 CHAPTER 1 When Egbert Dorma died he left his two daughters utterly penniless upon the world, and it must be said of Egbert Dorma that nothing else could have been expected of him. The two girls were both pretty, but Lucy, who was twenty-one, was supposed to be simple and comparatively unattractive, whereas Ayala was credited, as her somewhat romantic name might show, with poetic charm and a taste for romance. Ayala, when her father died, was nineteen. We must begin yet a little earlier, and say that there had been, and had died many years before the death of Egbert Dorma, a clerk in the admiralty by name Reginald Dossett, who and whose wife had been conspicuous for personal beauty. Their charms were gone, but the records of them had been left in various grandchildren. There had been a son born to Mr. Dossett, who was also a Reginald and a clerk in the admiralty, and who also in his turn had been a handsome man. With him in his decadence the reader will become acquainted. There were also two daughters whose reputation for perfect feminine beauty had never been contested. The elder had married a city-man of wealth—of wealth when he married her, but who had become enormously wealthy by the time of our story. He had, when he married, been simply mister, but was now Sir Thomas Tringle Baronet, and was senior partner in the great firm of Travers and Treason. Of Traverses and Treasons there were none left in these days, and Mr. Tringle was supposed to manipulate all the millions with which the great firm in Lombard Street was concerned. He had married old Mr. Dossett's eldest daughter, Emilyne, who is now Lady Tringle, with a house at the top of Queensgate, rented at one thousand five hundred pounds a year, with a palatial moor in Scotland, with a seat in Sussex, and as many carriages and horses as would suit an arch-duchess. Lady Tringle had everything in the world—a son, two daughters, and an open-handed stout husband, who was said to have told her that money was a matter of no consideration. The second Miss Dossett, Adelaide Dossett, who had been considerably younger than her sister, had insisted upon giving herself to Egbert Dorma, the artist whose death we commemorated in our first line. But she had died before her husband. They who remembered the two Miss Dossett's as girls were wont to declare that though Lady Tringle might perhaps have had the advantage in perfection of feature and an unequal symmetry, Adelaide had been the more attractive from expression and brilliancy. To her Lord Sizes had offered his hand and coronet, promising to abandon for her sake all the haunts of his matured life. To her Mr. Tringle had knelt before he had taken the elder sister. For her Mr. Progrom, the popular preacher of the day, for a time so totally lost himself that he was nearly minded to go over to Rome. She was said to have had offers from a widowed Lord Chancellor and from a Russian Prince. Her triumphs would have quite obliterated that of her sister had she not insisted on marrying Egbert Dorma. Then there had been, and still was, Reginald Dossett, the son of old Dossett, and the eldest of the family. He too had married and was now living with his wife, but to them had no children been born, luckily as he was a poor man. Alas, to a beautiful son it is not often that beauty can be a fortune as to a daughter. Young Reginald Dossett, he is anything now but young, had done but little for himself with his beauty having simply married the estimable daughter of a brother Clarke. Now at the age of fifty he had his nine hundred pounds a year from his office, and might have lived in fair comfort had he not allowed a small millstone of debt to hang around his neck from his earlier years. But still he lived creditably in a small but very genteel house at Notting Hill, and would have undergone any want rather than have declared himself to be a poor man to his rich relations the Tringles. Such were now the remaining two children of old Mr. Dossett, Lady Tringle, namely, and Reginald Dossett the Clarke in the Admiralty. Adelaide, the beauty-in-chief of the family, was gone, and now also her husband, the improvident artist, had followed his wife. Dorma had been by no means a failing artist. He had achieved great honour, had at an early age been accepted into the Royal Academy, had sold pictures to illustrious princes and more illustrious dealers, had been engraved, and had lived to see his own works resold at five times their original prices. Egbert Dorma might also have been a rich man, but he had a taste for other beautiful things besides a wife. The sweetest little fair-tun that was to cost nothing, the most perfect be-jeu of a little house at South Kensington. He had boasted that it might have been packed without trouble in his brother-in-law Tringle's dining-room, the simplest little gem for his wife, just a blue set of china for his dinner-table, just a painted cornice for his studio, just satin hangings for his drawing-room, and a few simple ornaments for his little girls, these with a few rings for himself and velvet suits of clothing in which to do his painting, these with a few little dinner-parties to show off his blue china with a first and last of his extravagances. But when he went, and when his pretty things were sold, there was not enough to cover his debts. There was, however, a sweet saver about his name. When he died it was said of him that his wife's death had killed him. He had dropped his pallet, refused to finish the ordered portrait of a princess, and had simply turned himself around and died. Then there were the two daughters, Lucy and Ayala. It should be explained that though a proper family intercourse had always been maintained between the three families, the Tringles, the Dormas and the Dossots, there had never been cordiality between the first and two latter. The wealth of the Tringles had seemed to convey with it a fetid odor. Egbert Dorma, with every luxury around him which money could purchase, had effected to despise the heavy magnificence of the Tringles. It may be that he effected a fashion higher than that which the Tringles rarely attained. General Dossot, who was neither brilliant nor fashionable, was in truth independent and perhaps a little thin-skinned. He would submit to no touch of arrogance from Sir Thomas, and Sir Thomas seemed to carry arrogance in his brow and in his paunch. It was there rather perhaps than in his heart, but the remend to whom a knack of fumbling their money in their pockets and of looking out from under penthouse brows over an expansive waistcoat gives an air of overweening pride which their true idiosyncrasies may not justify. To Dossot had perhaps been spoken a word or two which on some occasion he had inwardly resented, and from thence forward he had ever been ready to league with Dorma against the bullionnaire as they agreed to call Sir Thomas. Lady Tringles had even said a word to her sister Mrs. Dorma as to expenses, and that had never been forgiven by the artist. So things were when Mrs. Dorma died first, and so they remained when her husband followed her. Then there arose a sudden necessity for action which for a while brought Reginald Dossot into connection with Sir Thomas and Lady Tringles. Something must be done for the poor girls. That the something should come out of the pocket of Sir Thomas would have seemed to be natural. Money with him was no object, not at all. Another girl or two would be nothing to him as regarded simple expenditure. But the care of a human being is an important matter, and so Sir Thomas knew. Dossot had not a child at all, and would be the better for such a windfall. Dossot he supposed to be in his Dossot's way fairly well off. So he made this proposition. He would take one girl and let Dossot take the other. To this Lady Tringles added her proviso that she should have the choice. To her nerves affairs of taste were of such paramount importance. To this Dossot yielded. The matter was decided in Lady Tringles' back-drawing-room. Mrs. Dossot was not even consulted in that matter of choice, having already acknowledged the duty of mothering a motherless child. Dossot had thought that the bullionnaire should have said a word as to some future provision for the penniless girl, for whom he would be able to do so little. But Sir Thomas had said no such word, and Dossot himself lacked both the courage and the coarseness to allude to the matter. Then Lady Tringles declared that she must have Ayala. And so the matter was settled. Ayala the Romantic, Ayala the Poetic. It was a matter, of course, that Ayala should be chosen. Ayala had already been made intimate with the magnificent saloons of the Tringles, and had been felt by Lady Tringles to be an attraction. Her long, dark, black locks which had never hitherto been tucked up, which were never curled, which were never so long as to be awkward, were already known as being the loveliest locks in London. She sang as though nature had intended her to be a singing bird, requiring no education, no labour. She had been once for three months in Paris, and French had come naturally to her. Her father had taught her something of his art, and flatterers had already begun to say that she was born to be the one great female artist of the world. Her hands, her feet, her figure were perfect. Although she was as yet, but nineteen, London had already begun to talk about Ayala Dorma. Of course Lady Tringles chose Ayala, not remembering at the moment that her own daughters might probably be superseded by their cousin. And therefore, as Lady Tringles said herself to Lucy with her sweetest smile, Mrs. Dosset had chosen Lucy. The two girls were old enough to know something of the meaning of such a choice. Ayala, the younger, was to be adopted into immense wealth, and Lucy was to be given up to comparative poverty. She knew nothing of her Uncle Dosset's circumstances, but the Gentile house at Notting Hill, number three, Kingsbury Crescent, was known to her, and was but a poor affair as compared even with the Bijoux in which she had hitherto lived. Her Aunt Dosset never rose to any vehicle beyond a four-wheeler, and was careful even in thinking of that accommodation. Ayala would be whirled about the park by a wire wig and a pair of brown horses, which they had heard it said were not to be matched in London. Ayala would be carried with her aunt and her cousin to the showroom of Madame Tosserville, the great French milliner of Bond Street, whereas she, Lucy, might too probably be called upon to make her own guns. All the fashion of Queensgate, something perhaps of the fashion of Eaton Square, would be open to Ayala. Lucy understood enough to know that Ayala's own charms might probably cause still more august gates to be open to her, whereas Aunt Dosset entered no gates. It was quite natural that Ayala should be chosen. Lucy acknowledged as much to herself, but there were sisters and had been so near. By what a chasm would they be discovered now so far as Sunder? Lucy herself was a lovely girl and knew her own loveliness. She was fairer than Ayala, somewhat taller, and much more quiet in her demeanour. She was also clever, but her cleverness did not show itself so quickly. She was a musician, whereas her sister could only sing. She could rarely draw, whereas her sister would rush away into effects in which the drawing was not always very excellent. Lucy was doing the best she could for herself, knowing something of French and German, though not as yet very fluent with her tongue. The two girls were, in truth, both greatly gifted, but Ayala had the gift of showing her talent without thought of showing it. Lucy saw it all and knew that she was outshone, but how great had been the price of the outshining. The artist's house had been badly ordered, and the two girls were of better disposition and better conduct than might have been expected from such fitful training. Ayala had been the father's pet and Lucy the mother's. Parents do ill in making pets, and here they had done ill. Ayala had been taught to think herself the favourite because the artist himself had been more prominent before the world and his wife. But the evil had not been lasting enough to have made bad feeling between the sisters. Lucy knew that her sister had been preferred to her, but she had been self-denying enough to be aware that some such preference was due to Ayala. She too admired Ayala and loved her with her whole heart. And Ayala was always good to her, had tried to divide everything, had assumed no preferences aright. The two were true sisters. But when it was decided that Lucy was to go to Kingsbrick Crescent the difference was very great. The two girls on their father's death had been taken to the great red brick house in Queensgate, and from hence, three or four days after the funeral, Lucy was to be transferred to her aunt Tossett. Here the two there had been little between them but weeping for their father. Now had come the hour of parting. The tidings had been communicated to Lucy and to Lucy alone by Aunt Tringle. As you are the eldest, dear, we think that you will be best able to be a comfort to your aunt, said Lady Tringle. I will do the best I can, aunt Emily and said Lucy, declaring to herself that in giving such a reason her aunt was lying basely. I am sure you will. Poor dear Ayala is younger than her cousins and will be more subject to them. So in truth was Lucy younger than her cousins, but of that she said nothing. I am sure that you will agree with me that it's best that we should have the youngest. Perhaps it is, Aunt Emilyne. Sir Thomas would not have had it any other way, said Lady Tringle, with a little severity, feeling that Lucy's accord had hardly been as generous as it should be. But she recovered herself quickly remembering how much it was that Ayala was to get, how much that Lucy was to lose. But my dear, we shall see you very often, you know, it's not so far across the park, and when we do have a few parties again. Oh, aunt, I'm not thinking of that. Of course not. We can none of us think of it just now. But when the time does come, of course we shall always have you, just as if you were one of us. Then her aunt gave her a roll of banknotes, a little present of twenty-five pounds to begin the world with, and told her that the carriage should take her to Kingsbury Crescent on the following morning. On the whole Lucy behaved well, and left a pleasant impression on her aunt's mind. The difference between Queensgate and Kingsbury Crescent, between Queensgate and Kingsbury Crescent for life, was indeed great. I wish it were you with all my heart, said Ayala, clinging to her sister. It could not have been me. Why not? Because you are so pretty, and you are so clever. Oh! Yes, if we were to be separated, of course it would be so. Do not suppose, dear, that I am disappointed. I am. If I can only like Aunt Margaret. Aunt Margaret was Mrs. Dossett, with whom neither of the girls had hitherto become intimate, and who was known to be quiet, domestic, and economical, but who had also been spoken of as having a will of her own. I shall do better with her than you would, Ayala. I don't see why. Because I can remain quiet longer than you. It will be very quiet. I wonder how we shall see each other. I cannot walk across the park alone. Uncle Reg will bring you. Not often, I fear. Uncle Reg has enough to do with his office. You can come in a cab. Cabs cost money, I.e., dear. But Uncle Thomas. We had better understand one or two things, Ayala. Uncle Thomas will pay everything for you, and as he is very rich, things will come as they are wanted. There will be cabs, and if not cabs, carriages. Uncle Reg must pay for me, and he is very kind to do so. But as he is not rich, there will be no carriages, and not a great many cabs. It is best to understand it all. But they will send for you. That's as they please. I don't think they will very often. I would not for the world put you against Uncle Thomas, but I have a feeling that I shall never get on with him. But you will never separate yourself from me, Ayala. Separate myself. You will not be my sister, because you will be one of these rich ones. Oh, I wish that I were to be the poor one. I'm sure I should like it best. I never cared about being rich. Oh, Lucy, can't we make them change? No, i.e., my own, we can't make them change. And if we could, we wouldn't. It is altogether best that you should be a rich tingle, and I should be a poor doset. I will always be a dormer, said Ayala proudly. And I will also be so too, my pet. But you should be a bright dormer among the tingles, and I will be a dull dormer among the dosets. I shall begrudge nothing if only we can see each other." So the two girls were parted, the elder being taken away to Kingsbury Crescent and the latter remaining with her rich relations at Queensgate. Ayala had not probably realized the great difference of their future positions. To her the attractions of wealth and the privations of comparative poverty had not made themselves as yet palpably plain. They do not become so manifest to those to whom the wealth falls, at any rate not in early life, as to the opposite party. If the other lot had fallen to Ayala she might have felt it more keenly. Lucy felt it keenly enough. Without any longing after the magnificence of the tingle mansion she knew how great was the fall from her father's well-assorted luxuries and prettinesses down to the plain walls, tables and chairs of her uncle Doset's house. Her aunt did not subscribe to Moody's. The old piano had not been tuned for the last ten years. The parlor maid was a cross-old woman. Her aunt always sat in the dining-room through the greater part of the day and of all rooms the dining-room in Kingsbury Crescent was the dingiest. Lucy understood very well to what she was going. Her father and mother were gone. Her sister was divided from her. Her life offered for the future nothing to her. But with it all she carried a good courage. There was present to her an idea of great misfortune, but present to her at the same time an idea also that she would do her duty. CHAPTER II Lucy with her aunt Doset For some days Lucy found herself to be absolutely crushed, in the first place by a strong resolution to do some disagreeable duty, and then by a feeling that there was no duty the doing of which was within her reach. It seemed to her that her whole life was a blank. Her father's house had been a small affair and considered to be poor when compared with the Tringle mansion, but she now became aware that everything there had in truth abounded. In one little room there had been two or three hundred beautifully bound books, that Moody's unnumbered volumes should come into the house as they were wanted had almost been as much a provision of nature as water, gas, and hot rolls for breakfast. A piano of the best kind and always in order had been a first necessary of life, and like other necessaries of course forthcoming. There had been the little room in which the girls painted, joining their father's studio and sharing its light, surrounded by every pretty female appliance. Then there had always been visitors. The artists from Kensington had been worn together there, and the artist's daughters and perhaps the artist's sons. Every day had had its round of delights, its round of occupations as the girls would call them. There had been some reading, some painting, some music, perhaps a little needlework, and a great deal of talking. How little do we know how other people live in the houses close to us. We see the houses looking like our own, and we see the people come out of them looking like ourselves. But a Chinaman is not more different from the English John Bull than his number ten from number eleven. Here there are books, paintings, music, wine, a little dilettante getting up of subjects of the day, a little dilettante thinking on great affairs, perhaps a little dilettante religion, few domestic laws, and those easily broken, few domestic duties, and those easily evaded, breakfast when you will, with dinner almost as little binding, with much company and acknowledged aptitude for idle luxury. That is life at number ten. At number eleven everything is cased in iron. There shall be equal plenty, but at number eleven even plenty is a bondage. Duty rules everything, and it has come to be acknowledged that duty is to be hard. So many hours of needlework, so many hours of books, so many hours of prayer, that all the household shall shiver before daylight is a law, the breach of which by any member either augurs sickness or requires con-dined punishment. To be comfortable is a sin, to laugh is almost equal to bad language. Such and so various is life at number ten and at number eleven. From one extremity, as far removed, to another poor Lucy had been conveyed, though all the laws were not exactly carried out in King's Precrescent as they have been described at number eleven. The enforced prayers were not there, nor the early hours. It was simply necessary that Lucy should be down to breakfast at nine, and had she not appeared nothing violent would have been said, but it was required of her that she should endure a life which was altogether without adornment. Uncle Dossett himself, as a clerk in the Admiralty, had a certain position in the world which was sufficiently maintained by decent apparel, a well-kept, slight gray whisker, and an umbrella which seemed never to have been violated by use. Dossett was popular at his office and was regarded by his brother Dossett as a friend. But no one was acquainted with his house and home. They did not dine with him, nor he with them. There are such men in all public offices not the less respected because of the quiescence of their lives. It was known of him that he had burdens, though it was not known what his burdens were. His friends, therefore, were intimate with him as far as the entrance into Somerset House, where his duties lay, and not beyond it. Lucy was destined to know the other side of his affairs, the domestic side, which was as quiet as the official side. The link between them, which consisted of a journey by the underground railway to the temple station, and a walk home along the embankment and across the parks and Kensington Gardens, was the pleasantest part of Dossett's life. Mr. Dossett's salary has been said to be nine hundred pounds per annum. What a fund of comfort there is in the word. When the youth of nineteen enters an office, how far beyond want would he think himself should he ever reach the pecuniary paradise of nine hundred pounds a year? How he would see all his friends, and in return be seen of them. But when the income has been achieved, its capabilities are found to be by no means endless. And Dossett, in the earlier spheres of his married life, had unfortunately anticipated something of such comforts. For a year or two he had spent a little money imprudently, something which he had expected had not come to him, and as a result he had been forced to borrow, and to ensure his life for the amount borrowed. Then too, when that misfortune as to the money came, came from the non-realization of certain claims which his wife had been supposed to possess, provision also had to be made for her. In this way an assurance office ate up a large fraction of his income, and left him with means which in truth were very straightened. Dossett at once gave up all glories of social life, settled himself in Kingsbury Crescent, and resolved to satisfy himself with his walk across the park, and his frugal dinner afterwards. He never complained to any one, nor did his wife. He was a man small enough to be contented with a thin existence, but far too great to ask any one to help him to widen it. Sir Thomas Tringle never heard of that one hundred and seventy-five pounds paid annually to the Assurance Office, nor had Lady Tringle Dossett's sister even heard of it. When it was suggested to him that he should take one of the Dormagirls, he consented to take her and said nothing of the Assurance Office. Mrs. Dossett had had her great blow in life and had suffered more perhaps than her husband. This money had been expected, there had been no doubt of the money, at any rate on her part. It did not depend on an old gentleman with or without good intentions, but simply on his death. There was to be ever so much of it, four or five hundred a year, which would last for ever. When the old gentleman died, which took place some ten years after Dossett's marriage, it was found that the money, tied tight as it had been by half a dozen lawyers, had in some fashion vanished. Wither it had gone is little to our purpose, but it had gone. Then there came a great crash upon the Dossetts, which she for a while had been hardly able to endure. But when she had collected herself together after the crash and had made up her mind, as had Dossett also, to the nature of the life which they must in future lead, she became more stringent in it even than he. He could bear and say nothing, but she in bearing found herself compelled to say much. It had been her fault, the fault of people on her side, and she would feign have fed her husband with the full flowery potato while she ate only the rind. She told him unnecessarily over and over again that she had ruined him by her marriage. No such idea was ever in his head. The thing had come, and so it must be. There was food to eat, potatoes enough for both, and a gentile house in which to live. He could still be happy if she would not groan. A certain amount of groaning she did postpone while in his presence. The sewing of seams in the dining of household linen, which in his eyes amounted to groaning, was done in his absence. After their gentile dinner he would sleep a little and she would knit. He would have his glass of wine, but would make his bottle of port last almost for a week. This was the house to which Lucy Dorma was brought when Mr. Dossett had consented to share with Sir Thomas the burden left by the death of the improbable artist. When a month passed by Lucy began to think that time itself would almost drive her mad. Her father had died early in September. The Tringles had then, of course, been out of town, but Sir Thomas and his wife had found themselves compelled to come up on such an occasion. Something they knew must be done about the girls, and they had not chosen that that something should be done in their absence. Mr. Dossett was also enjoying his official leave of absence for the year, but was enjoying it within the economical precincts of Kingsbury Crescent. There was but seldom now an excursion for him or his wife to the joys of the country. Once some years ago they had paid a visit to the palatial luxuries of Glenboggy, but the delights of the place had not paid for the expense of the long journey. They, therefore, had been at hand to undertake their duties. Dossett and Tringle, with a score of artists, had followed poor Dorma to his grave in Kensel Green, and then Dossett and Tringle had parted again, probably not to see each other for another term of years. My dear, what do you like to do with your time? Mrs. Dossett said to her niece after the first week. At this time Lucy's wardrobe was not yet of a nature to need much work over its ravages. The Dorma girls had hardly known where their frocks had come from when they wanted frocks, hardly with more precision than the Tringle girls. Frocks had come, dark gloomy frocks lately alas, and these too had now come a second time. Let creditors be ever so unsatisfied new raiment will always be found for mourning families. Everything about Lucy was nearly new, the need of repairing would come upon her by degrees, but it had not come as yet. Before there had seemed to the anxious aunt to be a necessity for some such question as the above. I'll do anything you like, aunt, said Lucy. It is not for me, my dear. I get through a deal of work, and I'm obliged to do so. She was at this time sitting with a sheet in her lap which she was turning. Lucy had indeed once offered to assist, but her assistance had been rejected. This had been two days since, and she had not renewed the proposal as she should have done. This had been mainly from bashfulness, though the work would certainly be distasteful to her, she would do it. But she had not liked to seem to interfere, not having as yet fallen into the ways of intimacy with her aunt. I don't want to burden you with my task work, continued Mrs. Dossett, but I'm afraid you seem to be listless. I was reading till just before you spoke, said Lucy, again turning her eyes to the little volume of poetry, which was one of the few treasures which she had brought away with her from her old home. Reading is very well, but I do not like it as an excuse, Lucy. Lucy's anger boiled within her when she was told of an excuse, and she declared to herself that she could never like her aunt. I am quite sure that for young girls as well as for old women there must be a great deal of waste time unless there be needle-and-thread or waste about, and I know, too, unless ladies are well off they cannot afford to waste time any more than gentlemen. In the whole course of her life nothing so much like scolding as this had ever been addressed to her. So at least thought Lucy at that moment. Mrs. Dossett had intended the remarks all in good part, thinking them to be simply fitting from an aunt to a niece. It was her duty to give advice, and for the giving of such advice some day must be taken as the beginning. She had purposely allowed a week to run by, and now she had spoken her word, as she thought in good season. In Lucy it was a new and most bitter experience. Though she was reading the idols of the king, or pretending to read them, she was in true thinking of all that had gone from her. Her mind had, at that moment, been intent upon her mother, who in all respects had been so different from this careful sheet-darning housewife of a woman. And in thinking of her mother there had no doubt been regrets for many things of which she would not have ventured to speak as sharing her thoughts with the memory of her mother, but which were nevertheless there to add darkness to the retrospective. Everything behind had been so bright, and everything behind had gone away from her. Everything before was so gloomy, and everything before must last for so long. After her aunt's lecture about wasted time, Lucy sat silent for a few minutes, and then burst into uncontrolled tears. I did not mean to vex you, said her aunt. I was thinking of my darling, darling mamma, sob Lucy. Of course Lucy you will think of her, how should you not, and of your father. Those are sorrows which must be borne. But sorrows such as those are much lighter to the busy than to the idle. I sometimes think that the labourers grieve less for those they love than we do, just because they have not time to grieve. I wish I were a labourer, then, said Lucy, through her tears. You may be, if you will, the sooner you begin to be a labourer, the better for yourself and for those about you. That aunt Dosit's voice was harsh was not her fault, nor that in the objeurecy of her daily life she had lost much of her original softness. She had simply meant to be useful and to do her duty, but in telling Lucy that it would be better that the labouring should be commenced at once for the sake of those about you, who could only be aunt Dosit herself, she had seemed to the girl to be harsh, selfish, and almost unnatural. The volume of poetry fell from her hand, and she jumped up from the chair quickly. Give it me at once, she said, taking hold of the sheet, which was not itself a pleasant object. Lucy had never seen such a thing at the bijoux. Give it me at once, she said, and clawed the long folds of linen nearly out of her aunt's lap. I did not mean anything of the kind, said aunt Dosit. You should not take me up in that way. I am speaking only for your good, because I know that you should not dawdle away your existence. Leave the sheet." Lucy did leave the sheet, and then sobbing violently ran out of the room up to her own chamber. Mrs. Dosit determined that she would not follow her. She partly forgave the girl because of her sorrows, partly reminded herself that she was not soft and faceless had been her sister-in-law, Lucy's mother, and then, as she continued her work, she assured herself that it would be best to let her niece have a cry out upstairs. Lucy's violence had astonished her for a moment, but she had taught herself to think it best to allow such little evolutions to pass off by themselves. Lucy, when she was alone, flung herself upon her bed in absolute agony. She thought that she had misbehaved, and yet how cruel, how harsh, had been her aunt's words. If she, the quiet one, had misbehaved, what would Ayala have done? And how was she to find strength with which to look forward to the future? She struggled hard with herself for a resolution. Should she determine that she would henceforth darn sheets morning, noon, and night till she worked her fingers to the bone? Perhaps there had been something of truth in that assertion of her aunts that the labourers have no time to grieve. As everything else was shut out from her, it might be well for her to darn sheets. Should she rush down penitent and beg her aunt to allow her to commence at once? She would have done it as far as the sheets were concerned, but she could not do it as regarded her aunt. She could put herself into unison with the crumpled soiled linen, but not with the hard woman. Oh, how terrible was the change! Her father and her mother, who had been so gentle to her! All the sweet prettinesses of her life, all her occupations, all her friends, all her delights, even Ayala was gone from her. How was she to bear it? She begrudged Ayala nothing, no nothing, but yet it was hard. Ayala was to have everything. Aunt Emeline, though they had not hitherto been very fond of Aunt Emeline, was sweetness itself as compared with this woman. The sooner you begin to labour, the better for yourself and those about you. Would it not have been fitter that she should have been sent at once to some actual poor-house, in which there would have been no mistakeers to her position? That it should all have been decided for her and Ayala, not by any will of their own, not by any concert between themselves, but simply by the fantasy of another. Why should she thus be made a slave to the fantasy of any one? Let Ayala have her uncle's wealth and her aunt's palaces at her command, and she would walk out simply a pauper into the world, into some work-house, so that at least she need not be obedient to the harsh voice and the odious common sense of her aunt Dosset. But how should she take herself to some work-house, in what way could she prove her right to be admitted even then? It seemed to her that the same decree which had admitted Ayala into the golden halls of the fairies had doomed her not only to poverty but to slavery. There was no escape for her from her aunt and her aunt's sermons. Oh, Ayala, my darling, my own one, oh, Ayala, if you did but know, she said to herself, What would Ayala think? How would Ayala bear it, should she but guess, by what a gulf was her heaven divided from her sister's hell? I will never tell her, she said to herself, I will die, and she shall never know. As she lay there sobbing, all the gilded things of the world were beautiful in her eyes. Alas, yes, it was true. The magnificence of the mansion at Queen's Gate, the glories of Glen Bogey, the closely studied comforts of Merle Park as the place in Sussex was called, all the carriages and horses, Madame Tosserville and all the draperies, the seats at the Albert Hall into which she had been accustomed to go with as much ease as into her bedroom, the box at the opera, the pretty furniture, the frequent gems, even the raiment which would make her pleasing to the eyes of men whom she would like to please. All these things grew in her eyes and became beautiful. Number three, King's Precrescent, was surely of all places on the earth's surface the most ugly. And yet, yet she had endeavoured to do her duty. If it had been the work-house I could have borne it, she said to herself, but not to be the slave of my Aunt Dosset. Again she appealed to her sister, O Ayala, if you did but know it. Then she remembered herself declaring that it might have been worse to Ayala than even to her. If one had to bear it, it was better for me, she said, as she struggled to prepare herself for her uncle's dinner. End of chapter two. Chapter three of Ayala's Angel. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Ayala's Angel by Anthony Trollop. Chapter three. Lucy's Troubles. The evening after the affair with the sheet went off quietly, as did many days and many evenings. Mrs. Dosset was wise enough to forget the little violence and to forget also the feeling which had been displayed. When Lucy first asked for some household needlework, which she did with the faltering voice and a shame-faced remembrance of her fault, her aunt took it all in good part and gave her a task somewhat lighter as a beginning than the handling of a sheet. Lucy sat at it and suffered. She went on sitting and suffering. She told herself that she was a martyr at every stitch she made. As she occupied the seat opposite to her aunt's accustomed chair, she would hardly speak at all, but would keep her mind always intent on Ayala and the joys of Ayala's life. That they who had been born together, sisters with equal fortunes, who had so closely lived together, should be sundered so utterly one from the other, that the one should be so exalted and the other so debased. And why? What justice had there been? Could it be from heaven or even from earth that the law had gone forth for such a division of the things of the world between them? You have got very little to say to a person, said Aunt Dossett, one morning. This too was a reproach, this too was scolding. And yet Aunt Dossett had intended to be as pleasant as she knew how. I have very little to say, replied Lucy, with repressed anger. But why? Because I am stupid, said Lucy, stupid people can't talk. You should have had Ayala. I hope you do not envy Ayala her fortune, Lucy. A woman with any tact would not have asked such a question at such a time. She should have felt that a touch of such irony might be natural, and that unless it were expressed loudly or shown actively, it might be left to be suppressed by affection and time. But she, as she had grown old, had taught herself to bear disappointment, and thought it wise to teach Lucy to do the same. Envy, said Lucy, not passionately, but after a little pause for thought. I sometimes think it is very hard to know what envy is. Envy hatred and malice, said Mrs. Dossett, hardly knowing what she meant by the use of the well-worn words. I do know what hatred and malice are, said Lucy. Do you think I hate Ayala? I am sure you do not. Or that I bear her malice? Certainly not. If I had the power to take anything from her, would I do it? I love Ayala with my whole heart. Whatever be my misery, I would rather bear it than let Ayala have even a share of it. Whatever good things she may have, I would not rob her, even of a part of them. If there be joy and sorrow to be divided between us, I would wish to have the sorrow so that she might have the joy. That is not hatred and malice. Mrs. Dossett looked at her over her spectacles. This was the girl who had declared that she could not speak because she was too stupid. But when you ask me whether I envy her, I hardly know, continued Lucy. I think one does covet one's neighbour's house in spite of the tenth commandment, even though one does not want to steal it. Mrs. Dossett repented herself that she had given rise to any conversation at all. Silence, absolute silence, the old silence which she had known for a dozen years before Lucy had come to her, would have been better than this. She was very angry, more angry than she had ever yet been with Lucy, and yet she was afraid to show her anger. Was this the girl's gratitude for all that her uncle was doing for her, for shelter, food, comfort, for all that she had in the world? Mrs. Dossett knew, though Lucy did not, of the little increased pinchings which had been made necessary by the advent of another inmate in the house, so many pounds of the meat in a week, and so much bread, and so much tea and sugar. It had all been calculated. In gentile houses such calculation must often be made. And when, by degrees, degrees very quick, the garment should become worn which Lucy had brought with her, there must be something taken from the tight-fitting income for that need. Arrangements had already been made of which Lucy knew nothing, and already the two glasses of port wine a day had been knocked off from poor Mr. Dossett's comforts. His wife had sobbed in despair when he had said that it should be so. He had declared gin and water to be as supporting as port wine, and the thing had been done. Lucy inwardly had been disgusted by the gin and water, knowing nothing of its history. Her father, who had not always been punctual in paying his wine-merchants' bills, would not have touched gin and water, would not have allowed it to contaminate his table. Everything in Mr. Dossett's house was paid for weekly. And now Lucy, who had been made welcome to all that the gentile house could afford, who had been taken in as a child, had spoken of her lot as one which was all sorrowful. Bad as it is, this living in Kingsbury Crescent, I would rather bear it myself than subject Ayala to such misery. It was thus that she had, in fact, spoken of her new home when she had found it necessary to defend her feelings towards her sister. It was impossible that her aunt should be all to get the silent under such treatment. We have done the best for you that is in our power, Lucy, she said, with a whole load of reproach in her tone. Have I complained, aunt? I thought you did. Oh, no! You asked me whether I envied Ayala. What was I to say? Perhaps I should have said nothing, but the idea of envying Ayala was painful to me. Of course she— Well, I had better say nothing more, aunt. If I were to pretend to be cheerful, I should be false. It is this yet only a few weeks since papa died. Then the work went on in silence between them for the next hour. And the work went on in solemn silence between them through the winter. It came to pass that the sole excitement of Lucy's life came from Ayala's letters, the sole excitement except a meeting which took place between the sisters one day. When Lucy was taken to King's Precrescent, Ayala was at once carried down to Glen Bogey, and from thence there came letters twice a week for six weeks. Ayala's letters, too, were full of sorrow. She, too, had lost her mother, her father, and her sister. Moreover, in her foolish petulance she said things of her aunt Emilyne, and of the girls, and of Sir Thomas, which ought not to have been written of those who were kind to her. Her cousin Tom, too, she ridiculed. John Tringle, the son and heir, saying that he was a lute who endeavoured to make eyes at her. Oh! how distasteful! how vulgar they were after all that she had known! Perhaps the eldest girl, Augusta, was the worst. She did not think that she could put up with the assumed authority of Augusta. Gertrude was better, but a simpleton. Ayala declared herself to be sad at heart. But then the sweet scenery of Glen Bogey and the colour of the moors and the glorious heights of Ben Alcon made some amends. Then in her sorrow she would rave about the beauties of Glen Bogey. Lucy, as she read the letters, told herself that Ayala's grief was a grief to be born, a grief almost to be enjoyed. To sit and be sad with the stream purling by you, how different from the sadness of that dining-room in the Crescent. To look out upon the glories of her mountain, while a tear would now and again force itself into the eye, how much less bitter than the falling of salt drops over a tattered towel. Lucy and her answers endeavoured to repress the groans of her spirit. In the first place she did acknowledge that it did not become her to speak ill of those who were, in truth, her benefactors. And then she was anxious not to declare to Ayala her feeling of the injustice by which their two lots had been defined to them. Though she had failed to control herself once or twice in speaking to her aunt, she did control herself in writing her letters. She would never, never write a word which should make Ayala unnecessarily unhappy. Of that she was determined. She would say nothing to explain to Ayala the unutterable tedium of that downstairs parlor in which they passed their lives, lest Ayala should feel herself to be wounded by the luxurious comforts around her. It was thus she wrote. Then there came a time in which they were to meet, just at the beginning of November. The tringles were going to Rome, they generally did go somewhere. Then Bogey, Merle Park and the house in Queensgate were not enough for the year. Sir Thomas was to take them to Rome and then return to London for the manipulation of the millions in Lombard Street. He generally did remain nine months out of the twelve in town because of the millions, making his visits at Merle Park very short. But Lady Tringle found that change of air was good for the girls. It was her intention now to remain at Rome for two or three months. The party from Scotland reached Queensgate late one Saturday evening and intended to start early on the Monday. To Ayala, who had made it quite a matter of course that she should see her sister, Lady Tringle had said that in that case a carriage must be sent across. It was awkward because there were no carriages in London. She had thought that they had all intended to pass through London just as though they were not stopping. Sunday she had thought was not to be regarded as being a day at all. Then Ayala flashed up. She had flashed up sometimes before. Was it supposed that she was not going to see Lucy? Carriage? She would walk across Kensington Gardens and find the house out all by herself. She would spend the whole day with Lucy and come back alone in a cab. She was strong enough at any rate to have her way so far that a carriage, wherever it came from, was sent for Lucy about three in the afternoon and did take her back to King's Precrescent after dinner. Then at last the sisters were together in Ayala's bedroom. And now tell me about everything, said Ayala. But Lucy was resolved that she would not tell anything. I am so wretched, that would have been all, but she would not tell her wretchedness. We are so quiet in King's Precrescent, she said, you have so much more to talk of. Oh, Lucy, I do not like it. Not your aunt. She's not the worst, though she sometimes is hard to bear. I can't tell you what it is, but they all seem to think so much of themselves. In the first place they never will say a word about papa. Perhaps that is from feeling Ayi. No, it's not. One would know that. But they look down upon papa, who has more in his little finger than they have with all their money. Then I should hold my tongue. So I do, about him, but it is very hard. And then Augusta has a way with me, as though she had a right to order me. I certainly will not be ordered by Augusta. You never ordered me. Dear Ayi. Augusta is older than you, of course, ever so much. They make her out twenty-three at her last birthday, but she's twenty-four. But that's not difference enough for ordering, certainly between cousins. I do hate Augusta. I would not hate her. How is one to help oneself? She has a way of whispering to Gertrude and to her mother, when I am there which almost kills me. If you'll only give me notice, I'll go out of the room at once, I said the other day, and they were all so angry. I would not make them angry if I were you, Ayi. Why not? And not Sir Thomas or Aunt Emilyne? I don't care a bit for Sir Thomas. I'm not sure, but what he is the most good-natured, though, he is so podgy. Of course, when Aunt Emilyne tells me anything, I do it. It is so important that you should be on good terms with them. I don't see it at all, said Ayala, flashing around. Aunt Emilyne can do so much for you. We have nothing of our own, you and I. Am I to sell myself, because they have got money? No indeed. No one despises money so much as I do. I will never be other to them than if I had the money, and they were the poor relations. That will not do, Ayi. I will make it do. They may turn me out if they like. Of course I know that I should obey my aunt, and so I will. If Sir Thomas told me anything, I should do it, but not Augusta. Then while Lucy was thinking how she might best put into soft words advice which was so clearly needed, Ayala declared another trouble. But there's worse still. What's that? Tom. What does Tom do? You know Tom, Lucy, I have seen him. Of all the horrors he is the horridest. Does he order you about? No, but he—what is it, Ayi? Oh, Lucy, he's so dreadful. He— You don't mean that he makes love to you? He does. What am I to do, Lucy? Do they know it? Augusta does, I'm sure, and pretends to think that it's my fault. I'm sure that there will be a terrible quarrel some day. I told him the day before we left Glen Bogie that I should tell his mother I did indeed. Then he grinned. He's such a fool, and when I laughed he took it all as kindness. I couldn't have helped laughing if I'd died for it. But he has been left behind. Yes, for the present, but he is to come over to us some time after Christmas when Uncle Tringle has gone back. A girl need not be bothered by a lover unless she chooses, Ayi. But it will be such a bother to have to talk about it. He looks at me and is such an idiot. Then Augusta frowns. When I see Augusta frowning, I'm so angry that I feel like boxing her ears. Do you know, Lucy, that I often think that it will not do and that I shall have to be sent away? I wish it had been you that they had chosen. Such was the conversation between the girls. Of what was said, everything appertained to Ayala. Of the very nature of Lucy's life, not a word was spoken. As Ayala was talking, Lucy was constantly thinking of all that might be lost by her sister's imprudence. Even though Augusta might be disagreeable, even though Tom might be a bore, it should all be born, born at any rate for a while, seeing how terrible would be the alternative. The alternative to Lucy seemed to be Kingsbury Crescent and Aunt Dosset. It did not occur to her to think whether in any possible case Ayala would indeed be added to the Crescent family, or what in that case would become of herself, and whether they too might live with Aunt Dosset, and whether in that case life would not be infinitely improved. Ayala had all that money could do for her, and would have such a look-out into the world from a wealthy house, as might be sure at last to bring her some such husband as would be desirable. Ayala, in fact, had everything before her, and Lucy had nothing. Wherefore it became Lucy's duty to warn Ayala so that she should bear with much and throw away nothing. If Ayala could only know what life might be, what life was at Kingsbury Crescent, then she would be patient. Then she would softly make a confidence with her aunt as to Tom's folly. Then she would propitiate Augusta. Not care for money! Ayala had not yet lived in an ugly room and darned sheets all the morning. Ayala had never sat for two hours between the slumbers of Uncle Dosset and the knitting of Aunt Dosset. Ayala had not been brought into contact with gin and water. Oh! Ayala! she said as they were going down to dinner together. Do struggle! Do bear it! Aunt Emilyne, she will like you to tell her. If Augusta wants you to go anywhere, do go! What does it signify? Papa and Mamara gone, and we are alone. All this she said without a word of allusion to her own sufferings. Ayala made a half promise. She did not think she would go anywhere for Augusta's telling, but she would do her best to satisfy Aunt Emilyne. Then they went to dinner, and after dinner Lucy was taken home without further words between them. Ayala wrote long letters on her journey, full of what she saw and full of her companions. From Paris she wrote, and then from Turin, and then again on their immediate arrival at Rome. Her letters were most imprudent as written from the close vicinity of her aunt and cousin. It was such a comfort that that oath Tom had been left behind. Uncle Tringle was angry because he did not get what he liked to eat. Aunt Emilyne gave that courier such a terrible life, sending for him every quarter of an hour. Sister would talk first French and then Italian of which no one could understand a word. Gertrude was so sick with travelling that she was as pale as a sheet. Nobody seemed to care for anything. She could not get her aunt to look at the Campanile at Florence or her cousins to know one picture from another. As for pictures, I'm quite sure that Mangal's angels would do as well as Raphael's. Mangal was a brother-academission whom their father had taught them to despise. There was contempt, most foolish contempt for all the Tringles, but luckily there had been no quarrelling. Then it seemed that both in Paris and in Florence Ayala had bought pretty things, from which it was to be argued that her uncle had provided her liberally with money. One pretty thing had been sent from Paris to Lucy, which could not have been bought for less than many francs. It would not be fair that Ayala should take so much without giving something in return. She knew that she too should give something in return. Though Kingsbury Crescent was not attractive, though Aunt Dosset was not to her a pleasant companion, she had begun to realise the fact that it behoved her to be grateful, if only for the food she ate and for the bed on which she slept. As she thought of all that Ayala owed, she remembered also her own debts. As the winter went on she struggled to pay them. But Aunt Dosset was a lady not much given to vacillation. She had become aware at first that Lucy had been rough to her, and she did not easily open herself to Lucy's endearments. Lucy's life at Kingsbury Crescent had begun badly, and Lucy, though she understood much about it, found it hard to turn a bad beginning to a good result. CHAPTER IV It was suggested to Lucy, before she had been long in Kingsbury Crescent, that she should take some exercise. For the first week she had hardly been out of the house, but this was attributed to her sorrow. Then she had accompanied her aunt for a few days during the half hour's marketing, which took place every morning. But in this there had been no sympathy. Lucy would not interest herself in the shoulder of mutton, which must be of just such a weight as to last conveniently for two days, twelve pounds, of which it was explained to her more than one half was intended for the two servants, because there was always a more lavish consumption in the kitchen than in the parlour. Lucy would not appreciate the fact that eggs at a penny apiece, whatever they might be, must be used for puddings, as eggs with even a reputation of freshness cost two pence. Aunt Dossett, beyond this, never left the house on weekdays, except for a few calls which were made, perhaps once a month, on which occasion the Sunday gloves and the Sunday silk-dress were used. On Sunday they all went to church, but this was not enough for exercise, and as Lucy was becoming pale she was recommended to take to walking in Kensington Gardens. It is generally understood that there are raging lions about the metropolis who would certainly eat up young ladies whole if young ladies were to walk about the streets or even about the parks by themselves. There is, however, beginning to be some vacillation as to the received belief on this subject as regards London. In large continental towns, such as Paris and Vienna, young ladies would be devoured certainly. Such at least is the creed. In New York and Washington there are supposed to be no lions so that young ladies go about free as air. In London there is a rising doubt under which before long probably the lions will succumb altogether. Mrs. Dossett did believe somewhat in lions, but she believed also in exercise, and she was aware that the lions eat up chiefly rich people. Young ladies who must go about without mothers, brothers, uncles, carriages, or attendants of any sort are not often eaten or even roared at. It is the dainty darlings for whom the roaring have to be feared. Mrs. Dossett, aware that daintyness was no longer within the reach of her and hers, did ascent to these walkings in Kensington Gardens. At some hour in the afternoon Lucy would walk from the house by herself, and within a quarter of an hour would find herself on the broad gravel path which leads down to the round pond. From thence she would go by the back of the Albert Memorial, and then across by the serpentine and return to the same gate, never leaving Kensington Gardens. Mrs. Dossett had expressed some old-fashioned idea that lions were more likely to roar in Hyde Park than within the comparatively retired perlews of Kensington. Now the reader must be taken back for a few moments to the Bijou, as the Bijou was before either the artist or his wife had died. In those days there had been a frequent concourse of people in the artist's house. Society there had not consisted chiefly of eating and drinking. Men and women would come in and out as though really for a purpose of talking. There would be three or four constantly with Dorma in his studio, helping him but little perhaps in the real furtherance of his work, though discussing art subjects in a manner calculated to keep alive art feeling among them. A novelist or two of a morning might perhaps aid me in my general pursuit, but would I think interfere with the actual tally of pages? Egbert Dorma did not turn out from his hand so much work as some men that I know, but he was overflowing with art up to his ears, and with tobacco so that upon a whole the Bijou was a pleasant rendezvous. There had come there of late, quite of late, a young sculptor named Isidore Hummel. Hummel was an Englishman who, however, had been carried very early to Rome and had been bred there. Of his mother a question never was made, but his father had been well known as an English sculptor resident at Rome. The elder Hummel had been a man of mark who had a fine suite of rooms in the city and a villa on one of the lakes, but who never came to England. English connections were, he said, to him abominable, by which he perhaps meant that the restrictions of decent life were not to his taste. But his busts came, and his groups in marble, and on again some great work for some public decoration, so that money was plentiful with him, and he was a man of note. It must be acknowledged of him that he spared nothing in bringing up his son, giving him such education as might best suit his future career as an artist, and that money was always forthcoming for the lads' wants and fantasies. Then young Hummel also became a sculptor of much promise, but early in life differed from his father on certain subjects of importance. The father was wedded to Rome and to Italy. Isidore gradually expressed an opinion that the nearer a man was to his mark at the better for him, that all that art could do for a man in Rome was as nothing to the position which a great artist might make for himself in London, that in fact an Englishman had better be an Englishman. At twenty-six he succeeded in his attempt and became known as a young sculptor with a workshop at Brompton. He became known to many both by his work and his acquirements, but it may not be surprising that after a year he was still unable to live as he had been taught to live without drawing upon his father. Then his father threw his failure in his teeth, not refusing him money indeed, but making the receipt of it unpleasant to him. At no house had Isidore Hummel been made so welcome as at Dormers. There was a sympathy between them both on that great question of art, whether to an artist his art should be a matter to him of more importance than all the world besides. So said Dorma, who simply died because his wife died, who could not have touched his brush if one of his girls had been suffering, who, with all his genius, was but a fenial workman. Is art more than all the world to him? No, not to him. Perhaps here and again to some enthusiast and him hardly removed from madness. Where is the painter who shall paint a picture after his soul's longing, though he shall get not a penny for it, though he shall starve as he put his last touch to it, when he knows that by drawing some duchess of the day he shall in a fortnight earn a ducal price? Shall a wife and child be less dear to him than to a lawyer or to a shoemaker, or the very craving of his hunger less obdurate? A man's self and what he has within him and his belongings with his outlook for this and other worlds, let that be the first, and the work noble or otherwise be the second. To be honest is greater than to have painted the San Sisto, or to have chiseled the Apollo, to have assisted in making others honest infinitely greater, all of which were discussed at great length at the Bijou, and the Bijou lights always sided with the master of the house. To an artist said Dorma, let his art be everything, above wife and children, above money, above health, above even character. Then he would put out his hand with his jewelled finger and stretch forth his velvet-clad arm, and soon after lead his friend away to the little dinner at which no luxury had been spared. But young Harmel agreed with the sermons, and not the less because Lucy Dorma had sat by and listened to them with rapt attention. Not a word of love had been spoken to her by the sculptor when her mother died, but there had been glances and little feelings of which each was half-conscious. It is so hard for a young man to speak of love if there be real love, so impossible that a girl should do so. Not a word had been spoken, but each had thought that the other must have known. To Lucy a word had been spoken by her mother. Do not think too much of him till you know, her mother had said, not quite prudently. Oh, no, I'll think of him not at all, Lucy had replied, and she had thought of him day and night. I wonder why Mr. Harmel is so different with you, Ayala had said to her sister. I'm sure he's not different with me, Lucy had replied. Then Ayala had shaken her full locks and smiled. Things came quickly after that. Mrs. Dorma had sickened and died. There was no time then for thinking of that handsome brow, of that short jet-black hair, of those eyes so full of fire and thoughtfulness, of that perfect mouth, and the deep but yet soft voice. Still even in her sorrow this new god of her idolatry was not altogether forgotten. It was told to her that he had been summoned off to Rome by his father, and she wondered whether he was to find his home at Rome for ever. Then her father was ill, and in his illness Harmel came to say one word of fair well before he started. To find me crushed to the ground, the painter said, something the young man whispered as to the consolation which time would bring. Not to me, said Dorma. It is as though one had lost his eyes, one cannot see without his eyes. It was true of him, his light had been put out. Then on the landing at the top of the stairs there had been one word between Lucy and the sculptor. I ought not to have intruded on you, perhaps, he said, but after so much kindness I could hardly go without a word. I'm sure he will be glad that you have come, and you. I'm glad too, so that I may say good-bye. Then she put out her hand, and he held it for a moment as he looked into her eyes. There was not a word more, but it seemed to Lucy as though there had been so many words. Things went on quickly. Egbert Dorma died, and Lucy was taken away to Kingsbury Crescent. Then once Ayala had spoken about Mr. Harmel, Lucy had silenced her. Any allusion to the idea of love wounded her, as though it was too impossible for dreams, too holy for words. How should there be words about a lover when father and mother were both dead? He had gone to his old and natural home. He had gone, and of course he would not return. To Ayala, when she came up to London early in November, to Ayala, who was going to Rome where Isidore Harmel now was, Isidore Harmel's name was not mentioned. But through the long mornings of her life, through the long evenings, through the long nights, she still thought of him. She could not keep herself from thinking. To a girl whose life is full of delights, her lover need not be so very much, need not at least be everything. Though he be a lover to be loved at all points, her friends will be something, her dancing, her horse, her theatre-going, her brothers and sisters, even her father and mother. But Lucy had nothing. The vision of Isidore Harmel had passed across her life, and had left with her the only possession that she had. It need hardly be said that she never alluded to that possession at Kingsburg Crescent. It was not a possession from which any enjoyment could have come except that of thinking of it. He had passed away from her, and there was no point of life at which he could come across her again. There was no longer that half-joint studio. If it had been her lot to be as was Ayala, she then would have been taken to Rome. Then again he would have looked into her eyes and taken her hand in his. Then perhaps. But now, even though he were to come back to London, he would know nothing of her horns. Even in that case nothing would bring them together. As the idea was crossing her mind, as it did cross it so frequently, she saw him turning from the path on which she was walking, making his way towards the steps of the memorial. Though she saw no more than his back, she was sure that it was Isidore Harmel. For a moment there was an impulse on her to run after him and to call his name. It was then early in January, and she was taking her daily walk through Kensington Gardens. She had walked there daily now for the last two months and had never spoken a word or been addressed, had never seen a face that she had recognised. It had seemed to her that she had not an acquaintance in the world except Uncle Reginald Dosset, and now, almost within reach of her hand, was the one being in all the world whom she most longed to see. She did stand, and the word was formed within her lips, but she could not speak it. Then came the thought that she would run after him, but the thought was expelled quickly, though she might lose him again and forever she could not do that. She stood almost gasping till he was out of sight, and then she passed on upon her usual round. She never omitted her walks after that, and always paused a moment as the path turned away to the memorial. It was not that she thought that she might meet him there, there rather than elsewhere, but there is present to us often an idea that when some object has passed from us that we have desired then it may be seen again. Day after day and week after week she did not see him. During this time there came letters from Ayala saying that their return to England was postponed until the first week in February, that she would certainly see Lucy in February, that she was not going to be hurried through London in half an hour because her aunt wished it, that she would do as she pleased as to visiting her sister. Then there was a word or two about Tom. Oh, Tom! That idiot, Tom! And another word or two about Augusta. Augusta is worse than ever. We have not spoken to each other for the last day or two. This came but a day or two before the intended return of the Tringles. No actual day had been fixed, but on the day before that on which Lucy thought it probable that the Tringles might return to town she was again walking in the gardens. Having put two and two together, as people do, she felt sure that the travellers could not be away more than a day or two longer. Her mind was much intent upon Ayala, feeling that the imprudent girl was subjecting herself to great danger, knowing that it was wrong that she and Augusta should be together in the house without speaking, thinking of her sister's perils, when of a sudden Hummel was close before her. There was no question of calling to him now, no question of an attempt to see him face to face. She had been wandering along the path with eyes fixed upon the ground when her name was sharply called, and they too were close to each other. Hummel had a friend with him, and it seemed to Lucy at once that she could only bow to him, only mutter something and then pass on. How can a girl stand and speak to a gentleman in public, especially when that gentleman has a friend with him? She tried to look pleasant, bowed, smiled, muttered something, and was passing on, but he was not minded to lose her thus immediately. Miss Dorma, he said, I have seen your sister at Rome. May I not say a word about her? Why should he not say a word about Ayala? In a minute he had left his friend and was walking back along the path with Lucy. There was not much that he had to say about Ayala. He had seen Ayala in the Tringles, and he did manage to let it escape him that Lady Tringle had not been very gracious to himself when once in public he had claimed acquaintance with Ayala. But at that he simply smiled. Then he had asked of Lucy where she lived. With my uncle Mr. Dossett said Lucy at Kingsbury Crescent. When he asked whether he might call, Lucy with many blushes had said that her aunt did not receive many visitors, that her uncle's house was different from what her father's had been. Shall I not see you at all, then? He asked. She did not like to ask him after his own purposes of life, whether he was now a resident in London or whether he intended to return to Rome. She was covered in bashfulness and dreaded to seem even to be interested in his affairs. Oh, yes, she said. Perhaps we may meet some day. Here, he asked. Oh, no, not here. It was only an accident. As she said this, she determined that she must walk no more in Kensington Gardens. It would be dreadful indeed were he to imagine that she would consent to make an appointment with him. It immediately occurred to her that the lions were about, and she must shut herself up. I have thought of you every day since I've been back, he said, and I did not know where to hear of you. Now that we have met, am I to lose you again? Lose her? What did he mean by losing her? She too had found a friend, she who had been so friendless. Would it not be dreadful to her also to lose him? Is there no place where I may ask of you? When Ayala is back, and they are in town, perhaps I shall sometimes be at Lady Tringles, said Lucy, resolved that she would not tell him of her immediate abode. This was, at any rate, a certain address from where he might commence further inquiries, should he wish to make inquiry, and as such he accepted it. I think I'd better go now, said Lucy, trembling at the apparent impropriety of her present conversation. He knew that it was intended that he should leave her, and he went. I hope I have not offended you in coming so far. Oh, no! Then again she gave him her hand, and again there was the same look as he took his leave. When she got home, which was before the dusk, having resolved that she must at any rate tell her aunt that she had met a friend, she found that her uncle had returned from his office. This was a most unusual occurrence. Her uncle, she knew, left Somerset House exactly at half-past four, and always took an hour and a quarter for his walk. She had never seen him in Kingsbury Crescent till a quarter before six. I have got letters from Rome, he said, in a solemn voice. One from Ayala for you, it is here, and I have had one from my sister also, and one in the course of the day from your uncle in Lombard Street. You had better read them. There was something terribly tragic in Uncle Dosset's voice as he spoke. And Somerset the reader read the letters, but they must be delayed for a few chapters. CHAPTER V We must go back to Ayala's life during the autumn and winter. She was rapidly whirled away to Glenbogge amidst the affectionate welcomeings of her aunt and cousins. All manner of good things were done for her as to presence and comforts. Young as she was, she had money given to her, which was not without attraction, and though she was, of course, in the depth of her mourning, she was made to understand that even mourning might be made becoming if no expense were spared. No expense among the tringles ever was spared, and at first Ayala liked the bounty of profusion. But before the end of the first fortnight there grew upon her a feeling that even banknotes become tawdry if you're taught to use them as curlpapers. It may be said that nothing in the world is charming unless it be achieved at some trouble. If it rained sixty-four Leoville, which I regard as the most divine of nectars, I feel sure that I should never raise it to my lips. Ayala did not argue the matter out in her mind, but in very early days she began to entertain a dislike to tringle magnificence. There had been a good deal of luxury at the Beeshoe, but always with the feeling that it ought not to be there, that more money was being spent than prudence authorised, which had certainly added a savour to the luxuries. A lovely bonnet! Is it not more lovely, because the destined wearer knows that there is some wickedness in achieving it? All the bonnets, all the claret, all the horses seemed to come at Queen's Gate and at Glen Bogey without any wickedness. There was no more question about them than as to one's ordinary bread and butter at breakfast. Sir Thomas had a way—a merit, shall we call it, or a fault—of pouring out his wealth upon the family as though it were water running in perpetuity from a mountain town. Ayala the Romantic, Ayala the Poetic found very soon that she did not like it. Perhaps the only pleasure left to the very rich is that of thinking of the deprivations of the poor. The bonnets and the claret and the horses have lost their charm, but the Gladstone and the old hats and the four-wheeled cabs of their neighbours still have little flavour for them. From this source it seemed to Ayala that the tringles drew much of the recreation of their lives. Sir Thomas had his way of enjoying this amusement, but it was a way that did not specially come beneath Ayala's notice. When she heard that break at last the Huddersfield manufacturer had to sell his pictures, and that all shoddy and stuff-goods grand doings for the last two years had only been a flash in the pan, she did not understand enough about it to feel wounded. But when she heard her aunt say that people like the poodles had better not have a place in Scotland than have to let it, and when Augusta hinted that Lady Sophia Small Ware had pawned her diamonds, then she felt that her nearest and dearest relatives smelt abominably of money. Of all the family Sir Thomas was most persistently the kindest to her, though he was a man who did not look to be kind. She was pretty, and though he was ugly himself he liked to look at things pretty. He was too, perhaps a little tired of his own wife and daughters, who were indeed what he had made them, but still were not quite to his taste. In a general way he gave instructions that Ayala should be treated exactly as a daughter, and he informed his wife that he intended to add a codicil to his will on her behalf. "'Is that necessary?' asked Lady Tringle, who began to feel something like natural jealousy. "'I suppose I ought to do something for a girl if I take her by the hand,' said Sir Thomas, roughly. If she gets a husband I will give her something, and that will do as well.' Nothing more was said about it, but when Sir Thomas went up to town the codicil was added to his will. Ayala was foolish rather than ungrateful, not understanding the nature of the family to which she was relegated. Before she had been taken away she had promised Lucy that she would be obedient to her aunt. There had hardly been such a word as obedience known at the Bijou. If any were obedient it was the mother and the father to the daughters. Lucy and Ayala as well had understood something of this, and therefore Ayala had promised to be obedient to her aunt. And to Uncle Thomas Lucy had demanded with an imploring embrace. "'Oh yes,' said Ayala, dreading her uncle at that time. She soon learned that no obedience whatsoever was exacted from Sir Thomas. She had to kiss him morning and evening and then to take whatever presence he made her. An easy uncle he was to deal with, and she almost learned to love him. Uncle was Aunt Emmeline very exigent, though she was fantastic and sometimes disagreeable. But Augusta was the great difficulty. Lucy had not told her to obey Augusta, and Augusta she would not obey. Now Augusta demanded obedience. "'You never ordered me,' Ayala had said to Lucy when they met in London as the tringles were passing through. At the Bijou there had been a republic in which all the inhabitants and all the visitors had been free and equal. Such republicanism had been the very mainspring of life at the Bijou. Ayala loved equality, and she especially felt that it should exist among sisters. Do anything for Lucy? Oh yes, indeed, anything, abandon anything. But for Lucy is a sister among sisters, not from elder as from younger. And if she were not bound to serve Lucy, then certainly not Augusta. But Augusta liked to be served. On one occasion she sent Ayala upstairs, and on another she sent Ayala downstairs. Ayala went, but determined to be equal with her cousin. On the morning following, in the presence of Aunt Emmeline and of Gertrude, in the presence also of two other ladies who were visiting at the house, she asked Augusta if she would mind running upstairs and fetching her scrapbook. She had been thinking about it all the night and all the morning, plucking up her courage. But she had been determined. She found a great difficulty in saying the words, but she said them. The thing was so preposterous that all the ladies in the room looked aghast at the proposition. I really think that Augusta has got something else to do, said Aunt Emmeline. Oh, very well, said Ayala. And then they were all silent. Augusta, who was employed on a silk purse, sat still and did not say a word. Had a great secret, or rather a great piece of news which pervaded the family, being previously communicated to Ayala, she would not probably have made so insane a suggestion. Augusta was engaged to be married to the honourable Septimus traffic, the member for Port Glasgow. A young lady who is already half a bride is not supposed to run up and down stairs as readily as a mere girl. For running up and down stairs at the Bijou, Ayala had been proverbial. They were a family who ran up and down with the greatest alacrity. Oh, Papa, my basket is out on the seat, for there had been a seat on the two-foot garden behind the house. Papa would go down in two jumps and come up with three skips, and there was the basket, only because his girl liked him to do something for her. But for him Ayala would run about as though she were a Trixie Ariel. Had the important matrimonial news been conveyed to Ariel, with the true girl's spirit you would have felt that during the present period Augusta was entitled to special exemption from all ordering. Had she herself been engaged she would have run more and quicker than ever, would have been excited there too by the peculiar vitality of her new prospects. But to even Augusta she would be subservient because of her appreciation of bridal importance. She however had not been told till that afternoon. You should not have asked Augusta to go upstairs, said Aunt Emmeline, in a tone of mitigated reproach. Oh, I didn't know, said Ayala. You had meant to say that because she had sent you you were to send her. There is a difference, you know. I didn't know, said Ayala, beginning to think that she should fight her battle if told of such differences as she believed to exist. I had meant to tell you before, but I may as well tell you now. Augusta is engaged to be married to the Honourable Mr. Septimus Trafic. He is second son of Lord Bordetrade and is in the House. Dear me, said Ayala, acknowledging at once within her heart that the difference alleged was one against which she need not rouse herself to the fight. Aunt Emmeline had in truth intended to insist on that difference and another, but her courage had failed her. Yes, indeed, is a man very much thought of just now in public life, and Augusta's mind is naturally much occupied. She writes all those letters in the Times about supply and demand. Does he, Aunt? Ayala did feel that if Augusta's mind was entirely occupied with supply and demand she ought not to be made to go upstairs to fetch a scrapbook, but she had her doubts about Augusta's mind. Nevertheless if the forthcoming husband were true that might be a reason. If anyone had told me before I wouldn't have asked her, she said. Then Lady Tringle explained that it had been thought better not to say anything here to fore as to the coming matrimonial hilarities because of the sadness which had fallen upon the Dorma family. Ayala accepted this as an excuse and nothing further was said as to the iniquity of her request to her cousin. But there was a general feeling among the women that Ayala, in lieu of gratitude, had exhibited an intention of rebelling. On the next day Mr. Traffic arrived, whose coming had probably made it necessary that the news should be told. Ayala was never so surprised in her life as when she saw him. She had never yet had a lover of her own, had never dreamed of a lover, but she had her own idea as to what a lover ought to be. She had thought that Isidore Hummel would be a very nice lover for her sister. Hummel was young, handsome, with a great deal to say on such a general subject as art, but too bashful to talk easily to the girl he admired. Ayala had thought that all that was just as it should be. She was altogether resolved that Hummel and her sister should be lovers and was determined to be devoted to her future brother-in-law. But the honourable Septimus Traffic! It was a question to her whether her uncle Tringle would not have been better as a lover. And yet there was nothing amiss about Mr. Traffic. He was very much like an ordinary hard-working member of the House of Commons over, perhaps rather than under, forty years of age. He was somewhat bald, somewhat gray, somewhat fat, had lost that look of rosy plumpness which is seldom, I fear, compatible with hard work and late hours. He was not particularly ugly, nor was he absurd in appearance, but he looked to be a disciple of business, not of pleasure nor of art. To sit out on the bank of a stream and have him beside one would not be particularly nice, thought Ayala to herself. Mr. Traffic, no doubt, would have enjoyed it very well if he could have spared the time, but to Ayala it seemed that such a man as that could have cared nothing for love. As soon as she saw him and realised in her mind the fact that Augusta was to become his wife, she felt at once the absurdity of sending Augusta on a message. Augusta that evening was somewhat more than ordinarily kind to her cousin. Now that the great secret was told her cousin, no doubt, would recognise her importance. I suppose you had not heard of him before, she said to Ayala. I never did. That's because you have not attended to the debates. I never have. What a debate! Mr. Traffic is very much thought of in the House of Commons on all subjects affecting commerce. Oh! It is the most glorious study which the world affords. The House of Commons, I don't think it can be equal to art. Then Augusta turned up her nose with a double turn, first as against painters, Mr. Dorma having been no more, and then at Ayala's ignorance in supposing that the House of Commons could have been spoken of as a study. Mr. Traffic will probably be in the Government some day, she said. Has he not been yet? asked Ayala. Not yet. Then won't he be very old before he gets there? This was a terrible question. Young ladies of five and twenty, when they marry gentlemen of four and fifty, make up their minds for well-understood and well- recognized old age. They see that they had best declare their purpose, and they do declare it. Of course Mr. Walker is old enough to be my father, but I've made up my mind that I like that better than anything else. Then the wall has been jumped, and the thing can go smoothly. But at forty-five there is supposed to be so much of youth left that the difference of age may possibly be tidied over and not made to appear abnormal. Augusta Tringle had determined to tide it over in this way. The forty-five had been gradually reduced to less than forty, though all the peerages were there to give the lie to the assertion. She talked of her lover as Septimus, and was quite prepared to sit with him beside a stream if only half an hour for the amusement could be found. When therefore Ayala suggested that if her lover wanted to get into office he had better do so quickly, lest he should be too old Augusta was not well pleased. Lord Bordetrade was much older when he began, said Augusta. His friends indeed tell Septimus that he should not push himself forward too quickly, but I don't think that I ever came across anyone who was so ignorant of such things as you are, Ayala. Perhaps he's not so old as he looks, said Ayala. After this it may be imagined that there was not close friendship between the cousins. Augusta's mind was filled with a strong conception as to Ayala's ingratitude. The houseless, penniless orphan had been taken in, and had done nothing but make herself disagreeable. Young! No doubt she was young. But had she been as old as Methuselah she could not have been more insolent. It did not, however, matter to her, Augusta, she was going away, but it would be terrible to her mamma and to Gertrude. Thus it was that Augusta spoke of her cousin to her mother. And then there came another trouble which was more troublesome to Ayala even than the other. Tom Tringle, who was in the house in Lombard Street, who was the only son and heir to the title, and no doubt to much of the wealth, had chosen to take Ayala's part and to enlist himself as her special friend. Ayala had at first accepted him as a cousin and had consented to fraternize with him. Then on some unfortunate day there had been some word or look which she had failed not to understand, and immediately she had become afraid of Tom. Tom was not like Isidore Hummel, was very far indeed from that idea of a perfect lover which Ayala's mind had conceived, but he was by no means a lout or an oaf or an idiot as Ayala in her letters to her sister had described him. He had been first at Eaton and then at Oxford, and having spent a great deal of money recklessly and done but little towards his education, had been withdrawn and put into the office. His father declared of him now that he would do fairly well in the world. He had a taste for dress and kept four or five hunters which he got but little credit by riding. He made a fuss about his shooting, but didn't shoot much. He was stout and awkward looking, very like his father, but without that settled air which age gives to heavy men. In appearance he was not the sort of lover to satisfy the preconceptions of such a girl as Ayala, but he was good-natured and true. At last he became to her terribly true. His love, such as it seemed at first, was absurd to her. If you make yourself such a fool, Tom, I'll never speak to you again, she'd said once. Even after that she'd not understood that it was more than a stupid joke. But the joke, while it was considered as such, was very distasteful to her, and afterwards, when a certain earnestness in it was driven in upon her, it became worse than distasteful. She repudiated his love with such power as she had, but she could not silence him. She could not at all understand that a young man who seemed to her to be an oaf should really be in love, honestly in love with her. But such was the case. Then she became afraid lest others should see it, afraid though she often told herself that she would appeal to her aunt for protection. I tell you, I don't care a bit about you, and you oughtn't to go on, she said. But he did go on, and though her aunt did not see it, Augusta did. Then Augusta spoke a word to her in scorn, Ayala, she said, you should not encourage Tom. Encourage him? What a word from one goal to another! What a world of wrong there was in the idea which had created the word! Not an absence of the sort of feeling which according to Ayala's theory of life there should be on such a matter between two sisters, two cousins, or two friends. Encourage him? When Augusta ought to have been the first to assist her in her trouble. Oh, Augusta, she said, turning sharply round, what a spiteful creature you are! I suppose you think so because I did not choose to approve. Approve of what? Tom is thoroughly disagreeable. Sometimes he makes my life such a burden to me that I think I shall have to go to my aunt, but you are worse. Oh! exclaimed Ayala, shuddering as she thought of the unwomanly treachery of which her cousin was guilty towards her. Nothing more came of it at Glen Bogey. Tom was required in Lombard Street, and the matter was not suspected by Aunt Emmeline, as far at least as Ayala was aware. When he was gone it was to her as though there would be a world of time before she would see him again. They were to go to Rome, and he would not be in Rome till January. Before that he might have gotten his folly. But Ayala was quite determined that she would never forget the ill officers of Augusta. She did hate Augusta as she had told her sister. Then in this frame of mind the family was taken to Rome. CHAPTER VI During her journeying, and during her sojourn at Rome, Ayala did enjoy much, but even those joys did not come to her without causing some trouble of spirit. At Glen Bogey everybody had known that she was a dependent niece, and that as such she was in truth nobody. On that morning when she had ordered Augusta to go upstairs the two visitors had stared with amazement who would not have stared at all had they heard Ayala ordered in the same way. But it came about that in Rome Ayala was almost of more importance than the Tringles. It was absolutely true that Lady Tringle and Augusta and Gertrude were asked here and there because of Ayala, and the worst of it was that the fact was at last suspected by the Tringles themselves. Sometimes they would not always be asked. One of the Tringle girls would only be named, but Ayala was never forgotten. Once or twice an effort was made by some grandlady whose taste was perhaps more conspicuous than her good nature to get Ayala without burdening herself with any of the Tringles. When this became clear to the mind of Augusta, of Augusta engaged as she was to the Honourable Septimus Traffic Member of Parliament, Augusta's feelings were such as may be better understood than described. Don't let her go, Mama," she said to Lady Tringle one morning. But the Marquesa has made such a point of it. Bother the Marquesa, who is the Marquesa? I believe it is all Ayala's doing because she expects to meet that Mr. Hummel. It's dreadful to see the way she goes on. Mr. Hummel is a very intimate friend of her father's. I don't believe a bit of it. He certainly used to be at his house, I remember seeing him. I daresay. But that doesn't justify Ayala in running after him, as she does. I believe that all this about the Marquesa is because of Mr. Hummel. This was better than believing that Ayala was to be asked to sing and that Ayala was to be fated and admired and danced with, simply because Ayala was Ayala, and that they, the Tringles, in spite of Genvogie, Merle Park and Queen's Gate, were not wanted at all. But when Aunt Emilyne signified to Ayala that that particular morning she had better not go to the Marquesa's picnic, Ayala simply said that she had promised, and Ayala went. At this time no gentleman of the family was with them. Sir Thomas had gone and Tom Tringle had not come. Then just at Christmas the honourable Septimus traffic came for short visit. A very short visit, no more than four or five days, because supply and demand were acquiring all his services in preparation for the coming session of Parliament. But for five Halcyon days he was prepared to devote himself to the glories of Rome under the guidance of Augusta. He did not, of course, sleep at the Palazzo Rapperti, where it delighted Lady Tringle to inform her friends in Rome that she had a suite of apartments or premier. But he ate there and drank there and almost lived there, so that it became absolutely necessary to inform the world of Rome that it was Augusta's destiny to become, in course of time, the honourable Mrs. traffic. Otherwise the close intimacy would hardly have been discreet, unless it had been thought, as the ill-natured Marquesa had hinted, that Mr. traffic was Lady Tringle's elder brother. Augusta, however, was by no means ashamed of her lover. Perhaps she felt that when it was known that she was about to be the bride of so greater man, then doors would be open for her at any rate as wide as for her cousin. At this moment she was very important to herself. She was about to convey no less a sum than a hundred and twenty thousand pounds to Mr. traffic, who, in truth, as younger son of Lord Border Trade, was himself not well endowed. Considering her own position and her future husband's rank and standing, she did not know how a young woman could well be more important. She was very important at any rate to Mr. traffic, she was sure of that. When therefore she learned that Ayala had been asked to a grand ball at the Marquesas, that Mr. traffic was also to be among the guests, and that none of the Tringles had been invited, then her anger became hot. She must have been very stupid when she took it into her head to be jealous of Mr. traffic's attention to her cousin, stupid at any rate when she thought that her cousin was laying out feminine lures for Mr. traffic. Poor Ayala! We shall see much of her in these pages, and it may be well to declare of her at once that her ideas at this moment about men, or rather about a possible man, were confined altogether to the abstract. She had, floating in her young mind some fancies as to the beauty of love, that there should be a hero must, of course, be necessary. But in her daydreams this hero was almost celestial, or at least ethereal. It was a concentration of poetic perfection to which there was not as yet any appenage of apparel, of features, or of wealth. It was something out of heaven which should think it well to spend his whole time in adoring her and making her more blessed than had ever yet been a woman upon the earth. Then her first approach to a mundane feeling had been her acknowledgment to herself that Isidore Hummel would do as a lover for Lucy. Isidore Hummel was certainly very handsome, was possessed of infinite good gifts, but even he would by no means have come up to her requirements for her own hero. That hero must have wings tinged with azure, whereas Hummel had not much more etherealized than ordinary coat and waistcoat. She knew that heroes with azure wings were not existent save in the imagination, and as she desired a real lover for Lucy, Hummel would do. But for herself her imagination was too valuable then to allow her to put her foot upon earth. Such as she was, must not Augusta have been very stupid to have thought that Ayala would have become fond of her Mr. Traffic. Her cousin Tom had come to her and had been to her as a newfoundland dog is, when he jumps all over you just when he's come out of a horse pond. She would have liked Tom had he kept his dog-like gambles at a proper distance, but when he would cover her with muddy water he was abominable. But this Augusta had not understood. With Mr. Traffic there would be no dog-like gambles, and as he was not harsh to her Ayala liked him. She had liked her uncle. Such men were to her thinking more like dogs than lovers. She sang when Mr. Traffic asked her and made a picture for him, and went with him to the Coliseum, and laughed at him about supply and demand. She was very pretty, and perhaps Mr. Traffic did like to look at her. I really think you were too free with Mr. Traffic last night, Augusta said to her one morning. Free? How free? You were laughing at him. Oh, he likes that, said Ayala. All that time we were up at the top of St. Peter's, I was quizzing him about his speeches. He lets me say just what I please. This was Wormwood. In the first place there had been a word or two between the lovers about that going up of St. Peter's, and Augusta had refused to join them. She had wished Septimus to remain down with her, which would have been tantamount to preventing any of the party from going up, but Septimus had persisted on ascending. Then Augusta had been left for a long hour alone with her mother. Gertrude had no doubt gone up, but Gertrude had lagged during the ascent. Ayala had skipped up the interminable stairs, and Mr. Traffic had trotted after her with admiring breathless industry. This itself, with the thoughts of the good time which Septimus might be having at the top, was very bad. But now to be told that she, Ayala, should laugh at him, and that he, Septimus, should like it. I suppose he takes you to be a child, said Augusta, but if you are a child you ought to conduct yourself. I suppose he does perceive the difference, said Ayala. She had not in the least known what the words might convey had probably meant nothing. But to Augusta it was apparent that Ayala had declared that her lover, her Septimus, had preferred her extreme youth to the more mature charms of his own true love, or had perhaps preferred Ayala's railery to Augusta's serious demeanour. You are the most impotent person I ever knew in my life, said Augusta rising from her chair and walking slowly out of the room. Ayala stared after her, not above half comprehending the cause of the anger. Then came the very serious affair of the ball. The Marquesa had asked that her dear little friend Ayala Dorma might be allowed to come over to a little dance which her own girls were going to have. Her own girls were so fond of Ayala, there would be no trouble, there was a carriage which would be going somewhere else and she would be fetched and taken home. Ayala had once declared that she intended to go and her aunt Emmeline did not refuse her sanction. Augusta was shocked, declaring that the little dance was to be one of the great balls of the season and pronouncing the whole to be a falsehood, but the affair was arranged before she could stop it. But Mr. Traffic's affair in the matter came more within her range. Septimus, she said, I would rather you would not go to that woman's party. Augustus had been asked only in the day before the party as soon indeed as his arrival had become known to the Marquesa. Why my own one? She has not treated Mamar well, nor yet me. Ayala is going. He had no right to call her Ayala, so Augusta thought. My cousin is behaving badly in the matter and Mamar ought not to allow her to go. Who knows anything about the Marquesa Baldoni? Both he and she are of the very best families in Rome, said Mr. Traffic, who knew everything about it. At any rate they are behaving very badly to us, and I will take it as a favour that you do not go. Asking Ayala and then asking you, as good as from the same house is too marked, you ought not to go. Perhaps Mr. Traffic had on some former occasion felt some little interference with his freedom of action. Perhaps he liked the acquaintance of the Marquesa. Perhaps he liked Ayala Dorma. Be that as it might he did not yield. Dear Augusta, it is right that I should go there, if it be only for half an hour. This he said in a tone of voice with which Augusta was already acquainted which she did not love, and which when she heard it would make her think of her a hundred and twenty thousand pounds. When he had spoken he left her, and she began to think of her a hundred and twenty thousand pounds. They both went, Ayala and Mr. Traffic, and Mr. Traffic, instead of staying half an hour, brought Ayala back at three o'clock in the morning. Though Mr. Traffic was nearly as old as Uncle Tringle, yet he could dance. Ayala had been astonished to find how well he could dance, and thought that she might please her cousin Augusta by praising the juvenility of her lover at lunch in the next day. She had not appeared at breakfast, but had been full of the ball at lunch. Oh, dear, yes, I dare say there were two hundred people there. That is what she calls a little dance, said Augusta, with scorn. I suppose that's the Italian way of talking about it, said Ayala. Italian way? I hate Italian ways. Mr. Traffic liked it very much. I'm sure he'll tell you so. I had no idea he would care to dance. Augusta only shook herself and turned up her nose. Mr. Tringle thought it necessary to say something in defense of her daughter's choice. Why should not Mr. Traffic dance like any other gentleman? Oh, I don't know. I thought that a man who makes so many speeches in Parliament would think of something else. I was very glad he did, for he danced three times with me. He can waltz as lightly as—as though he were young, she was going to say, but then she stopped herself. He's the best dancer I ever danced with, said Augusta. But you almost never do dance, said Ayala. I suppose I may know about it, as well as another, said Augusta angrily. The next day was the last of Mr. Traffic's sojourn in Rome, and on that day here in Augusta so quarrelled that for a certain number of hours it was almost supposed in the family that the match would be broken off. On the afternoon of the day after the dance Mr. Traffic was walking with Ayala on the pincean, while Augusta was absolutely remaining behind with her mother. For a quarter of an hour, the whole days it seemed to Augusta, there was a full two hundred yards between them. It was not that the engaged girl could not bear the severance, but that she could not endure the attention paid to Ayala. On the next morning she had it out, as some people say, with her lover. If I am to be treated in this way you had better tell me so at once, she said. I know no better way of treating you, said Mr. Traffic. Dancing with that chit all night, turning her head and then walking with her all the next day, I will not put up with such conduct. Mr. Traffic valued a hundred and twenty thousand pounds very highly, as do most men, and would have done much to keep it, but he believed that the best way of making sure of it would be by showing himself to be the master. My own one, he said, you are really making an ass of yourself. Very well, then I will write to Papa and let him know that it must all be over. For three hours there was terrible trouble in the apartments in the Palazzo Ruperti, during which Mr. Traffic was enjoying himself by walking up and down the forum, and calculating how many Romans could have congregated themselves in the space which is supposed to have seen so much of the world's doings. During this time Augusta was very frequently in hysterics, but whether in hysterics or out of them she would not allow Ayala to come near her. She gave it to be understood that Ayala had interfered fatally, foully, damnably with all her happiness. She demanded from Fit to Fit that telegram should be sent over to bring her father to Italy for her protection. She would rave about Septimus, and then swear that under no consideration whatever would she ever see him again. At the end of three hours she was told that Septimus was in the drawing-room. Lady Tringle had sent half a dozen messengers after him, and at last he was found looking up at the Arch of Titus. "'Bid him go,' said Augusta, "'I never want to behold him again.' But within two minutes she was in his arms, and before dinner she was able to take a stroll with him on the pincean. He left, like a thriving lover high in the good graces of his beloved, but the anger which had fallen on Ayala had not been removed. Then came a rumour that the Marquesa, who was half English, had called Ayala Cinderella, and the name had added fuel to the fire of Augusta's wroth. There was much said about it between Lady Tringle and her daughter, the aunt really feeling that more blame was being attributed to Ayala than she deserved. "'Perhaps she gives herself airs,' said Lady Tringle, but really it's no more. "'She's a viper,' said Augusta.' Gertrude rather took Ayala's part, telling her mother in private that the accusation about Mr. Traffic was absurd. "'The truth is,' said Gertrude, that Ayala thinks herself very clever and very beautiful, and Augusta will not stand it.' Gertrude acknowledged that Ayala was upsetting and ungrateful, for Lady Tringle in her husband's absence did not know what to do about her niece. Altogether they were uncomfortable after Mr. Traffic went and before Tom Tringle had come. On no consideration whatsoever would Augusta speak to her cousin. She declared that Ayala was a viper and would give no other reason. In all such quarrelings the matter most distressing is that the evil cannot be hidden. Everybody at Rome, who knew the Tringles or who knew Ayala, was aware that Augusta Tringle would not speak to her cousin. When Ayala was asked she would shake her locks and open her eyes and declare that she knew nothing about it. In truth she knew very little about it. She remembered that passage in arms about the going upstairs at Glen Bogey, but she could hardly understand that for so small on her front and one so distant Augusta would now refuse to speak to her. That Augusta had always been angry with her, and since Mr. Traffic's arrival more angry than ever she had felt, but that Augusta was jealous in respect to her lover had never yet all come home to Ayala. That she should have wanted to captivate Mr. Traffic, she with her high ideas of some transcendental more-than-human hero, but she had to put up with it and to think of it. She had sense enough to know that she was no more than a stranger in her aunt's family and that she must go if she made herself unpleasant to them. She was aware that hitherto she had not succeeded with her residence among them. Perhaps she might have to go. Some things she would bear, and in them she would endeavour to amend her conduct. In other matters she would hold her own and go, if necessary. Though her young imagination was still full of her unsubstantial hero, though she still had her castles in the air altogether incapable of terrestrial foundation, still there was a common sense about her which told her that she must give and take. She would endeavour to submit herself to her aunt. She would be kind, as she had always been kind, to Gertrude. She would, in all matters, obey her uncle. Her misfortune with the newfound and dog had almost dwindled out of her mind. To Augusta she could not submit herself. But then Augusta, as soon as the next session of Parliament should be over, would be married out of the way. And on her own part she did think that her aunt was inclined to take her part in the quarrel with Augusta. Thus matters were going on in Rome when they came up another and a worse cause of trouble. End of Chapter 6