 CHAPTER XIII After the Easter holidays the traffic 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 bordered 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 infrequently of subsidiary presence 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. traffic should come back to Queen's Gate for the six weeks intervening between Eastern Whitson Tide had been arranged, and arranged also that the use of Merle Park for the Whitson 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. traffic'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. "'Mama,' 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 any one will come this summer.' This was only the thin end of the wedge, and as Augusta felt was not introduced successfully. The word 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. "'Mama, 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 Bordetrade 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. Traffic 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. Traffic. 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 came 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 Traffic say that he would like to have some shooting. 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 Traffic out, and I suppose he'll take his wife with him,' said Sir Thomas, thus closing the conversation in Roth. The Traffics 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. Traffic was in the house at four and remained there until four the next morning, certain Irish members having been very eloquent. He was not done 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, injustice 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'm not going to put up with it, and he needn't think it. "'Don't destroy poor Augusta's happiness so soon?' "'That, be damned,' 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 the fifteenth, 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 Glen Bogey would come. He had fed his anger warm and was determined that he would not be done. "'Well, traffic, 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. Traffic, 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 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 rapia, he falls back upon a bludgeon with which his hand has not lost all its old familiarity. Such a one was Sir Thomas Stringle, and a time for such exercise it seemed to him to have come now. There are other men who, by the possession of an imperturbable serenity, seem to be armed equally against rapia and bludgeon, whom there is no wounding with any weapon. Such a one was Mr. Traffic. 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 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. Traffic's position, were it not that gentlemen easily disconcerted would hardly find themselves there. Where shall we go when we leave this? You were so kind to say something about Len Bogey 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 longer the shorter it is, we didn't expect you to come back after the holidays. I like to be plain. This might go on forever 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 resumed 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 forever, 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 a hotel. Too dear! You see, you've made me pay such a sum for ensuring my life. I'll tell you what I'll do, if you'll let us make it out here until the tenth of July, we'll go into a hotel then. Sir Thomas surprised at his own compliance, did at last give way. And then we can have a month at Len Bogey from the twelfth. 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. Traffic was altogether well pleased with the arrangement. What are we to do, said Augusta, with a very long face? What are we to do, and we're 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's the matter with him now? asked Lady Tringle, who did not like to have her only son abused. His way 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 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's 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'd 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 Glen Bogey. 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 around 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. Dossett was sitting by. I hope Ayala may be allowed to come to us for a month. Ayala must answer for herself, said Mrs. Dossett firmly. There had never been any warm friendship between Mrs. Dossett 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 Glen Bogey. Ayala at Glen Bogey 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 a refusal, must come from Ayala herself. Your uncle has sent me, said Lady Tringle, and I must give him some reason. That's for expense, you know, and then she turned to Mrs. Dossett with a smile. That, of course, would be our affair. If you ask me, said Mrs. Dossett, I think that as Ayala has come to us, she had better remain with us. Of course, things are very different, and she would only be 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 Emilyne, 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. Dossett, 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 everyone 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 Emilyne, who could not bear to have a 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, and 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'm afraid you're having a great deal of trouble with her," said Lady Tringle to Mrs. Dossett. No, indeed, of course, she is romantic, which is very objectionable. Quite detestable, said Lady Tringle. But she's 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. Dossett, 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 Queensgate. Next weather Ayala was to come to Glenboggy. 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 Glenboggy 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 impercuneous, but Augusta had been allowed to have an impercuneous lover, and Tom to throw himself at the feet of an impercuneous love. Gertrude felt herself to be entitled to her a hundred and twenty thousand pounds, and did not for a moment duck 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 country's squire, and came of a family much older than that of those stupid border trade and traffic people. And then Frank Houston was very presentable, was not at all bald, was just the man for a girl to like as a husband. It was dint into her ears that Houston had no income at all, just a few hundreds a year on which he could never keep himself out of debt, but he was a generous man who would be more than contented with the income coming from a hundred and twenty thousand pounds. He would not sponge upon the house at Queen's Gate, he would not make use of Merle Park and Glen Bogey. He would have a house of his own for his old boots. Four percent would give them nearly five thousand pounds a year. Gertrude knew all about it already. They could have a nice house near Queen's Gate, say somewhere about Onslo 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 fingers' ends when she discussed the matter with her mother. Mr. Houston was a man of no expensive tastes. He didn't want a hunt. He did shoot, no doubt, and perhaps a little shooting at Glen Bogey 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 to Glen Bogey as a part of his wife's dower. Lady Tringle was thus talked over, though she did think that at least one of her daughters' husbands ought to have an income of his own. There was another point which Gertrude put forward very frankly, and which no doubt had wait with her mother. Mama, I mean to have him, she said, when Lady Tringle expressed it out. But Papa, I mean to have him. Papa can scold, of course, as he pleases. But where would the income come from if Papa did not give it? Of course he'll give it. I have 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 they used in those days to be a bad quart 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 quart of an hour. You are a mercantile old brick with money and a daughter, I am a jeunesse d'oré, 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 manor, but he hardly surrenders himself quite at once. Frank Huston, when inquired in two, 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 Huston. Then she must be unhappy, said Sir Thomas. Huston 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 Huston. 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 Huston, shaking his head. I suppose my house is my own. Yours and Lady Trinkles and your daughter's no doubt. At any rate, Sir Thomas, you will think of this again. I'm 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. Huston, bowing graciously, left the little back room in Lombard Street, and jumping into a cab, had himself taken straight away to Queensgate. Papa is always like that, said Gertrude. On that day Mrs. Traffic, 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 Glenboge, because he's out of doors a good deal, and then he can digest things. Then take him down to Glenboge, and let him digest it at once. Of course we can't go till the twelfth. Perhaps we shall start on the tenth, because the eleventh is Sunday. What will you do, Frank? There had been a whisper of Franks going to the Tyrol in August, there to join the Mudbury Dossamas, who were his faraway cousins. Imagine Dossama was a young lady of marvellous beauty, not possessed indeed of a hundred and twenty thousand pounds, 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 Glenboge than in the Tyrol. I'm thinking of wandering away somewhere, perhaps to the Tyrol. The Mudbury Dossamas are there. He's a pal of mine, besides being a cousin. Mrs. Dossama 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 Glenboge, 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 Glenboge 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 Mamar must manage it. Mamar 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 Glenboge. I won't hear of it, said Sir Thomas to his wife. On that occasion his suggestion 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's got a decent income? That man hasn't a shilling. No, yet has Mr. Traffic. Mr. Traffic has, at any rate, got an occupation. Were it to do again, Mr. Traffic would never see a shilling of my money. By God, those fellows who haven't got a pound belonging to them think that they are to live in the fat of the land out of the sweat of the brow of men such as me. What's your money for, Tom, but for the children? I know what it's for. I'd sooner build a hospital and give it to an idle fellow like that Houston. When I asked him what he did, he said he was fond of pictures. 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'd 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 Glen Bogie, 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 or marriage because he comes to Glen Bogie. 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 Glen Bogie for ten days. This was the letter of invitation. My dear Mr. Houston, we shall start for Glen Bogie on the tenth of next month. Sir Thomas wishes you to join us on the twentieth, 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 Glen Bogie, of course you can. Very sincerely yours, Emily and Tringle. At the same time, or within a post of it, he got another letter, which was as follows. Dear Estef, Papa, you see, hasn't cut up so very rough after all. You ought to be allowed to come and help to slaughter Grasse, which will be better than going to that stupid tie-roll. If you want to draw somebody's back-edge, 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 Glen Bogie, 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 Glen Bogie, you mustn't be shooting always, ever your own gee. 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 always been accustomed. He must do his duty. He could not live always adding a hundred or two of debt to the burden already around his neck. He must do his duty. As he thought of this, he praised himself mightily. How beautiful was his faraway cousin, Imogen Dossimer, as she would twist her head around so as to show the turn of her neck! How delightful it would be to talk love to Imogen! As to marrying Imogen, who hadn't quite as 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 a hundred and twenty thousand pounds 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 Glen Bogey and let those dreams of wanderings in the mountains of the Tyrol pass away from him. Dear, dearest Imogen! He could have loved Imogen 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 number one. Dear Lady Tringle, so many thanks! Nothing could suit my book so well as a few days at Glen Bogey just at the end of August. I will be there like a book on the twentieth. 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 I am the man to make Gertrude happy. Yours, dear Lady Tringle, ever so much. F. Houston. Letter number two. My own one. Your governor is a brick. Of course Glen Bogey 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 Glen Bogey mountains. They're 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 a 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 eighty. All the ladies could come around 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 Glen Bogey. 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 Hoostons, 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 is simply feminine exercises? Always your own, Frank. Letter number three, 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 bolder dashes 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 know that the whole air around is impregnated by the mysterious odor 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. Fair 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 Allinor Dale. Queen Gaten Glenboggy stand fair on the hill, my home, quote, bold Houston shows gallant as still, tis the garret up three pair. Then he told me roughly to get me gone, but had laughed on the last with my bonny black eye, so the next day I got an invite to Glenboggy and at the appropriate time in August. She'll go to the mountains to hear a love tale, and the youth that will be told by is to be your unfortunate cause, 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. You're loving cousin, but not loving as you oughten to love, Frank Houston. I shall still make a dash for the Tyrell when this episode at Glenboggy is over. N. CHAPTER XIV CHAPTER XV of Ayala's Angel This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Ayala's Angel by Anthony Trollop. CHAPTER XV Ayala with her friends Some few days after Lady Tringle had been at King's Precrescent, two visitors who knew little or nothing of each other came to see Ayala. One was the lady and the other a gentleman, and the lady came first. The gentleman, however, arrived before the lady had gone. Mrs. Dossett 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 Marquesa Baldoni. Can the reader go so far back as to remember the Marquesa Baldoni? It was she who rather instigated Ayala to be naughty to the Tringles in Rome and would have Ayala to her parties when she did not want the Tringles. The Marquesa was herself an English woman, 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 Marquesa. The Marquesa had then told Ayala that she, Ayala, must stay with her aunt, must in fact cease for the time to come to the Marquesa's apartments because of the quarrel, but that a time would come in which they might again be friends. Soon afterwards the Marquesa 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 Marquesa had made herself acquainted with the Address of the Dossots, and now was in Kingsbury Crescent in fulfilment of her promise made at Rome. So now you have got our friend Ayala, said the Marquesa, with a smile to Mrs. Dossot. Yes, we have her now. There has been a change. Her sister Lucy has gone to my husband's sister Lady Tringle. The Marquesa made a pleasant little bow at each word. She seemed to Mrs. Dossot to be very gorgeously dressed. She was thoroughly well-dressed and looked like a Marquesa, or perhaps even like a Martianess. 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 Marquesa 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. Dossot 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 for just 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 Marquesa, turning to Mrs. Dossot. Mrs. Dossot 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 they came across her mind some 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 ago with a good store of everything, but Mrs. Dossot knew that such a house as would be that of this Lady would require a girl to show herself with the newest gene on everything. And Ayala knew it too. The Marquesa turned from the blackness of Mrs. Dossot's face with her sweetest smile to Ayala. Can't we manage it? said the Marquesa. I don't think we can, said Ayala, with the 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. Dossot. Because we are poor, said Ayala. What does that matter? said the Marquesa, brightening up. We want you, because you're rich in good gifts and pretty ways. But I can't get new frocks now, as I used to do in Rome. Aunt Emeline 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 Marquesa, 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. Dossot, when we're at home, we're 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. Dossot it will do her good to be with her young friend for a few days? Mrs. Dossot had not succeeded in her remonstrances when Sir Thomas Tringle was shown into the room, and then the Marquesa 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. Dossot, said Sir Thomas, before he sat down, I should like to see Ayala alone. Mrs. Dossot 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 presence, 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'm 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 Emeline 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'm 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 any way 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 ought 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 can't 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 needs 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's 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 you 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 Glen Bogey 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 Glen Bogey, 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'm 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 in the house almost without a word. At the time fixed the marquese as 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 marquese's house. On her arrival she was received by Nina, who had once threw herself into all her old intimacy. Oh, Ayala, she said, this is so nice to have you again! I've been looking forward to this ever since we left Rome. Yes, said Ayala, it is nice. But why did you tell Mama you would not come? What nonsense to talk to her about frocks! Why not come and tell me you used to have everything in 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 quarreling 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's 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'm sure he would, if only he'd 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? Orfully rich, said Ayala. And 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 you were made of diamonds I would not think about it again. And that's why you were changed, said Nina. Well, yes. No. It's very hard to explain. Aunt Emilyne told me 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's different now, said Ayala, softly, only that it can't make any real difference. How different? They'll 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's 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'd rather live for ever all alone, even in Kingsbury Crescent, than to 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. 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, within treaties from Ayala, that presents of that kind might not be made, but the presents were, of course, accepted, and our girl was as pridly 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 to Brook Street, even though there was still a remembrance in the bosom of Aunt Emilyne of the evil things which had been done by the Marqueser in Rome. Then there came a dance which was not so easy. The Marqueser 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 Marqueser 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 one who saw her, that her ballroom 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 Bijoux, 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 maneuvered gently through a quadrill. He asked her two or three questions, to which she was able to answer only in monosyllables. Then he ceased his questions, and the maneuvers 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 Marquesa, and during the next dance sat in undisturbed peace. Then suddenly when the Marquesa 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 the enemy, and addressed her with free and easy speech as though he'd known her all his life. Your Ayala Dorma, I'm 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'd never set 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're introduced, and you're to come and dance with me. She had heard the name of Jonathan Stubbs, she was sure of that, though 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 Marquesa 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'd 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 polls. The fact is, the honnest of the man is the worse he always dances. Hmm, yes, I see what you mean. I must be a rogue. Perhaps I am. Or perhaps I'm only an exception. I knew your father. Papa? Yes, I did. He was down at Stullum with the albries 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's 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 could never 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. Montcomery 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 September's traffic marry your cousin? Of course he did, about a month ago. He's 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 quarreled with the Guster down in Scotland, and you don't like poor traffic because he's got a bald head. I believe you're a conjurer, 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. Traffic 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 quarreled 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 Marie Montpellier. But now they're going to walls 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 good night before she left the room with the Marquesa and Nina? What do you think of my nephew? asked the Marquesa 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's talking I think him perfectly lovely. The fire comes out of his eyes and he rubs his old red hairs about until they sparkle, then he shines all over like a car-bunkle, and every word he says makes me die of laughter. I laugh 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 another thing I must tell you about, Jonathan, said Nina. You must not believe a word that he says. That, I deny, said the Marquesa. 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 car-bunkle, 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 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, misverged at any rate on tragedy. Ayala did not know that beautiful description of a sallow, sublime sort of weather-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 Marquesa and Nina were going to their relations, the Albury's at Stullum, and could not, of course, take Ayala with them. The Dossots 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 tamed 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 Lethey 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 while she's staying here. The Marquesa bowed and assured him that he was very welcome. It's tremendously hot, said Tom. Very hot indeed, said the Marquesa. 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 handsome 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 traffic said in the house last night, my lady? I'm afraid I passed it over, said the Marquesa. Indeed, I'm 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 Marquesa 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's very interesting when you come to think of it. But I fear I never have come to think of it, said the Marquesa. 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'd 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 Marquesa. He's just like most other young men, said Nina. He's not at all like Colonel Stubbs, said Ayala. Then the Marquesa 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. Mama, 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 bit less sure that Tom was allowed 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 the feminine repast and spent the whole of the evening sitting next to his aunt on a back-tear 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 Marquesa's good-natured authoritative tone, but nevertheless Ayala did manage to say a word before she finally adjusted herself on her pillow. It's all very well, Nina, feel murmur to say that a young man of business is the best, but I do know a lout when I see him, and I'm quite sure that my cousin Tom is a lout, and that Colonel Jonathan is not. I believe you're 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 XVII Lucy is very firm. It was just before the Tringles had returned from Rome during the winter that Lucy Dorma had met Mr. Hummel and Kensington Gardens for the second time, had walked there with him perhaps for half an hour, and had then returned 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 Emily's, not knowing then that it would be her fate to become a resident in her Aunt Emily'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 Isid or Hummel were clear enough to herself now. Ayala, in her hot humour, had asked her whether she would 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. Her 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 Isidore Hummel 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. Isidore 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 should 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. Isidore, 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. Hummel 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. Hummel had got rid of a great many bores, and had a strong opinion that bores prevailed more mightily in London than in Rome. Isidore was not a bore to him. He was always willing to have Isidore near to him. But if Isidore chose to enter the conventional mode of life he must do it at his own expense. It may be said at once that Isidore's present view of life was very much influenced by Lucy Dorma and by a feeling that she certainly was conventional. A small house, very pridly furnished, somewhere near the Fulham Road, or perhaps verging a little toward 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 force with his father. In this state of things there had during the last twelve months been more than one journey made to Roman 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. Hamill, the father, entertained friends on Sunday with the express-object of playing cards. That a paper should do so was to be borne, but Mr. Hamill was not a paperst and therefore would certainly be damned. All this and much more had been learned at Rome, and therefore Lucy, though she herself never mentioned Mr. Hamill's name at 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 around 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 a sterner 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 Emilyne could slumber with one eye open. Who was that young man, my dear? said Aunt Emilyne. It was Mr. Hummel. Mr. Isidore Hummel, said Aunt Emilyne, horrified. Is that the young man at Rome who's got the horrible father? I do not know his father, said Lucy, but he does live at Rome. Of course it is the Mr. Hummel, I mean. He scraped some acquaintance with Ayala, but I would not have it for a moment. He's not at all the sort of person any young girl ought to know. His father is a horrible man. I hope he's 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 a 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. Hummel 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. Hummel 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 lent back in the carriage and seemed again to slumber. But she still had one eye open so that if Mr. Hummel should appear again at any corner and venture to raise his hand she might be aware of the impropriety. But on that day Mr. Hummel 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 should do or say. One thing simply was certain to her that if Mr. Hummel 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 Emilyne's 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. Hummel is not fit to be acquainted with the 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. Hummel. But to such a speech as this on her own part there were two impediments. In the first place it would imply that Mr. Hummel was her lover, for implying which Mr. Hummel 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. Hummel 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 Emilyne 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 words such as these? Words in which there was no promise, even had they come from some fitting suitor, but which would be regarded by Aunt Emilyne as being simply impertinent, coming as they did from such a one as Isidore Hummel? It was quite out of the question to tell all that to Aunt Emilyne, but yet it was necessary that something should be told. She had been ordered to drop her acquaintance with Isidore, and it was essential that she should declare that she would do nothing of the kind. She would not recognize 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 no longer be 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 for her in all the wide world, she would not accept an order which would separate her from the man she loved. She must simply tell her aunt that she could not drop Mr. Hummel's acquaintance, because Mr. Hummel was a friend. Early on the next morning she did so. Are you aware, said Aunt Emilyne, with a severe face, that he is illegitimate? Lucy blushed, but made no answer. 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 there is 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 uncles. Surely you cannot object to choose your friends as we should wish. Mr. Hummel 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 bowed 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. Hummel, 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 Dosset? Yes, I did, Aunt Emilyne. I thought Aunt Margaret would not like him to come to Kingsbury Crescent, and as Ayala was to be here I taught him he might call it 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. Dosset 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'm sure he'll come. Now he's seen me. He will come at once. Why should he do that, if he's not your lover? Because, said Lucy, and then she paused. Because it's very hard to tell you, Aunt Emilyne. Why should he come so quickly, demanded Aunt Emilyne 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 pretense whatsoever. I thought not, Aunt Emilyne, 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, until 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 Emilyne, 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. Hummel, 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 Emilyne angrily, and then we 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. Hummel might not improbably call on that very day, and as she was quite determined that Mr. Hummel should not enter the doors of the house in Queensgate, it was necessary that steps should be taken at once. Some hours afterwards Mr. Hummel did call and asked for Miss Dorma. 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 Dorma was not at home. In answer to further inquiries he went on to express an opinion that Miss Dorma never would be at home, from all of which it may be seen that Aunt Emilyne had taken strong measures to carry out her purpose. Hummel, when he heard his fate, thus plainly spoken from the man's mouth, turned away, not doubting its meaning. He'd seen Lucy's face in the park, and had also seen Lady Tringle's gesture after his greeting, that Lady Tringle should not be disposed to receive him at her house was not a matter of surprise to him. When Lucy went to bed that night she did not doubt that Mr. Hummel had called, and that he had been turned away from the door. End of Chapter 17 When the time came, all the Tringles, together with the honourable Mrs. Traffic, started for Glen Bogey. Aunt Emilyne 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, his 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 Glen Bogey she only knew that Mr. Hummel 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 affected 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 twentieth of August Mr. Houston arrived at Glen Bogey with boots and stockings and ammunition such as Thomas recommended when interrogated on these matters by his sister Gertrude. I travelled down with the 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 Isidore Hummel. I didn't like to ask him whether he was coming here, said Frank Houston. No, he is not coming here, said Aunt Emeline. Certainly not, said Gertrude, who was quite prepared to take up the cudgels on her mother's behalf against Mr. Hummel. He said something about another man who used to know at Rome before you came. He was a nephew of that Marquesa 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 Emeline. Ayala has just been staying with her, said Lucy. She's been very kind to Ayala. We have nothing to do with that now, said Aunt Emeline. Ayala can stay with whom she and her aunt pleases. Is this Mr. Hummel who you saw a friend of the Marquesas? He seemed to be a friend of the Marquesa's nephew, continued Houston. One colonel stubs. 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's shooting somewhere, and Hummel seems to be going to join him. I thought he might have been coming here afterwards as you were all in Rome together. Certainly he's not coming here, said Aunt Emeline, and as for colonel stubs I never heard of him before. A week of the time allotted to Frank Houston had gone by 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. Trafic, who is now at Glen Bogie 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. Trafic had then said. The money won't come out of my pocket, but when a man has nothing else to do he's 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. Trafic, 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 Imogen 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 Alana 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 Alana Dale's answer was so unreasonable and so successful. Have you an income on which to maintain my daughter? I cannot 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 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' traffic. That was different, said Lady Tringle. Mr. Traffic is in Parliament, and that gives him an employment. Here's a son of Lord Border Trade, 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 Border Trade 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 Glen Bogey on the evening of his departure he wrote a second letter to Miss Dossimer as follows. Dear cousin him, here I am at Glen Bogey, 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 Alan Adale. But what's the good of laughing on a lass when one has got nothing to eat? Alan and Adale 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's all very well joking, but it's 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'm told by Tringle Mayer that I'm less acceptable than old traffic who married the other girl, because I'm not the son of Lord Bordetrade. Nothing astonishes me so much as the bad taste of some people. Now it must all be put off until Christmas, and the cruel part is that one doesn't see 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 two shillings in a penny 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'm 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 cited 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's 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. Guttwood, 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 behooved 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. Mama, she said, I think that Papa is not treating me well. My dear, your Papa has always had his own way. That's all very well, but why am I to be worse used than Augusta? It turns out now that Mr. Traffic 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 Bordetrade. Lord Bordetrade, 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 Bordetrade in his mushroom peerage. Can't you tell Papa that I mean to marry Mr. Houston at last, and that he's 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'm not going to be made miserable forever. This was at Glen Bogey in Invernessia, 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 grass was scarce and that the deer were almost non-existent. 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 Drum Caller. From one room you went into another, and from that into a third. To get from the sitting-room which was called the Parler, 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 the passage which seemed to totter suspended over the rocks, whence the tumbling rushing waters could always be heard like music closed at hand, the view down over the little twisting river was such as filled the mind with a conviction of realized 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 Drum Caller 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 Caller-foot, 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 Glen Bogey, two men were seated with pipes in their mouths on the landing outside the room called the Den, to which the passage from the Parler ran. Here a square platform had been constructed, capable of containing two arm-chairs, 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 Drum Caller. This man was Colonel Jonathan Stubbs, and his companion at the present moment was Isidore Hummel. 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 until they'd all quarrelled. I did know the nephew, who was a good natured but vulgar young man. They are vulgar people, I should say. You could hardly have found Ayala, vulgar, asked Hummel. Indeed, no. But uncles and aunts and nephews and nieces are not all bound to run together. Ayala is the denteous little darling I ever saw. I knew their father and mother, and certainly no one could 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. Traffic knows all about it. I don't think a girl is much improved by knowing how many shillings there are in a pound, said Hummel. It's 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 sort a 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 act to turn out better than grace and poetry. A little of both, perhaps, said Hummel. Well, yes, I don't mind a little Byron now and then, as long as there's no nonsense. As to Glenbowgear, it's right there across the lake. You can get a boat at Call-A-Foot, and a fellow to take you across, and wait for you won't cost you more than three-half crowns. I suppose Glenbowgear 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'll frown if you come after his niece? I simply want a call on Miss Dorma, said Hummel, 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 Dorma. I dare say 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 Isidore Hummel should go across the lake and make his way up to Glen Bogey.