people only make friends of those who are as grand
as themselves." 

"I am sure we should be very glad to see you at Rufford if you
remain long in the country," said Lady Rufford, a little time
afterwards. But even in this there was not a touch of that cordiality
which might have won Ayala's heart. "I am not at all likely to
stay," said Ayala. "I live with my uncle and aunt at Notting
Hill, and I very rarely go away from home." Lady Rufford, however,
did not quite understand it. It had been whispered to her that
morning that Ayala was certainly going to marry Colonel Stubbs;
and, if so, why should she not come to Rufford? 

On that day, the Friday, she was taken in to dinner by Captain
Glomax. "I remember quite as if it were yesterday," said the
Captain. "It was the day we rode the Cranbury Brook." 

Ayala looked up into his face, also remembering everything as
well as it were yesterday. "Mr Twentyman rode over it," she said,
"and Colonel Stubbs rode into it." 

"Oh, yes; Stubbs got a ducking; so he did." The Captain had not
got a ducking, but then he had gone round by the road. "It was
a good run that." 

"I thought so." 

"We haven't been lucky since Sir Harry has had the hounds somehow.
There doesn't seem to be the dash about 'em there used to be
when I was here. I had them before Sir Harry, you know." All
this was nearly in a whisper. 

"Were you Master?" asked Ayala, with a tone of surprise which
was not altogether pleasing to the Captain. 

"Indeed I was, but the fag of it was too great, and the thanks
too small, so I gave it up. They used to get four days a week
out of me." During the two years that the Captain had had the
hounds, there had been, no doubt, two or three weeks in which
he had hunted four days. 

Ayala liked hunting, but she did not care much for Captain Glomax,
who, having seen her once or twice on horseback, would talk to
her about nothing else. A little away on the other side of the
table Nina was sitting next to Colonel Stubbs, and she could
hear their voices and almost their words. Nina and Jonathan were
first cousins, and, of course, could be happy together without
giving her any cause for jealousy -- but she almost envied Nina.
Yet she had hoped that it might not fall to her lot to be taken
out again that evening by the Colonel. Hitherto she had not even
spoken to him during the day. They had started to the meet very
early, and the gentlemen had almost finished their breakfast
before she had come down. If there had been any fault it was
her fault, but yet she almost felt that there was something of
a disruption between them. It was so evident to her that he was
perfectly happy whilst he was talking to Nina. 

After dinner it seemed to be very late before the men came into
the drawing-room, and then they were still engaged upon that
weary talk about hunting, till Lady Rufford, in order to put
a stop to it, offered to sing. "I always do", she said, "if Rufford
ventures to name a fox in the drawing-room after dinner." She
did sing, and Ayala thought that the singing was more weary than
the talk about hunting. 

While this was going on, the Colonel had got himself shut up
in a corner of the room. Lady Albury had first taken him there,
and afterwards he had been hemmed in when Lady Rufford sat down
to the piano. Ayala had hardly ventured even to glance at him,
but yet she knew all that he did, and heard almost every word
that he spoke. The words were not many, but still when he did
speak his voice was cheerful. Nina now and again had run up to
him, and Lady Rufford had asked him some questions about the
music. But why didn't he come and speak to her? thought Ayala.
Though all that nonsense about love was over, still he ought
not to have allowed a day to pass at Stalham without speaking
to her. He was the oldest friend there in that house except Nina.
It was indeed no more than nine months since she had first seen
him, but still it seemed to her that he was an old friend. She
did feel, as she endeavoured to answer the questions that Lord
Rufford was asking her, that Jonathan Stubbs was treating her
unkindly. 

Then came the moment in which Lady Albury marshalled her guests
out of the room towards their chambers. "Have you found yourself
dull without the hunting?" the Colonel said to Ayala. 

"Oh dear no; I must have a dull time if I do, seeing that I have
only hunted three days in my life." There was something in the
tone of her voice which, as she herself was aware, almost expressed
dissatisfaction. And yet not for worlds would she have shown
herself to be dissatisfied with him could she have helped it.
"I thought that perhaps you might have regretted the little pony,"
he said. 

"Because a thing has been very pleasant, it should not be regretted
because it cannot be had always." 

"To me a thing may become so pleasant, that unless I can have
it always my life must be one long regret." 

"The pony is not quite like that," said Ayala, smiling as she
followed the other ladies out of the room. 

On the next morning the meet was nearer, and some of the ladies
were taken there in an open carriage. Lady Rufford went, and
Mrs Gosling, and Nina and Ayala. "Of course there is a place
for you," Lady Albury had said to her. "Had I wanted to go I
would have made Sir Harry send the drag; but I've got to stop
at home and see that the buttered toast is ready by the time
the gentlemen all come back." The morning was almost warm, so
that the sportsmen were saying evil things of violets and primroses,
as is the wont of sportsmen on such occasions, and at the meet
the ladies got out of the carriage and walked about among the
hounds, making civil speeches to old Tony. "No, my lady," said
Tony, "I don't like these sunshiny mornings at all; there ain't
no kind of scent, and I goes riding about these big woods, up
and down, till my shirt is as wet on my back with the sweat as
though I'd been pulled through the river." Then Lady Rufford
walked away and did not ask Tony any more questions. 

Ayala was patting one of the hounds when the Colonel, who had
given his horse to a groom, came and joined her. "If you don't
regret that pony," said he, "somebody else does." 

"I do regret him in one way, of course. I did like it very much;
but I don't think it nice, when much has been done for me, to
say that I want to have more done." 

"Of course I knew what you meant." 

"Perhaps you would go and tell Sir Harry and then he would think
me very ungrateful." 

"Ayala," he said, "I will never say anything of you that will
make anybody think evil of you. But, between ourselves, as Sir
Harry is not here, I suppose I may confess that I regret the
pony." 

"I should like it, of course," whispered Ayala. 

"And so should I -- so much! I suppose all these men here would
think me an ass if they knew how little I care about the day's
work -- whether we find, or whether we run, or whether we kill
-- just because the pony is not here. If the pony were here I
should have that feeling of expectation of joy, which is so common
to girls when some much-thought-of ball or promised pleasure
is just before them." Then Tony went off with his hounds, and
Jonathan, mounting his horse, followed with the ruck. 

Ayala knew very well what the pony meant, as spoken of by the
Colonel. When he declared that he regretted the pony, it was
because the pony might have carried herself. He had meant her
to understand that the much-thought-of ball or promised pleasure
would have been the delight of again riding with herself. And
then he had again called her Ayala. She could remember well every
occasion on which he had addressed her by her Christian name.
It had been but seldom. Once, however, it had occurred in the
full flow of their early intimacy, before that love-making had
been begun. It had struck her as being almost wrong, but still
as very pleasant. If it might be made right by some feeling of
brotherly friendship, how pleasant would it be! And now she would
like it again, if only it might be taken as a sign of friendship
rather than of love. It never occurred to her to be angry as
she would have been angry with any other man. How she would have
looked at Captain Batsby had he dared to call her Ayala! Colonel
Stubbs should call her Ayala as long as he pleased -- if it were
done only in friendship. 

After that they were driven about for a while, seeing what Tony
did with the hounds, as tidings came to them now and again that
one fox had broken this way and another had gone the other. But
Ayala, through it all, could not interest herself about the foxes.
She was thinking only of Jonathan Stubbs. She knew that she was
pleased because he had spoken to her, and had said kind, pleasant
words to her. She knew that she had been displeased while he
had sat apart from her, talking to others. But yet she could
not explain to herself why she had been either pleased or displeased.
She feared that there was more than friendship -- than mere friendship,
in that declaration of his that he did in truth regret the pony.
His voice had been, oh, so sweet as he had said it! Something
told her that men do not speak in mere friendship after that
fashion. Not even in the softness of friendship between a man
and a woman will the man's voice become as musical as that! Young
as she was, child as she was, there was an instinct in her breast
which declared to her that it was so. But then, if it were so,
was not everything again wrong with her? If it were so, then
must that condition of things be coming back which it had been,
and still was, her firm resolve to avoid. And yet, as the carriage
was being driven about, and as the frequent exclamations came
that the fox had traversed this way or that, her pride was gratified
and she was happy. 

"What was Colonel Stubbs saying to you?" asked Nina, when they
were at home at the house after lunch. 

"He was talking about the dear pony which I used to ride." 

"About nothing else?" 

"No -- about nothing else." This Ayala said with a short, dry
manner of utterance which she would assume when she was determined
not to have a subject carried on. 

"Ayala, why do you not tell me everything? I told you everything
as soon as it happened." 

"Nothing has happened." 

"I know he asked you," said Nina. 

"And I answered him." 

"Is that to be everything?" 

"Yes -- that is to be everything," said Ayala, with a short,
dry manner of utterance. It was so plain, that even Nina could
not pursue the subject. 

There was nothing done on that day in the way of sport. Glomax
thought that Tony had been idle, and had made a holiday of the
day from the first. But Sir Harry declared that there had not
been a yard of scent. The buttered toast, however, was eaten,
and the regular sporting conversation was carried on. Ayala,
however, was not there to hear it. Ayala was in her own room
dreaming. 

She was taken in to dinner by a curate in the neighbourhood --
to whom she endeavoured to make herself very pleasant, while
the Colonel sat at her other side. The curate had a good deal
to say as to lawn tennis. If the weather remained as it was,
it was thought that they could all play lawn tennis on the Tuesday
-- when there would be no hunting. The curate was a pleasant
young fellow, and Ayala devoted herself to him and to their joint
hopes for next Tuesday. Colonel Stubbs never once attempted to
interfere with the curate's opportunity. There was Lady Rufford
on the other side of him, and to Lady Rufford he said all that
he did say during dinner. At one period of the repast she was
more than generally lively, because she felt herself called upon
to warn her husband that an attack of the gout was imminent,
and would be certainly produced instantaneously if he could not
deny himself the delight of a certain dish which was going the
round of the table. His lordship smiled and denied himself --
thinking, as he did so, whether another wife, plus the gout,
would or would not have been better for him. All this either
amused Colonel Stubbs sufficiently, or else made him so thoughtful,
that he made no attempt to interfere with the curate. In the
evening there was again music -- which resulted in a declaration
made upstairs by Sir Harry to his wife that that wife of Rufford's
was a confounded bore. "We all knew that, my dear, as soon as
he married her," said Lady Albury. 

"Why did he marry a bore?" 

"Because he wanted a wife to look after himself, and not to amuse
his friends. The wonder used to be that he had done so well."
Not a word had there been -- not a word, since that sound of
"Ayala" had fallen upon her ears. No -- he was not handsome,
and his name was Jonathan Stubbs -- but surely no voice so sweet
had ever fallen from a man's lips! So she sat and dreamed far
into the night. He, the Angel of Light, would certainly have
a sweeter voice! That was an attribute without which no angel
could be angelic! As to the face and the name, that would not
perhaps signify. But he must have an intellect high soaring,
a soul tuned to music, and a mind versed in nothing but great
matters. He might be an artist, or more probably a poet -- or
perhaps a musician. Yet she had read of poets, artists, and musicians,
who had misused their wives, been fond of money, and had perhaps
been drunkards. The Angel of Light must have the gifts, and must
certainly be without the vices. 

The next day was Sunday and they all went to church. In the afternoon
they, as many of them as pleased, were to walk as far as Gobblegoose
Wood, which was only three miles from the house. They could not
hunt and therefore they must go to the very scene of the late
contest and again discuss it there. Sir Harry and the Captain
would walk and so would Ayala and Nina and some others. Lord
Rufford did not like walking, and Lady Rufford would stay at
home to console him. Ayala used her little wiles to keep herself
in close company with Nina; but the Colonel's wiles were more
effective -- and then, perhaps, Nina assisted the Colonel rather
than Ayala. It came to pass that before they had left Gobblegoose
Wood Ayala and the Colonel were together. When it was so he did
not beat about the bush for a moment longer. He had fixed his
opportunity for himself and he put it to use at once. "Ayala,"
he said, "am I to have any other answer?" 

"What answer?" 

"Nay, my dearest -- my own, own dearest as I fain would have
you -- who shall say what answer but you? Ayala, you know that
I love you!" 

"I thought you had given it up." 

"Given it up. Never -- never! Does a man give up his joy -- the
pride of his life -- the one only delight on which his heart
has set itself! No, my darling, I have not given it up. Because
you would not have it as I wished when I first spoke to you,
I have not gone on troubling you. I thought I would wait till
you were used again to the look of me, and to my voice. I shall
never give it up, Ayala. When you came into the room that night
with your new frock on -- " Then he paused, and she glanced round
upon him, and saw that a tear again was in his eye. "When you
came in and curtseyed to Sir Harry I could hardly keep within
myself because I thought you were so beautiful." 

"It was the new gown which he had given me." 

"No, my pet -- no! You may add a grace to a dress, but it can
do but little for you. It was the little motion, the little word,
the light in your eye! It twinkles at me sometimes when you glance
about, so that I do not know whether it is meant for me or not.
I fear that it is never meant for me." 

"It is meant for nothing," said Ayala. 

"And yet it goes into my very bosom. When you were talking to
that clergyman at dinner I could see every sparkle that came
from it. Then I wonder to myself whether you can ever be thinking
of me as I am always thinking of you." She knew that she had
been thinking of him every waking moment since she had been at
Albury and through many of her sleeping moments also. "Ayala,
one little word, one other glance from your eyes, one slightest
touch from your hand upon my arm, shall tell me -- shall tell
me -- shall tell me that I am the happiest, the proudest man
in all the world." She walked on steadfastly, closing her very
teeth against a word, with her eyes fixed before her so that
no slightest glance should wander. Her two hands were in her
little muff, and she kept them with her fingers clasped together,
as though afraid lest one might rebel, and fly away, and touch
the sleeve of his coat. "Ayala, how is it to be with me?" 

"I cannot," she said sternly. And her eyes were still fixed before
her, and her fingers were still bound in one with another. And
yet she loved him. Yet she knew that she loved him. She could
have hung upon his arm and smiled up into his face, and frowned
her refusal only with mock anger as he pressed to his bosom --
only that those dreams were so palpable to her and so dear, had
been to her so vast a portion of her young life! "I cannot,"
she said again. "I cannot." 

"Is that to be your answer for ever?" To this she made no immediate
reply. "Must it be so, Ayala?" 

"I cannot," she said. But the last little word was so impeded
by the sobs which she could not restrain as almost to be inaudible.
"I will not make you unhappy, Ayala." Yes, she was unhappy. She
was unhappy because she knew that she could not rule herself
to her own happiness; because, even at this moment, she was aware
that she was wrong. If she could only release part of herself
from the other, then could she fly into his arms and tell him
that that spirit which had troubled her had flown. But the spirit
was too strong for her, and would not fly. "Shall we go and join
them?" he asked her in a voice altered, but still so sweet to
her ears. 

"If you think so," she replied. 

"Perhaps it will be best, Ayala. Do not be angry with me now.
I will not call you so again." Angry! Oh, no! She was not angry
with him! But it was very bitter to her to be told that she should
never hear the word again from his lips. 

"The hunted fox never went up Buddlecombe Hill -- never. If he
did I'll eat every fox in the Rufford and Offord country." This
was heard, spoken in most angry tones by Captain Glomax, as the
Colonel and Ayala joined the rest of the party. 


CHAPTER 51
"NO!"

Ayala, on her return from the walk to the wood, spent the remainder
of the afternoon in tears. 

During the walk she kept close to Sir Harry, pretending to listen
to the arguments about the fox, but she said nothing. Her ears
were really intent on endeavouring to catch the tones of her
lover's voice as he went on in front of them talking to Nina.
Nothing could be more pleasant than the sound as he said a word
or two now and again, encouraging Nina in her rhapsodies as to
Lord George and all Lord George's family. But Ayala learned nothing
from that. She had come to know the man well enough to be aware
that he could tune his voice to the occasion, and could hide
his feelings let them be ever so strong. She did not doubt his
love now. She did not doubt but that at this moment his heart
was heavy with rejected love. She quite believed in him. But
nevertheless his words were pleasant and kind as he encouraged
Nina. 

Nor did she doubt her own love. She was alone in her room that
afternoon till she told herself at last the truth. Oh, yes; she
loved him. She was sure of that. But now he was gone! Why had
she been so foolish? Then it seemed as though at that moment
the separation took place between herself and the spirit which
had haunted her. She seemed to know now -- now at this very moment
-- that the man was too good for her. The knowledge had been
coming to her. It had almost come when he had spoken to her in
the wood. If it could only have been that he should have delayed
his appeal to her for yet another day or two! She thought now
that if he could have delayed it but for a few hours the cure
would have been complete. If he had talked to her as he so well
knew how to talk while they were in the wood together, while
they were walking home -- so as to have exorcised the spirit
from her by the sweetness of his words -- and then have told
her that there was his love to have if she chose to have it,
then she thought she would have taken it. But he had come to
her while those words which she had prepared under the guidance
of the spirit were yet upon her tongue. "I cannot," she had said.
"I cannot." But she had not told him that she did not love him.
"I did love him," she said to herself, almost acknowledging that
the spirit had been wholly exorcised. The fashion of her mind
was altogether different from that which had so strongly prevailed
with her. He was an honest, noble man, high in the world's repute,
clever, a gentleman, a man of taste, and possessed of that gentle
ever-present humour which was so inexpressibly delightful to
her. She never again spoke to herself even in her thoughts of
that Angel of Light -- never comforted herself again with the
vision of that which was to come! There had appeared to her a
man better than all other men, and when he had asked her for
her hand she had simply said -- "I cannot." And yet she had loved
him all the time. How foolish, how false, how wicked she had
been! It was thus that she thought of it all as she sat there
alone in her bedroom through the long hours of the afternoon.
When they sent up for her asking her to come down, she begged
that she might be allowed to remain there till dinner-time, because
she was tired with her walk. 

He would not come again now. Oh, no -- he was too proud, too
firm, too manly for that. It was not for such a one as he to
come whining after a girl -- like her cousin Tom. Would it be
possible that she should even yet tell him? Could she say to
him one little word, contradicting that which she had so often
uttered in the wood? "Now I can," once whispered in his ear,
would do it all. But as to this she was aware that there was
no room for hope. To speak such a word, low as it might be spoken,
simple and little as it might be, was altogether impossible.
She had had her chance and had lost it -- because of those idle
dreams. That the dreams had been all idle she declared to herself
-- not aware that the Ayala whom her lover had loved would not
have been an Ayala to be loved by him, but for the dreams. Now
she must go back to her uncle and aunt and to Kingsbury Crescent,
with the added sorrow that the world of dreams was closed to
her for ever. When the maid came to her she consented to have
the frock put on, the frock which Sir Harry had given her, boldly
resolving to struggle through her sorrow till Lady Albury should
have dismissed her to her home. Nobody would want her now at
Stalham, and the dismissal would soon come. 

While she had been alone in her room the Colonel had been closeted
with Lady Albury. They had at least been thus shut up together
for some half hour during which he had told his tale. "I have
to own," said he, half-laughing as he began his tale, "that I
thoroughly respect Miss Dormer." 

"Why is she to be called Miss Dormer?" 

"Because she has shown herself worthy of my respect." 

"What is it that you mean, Jonathan?" 

"She knew her own mind when she told me at first that she could
not accept the offer which I did myself the honour of making
her, and now she sticks to her purpose. I think that a young
lady who will do that should be respected." 

"She has refused you again?" 

"Altogether." 

"As how?" 

"Well, I hardly know that I am prepared to explain the 'as how'
even to you. I am about as thick-skinned a man in such matters
as you may find anywhere, but I do not know that even I can bring
myself to tell the 'as how'. The 'as how' was very clear in one
respect. It was manifest that she knew her own mind, which is
a knowledge not in the possession of all young ladies. She told
me that she could not marry me." 

"I do not believe it." 

"Not that she told me so?" 

"Not that she knew her own mind. She is a little simple fool,
who with some vagary in her brain is throwing away utterly her
own happiness, while she is vexing you." 

"As to the vexation you are right." 

"Cross-grained little idiot!" 

"An idiot she certainly is not; and as to being cross-grained
I have never found it. A human being with the grains running
more directly all in the same way I have never come across."
"Do not talk to me, Jonathan, like that," she said. "When I call
her cross-grained I mean that she is running counter to her own
happiness." 

"I cannot tell anything about that. I should have endeavoured,
I think, to make her happy. She has certainly run counter to
my happiness." 

"And now?" 

"What -- as to this very moment! I shall leave Stalham tomorrow."
"Why should you do that? Let her go if one must go." 

"That is just what I want to prevent. Why should she lose her
little pleasure?" 

"You don't suppose that we can make the house happy to her now!
Why should we care to do so when she will have driven you away?"
He sat silent for a minute or two looking at the fire, with his
hands on his two knees. "You must acknowledge, Jonathan," continued
she, "that I have taken kindly to this Ayala of yours." 

"I do acknowledge it." 

"But it cannot be that she should be the same to us simply as
a young lady, staying here as it were on her own behalf, as she
was when we regarded her as your possible wife. Then every little
trick and grace belonging to her endeared itself to us because
we regarded her as one who was about to become one of ourselves.
But what are her tricks and graces to us now?" 

"They are all the world to me," said the Colonel. 

"But you must wipe them out of your memory -- unless, indeed,
you mean to ask her again." 

"Ah! -- that is it." 

"You will ask her again?" 

"I do not say so; but I do not wish to rob myself of the chance.
It may be that I shall. Of course I should tomorrow if I thought
there was a hope. Tomorrow there would be none -- but I should
like to know, that I could find her again in hands so friendly
as yours, if at the end of a month I should think myself strong
enough to encounter the risk of another refusal. Would Sir Harry
allow her to remain here for another month?" 

"He would say, probably, nothing about it." 

"My plan is this," he continued; "let her remain here, say, for
three weeks or a month. Do you continue all your kindness to
her -- if not for her sake then for mine. Let her feel that she
is made one of yourselves, as you say." 

"That will be hard," said Lady Albury. 

"It would not be hard if you thought that she was going to become
so at last. Try it, for my sake. Say not a word to her about
me -- though not shunning my name. Be to her as though I had
told you nothing of this. Then when the period is over I will
come again -- if I find that I can do so. If my love is still
stronger than my sense of self-respect, I shall do so." All this
Lady Albury promised to do, and then the interview between them
was over. 

"Colonel Stubbs is going to Aldershot tomorrow," said she to
Ayala in the drawing-room after dinner. "He finds now that he
cannot very well remain away." There was no hesitation in her
voice as she said this, and no look in her eye which taught Ayala
to suppose that she had heard anything of what had occurred in
the wood. 

"Is he indeed?" said Ayala, trying, but in vain, to be equally
undemonstrative. 

"It is a great trouble to us, but we are quite unable to prevent
it -- unless you indeed can control him." 

"I cannot control him," said Ayala, with that fixed look of resolution
with which Lady Albury had already become familiar. 

That evening before they went to bed the Colonel bade them all
goodbye, as he intended to start early in the morning. "I never
saw such a fellow as you are for sudden changes," said Sir Harry.
"What is the good of staying here for hunting when the ground
and Tony's temper are both as hard as brick-bats? If I go now
I can get another week further on in March if the rain should
come." With this Sir Harry seemed to be satisfied; but Ayala
felt sure that Tony's temper and the rain had had nothing to
do with it. 

"Goodbye, Miss Dormer," he said, with his pleasantest smile,
and his pleasantest voice. 

"Goodbye," she repeated. What would she not have given that her
voice should be as pleasant as his, and her smile! But she failed
so utterly that the little word was inaudible -- almost obliterated
by the choking of a sob. How bitterly severe had that word, Miss
Dormer, sounded from his mouth! Could he not have called her
Ayala for the last time -- even though all the world should have
heard it? She was wide awake in the morning and heard the wheels
of his cart as he was driven off. As the sound died away upon
her ear she felt that he was gone from her for ever. How had
it been that she had said, "I cannot," so often, when all her
heart was set upon "I can?" 

And now it remained to her to take herself away from Stalham
as fast as she might. She understood perfectly all those ideas
which Lady Albury had expressed to her well-loved friend. She
was nothing to anybody at Stalham, simply a young lady staying
in the house -- as might be some young lady connected with them
by blood, or some young lady whose father and mother had been
their friends. She had been brought there to Stalham, now this
second time, in order that Jonathan Stubbs might take her as
his wife. Driven by some madness she had refused her destiny,
and now nobody would want her at Stalham any longer. She had
better begin to pack up at once -- and go. The coldness of the
people, now that she had refused to do as she had been asked,
would be unbearable to her. And yet she must not let it appear
that Stalham was no longer dear to her merely because Colonel
Stubbs had left it. She would let a day go by, and then say with
all the ease she could muster that she would take her departure
on the next. After that her life before her would be a blank.
She had known up to this -- so at least she told herself -- that
Jonathan Stubbs would afford her at any rate another chance.
Now there could be no other chance. 

The first blank day passed away, and it seemed to her almost
as though she had no right to speak to anyone. She was sure that
Lady Rufford knew what had occurred, because nothing more was
said as to the proposed visit. Mrs Colonel Stubbs would have
been welcome anywhere, but who was Ayala Dormer? Even though
Lady Albury bade her come out in the carriage, it seemed to her
to be done as a final effort of kindness. Of course they would
be anxious to be rid of her. That evening the buxom woman did
not come to help her dress herself. It was an accident. The buxom
woman was wanted here and there till it was too late, and Ayala
had left her room. Ayala, in truth, required no assistance in
dressing. When the first agonizing moment of the new frock had
been passed over, she would sooner have arrayed herself without
assistance. But now it seemed as though the buxom woman was running
away because she, Ayala, was thought to be no longer worthy of
her services. 

On the next morning she began her little speech to Lady Albury.
"Going away tomorrow?" said Lady Albury. 

"Or perhaps the next day," suggested Ayala. 

"My dear, it has been arranged that you should stay here for
another three weeks." 

"No." 

"I say it was arranged. Everybody understood it. I am sure your
aunt understood it. Because one person goes, everybody else isn't
to follow so as to break up a party. Honour among thieves!" 

"Thieves!" 

"Well -- anything else you like to call us all. The party has
been made up. And to tell the truth I don't think that young
ladies have the same right of changing their minds and rushing
about as men assume. Young ladies ought to be more steady. Where
am I to get another young lady at a moment's notice to play lawn
tennis with Mr Greene? Compose yourself and stay where you are
like a good girl." 

"What will Sir Harry say?" 

"Sir Harry will probably go on talking about the Stillborough
fox and quarrelling with that odious Captain Glomax. That is,
if you remain here. If you go all of a sudden, he will perhaps
hint -- " 

"Hint what, Lady Albury?" 

"Never mind. He shall make no hints if you are a good girl."
Nothing was said at the moment about the Colonel -- nothing further
than the little allusion made above. Then there came the lawn
tennis, and Ayala regained something of her spirits as she contrived
with the assistance of Sir Harry to beat Nina and the curate.
But on the following day Lady Albury spoke out more plainly.
"It was because of Colonel Stubbs that you said that you would
go away." 

Ayala paused for a moment, and then answered stoutly, "Yes, it
was because of Colonel Stubbs." 

"And why?" 

Ayala paused again and the stoutness almost deserted her. "Because
-- " 

"Well, my dear?" 

"I don't think I ought to be asked," said Ayala. 

"Well, you shall not be asked. I will not be cruel to you. But
do you not know that if I ask anything it is with a view to your
own good?" 

"Oh, yes," said Ayala. 

"But though I may not ask I suppose I may speak." To this Ayala
made no reply, either assenting or dissenting. "You know, do
you note that I and Colonel Stubbs love each other like brother
and sister -- more dearly than many brothers and sisters?" 

"I suppose so." 

"And that therefore he tells me everything. He told me what took
place in the wood -- and because of that he has gone away." 

"Of course you are angry with me -- because he has gone away."
"I am sorry that he has gone -- because of the cause of it. I
always wish that he should have everything that he desires; and
now I wish that he should have this thing because he desires
it above all other things." Does he desire it above all other
things? -- thought Ayala to herself. And, if it be really so,
cannot I now tell her that he shall have it? Cannot I say that
I too long to get it quite as eagerly as he long to have it?
The suggestion rushed quickly to her mind; but the answer to
it came as quickly. No -- she would not do so. No offer of the
kind would come from her. By what she had said must she abide
-- unless, indeed, he should come to her again. "But why should
you go, Ayala, because he has gone? Why should you say aloud
that you had come here to listen to his offer, and that you had
gone away as soon as you had resolved that, for this reason or
that, it was not satisfactory to you?" 

"Oh, Lady Albury." 

"That would be the conclusion drawn. Remain here with us, and
see if you can like us well enough to be one of us." 

"Dear Lady Albury, I do love you dearly." 

"What he may do I cannot say. Whether he may bring himself to
try once again I do not know -- nor will I ask you whether there
might possibly be any other answer were he to do so." 

"No!" said Ayala, driven by a sudden fit of obstinacy which she
could not control. 

"I ask no questions about it, but I am sure it will be better
for you to remain here for a few weeks. We will make you happy
if we can, and you can learn to think over what has passed without
emotion." Thus it was decided that Ayala should prolong her visit
into the middle of March. She could not understand her own conduct
when she again found herself alone. Why had she ejaculated that
sudden "No," when Lady Albury had suggested to her the possibility
of changing her purpose? She knew that she would fain change
it if it were possible; and yet when the idea was presented to
her she replied with a sudden denial of its possibility. But
still there was hope, even though the hope was faint. "Whether
he may bring himself to try again I do not know." So it was that
Lady Albury had spoken of him, and of what Lady Albury said to
her she now believed every word. "Whether he could bring himself!"
Surely such a one as he would not condescend so far as that.
But if he did one word should be sufficient. By no one else would
she allow it to be thought, for an instant, that she would wish
to reverse her decision. It must still be No to any other person
from whom such suggestion might come. But should he give her
the chance she would tell him instantly the truth of everything.
"Can I love you! Oh, my love, it is impossible that I should
not love you!" It would be thus that the answer should be given
to him, should he allow her the chance of making it. 


CHAPTER 52
"I CALL IT FOLLY."

Three weeks passed by, and Ayala was still at Stalham. Colonel
Stubbs had not yet appeared, and very little had been said about
him. Sir Henry would sometimes suggest that if he meant to see
any more hunting he had better come at once, but this was not
addressed to Ayala. She made up her mind that he would not come,
and was sure that she was keeping him away by her presence. He
could not -- "bring himself to try over again," as Lady Albury
had put it! Why should he -- "bring himself' -- to do anything
on behalf of one who had treated him so badly? It had been settled
that she should remain to the 25th of March, when the month should
be up from the time in which Lady Albury had decided upon that
as the period of her visit. Of her secret she had given no slightest
hint. If he ever did come again it should not be because she
had asked for his coming. As far as she knew how to carry out
such a purpose, she concealed from Lady Albury anything like
a feeling of regret. And she was so far successful that Lady
Albury thought it expedient to bring in other assistance to help
her cause -- as will be seen by a letter which Ayala received
when the three weeks had passed by. 

In the meantime there had been at first dismay, then wonder,
and lastly, some amusement, at the condition of Captain Batsby.
When Captain Batsby had first learned at Merle Park that Ayala
and Jonathan Stubbs were both at Stalham, he wrote very angrily
to Lady Albury. In answer to this his sister-in-law had pleaded
guilty -- but still defending herself. How could she make herself
responsible for the young lady -- who did not indeed seem ready
to bestow her affections on any of her suitors? But still she
acknowledged that a little favour was being shown to Colonel
Stubbs -- wishing to train the man to the idea that, in this
special matter, Colonel Stubbs must be recognised as the Stalham
favourite. Then no further letters were received from the Captain,
but there came tidings that he was staying at Merle Park. Ayala
heard continually from her sister, and Lucy sent some revelations
as to the Captain. He seemed to be very much at home at Merle
Park, said Lucy; and then, at last, she expressed her own opinion
that Captain Batsby and Gertrude were becoming very fond of each
other. And yet the whole story of Gertrude and Mr Houston was
known, of course, to Lucy, and through Lucy to Ayala. To Ayala
these sudden changes were very amusing, as she certainly did
not wish to retain her own hold on the Captain, and was not specially
attached to her cousin Gertrude. From Ayala the tidings went
to Lady Albury, and in this way the fears which had been entertained
as to the Captain's displeasure were turned to wonder and amusement.
But up to this period nothing had been heard of the projected
trip to Ostend. 

Then came the letter to Ayala, to which allusion has been made,
a letter from her old friend the Marchesa, who was now at Rome.
It was ostensibly in answer to a letter from Ayala herself, but
was written in great part in compliance with instructions received
from Lady Albury. It was as follows: 

DEAR AYALA, 

I was glad to get your letter about Nina. She is very happy,
and Lord George is here. Indeed, to tell the truth, they arrived
together -- which was not at all proper; but everything will
be made proper on Tuesday, 8th April, which is the day at last
fixed for the wedding. I wish you could have been here to be
one of the bridesmaids. Nina says that you will have it that
the Pope is to marry her. Instead of that it is going to be done
by Lord George's uncle, the Dean of Dorchester, who is coming
for this purpose. Then they are going up to a villa they have
taken on Como, where we shall join them some time before the
spring is over. After that they seem to have no plans -- except
plans of connubial bliss, which is never to know any interruption.
Now that I have come to connubial bliss, and feel so satisfied
as to Nina's prospects, I have a word or two to