 CHAPTER 31 The Diamond Necklace Tom went up to London intent upon his diamonds, to tell the truth he had already made the purchase subject to some question of ready money. He now paid for it after considerable shuffling as to the odd pounds which he succeeded in bringing to a successful termination. Then he carried the necklace away with him, revolving in his mind the different means of presentation. He thought that a letter might be best if only he was master of the language in which such a letter should probably be written, but he entirely doubted his own powers of composition. He was so modest in this respect that he would not even make an attempt. He knew himself well enough to be aware that he was, in many respects, ignorant. He would have endeavoured to take the necklace personally to Ayala had he not been conscious that he could not recommend his present with such romantic phrases and touches of poetry as would be gratifying to her fine sense. Were he to find himself in her presence with the necklace, he must depend on himself for his words. But a letter might be sent in his own handwriting, the poetry and romance of which might be supplied by another. Now it had happened that Tom had formed a marvellous friendship in Rome with Colonel Stubbs. They had been hunting together in the Campania, and Tom had been unable to accommodate the Colonel with the loan of a horse when his own had been injured. They had since met in London, and Stubbs had declared to more than one of his friends that Tom, in spite of his rings and his jewellery, was a very good fellow at bottom. Tom had been greatly flattered by the intimacy, and had lately been gratified by an invitation to Aldershot in order that the military glories of the camp might be shown to him. He had accepted the invitation, and a day in the present week had been fixed. Then it occurred to him suddenly that he knew no one so fitted to write such a letter as that demanded, as his friend Colonel Jonathan Stubbs. He had an idea that the Colonel, in spite of his red hair, and in spite of a certain aptitude for drollery which pervaded him, had a romantic side to his character, and he felt confident that as to the use of language the Colonel was very great indeed. He therefore, when he went to Aldershot, carefully put the bracelet in his breast pocket, and determined to reveal his secret and to ask for aid. The day of his arrival was devoted to the ordinary pursuits of Aldershot and the evening to festivities which were prolonged too late into the night to enable him to carry out his purpose before he went to bed. He arranged to leave on the next morning by a train between ten and eleven, and was told that three or four men would come into breakfast at half-past nine. His project then seemed to be all but hopeless, but at last with great courage he made an effort. Colonel said he, just as they were going to bed, I wonder if you could give me half an hour before breakfast, it's a matter of great importance. Tom, as he said this, assumed a most solemn face. An hour, if you like, my dear boy, I'm generally up soon after six, and I'm always out on horseback before breakfast as soon as the light serves. Then if you'll have me called at half-past seven, I shall be ever so much obliged to you. The next morning at eight the two were closeted together, and Tom immediately extracted the parcel from his pocket and opened the diamonds to view. "'Upon my word, that is a pretty little trinket,' said the Colonel, taking the necklace in his hand. "'Three hundred guineas,' said Tom, opening his eyes very wide. I dare say. That is, it would have been three hundred guineas unless I had come down with the ready. I made the fella give me twenty percent off. You should always remember this when you're buying jewellery.' "'And what is to be done with this pretty thing? I suppose it's intended for some fair lady's neck.' "'Oh, of course.' "'And why has it been brought down to Aldershot? There are plenty of fellas about this place who will get their hands into your pocket if they know that you have such a trinket as that about you.' "'I'll tell you why I brought it,' said Tom, very gravely. "'It is, as you say, for young lady. I intend to make that young lady my wife. Of course this is a secret, you know. It shall be as sacred as the pope's toes,' said Stubbs. "'Don't joke about it, Colonel, if you please. It's life and death to me. I'll keep your secret, and will not joke. Now, what can I do for you?' "'I must send this as a present with a letter. I must first tell you that she has, well, refused me.' "'That never means much the first time, old boy. She has refused me half a dozen times. But I mean to go on with it. If she refuses me two dozen times, I'll try her a third dozen. And you're quite in earnest.' "'I am. It's a kind of thing I know that men laugh about, but I don't mind telling you that I'm downright in love with her. The Governor approves of it.' "'She has got money, probably. Not as shilling, not as much as would buy a pair of gloves. But I don't love her a bit the less for that. As to income the Governor will stump up like a brick. Now I want you to write the letter. It's a kind of thing a third person can't do, said the Colonel, when he had considered the request for a moment. Why not? Yes, you can. Do it yourself, and say just the simplest words as they come up. They are sure to go further with any girl than what another man may write. It is impossible that another man should be natural on such a task as that.' "'Natural? I don't know about natural,' said Tom, who is anxious now to explain the character of the lady in question. I don't know that a letter that was particularly natural would please her. A touch of poetry and romance would go further than anything natural. "'Who is the lady?' asked the Colonel, who was certainly by this time entitled to be so far inquisitive. "'She's my cousin, Ayala Dorma.' "'Who?' "'Ayala Dorma, my cousin. She was at Rome, but I do not think you ever saw her there. "'I have seen her since,' said the Colonel. "'Have you? I didn't know. She was with my aunt, Marquesa Baldoni.' "'Dear me, so she was. I never put the two things together. Don't you admire her?' "'Certainly I do. My dear fellow, I can't write this letter for you.' Then he put down the pen which he had taken up as though he had intended to comply with his friend's request. You may take it as settled that I cannot write it.' "'No?' "'Impossible. One man should never write such a letter for another man. You had better give the thing in person, that is, if you mean to go on with the matter.' "'I shall certainly go on with it,' said Tom Stoutly. "'After a certain time, you know, reiterated offers, do, you know, do, do partake of the nature of persecution. Reiterated refusals are the sort of persecution I don't like. It seems to me that Ayala, Miss Dorma, I mean, should be protected by a sort of feeling of—of what I may perhaps call her dependent position. She is peculiarly—peculiarly situated. If she married me, she would be much better situated. I could give her everything she wants. It isn't an affair of money, Mr. Dringle.' Tom felt from the use of the word Mr. that he was in some way giving offence, but felt also that there was no true cause for offence. When a man offers everything, he said, and asks for nothing, I don't think he should be said to persecute. After a time it becomes persecution, I'm sure Ayala would feel it so. "'My cousin can't suppose that I'm ill using her,' said Tom, who disliked the Ayala quite as much as he did the Mr. "'Miss Dorma,' I meant. I can have nothing further to say about it. I can't write the letter, and I should not imagine that Ayala, Miss Dorma, would be moved in the least by any present that could possibly be made to her. I must go out now, if you don't mind, for half an hour, but I shall be back in time for breakfast.' Then Tom was left alone with the necklace lying on the table before him. He knew that something was wrong with the colonel, but could not in the least guess what it might be. He was quite aware that early in the interview the colonel had encouraged him to persevere with the lady, and had then suddenly not only advised him to desist, but had told him in so many words that he was bound to desist out of consideration for the lady. Then the colonel had spoken of his cousin in a manner that was distasteful to him. He could not analyse his feelings. He did not exactly know why he was displeased, but he was displeased. The colonel, when asked for his assistance, was of course bound to talk about the lady, would be compelled by the nature of the confidence to mention the lady's name, would even have been called on to write her Christian name. But this he should have done with the delicacy almost with a blush. Instead of that, Ayala's name had been common on his tongue. Tom felt himself to be offended, but hardly knew why. And then why had he been called Mr. Tringle? The breakfast, which was eaten shortly afterwards in the company of three or four other men, was not eaten in comfort. And then Tom hurried back to London and to Lombard Street. After this failure Tom felt it to be impossible to go to another friend for assistance. There had been annoyance in describing his love to colonel Stubbs and pain in the treatment he had received. Even had there been another friend to whom he could have confided the task, he could not have brought himself to encounter the repetition of such treatment. He was as firmly fixed as ever in his conviction that he could not write the letter himself. And as he thought of the words with which he should accompany a personal presentation of the necklace, he reflected that in all probability he might not be able to force his way into Ayala's presence. Then a happy thought struck him. Mrs. Dossett was altogether on his side. Everybody was on his side except Ayala herself and that pig-headed colonel. Would it not be an excellent thing to entrust the necklace to the hands of his aunt Dossett in order that she might give it over to Ayala with all the eloquence in her power? Satisfied with this project, he had once wrote a note to Mrs. Dossett. My dear aunt, I want to see you on most important business. If I shall not be troubling you, I will call upon you to-morrow at ten o'clock before I go to my place of business, yours affectionately, T. Tringle, Jr. On the following morning he apparalled himself with all his rings. He was a good-hearted, well-intentioned young man with excellent qualities, but he must have been slow of intellect when he had not as yet learnt the deleterious effect of all those rings. On this occasion he put on his rings his chains and his bright waistcoat, and made himself a thing disgusting to be looked at by any well-trained female. As far as his aunt was concerned he would have been altogether indifferent as to his appearance, but there was present to his mind some small hope that he might be allowed to see Ayala as the immediate result of the necklace. Should he see Ayala, then how unfortunate it would be that he should present himself before the eyes of his mistress without those adornments which he did not doubt would be grateful to her. He had heard from Ayala's own lips that all things ought to be pretty, therefore he endeavoured to make himself pretty. Of course he failed, as do all men who endeavour to make themselves pretty, but it was out of the question that he should understand the cause of his failure. Aunt Dosset, I want you to do me a very great favour. He began with a solemn voice. Are you going to a party, Tom? she said. A party? No, who gives a party in London at this time of day. Oh, you mean because I've just got a few things on. When I call anywhere I always do. I have another lady to see, a lady of rank, so I just made a change. But this was a fib. What can I do for you, Tom? I want you to look at that. Then he brought out the necklace, and taking it out of the case, displayed the gems tastefully upon the table. I do believe they're diamonds, said Mrs. Dosset. Yes, they're diamonds. I'm not the sort of fellow to get anything sham. What do you think that little thing cost, Aunt Dosset? I haven't an idea. Sixty pounds, perhaps? Sixty pounds? Do you go into a doula's shop and see what you could do among diamonds for sixty pounds? I never go into doula's shops, Tom. Nor I, very often. It's a sort of place where a fellow can drop a lot of money. But I did go into one after this. It doesn't look much, does it? It is very pretty. I think it's pretty. Well, Aunt Dosset, the price for that little trifle was three hundred guineas. As he said this he looked into his aunt's face for increased admiration. You gave three hundred guineas for it? I went with ready money in my hand, when I tempted the man with the check to let me have it for two hundred and fifty pounds. In buying jewellery you should always do that. I never buy jewellery, said Mrs. Dosset crossly. If you should, I mean. Now, I'll tell you what I want you to do. This is for Ayala. For Ayala? Yes, indeed. I'm not the fellow to stick at a trifle when I want to carry my purpose. I bought this the other day and gave ready money for it, two hundred and fifty pounds on purpose to give it to Ayala. In naming the value, of course you'll do that when you give it her. You might as well say three hundred guineas. That was the price on the ticket. I saw it myself, so there won't be any untruth, you know. Am I to give it to her? That's just what I want. When I talk to her she flares up and as likely as not you'll fling the necklace at my head. She wouldn't do that, I hope. It would depend upon how the thing went. When I do talk to her it always seems that nothing I say can be right. Now, if you will give it her you can put in all manner of pretty things. This itself will be the prettiest thing, said Mrs. Dosset. That's just what I was thinking. Everybody agrees that diamonds will go further with a girl than anything else. When I told a governor he quite jumped at the idea. Sir Thomas knows you're giving it. Oh, dear yes, I had to get the rhino from him. I don't go about with two hundred and fifty pounds always in my own pocket. If he had sent the money to Ayala how much better it would have been, said poor Mrs. Dosset. I don't think that at all. Whoever heard of making a present to a young lady in money. Ayala is romantic, and that would have been the most unromantic thing out. That would not have done me the least good in the world. It would simply have gone to buy boots and petticoats and such like. A girl would never be brought to think of her lover merely by putting on a pair of boots. When she fastens such a necklace as this around her throat he ought to have a chance. Don't you think so, Aunt Dosset? Tom, shall I tell you something, said the aunt? What is it, Aunt Dosset? I don't believe that you have a chance. Do you mean that? He asked sorrowfully. I do. You think that the necklace will do no good? Not the least. Of course I will offer it to her if you wish it, because her uncle and I quite approve of you as a husband for Ayala. But I'm bound to tell you the truth. I do not think the necklace will do you any good. Then he sat silent for a time meditating upon his condition. It might be imprudent. It might be a wrong done to his father to jeopardize the necklace. How would it be if Ayala were to take the necklace and not to take him? Am I to give it? she asked. Yes, said he bravely, but with a sigh. Give it her all the same. From you or from Sir Thomas? Oh, from me, from me. If she were told it came from the Governor, she'd keep it, whether or no. I'm sure I hope she will keep it, he said, trying to remove the rad impression which his former words might perhaps have left. You may be sure she will not keep it, said Mrs. Dosset, unless she should intend to accept your hand. Of that I can hold out no hope to you. There is a matter, Tom, which I think I should tell you, as you are so straightforward in your offer. Another gentleman has asked her to marry him. She has accepted him, exclaimed Tom. No, she has not accepted him, she has refused him. Then I'm just where I was, said Tom. She has refused him, but I think that she is in a sort of way attached to him, and though he too has been refused, I imagine that his chance is better than yours. And who the devil is, he said, Tom, jumping up from his seat in great excitement. Tom, exclaimed Mrs. Dosset. I beg your pardon, but you see this is very important. Who is the fellow? He is one Colonel Jonathan Stubbs. Who? Colonel Jonathan Stubbs. Impossible! It can't be Colonel Stubbs. I know Colonel Stubbs. I can assure you it is true, Tom. I have had a letter from a lady, a relative of Colonel Stubbs, telling me the whole story. Colonel Stubbs, he said, that passes anything I ever heard. She has refused him? Yes, she has refused him. And has not accepted him since? She certainly has not accepted him yet. You may give her the necklace all the same, said Tom, hurrying out of the room, that Colonel Stubbs should have made an offer to Ayala, and yet have accepted his Tom Tringles confidence. End of Chapter 31 Chapter 32 of Ayala's Angel The slip of ox recording is in the public domain. Ayala's Angel by Anthony Trollop, Chapter 32 Tom's Despair The reader will understand that the fate of the necklace was very soon decided. Ayala declared that it was very beautiful. She had, indeed, a pretty taste for diamonds, and would have been proud enough to call this necklace her own. But, as she declared to her aunt, she would not accept Tom, though he were made of diamonds from head to foot, except Tom, when she could not even bring herself to think of becoming the wife of Jonathan Stubbs. If Colonel Stubbs could not be received by her imagination as an angel of light, how immeasurably distant from anything angelic must be Tom Tringle. Of course it must go back, she said, when the question had to be decided as to the future fate of the necklace. As a consequence, poor Mr. Dossett was compelled to make a special journey into the city, and to deposit a well-sealed parcel in the hands of Tom Tringle himself. Your cousin sends her kind regards, he said, but cannot bring herself to accept your magnificent present. Tom had been very much put about since his visit to the Crescent. Had his aunt merely told him that his present would be inefficacious, he would have taken that assurance as being simply her opinion, and would have still entertained some hopes in the diamonds. But these tidings as to another lover crushed him altogether, and such a lover, the very man whom he'd asked to write his letter for him. Why had not Colonel Stubbs told him the truth when thus his own secret had become revealed by an accident? He understood it all now, the Ayala and the Mr., and the reason why the Colonel could not write the letter. Then he became very angry with the Colonel whom he bitterly accused of falsehood and treason. What right had the Colonel to meddle with his cousin at all, and how false he had been to say nothing of what he himself had done when his rival had told him everything? In this way he made up his mind that it was his duty to hate Colonel Stubbs, and if possible to inflict some personal punishment upon him. He was reckless of himself now, and if he could only get one good blow at the Colonel's head with a thick stick, would be indifferent as to what the law might do with him afterwards. Or perhaps he might be able to provoke Colonel Stubbs to fight with him. He had an idea that duels at present were not in fashion, but nevertheless in such a case as this a man ought to fight. He could at any rate have the gratification of calling the Colonel a coward if he should refuse to fight. He was the more wretched, because his spirit within him was cowed by the idea of the Colonel. He did acknowledge to himself that his chance could be but bad while such a rival as Colonel Stubbs stood in his way. He tried to argue with himself that it was not so. As far as he knew Colonel Stubbs was and would remain a very much less rich man than himself. He doubted very much whether Colonel Stubbs could keep a carriage in London for his wife, while it had been already arranged that he was to be allowed to do so should he succeed in marrying Ayala. To be a partner in the house of Travis and Treason was a much greater thing than to be a Colonel. But though he assured himself of all this again and again, still he was cowed. There was something about the Colonel which did more than redeem his red hair and ugly mouth, and of this something poor Tom was sensible. Nevertheless if occasion should arise he thought that he could punch the Colonel's head, not without evil consequence to himself, but still that he could punch the Colonel's head, not minding the consequences. Such had been his condition of mind when he left the Crescent, and it was not improved by the receipt of the parcel. He hardly said a word when his uncle put it into his hands, merely muttering something and consigning the diamonds to his desk. He did not tell himself that Ayala must now be abandoned. It would have been better for him if he could have done so. But all real springing hopeful hope departed from his bosom. This came from the Colonel rather than from the rejected necklace. Did you send that jewellery? His father asked him some days afterwards. Yes, I sent it. And what has now become of it? It's in my desk here. Did she send it back again? It came back. My uncle Dossett brought it. I do not want to say anything more about it, if you please. I am sorry for that, Tom. Very sorry. As you had set your heart upon it, I wish it could have been as you would have it. But the necklace should not be left there. Tom shook his head in despair. You'd better let me have the necklace. It's not that I should grudge it to you, Tom, if it could do you any good. You shall have it, sir. It will be better so. That was the understanding. Then the necklace was transferred to some receptacle belonging to Sir Thomas himself, the lock of which might probably be more secure than that of Tom's desk. And there it remained in its case still folded in the various papers in which Mrs. Dossett had encased it. Then Tom found it necessary to adopt some other mode of life for his own consolation and support. He had told his father on one occasion that he had devoted himself for a fortnight to Champagne and the theatres, but this had been taken as a joke. He had been fairly punctual at his place of business and had shown no symptoms of fast living. But now it occurred to him that fast living would be the only thing for him. He had been quite willing to apply himself to marriage in a steady life, but fortune had not favoured him. If he drank too much now and lay in bed and became idle, it was not his fault. There came into his head an idea that Ayala and Colonel Stubbs between them must look to that. Could he meet Ayala, he would explain to her how his character as a moral man had been altogether destroyed by her conduct. And should he meet Colonel Stubbs, he would explain something to him also. A new club had been established in London lately called the Mountaineers, which had secured for itself handsome lodgings in Piccadilly, and considered itself to be among clubs rather a comfortable institution than otherwise. It did not as yet affect much fashion, having hitherto secured among its members only two lords, and they were lords by courtesy. But it was a pleasant jovial place in which the delights of young men were not impeded by the austerity of their elders. Its name would be excused only on the plea that all other names available for a club had already been appropriated in the Metropolis. There was certainly nothing in the club peculiarly applicable to mountains. But then there are other clubs in London with names which might be open to similar criticism. It was the case that many young men engaged in the city had been enrolled among its members, and it was from this cause, no doubt, that Tom Tringle was regarded as being a leading light among the Mountaineers. It was here that the champagne had been drunk to which Tom had alluded when talking of his love to his father. Now, in his despair, it seemed good to him to pass a considerable portion of his time among the Mountaineers. He'll dine here, Faddle. He said one evening to a special friend of his, a gentleman also from the city with whom he had been dining a good deal during the last week. I suppose I shall, said Faddle, but ain't we coming at a little strong? They want to know at the gardens what the deuce it is I'm about. The gardens was a new row of houses latterly christened badminton gardens in which resided the father and mother of Faddle. I've given up all that kind of thing, said Tom. Your people are not in London. It will make no difference when they do come up. I call an evening in the bosom of one's family about the slowest thing there is. The bosom must do without me for the future. Won't your governor cut up rough? He must cut up as he pleases, but I rather fancy he knows all about it. I shan't spend half as much money this way as if I had a house and a wife and family, and what we may call a bosom of one's own. Then they had dinner and went to the theatre and played billiards and had supper, and spent the night in a manner very delightful, no doubt to themselves, but of which their elder friends could hardly have approved. There was a good deal of this following upon the episode of The Necklace, and it must be told with regret that our young hero fell into certain exploits which were by no means creditable to him. More than one good-humoured policeman had helped him home to his lodgings, but alas on Christmas Eve he fell into the hands of some guardian of the peace who was not quite sufficiently good-natured. And Tom passed the night in the greater part of the following morning recumbent, he in one cell and his friend faddle in the next, with an intimation that they would certainly be taken before a magistrate on the day after Christmas day. Oh, Ayala! Ayala! It must be acknowledged that you were in a measure responsible, and not only for the lamentable condition of your lover, but also of that of his friend. For in his softer moments Tom had told everything to faddle, and faddle had declared that he would be true to the death to a friend's suffering such unmerited misfortune. Perhaps the fidelity of faddle may have owed something to the fact that Tom's pecuniary allowances were more generous than those accorded to himself. To Ayala must be attributed the occurrence of these misfortunes. But Tom, in his more fiery moments, those moments which would come between the subsidence of actual sobriety and the commencement of intoxication, attributed all his misfortunes to the colonel. Faddle, he would say in these moments, of course I know that I am a ruined man, of course I am aware that all this is only a prelude to some ignominious end. I have not sunk to this kind of thing without feeling it. You'll be right enough some day, old fellow, Faddle would reply. I shall live to be godfather to the first boy. Never, Faddle, Tom replied, all those hopes have vanished, you'll never live to see any child of mine, and I know well where to look for my enemy. Stubs indeed, I'll stubs him. If I can only live to be revenged on that traitor then I shall die contented, though he shot me through the heart I should die contented. This had happened a little before that unfortunate Christmas Eve. Up to this time Sir Thomas, though he had known well that his son had not been living as he should do, had been mild in his remonstrances, and had said nothing at Merle Park to frighten Lady Tringle. But the affair of Christmas Eve came to his ears with all its horrors. A policeman whom Tom had struck with his fist in the pit of the stomach had not been civil enough to accept this mark of familiarity with good humour. He had been much inconvenienced by the blow, and had insisted upon giving testimony to this effect before the magistrate. There had been half an hour, he said, in which he had hung dubious between this world and the next, so great had been the violence of the blow and so deadly its direction. The magistrate was one of these just men who find a pleasure in a duty in protecting the police of the metropolis. It was no case, he declared, for a fine. What would be a fine to such a one as Thomas Tringle, Junior? And Tom, Tom Tringle, the only son of Sir Thomas Tringle, the senior partner in the Great House of Travers and Treason, was ignominiously locked up for a week. Fatal, who had not struck the blow, was allowed to depart with a fine and a warning. Oh, Ayala, Ayala, this was thy doing. When the sentence was known Sir Thomas used all his influence to extricate his unfortunate son, but in vain. Tom went through his penalty, and having no help from Champagne, Douglas had a bad time of it. Ayala, Stubbs, the policeman and the magistrate, seemed to have conspired to destroy him. But the week had last dragged itself out, and then Tom found himself confronted with his father in the back parlor of the house in Queen's Gate. Tom, he said, this is very bad. It is bad, Sir, said Tom. You have disgraced me and your mother and yourself. You have disgraced Travers and Treason. Poor Tom shook his head. It will be necessary, I fear, that you should leave the house altogether. Tom stood silent without a word. A young man, who has been locked up in prison for a week for maltreating a policeman, can hardly expect to be entrusted with such concerns as those of Travers and Treason. I and your poor mother cannot get rid of you and the disgrace which you have entailed upon us. Travers and Treason can easily get rid of you. Tom knew very well that his father was, in fact, Travers and Treason, but he did not yet feel that an opportunity had come in which he could wisely speak a word. What have you got to save yourself, Sir? demanded Sir Thomas. Of course I am very sorry, muttered Tom. Sorry, Tom! A young man holding your position in Travers and Treason ought not to have to be sorry for having been locked up in prison for a week for maltreating a policeman. What do you think must be done yourself? The man had been hauling me about in the street. You were drunk, no doubt. I had been drinking. I'm not going to tell a lie about it, but he needn't have done as he did. Faddle knows that and can tell you. What can have driven you to associate with such a young man as Faddle? That's the worst part of it. Do you know what Faddle and Company are? Stocked jobbers, who ten years ago hadn't a thousand pounds in the way of capital among them. They've been connected with a dozen companies, none of which are floating now, and have made money out of them all. Do you think that Travers and Treason will accept a young man as a partner who associates with such people as that? I've seen old Faddle's name in yours and the same prospectus together, Sir. What is that to do with it? You never saw him inside our counter. What a name to appear along with yours in such an affair as this! If it hadn't been for that, you might have got over it. Young men will be young men. Faddle! I think you will have to go abroad for a time till it has been forgotten. I should like to stay just at present, Sir, said Tom. What good can you do? All the same, I should like to stay, Sir. I was thinking that if you were to take a tour through the United States, go across to San Francisco, then up to Japan, and from thence through some of the Chinese cities down to Calcutta and Bombay, you might come back by the Euphrates Valley to Constantinople, see something of Bulgaria in those countries, and so home by Vienna and Paris. The Euphrates Valley railway will be finished by that time, perhaps, and Bulgaria will be as settled as Hertfordshire. You'd see something of the world, and I could let it be understood that you were travelling on behalf of Travers and Treason. By the time that you were back, people in the city would have forgotten the policemen, and if you could manage to write home three or four letters about our trade with Japan and China, they would be willing to forget Faddle. But, Sir, shouldn't you like a tour of that kind? Very much indeed, Sir, only—only what, Tom? Ayala, said Tom, hardly able to suppress a sob as he uttered the fatal name. Tom, don't be a fool. You can't make a young woman have you if she doesn't choose. I've done all that I could for you because I saw that you'd set your heart upon it. I went to her myself, and then I gave two hundred and fifty pounds for that bobble. I'm told I shall have to lose a third of the sum in getting rid of it. Riccola told me that he'd take it back at two hundred and twenty, said Tom, whose mind, prostrate as it was, was still alive to consideration of profit and loss. Never mind that for the present, said Sir Thomas. Don't you remember the old song? If she will, she will, you may depend on it, and if she won't, she won't, and there's an end on it. You ought to be a man and pluck up your spirits. Are you going to allow a little girl to knock you about in that way? Tom only shook his head and looked as if he was very ill. In truth, the champagne and the imprisonment and Ayala together had altogether altered his appearance. We've done what we could about it, and now it's time to give it over. Let me hear you say you'll give it over." Tom stood speechless before his father. Speak the word, and the thing will be done, continued Sir Thomas, endeavouring to encourage the young man. I can't, said Tom, sighing. Nonsense! I have tried, and I can't. Tom, do you mean to say that you're going to lose everything because a chit of a girl like that turns up her nose at you? It's no use my going while things are like this, said Tom. If I was to get to New York, I should come back by the next ship. As for letters about business, I couldn't settle my mind to anything of the kind. Then you're not the man I took you to be, said his father. I could be man enough, said Tom, clenching his fist, if I could get hold of Colonel Stubbs. Colonel who? Stubbs. Jonathan Stubbs. I know what I'm talking about. I'm not going to America nor China nor anything else till I've polished him off. It's all very well you're abusing me, but you don't know what it is I've suffered. As for being called a man, I don't care about it. What I should like best would be to get Ayala on one side and Stubbs on the other, and then all three to go off the Duke of York's column together. It's no good talking about Travers and Treason. I don't care for Travers and Treason as I am now. If you'll get Ayala to say that she'll have me, I'll go to the shop every morning at eight and stay till nine, and as for the mountaineers it may all go to the devil for me. Then he rushed out of the room, banging the door after him. Sir Thomas, when he was thus left, stood for a while with his hands in his trousers' pockets, contemplating the condition of his son. It was wonderful to him that a boy of his should be afflicted in this manner. When he had been struck by the juvenile beauties of Emmeline Dossett, he had at once asked the young lady to share his fortunes with him, and the young lady had speedily acceded to his request. Then he'd been married, and that was all he had ever known of the troubles of love. He could not but think, looking back at it, as he did now from a distance, that had Emmeline been hard-hearted, he would have endured the repulsion of past on speedily to some other charmer. But Tom had been wounded after a fashion which seemed to him to have been very uncommon. It might be possible that he should recover in time, but while undergoing recovery he would be ruined, so great were the young man's sufferings. Now Sir Thomas, though he had spoken to Tom with all the severity which he had been able to assume, though he had abused fatal and had vindicated the injured dignity of Travers and Treason with all his eloquence, though he had told Tom it was unmanly to give way to his love, yet of living creatures Tom was at this moment the dearest to his heart. He had never for an instant entertained the idea of expelling Tom from Travers and Treason because of the policeman or because of fatal. What should he do for the poor boy now? Was there any argument, any means of persuasion, by which he could induce that foolish little girl to accept all the good things which he was ready to do for her? Could he try yet once again himself with any chance of success? Thinking of all this, he stood there for an hour alone with his hands in his trousers pockets. End of Chapter thirty-two Chapter thirty-three of Ayala's Angel This Librivox recording is in the public domain. Ayala's Angel by Anthony Trollop Chapter thirty-three is at Orhamal in Lombard Street. In following the results of Tom's presentation of the necklace we have got beyond the period which our story is presumed to have reached. Tom was endurance during the Christmas week, but we must go back to the promise which had been made by her uncle, Sir Thomas, to Lucy about six weeks before that time. The promise had extended only to an undertaking on the part of Sir Thomas to see Isid or Hummel if he would call at the house in Lombard Street at a certain hour and a certain day. Lucy was overwhelmed with gratitude when the promise was made. A few moments previously she had been indignant because her uncle had appeared to speak of her and her lover as two beggars. But Sir Thomas had explained and in some sort apologized, and then had come the promise which to Lucy seemed to contain an assurance of effectual aid. Sir Thomas would not have asked to see the lover had he intended to be hostile to the lover. Something would be done to solve the difficulty which had seemed to Lucy to be so grave. She would not any longer be made to think that she should give up either her lover or her home under her uncle's roof. This had been terribly distressing to her because she had been well aware that on leaving her uncle's house she could be taken in only by her lover to whom an immediate marriage would be ruinous. And yet she could not undertake to give up her lover. Therefore her uncle's promise had made her very happy and she forgave the ungenerous illusion of the two beggars. The letter was written to Isidore in High Spirits. I do not know what Uncle Thomas intends but he means to be kind. Of course you must go to him and if I were you I would tell him everything about everything. He's not strict and hard like Aunt Emmeline. She means to be good too but she's sometimes so very hard. I am happier now because I think something will be done to relieve you from the terrible weight which I am to you. I sometimes wish that you had never come to me in Kensington Gardens because I have become such a burden to you. There was much more in which Lucy, no doubt, went on to declare that burden as she was she intended to be persistent. Hummel, when he received this letter, was resolved to keep the appointment made for him, but his hopes were not very high. He had been angry with Lady Tringle in the first place because of her treatment of himself at Glen Bogey, and then much more strongly because she'd been cruel to Lucy. Nor did he conceive himself to be under any strong debt of gratitude to Sir Thomas, though he had been invited to lunch. He was aware that the Tringles had despised him and he repaid the compliment with all his heart by despising the Tringles. They were to him samples of the sort of people which he thought to be of all the most despicable. They were not only vulgar and rich but post-proud and conceded as well. To his thinking there was nothing of which such people were entitled to be proud. Of course they make money, money out of money, and employment which he regarded as vile, creating nothing either useful or beautiful. To create something useful was to his thinking very good. To create something beautiful was almost divine. To manipulate millions till they should breed other millions was the meanest occupation for a life's energy. It was thus I fear that Mr. Hummel looked at the business carried on in Lombard Street, being as yet very young in the world, and seeing many things with distorted eyes. He was aware that some plan would be proposed to him which might probably accelerate his marriage, but was aware also that he would be very unwilling to take advice from Sir Thomas. Sir Thomas, no doubt, would be coarse and rough, and might perhaps offer him pecuniary assistance in a manner which would make it impossible for him to accept it. He had told himself a score of times that, poor as he was, he did not want any of the Tringle money. His father's arbitrary conduct towards him had caused him great misery. He had been brought up in luxury, and had felt it hard enough to be deprived of his father's means, because he would not abandon the mode of life that was congenial to him. But having been thus, as it were, cast off by his father, he had resolved that it behooved him to depend only on himself. In the matter of his love he was specially prone to be indignant and independent. No one had a right to dictate to him, and he would follow the dictation of none. To Lucy alone did he acknowledge any debt, and to her he owed everything. But even for her sake he would not condescend to accept Sir Thomas's money, and with his money his advice. Lucy had begged him in her letter to tell everything to her uncle. He would tell Sir Thomas everything as to his income, his prospects, and his intentions, because Sir Thomas, as Lucy's uncle, would be entitled to such information. But he thought it very improbable that he should accept any counsel from Sir Thomas. Such being the condition of Hummel's mind it was to be feared that but little good would come from his visit to Lombard Street. Lucy had simply thought that her uncle, out of his enormous stores, would provide an adequate income. Hummel thought that Sir Thomas, out of his enormous impudence, would desire to dictate everything. Sir Thomas was in true anxious to be good-natured and to do a kindness to his niece, but was not willing to give his money without being sure that he was putting it into good hands. Oh, your Hummel said a young man to him, speaking to him across the counter in the Lombard Street office. This was Tom, who, as the reader will remember, had not yet got into his trouble on account of the policeman. Tom and Hummel had never met but once before for a few moments in the Coliseum at Rome, and the artist not remembering him did not know by whom he was accosted in this familiar manner. That is my name, sir, said Hummel. Here is my card. Perhaps you will do me the kindness to take it to Sir Thomas Stringle. All right, old fellow, I know all about it. He's got Puxley with him from the Bank of England just at this moment. Come through into this room, he'll soon have polished off old Puxley. Tom was no more to Hummel than any other clerk, and he felt himself to be aggrieved, but he followed Tom into the room as he was told, and then prepared to wait in patience for the convenience of the great man. So you and Lucy are going to make a match of it, said Tom. This was terrible to Hummel. Could it be possible that all the clerks in Lombard Street talked of his Lucy in this way, because she was the niece of their senior partner? Were all the clerks, as a matter of course, instructed in the most private affairs of the Tringle family? I am here in obedience to directions from Sir Thomas, said Hummel, ignoring altogether the impudent allusion which the young man had made. Of course you are. Perhaps you don't know who I am. Not in the least, said Hummel. I am Thomas Tringle, Jr., said Tom, with a little accession of dignity. I beg your pardon. I did not know, said Hummel. You and I ought to be thick, rejoined Tom, because I'm going in for Ayala. Perhaps you've heard that before. Hummel had heard it, and was well aware that Tom was to Ayala an intolerable burden, like the old man of the sea. He had heard of Tom as poor Ayala's pet aversion, as a lover not to be shaken off, though he had been refused a score of times. Ayala was to the sculptor only second in sacredness to Lucy, and now he was told by Tom himself that he was going in for Ayala. The expression was so distressing to his feelings that he shuddered when he heard it. Was it possible that any one should say of him that he was going in for Lucy? At that moment Sir Thomas opened the door, and grasping Hummel by the hand, led him away into his own sanctum. And now, Mr. Hummel, said Sir Thomas, in his cheeriest voice, how are you? Hummel declared that he was very well, and expressed to hope that Sir Thomas was the same. I am not so young as I was, Mr. Hummel. My years are heavier, and so is my work. That's the worst of it. When one is young and strong one very often hasn't enough to do. I dare say you find it so sometimes. In our professions at Hummel we go on working, though very often we do not sell what we do. That's bad, said Sir Thomas. It is the case always with an artist before he's made a name for himself. It is the case with many up to the last day of a life of labour. An artist has to look for that, Sir Thomas. Dear me, that seems very sad. You're a sculptor, I believe? Yes, Sir Thomas. And the things you make must take a deal of room and be very heavy. At this, Mr. Hummel only smiled. Don't you think that if you were to call an auction you'd get something for them? At this suggestion the sculptor frowned, but condescended to make no reply. Sir Thomas went on with his suggestion. If you and half a dozen other beginners made a sort of gallery among you, people would buy them as they do these things on the Marilabone Road and stick them up somewhere about their grounds. It would be better than keeping them and getting nothing. Hummel had in his studio at home an allegorical figure of Attalia United, and another of a prostrate Roman Catholic Church, which in his mind's eye he saw for a moment stuck here or there about the gardens of some such place as Glen Bogey. Into them had been infused all the poetry of his nature and all the conviction of his intelligence. He'd never dreamed of selling them. He had never dared to think that any lover of art would encourage him to put into Marble those conceptions of his genius which now adorned his studio, standing there in plaster of Paris. But to him they were so valuable they contained so much of his thought, so many of his aspirations, that even had the Marble counterparts been ordered and paid for, nothing would have induced him to part with the originals. Now he was advised to sell them by auction in order that he might rival those grotesque tradesmen whose business it is to populate the gardens of wealthy but tasteless Britons. It was thus that the idea represented itself to him. He simply smiled, but Sir Thomas did not fail to appreciate the smile. And now about this young lady, said Sir Thomas, not altogether in so good a humour as he had been when he began his suggestion. It's a bad look out for her when, as you say, you cannot sell your work when you've done it. I think you do not quite understand the matters Sir Thomas. Perhaps not. It certainly does seem unintelligible that a man should lumber himself up with a lot of things which he cannot sell. A tradesman would know that he must get into the bankruptcy court if he were to go on like that. And what is sourced for the goose will be sourced for the gander also. Mr. Hummel again smiled, but held his tongue. If you can't sell your wares, how can you keep a wife? My wares, as you call them, are of two kinds. One, though no doubt made for sale, is hardly saleable. The other is done to order. Such income, as I may, comes from the latter. Heads, suggested Sir Thomas. Busts, they are generally called. Well, busts. I call them heads. They are heads. A bust I take is—well, never mind. Sir Thomas found a difficulty in defining his idea of a bust. A man wants to have something more or less like someone to put up in a church, and then he pays you. Or perhaps in his library, but he can put it where he likes when he's bought it. Just so. But there ain't many of those come your way, I understand, right. Not so many as I would wish. What can you net at the end of the year, that's the question. Lucy had recommended him to tell Sir Thomas everything, and he had come there determined to tell at any rate everything referring to money. He had not the slightest desire to keep the amount of his income from Sir Thomas, but the questions were put to him in so distasteful a way that he could not bring himself to be confidential. It varies with various circumstances, but it's very small. Very small. Five hundred a year. This was ill-natured, because Sir Thomas knew that Mr. Hamill did not earn five hundred a year, but he was becoming assubated by the young man's manner. Oh, dear knows, said Hamill. Four hundred. Nor four hundred, nor three. I have never netted three hundred in one year after paying the incidental expenses. That seems to me to be uncommonly little for a man who's thinking of marrying. Don't you think you'd better give it up? I certainly think nothing of the kind. Does your father do anything for you? Nothing at all. He also makes heads. Heads and other things? And sells them when he's made them? Yes, Sir Thomas, he sells them. He had a hard time once, but now he's run after. He refuses more orders than he can accept. And he won't do anything for you? Nothing. He's quarrelled with me. That is very bad. Well now, Mr. Hamill, would you mind telling me what your ideas are? Sir Thomas, when he asked the questions, still intended to give assistance, was still minded that the young people should, by his assistance, be enabled to marry. But he was strongly of the opinion that it was his duty as a rich and protecting uncle to say something about imprudence and to magnify difficulties. It certainly would be wrong for an uncle, merely because he was rich, to give away his money to dependent relatives without any reference to those hard principles which a possessor of money always feels it to be his business to inculcate. And up to this point, Hamill had done nothing to ingratiate himself. Sir Thomas was beginning to think that the sculptor was an impudent prig, and to declare to himself that should the marriage ever take place, the young couple would not be made welcome at Glen Bogie or Merle Park. But still he intended to go on with his purpose for Lucy's sake. Therefore he asked the sculptor as to his ideas generally. My idea is that I shall marry Miss Dorma and support her on the earnings of my profession. My idea is that I shall do so before long in comfort. My idea also is that she will be the last to complain of any discomfort which may arise from my straightened circumstances at present. My idea is that I am preparing for myself a happy and independent life. My idea also is—and I assure you that of all my ideas this is the one to which I cling with the fondest assurance—that I will do my very best to make her life happy when she comes to grace my home. There was a manliness in this which would have touched Sir Thomas had he been in a better humour, but as it was he had been so much irritated by the young man's manner that he could not bring himself to be just. Am I to understand that you intend to marry on something under three hundred a year? Hummel paused for a moment before he made his reply. How am I to answer such a question, he said at last, seeing that Miss Dorma is in your hands and that you are unlikely to be influenced by anything that I may say. I shall be very much influenced, said Sir Thomas. Were her father still alive, I think we should have put our heads together and between us decided on what might have been best for Lucy's happiness. Do you think that I am indifferent to her happiness, demanded Sir Thomas? I should have suggested to him, continued Hummel, not noticing the last question, that she should remain in her own home until I could make one for her worthy of her acceptance, and then we should have arranged among us what would have been best for her happiness. I cannot do this with you. If you tell her to-morrow that she must give up by the your protection or her engagement with me, then she must come to me and make the best of all the little that I can do for her. Who says that I am going to turn her out? said Sir Thomas, rising angrily from his chair. I do not think that anyone has said this of you. Then why do you throw it in my teeth? Because your wife has threatened it. Then Sir Thomas boiled over in his anger. No one has threatened it. It is untrue. You are guilty both of impertence and untruth in saying so. Here Hummel rose from his chair and took up his hat. Stop, young man, and hear what I have to say to you. I have done nothing but good to my niece. Nevertheless it is true, Sir Thomas, that she has been told by your wife, that she must either abandon me or the protection of your roof. I find no fault with Lady Tringle for saying so. It may have been the natural expression of a judicious opinion. But when you ask after my intentions in reference to your niece, I am bound to tell you that I propose to subject her to the undoubted inconveniences of my poor home simply because I find her to be threatened with the loss of another. She has not been threatened, Sir. You had better ask your wife, Sir Thomas, and if you find that what I have said is true, I think you will own that I have been obliged to explain as I have done. As you have told me to my face that I have been guilty of untruth, I shall now leave you. With this he walked out of the room, and the words which Sir Thomas threw after him had no effect in recalling him. It must be acknowledged that Hummel had been very foolish in referring to Aunt Emily's threat. Who does not know that words are constantly used which are intended to have no real effect? Who does not know that an angry woman would often talk after this fashion? But it was certainly the fact that Aunt Emily had more than once declared to Lucy that she could not be allowed to remain one of that family unless she would give up her lover. Lucy, in her loyal endeavours to explain to her lover her own position, had told him of the threat, and he from that moment had held himself prepared to find a home for his future wife should that threat be carried into execution. Sir Thomas was well aware that such words had been spoken, but he knew his wife and knew how little such words signified. His wife, without his consent, would not have the power to turn a dog from Mole Park. The threat had simply been an argument intended to dissuade Lucy from her choice, and now it had been thrown in his teeth, just when he had intended to make provision for this girl, who was not in truth related to him, in order that he might ratify her choice. He was very angry with the young prig who had thus rushed out of his presence. He was angry, too, with his wife, who had brought him into this difficulty by her foolish threat, but he was angry also with himself, knowing that he had been wrong to accuse the man of falsehood. Then there were written the following letters which were sent and received before Sir Thomas went to Mole Park, and therefore also before he again saw Lucy. Dearest, dearest love, I have been as desire to Lombard Street, but I fear that my embassy has not led to any good. I know myself to be about as bad an ambassador as any one can send. An ambassador should be soft and gentle, willing to make the best of everything, and never prone to take offence. Nor should he be addicted, especially to independence. I am un-gentle and apt to be suspicious, especially if anything be said derogatory to my art. I am proud of being an artist, but I am often ashamed of myself because I exhibit my pride. I may say the same of my spirit of independence. I am determined to be independent if I live, but I find my independence sometimes kicking up its heels till I hate it myself. From this you will perceive that I have not had a success in Lombard Street. I was quite willing to answer your uncle any questions he could ask about money. Indeed I had no secret from him on any subject. But when he subjected me to cross-examination, forcing me into a bathos of poverty, as he thought, I broke down. Not five hundred a year, not four, not three. O heavens, and you propose to take a wife. You will understand how I writhed and wriggled under the scorn. And then there came something worse than this, or rather, if I remember rightly, the worst thing came first. You were over in my studio, and will remember, perhaps, some of my own abortive treasures, those melancholy but soul-inspiring creations of which I have thought so much, and others have thought so little. That no one else should value them is natural, but to me it seems unnatural, almost cruel, that any one should tell me to my face that they were valueless. Your uncle, of course, had never seen them, but he knew that sculptors are generally burdened with these wares, as he called them, and he suggested that I should sell them by auction for what they might fetch, in order that the corners which they occupy might be vacant. He thought that perhaps they might do for country gentlemen to stick about among their shrubs. You, knowing my foolish saunas on the subject, will understand how well I must have been prepared by this to endure your uncle's cross-examination. Then he asked me as to my ideas, not art ideas, but ideas as to bread and cheese for the future. I told him as exactly as I could. I explained to him that if you were left in possession of a comfortable home, such as would have been that of your father, I should think it best for your sake to delay our marriage, till I should be prepared to do something better for you than I can at present. But that I hold myself ready to give you all that I have to give at a moment's notice, should you be required to leave his house. And, Lucy, speaking in your name, I said something further, and declared my belief that you, for my sake, would bear the inconveniences of so poor a home without complaining. Then there arose anger both on his side and on mine, and I must say insult on his. He told me that I had no business to suggest that you would be expelled from his house. I replied that the threat had come, if not from him, then from Lady Tringle. Upon this he accused me of positive falsehood, asserting that your aunt had said nothing of the kind. I then referred him to Lady Tringle herself, but refused to stay any longer in the room with him, because he had insulted me. So you will see that I did less than nothing by my embassy. I told myself that it would be so as I descended into the underground cavern at the Gloucester Road Station. You're not to suppose that I blame him more, or indeed, so much as I do myself. It was not to be expected that he should behave as a gentleman of fine feeling. But perhaps it ought to have been expected that I should behave like a man of common sense. I ought to have taken his advice about the auction, apparently, in good part. I ought not to have writhed when he scorned my poor earnings. When he asked as to my ideas, I should not have alluded to your aunt's threat as to turning you out. I should have been placid and humble, and then his want of generous feeling would have mattered nothing. But spilt milk and broken eggs about saving, whatever good things may have come from your uncle's generosity had I brushed his hair for him a right, and now clean gone, seeing that I scrubbed him altogether the wrong way. For myself I do not know that I should regret it very much. I have an idea that no money should be sweet to a man except that which he earns, and I have enough belief in myself to be confident that sooner or later I shall earn a sufficiency. But, dearest, I own that I feel disgusted with myself when I think that I have diminished your present comfort, or perhaps lessened for the future, resources which would have been yours rather than mine. But the milk has been spilt, and now we must only think what we can best do without it. It seems to me that only two homes are possible for you, one with Sir Thomas as his niece, and the other with me as my wife. I am conceded enough to think that you will prefer the latter even with many inconveniences. Neither can your uncle nor your aunt prevent you from marrying at a very early day should you choose to do so. There would be some preliminary ceremony of the nature of which I am thoroughly ignorant, but which could, I suppose, be achieved in a month. I would advise you to ask your aunt boldly whether she wishes you to go or to stay with her, explaining, of course, that you intend to hold to your engagement, and explaining at the same time that you are quite ready to be married at once if she is anxious to be quit of you. That is my advice. And now, dear, one word of something softer, for did any lover ever write to the lady of his heart so long a letter, so abominably stuffed with matters of business? How shall I best tell you how dearly I love you? Perhaps I may do it by showing you that as far as I myself are concerned, I long to hear that your aunt Emily and your uncle Tom are more hard-hearted and obdurate than wherever uncle and aunt before them. I long to hear that you have been turned out into the cold because I know that then you must come to me, though it be even less than three hundred a year. I wish you could have seen your uncle's face as those terribly mean figures reached his ears. I do not for a moment fear that we should want, orders come slow enough, but they come a little quicker than they did. I have never for a moment doubted my own ultimate success, and if you were with me I should be more confident than ever. Nevertheless should your aunt bid you to stay, and should you think it right to comply with her desire, I will not complain. Adieu! This comes from one who is altogether happy in his confidence that at any rate before long you will have become his wife, Isidore Hummel. I quite expect to be scolded for my awkwardness, indeed I shall be disappointed if I am not. The same post which brought Hummel's long letter to Lucy brought also a short but very angry scrawl from Sir Thomas to his wife. No eyes but those of Lady Tringle saw this epistle, and no other eyes shall see it. But the few words which it contained were full of marital wrath. Why had she threatened to turn her own niece out of his doors? Why had she subjected him to the necessity of defending her by a false assertion? Those dormant nieces of hers were giving him an amount of trouble and annoyance which he certainly had not deserved. Lucy, though not a word was said to her of this angry letter, was conscious that something had been added to her aunt's acerbity. Indeed, for the last day or two her aunt's acerbity towards her had been much diminished. Lady Tringle had known that her husband intended to do something by which the Hummel marriage would be rendered possible, and she, though she altogether disapproved of the Hummel marriage, would be obliged to accede to it if Sir Thomas acceded to it and encouraged it by his money. Let them be married, and then, as far as the Tringles were concerned, let there be an end to these dormant troubles for ever. To that idea Lady Tringle had reconciled herself as soon as Sir Thomas had declared his purpose. But now, as she declared to herself, all the fat was again in the fire. She received Lucy's salutation on that morning with a very bad grace. But she had been desired to give no message, and therefore she was silent on the subject to Lucy. To the Honourable Mrs. Traffic she said a few words. After all, Ayala was not half as bad as Lucy, said Lady Tringle. There, Mama, I think you are wrong, said the Honourable Mrs. Traffic. Of all the upsetting things I ever knew, Ayala was the worst. Think of her conduct with Septimus. Lady Tringle made a little grimace which, however, her daughter did not see. And then, with that Marquesa—that was the Marquesa's fault. And with Tom—I don't think she was so much to blame with Tom. If she were, why doesn't she take him now, she can have him. He is just as foolish about her as ever. Upon my word I think Tom will make himself ill about it. You haven't heard it all, Mama. What haven't I heard? Ayala has been done with the albries at Stullum. I did hear that. And another man has turned up. What an earth they see in here is what I can't understand. Another man has offered to her. Who is he? There was a Colonel Stubbs down there. Septimus heard it all from young Batsby at the club. She got this man to ride about the country with her everywhere, going to the meets with him and coming home. And in this way she got him to propose to her. I don't suppose he means anything, but that's why she won't have anything to do with Tom now. Do you mean to say she didn't do all she could to catch Tom down at Glen Bogey, and then at Rome? Everybody saw it. I don't think Lucy has ever been so bad as that. It's quite different, my dear. She has come from a low father, said the Honourable Mrs. Traffic proudly, and therefore she has naturally attached herself to a low young man. There is nothing to be wondered at in that. I suppose they're fond of each other, and the sooner they're married the better. But he can't marry her because he's got nothing. Papa will do something. That's just what your papa won't. The man has been your father in the city and there has been ever such a row. He spoke ill of me because I endeavored to do my duty by the ungrateful girl. I'm sure I've got a lesson as to taking up other people's children. I endeavored to do an act of charity and see what has come of it. I don't believe in charity. That is wicked, Pamar. Faith, hope and charity. But you've got to be charitable before you begin the others. I don't think it's wicked. People would do best if they were made to go along what they've got of their own. This seemed to Augusta to be a direct blow at Septimus and herself. Of course I know what you mean, Mamar. I didn't mean anything. But if people can't stay for a few weeks in their own parents' houses, I don't know where they are to stay. It isn't weeks, Augusta, it's months. And as to parents, Lord Bordetrade is Mr. Traffic's parent. Why doesn't he go and stay with Lord Bordetrade? Then Augusta got up and marched with stately step out of the room. After this it was not possible that Lucy would find much immediate grace in her aunt's eyes. From the moment that Lucy had received her letter, there came upon her the great burden of answering it. She was very anxious to do exactly as Hamel had counseled her. She was quite alive to the fact that Hamel had been imprudent in Lombard Street, but not the less was she desirous to do as he bade her, thinking it right that a woman should obey someone, and that her obedience could be due only to him. But in order to obey him she must consult her aunt. Aunt Emilyne, she said that afternoon, I want to ask you something. What is it now, said Aunt Emilyne crossly, about Mr. Hamel? I don't want to hear any more about Mr. Hamel. I've heard quite enough of Mr. Hamel. Of course I'm engaged to him, Aunt Emilyne. So I hear you say. I do not think it very dutiful of you to come and talk to me about him, knowing as you do what I think about him. What I want to ask is this, ought I to stay here or ought I to go away? I never heard such a girl. Where are you to go to? What makes you ask the question? Because you said that I ought to go if I did not give him up. You ought to give him up. I cannot do that, aunt. Then you had better hold your tongue and say nothing further about it. I don't believe he earns enough to give you bread to eat and decent clothes to wear. What would you do if children were to come year after year? If you really love him, I wonder how you can think of being such a millstone around a man's neck. This was very hard to bear. It was so different from the delicious comfort of his letter. I do not, for a moment, believe that we should want. I have never, for one moment, doubted my own ultimate success. But after all, was there not more of truth in her aunt's words hard and cruel as they were? And on those words, such as they were, she must found her answer to her lover, for he had bad her ask her aunt what she was to do as to staying or preparing herself for an immediate marriage. Then, before the afternoon was over, she wrote to Hamill as follows. Dear Isidore, I have got ever so much to say, but I shall begin by doing, as you told me in your post-script. I won't quite scold you, but I do think you might have been a little gentler with poor Uncle Tom. I do not say this because I at all regret anything which perhaps he might have done for us. If you do not want assistance from him, certainly I do not. But I do think that he meant to be kind, and though he may not be quite what you call a gentleman of fine feeling, yet he has taken me into his house when I had no other to go to, and in many respects has been generous to me. When he said that you were to go to him in Lombard Street, I am sure that he meant to be generous, and though it is not ended well, yet he meant to be kind to both of us. There is what you will call my scolding, though indeed, dearest, I do not intend to scold at all. Nor am I in the least disappointed except in regard to you. This morning I have been to Aunt Amaline as you desired, and I must say that she was very cross. Of course I know that it is because she is my own aunt that Uncle Tom has me here at all, and I feel that I ought to be very grateful to her. But in spite of all that you say, laughing at Uncle Tom because he wants you to sell your grand work by auction, he is much more good-natured than Aunt Amaline. I am quite sure my aunt never liked me, and that she will not be comfortable until I am gone. But when I asked her whether I ought to stay or to go, she told me to hold my tongue and say nothing further about it. Of course by this she meant that I was to remain at any rate for the present. My own dearest, I do think this will be best, though I need not tell you how I look forward to leaving this and being always with you. For myself I am not a bit afraid, though Aunt Amaline said dreadful things about food and clothes and all the rest of it, but I believe much more in what you say that success will be sure to come. But still will it not be wise to wait a little longer? Whatever I may have to bear here I shall think that I am bearing it for your dear sake and then I shall be happy. Believe me, to be always and always your own Lucy. This was written and sent on a Wednesday, and nothing further was said either by Lucy herself or by her aunt as to the lover, until Sir Thomas came down to Merle Park on the Saturday evening. On his arrival he seemed inclined to be gracious to the whole household, even including Mr. Traffic, who received any attention of that kind exactly as though the most amicable arrangements were always existing between him and his father-in-law. Aunt Amaline, when it seemed that she was to encounter no further anger on account of the revelation which Amal had made in Lombard Street, also recovered her temper, and the evening was spent as though there were no causes for serious family discord. In this spirit on the following morning they all went to church, and it was delightful to hear the flattering words with which Mr. Traffic praised Merle Park on everything belonging to it during the hour of lunch. He went so far as to make some delicately law-datory hints in praise of hospitality in general, and especially as to that so nobly exercised by London merchant-princes. Sir Thomas smiled as he heard him, and as he smiled he resolved that as soon as the Christmas festivity should be over the honourable Septimus Traffic should certainly be turned out of that house. After lunch there came a message to Lucy by a page-boy who was supposed to attend generally to the personal wants of Aunt Amaline, saying that her uncle would be glad of her attendance for a walk. My dear, he said, have you got your thick boots on, and go and put them on, or go down to the lodge and then come home round by window of a hill. She did as she was bad, and then they started. I want to tell you, said he, that this Mr. Hummel of yours came to me in Lombard Street. I know that, Uncle Tom. He has written to you then, and told you all about it. He's written to me, certainly, and I have answered him. No doubt. Well, Lucy, I had intended to be kind to your Mr. Hummel, but as you're probably aware I was not unable to carry out my intentions. He seems to be a very independent sort of young man. He is independent, I think. I have not a word to say against it. If a man can be independent it is so much the better. If a man can do everything for himself, so as to require neither to beg nor to borrow, it will be much better for him. But, my dear, you must understand that a man cannot be independent with one hand and accept assistance with the other at one and the same time. That is not his character, I'm sure, said Lucy, striving to hide her indignation while she defended her lover's character. I do not think it is. Therefore he must remain independent, and I can do nothing for him. He knows that, Uncle Tom. Very well, then there's an end of it. I only want to make you understand that I was willing to assist him, but that he was unwilling to be assisted. I like him all the better for it, but there must be an end of it. I quite understand, Uncle Tom. Then there's one other thing I've got to say. He accused me of having threatened to turn you out of my house. Now, my dear, hereupon Lucy struggled to say a word, hardly knowing what words you ought to say, but he interrupted her. Just hear me out till I've done, and then there need not be another word about it. I never threatened to turn you out. Not you, Uncle Tom, she said endeavouring to press his arm with her hand. If your aunt said a word in her anger you should not have made enough of it to write and tell him. I thought she meant me to go, and then I didn't know whom else to ask. Neither I nor she nor anybody else ever intended to turn you out. I have meant to be kind to you both, to you and Ayala, and if things have gone wrong I cannot say that it has been my fault. Now you had better stay here and not say a word more about it until he is ready to take you. That can't be yet for a long time. He is making at present not much more than two hundred a year. And I'm sure it must be quite as much as he can do to keep a coat on his back with such an income as that. You must make up your mind to wait, probably for some years. As I told you before, if a man chooses to have the glory of independence you must also bear the inconvenience. Now, my dear, let there be an end of this, and never say again that I want to turn you out of my house. End of Chapter thirty-four Chapter thirty-five of Ayala's Angel This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Ayala's Angel by Anthony Trollop Chapter thirty-five Tom Tringle sends a challenge The next six weeks went on tranquilly at Mole Park without a word spoken about harmle. Sir Thomas, who was in the country as little as possible, showed his scorn to his son-in-law simply by the porcity of his words, speaking to him, when he did speak to him, with a deliberate courtesy which Mr. Traffic perfectly understood. It was that dangerous serenity which so often presages a storm. There is something going to be up with your father, he said to Augusta. Augusta replied that she had never seen her father so civil before. It would be a great convenience, continued the Member of Parliament, if he could be made to hold his tongue until Parliament meets, but I'm afraid that's too good to expect. In other respects things were comfortable at Mole Park, though they were not always comfortable up in London. Tom, as the reader knows, was misbehaving himself sadly at the mountaineers. This was the period of unlimited champagne and of almost total absence from Lombard Street. It was seldom that Sir Thomas could get hold of his son, and when he did that broken-hearted youth would reply to his expostulations simply by asserting that if his father would induce Ayala to marry him everything should go straight in Lombard Street. Then came the final blow. Tom was of course expected at Mole Park on Christmas Eve, but did not make his appearance either then or on Christmas Day. Christmas fell on a Wednesday, and it was intended that the family should remain in the country till the following Monday. On the Thursday Sir Thomas went up to town to make inquiries respecting his heir, as to whom Lady Tringle had then become absolutely unhappy. In London he heard the disastrous truth. Tom, in his sportive mood, had caused serious inconvenience to a most respectable policeman, and was destined to remain another week in the hands of the Philistines. Then, for a time, all the other Tringle troubles were buried and forgotten in this great trouble respecting Tom. Lady Tringle was unable to leave her room during the period of incarceration. Mr. Traffic promised to have the victim liberated by the direct interference of the Secretary of State, but failed to get anything of the kind accomplished. The girls were completely cowed by the enormity of the misfortune, so that Tom's name was hardly mentioned except in sad and confidential whispers. But of all the sufferers Sir Thomas suffered the most. To him it was a positive disgrace, weighing down every moment of his life. At Travers and Treason he could not hold up his head boldly and open his mouth loudly as had always been his won't. At Travers and Treason there was not a clock who did not know that the Governor was an altered man since this misfortune had happened to the hope of the firm. What passed between Sir Thomas and his son on the occasion has already been told in a previous chapter, that Sir Thomas on the whole behaved with indulgence must be acknowledged, but he felt that his son must in truth have sent himself from Lombard Street for a time. Tom had been advised by his father to go forth and see the world. A prolonged tour had been proposed to him, which to most young men might seem to have great attraction. To him it would have had attraction enough had it not been for Ayala. There would have been hardly any limit to the allowance made to him, and he would have gone forth armed with introductions which would have made every porter happy home to him. But as soon as the tour was suggested he resolved at once that he could not move himself to a distance from Ayala. What he expected, what he even hoped he could not tell himself. But while Ayala was in London and Ayala was unmarried he could not be made to take himself far away. He was thoroughly ashamed of himself. He was not at all the man who could bear a week of imprisonment and not think himself disgraced. For a day or two he shut himself up altogether in his lodgings and never once showed himself at the mountaineers. Faddle came to him, but he snubbed Faddle at first, remembering all the severe things his father had said about the faddles in general. But he soon allowed that feeling to die away when the choice seemed to be between Faddle and Solitude. Then he crept out in the dark and ate his dinners with Faddle at some tavern, generally paying the bill for both of them. After dinner he would play half a dozen games of billiards with his friend at some unknown billiard-room, and then creep home to his lodgings, a blighted human being. At last, about the end of the first week in January, he was induced to go down to Merle Park. There Mr. and Mrs. Traffic was still subjourning, the real grief which had afflicted Sir Thomas having caused him to postpone his intention in regard to his son-in-law. At Merle Park Tom was cosited and spoiled by the women very injudiciously. It was not perhaps the fact that they regarded him as a hero simply because he had punched a policeman in the stomach and then been locked up in vindication of the injured laws of his country, but that incident in combination with his unhappy love did seem to make him heroic. Even Lucy regarded him with favour because of his constancy to her sister, whereas the other ladies measured their admiration for his persistency by the warmth of their anger against the silly girl who was causing so much trouble. His mother told him over and over again that his cousin was not worth his regard, but then when he would throw himself on the sofa in an agony of despair, weakened as much by the course of champagne as by the course of his love, then she too would bid him hope, and at last promised that she herself would endeavour to persuade Ayala to look at the matter in a more favourable light. It would all be right if it were not for that accursed stubs, poor Tom would say to his mother, the man whom I called my friend, the man I lent a horse to when he couldn't get one anywhere else, the man to whom I confided everything, even about the necklace. If it hadn't been for stubs I never should have hurt that policeman. When I was striking him I thought that it was stubs. Then the mother would heap feminine maledictions on the poor Colonel's head, and so together they would weep and think of revenge. From the moment Tom had heard Colonel Stubb's name mentioned at that of his rival he had meditated revenge. It was quite true when he said that he had been thinking of stubs when he struck the policeman. He had consumed the period of his confinement in gnashing his teeth all in regard to our poor friend Jonathan. He told his father that he could not go upon his long tour because of Ayala, but in truth his love was now so mixed up with ideas of vengeance that he did not himself know which prevailed. If he could first have slaughtered stubs then perhaps he might have started. But how was he to slaughter stubs? Various ideas occurred to his mind. At first he thought that he would go down to Aldershot with the biggest cutting whip he could find in any shop in Piccadilly, but then it occurred to him that at Aldershot he would have all the British army against him, and that the British army might do something to him worse than the London magistrate. Then he would wait till the Colonel could be met elsewhere. He ascertained that the Colonel was still at Stallum, where he had passed the Christmas, and he thought how it might be if he were to attack the Colonel in the presence of his friends, the Albury's. He assured himself that as far as personal injury went he feared nothing. He had no disinclination to be hit over the head himself if he could be sure of hitting the Colonel over the head. If it could be managed that they too should fly at each other with their fists and be allowed to do the worst they could to each other for an hour without interference he would be quite satisfied. But down at Stallum that would not be allowed. All the world would be against him and nobody there to see that he got fair play. If he could encounter the man in the streets of London it would be better, but were he to seek the man down at Stallum he would probably find himself in the County Lunatic Asylum. What must he do for his revenge? He was surely entitled to it, by all the laws of chivalry as to which he had his own ideas he had a right to inflict an injury upon a successful even upon an unsuccessful rival. Was it not a shame that so excellent an institution as dueling should have been stamped out? Wondering about the lawns and shrubberies at Merle Park he thought of all this, and at last he came to a resolution. The institution had been stamped out as far as Great Britain was concerned he was aware of that, but it seemed to him that it had not been stamped out in other more generous countries. He had happened to notice that a certain enthusiastic politician in France had enjoyed many duels, and had never been severely repressed by the laws of his country. Newspaper writers were always fighting in France and were never guillotined. The idea of being hanged was horrible to him, so distasteful that he saw at a glance that a duel in England was out of the question. But to have his head cut off, even if it should come to that, would be a much less affair. But in Belgium, in Italy, in Germany, they never did cut off the heads of the very numerous gentlemen who fought duels. And there were the southern states of the American Union where he fancied that men might fight duels as they pleased. He would be ready to go even to New Orleans at a day's notice if only he could induce Colonel Stubbs to meet him there. And he thought that if Colonel Stubbs really possessed half the spirit which seemed to be attributed to him by the British army generally, he would come, if properly invoked, and fight such a duel as this, whether at New Orleans or at some other well-chosen blood-allowing spot on the world's surface. Tom was prepared to go anywhere for blood. But the invocation must be properly made. When he had wanted another letter of another kind to be written for him, the Colonel himself was the man to whom he had gone for assistance. And had his present enemy been any other than the Colonel himself, he would have gone to the Colonel in preference to any one else for aid in this matter. There was no one in truth in whom he believed so thoroughly as in the Colonel. But that was out of the question. Then he reflected what friend might now stand him instead. He would have gone to Houston, who wanted to marry his sister, but Houston seemed to have disappeared, and he did not know where he might be found. There was his brother-in-law traffic, but he feared less traffic might give him over once more into the hands of the police. He thought of Hamill as being in a way connected with the family, but he had seen so little of Hamill and had so much disliked what he had seen that he was obliged to let that hope go by. There was no one left but Faddle, whom he could trust. Faddle would do anything he was told to do. Faddle would carry the letter, no doubt, or allow himself to be named as a proposed second, but Faddle could not write the letter. He felt that he could write the letter himself better than Faddle. He went up to town, having sent a mysterious letter to Faddle, bidding his friend attend him in his lodgings. He did not yet dare to go to the mountaineers where Faddle would have been found. But Faddle came true to the appointment. What is it now? said the faithful friend. I hope you're going back to Travers and Treasons. That's what I should do, and walk in just as though nothing had happened. Not if you were me, you wouldn't. That makes a difference, of course. There is something else to be done before I can again darken the doors of Travers and Treason if I should ever do so. Something particular? Something very particular, Faddle. I do think you are a true friend. You may say that. I have stuck to you always, although you don't know the kind of things my people say to me about it. They say I'm going to ruin myself because of you. The Governor threatened to put me out of the business altogether. But I'm a man who will be true to my friend whatever happens. I think you've been a little cool to me lately, but even that don't matter. Cool. If you knew the state that I'm in, you wouldn't talk of a fellow being cool. I'm so knocked about it that I don't know what I'm doing. I do take that into consideration. Now, I'll tell you what I'm going to do. Then he stood still and looked Faddle full in the face. Faddle, sitting awestruck on his chair, returned the gaze. He knew that a moment of supreme importance was at hand. Faddle, I'll shoot that fellow down like a dog. Will you, indeed? Like a dog, if I can get at him? I should have no more compunction in taking his life than a mere worm. Why should I, when I know that he has sapped the very juice of my existence? Do you mean—do you mean that you would murder him? It would not be murder. Of course it might be that he would shoot me instead. Upon the whole, I think I should like that best. Oh, a duel, said Faddle. That's what I mean. Murder him? Certainly not. Though I should like nothing half so well as to thrash him within an inch of his life, I would not murder him. My plan is this. I shall write to him a letter, inviting him to meet me in any corner of the globe that he may select. Torrid Zone or Arctic Circle would be all the same to me. You will have to accompany me as my second. Faddle shivered with excitement and dread of coming events. Among other ideas there came the thought that it might be difficult to get back from the Arctic Circle without money if his friend Tom should happen to be shocked dead in that locality. But first of all, continued Tom, you will have to carry a letter. To the Colonel, suggested Faddle. Of course, the man is now staying with friends of his named Albury at a place called Stullum. From what I hear, their howling swells. Sir Harry Albury is master of the hounds, and Lady Albury, when she's up in London, has all the royal family constantly at her parties. Stubbs is a cousin of his, but you must go right away up to him among them all and deliver the letter into his hands without minding him a bit. Couldn't it go by post? No, this kind of letter mustn't go by post. You have to be able to swear that you delivered it to yourself into his own hands. And then you must wait for an answer, even though he should want a day to think of it, you must wait. Where am I to stay, Tom? Well, it may be they'll ask you to the house, because though you carry the letter for me, you're not supposed to be his enemy. If so, put a jolly face on it and enjoy yourself as well as you can. You must seem, you know, to be just as big as well as anybody there. But if they don't ask you, you must go to the nearest inn. I'll pay the bill. Shall I go to-day? Ask Faddle. I've got to write the letter first. It'll take a little time, so that you'd better put it off till to-morrow. If you'll leave me now, I'll write it, and if you will come back at six, we'll go and have a bit of dinner at Bolivia's. This was an eating-house in the neighbourhood of Leicester Square, to which the friends had become partial during this troubled period of their existence. Why not come to the mountaineer's, old boy?" Tom shook his head, showing that he was not yet up to such festivity as that, and then Faddle took his departure. Tom at once got out his pen and paper and began to write his letter. It may be imagined that it was not written off-hand or without many struggles. When it was written, it ran as follows. Sir, you will not, I think, be surprised to hear from me in anything but a friendly spirit. I went down to you at Aldershot as to a friend whom I could trust with my bosom's dearest secret, and you have betrayed me. I told you of my love, a love which has long burned in my heart, and you received my confidence with a smile knowing all the time that you were my rival. I leave it to you to say what reply you can make as to conduct so damning, so unmanly, so dustedly, and so very unlike a friend as this. However, there is no place here for words. You have offered me the greatest insult and the greatest injury which one man can inflict upon another. There is no possibility of an apology unless you are inclined to say that you will renounce forever your claim upon the hand of Miss Ayala Dorma. This I do not expect, and therefore I call upon you to give me that satisfaction which is all that one gentleman can offer to another. After the injury you have done me, I think it quite impossible that you should refuse. Of course I know that duels cannot be fought in England because of the law. I am sorry that the law should have been altered, because it allows so many cowards to escape the punishment they deserve. Thomas, he wrote this, was very proud of the keenness of the illusion. I am quite sure, however, that a man who bears the colours of a kernel in the British army will not try to get off by such a pretext. He was proud, too, about the colours. France, Belgium, Italy, the United States, and all the world are open. I will meet you wherever you may choose to arrange a meeting. I presume that you will prefer pistols. I send this by the hands of my friend Mr. Faddle, who will be prepared to make arrangements with you or with any friend on your behalf. He will bring back your reply, which no doubt will be satisfactory. I am so your most obedient servant, Thomas Tringle, Jr. When, after making various copies, Tom had last read the letter as finally prepared, he was much pleased with it, doubting whether the kernel himself could have written it better had the task been confided to his hands. When Faddle came he read it to him with much pride, and then committed it to his custody. After that they went out and ate their dinner at Bolivia's with much satisfaction, but still with a bearing of deep melancholy, as was proper on such an occasion. End of Chapter thirty-five Faddle, as he went down into the country, made up his mind that the law which required such letters to be delivered by hand was an absurd law. The post would have done just as well, and would have saved a great deal of trouble. These gloomy thoughts were occasioned by a conviction that he could not carry himself easily or make himself happy among such howling swells as these albries. If they should invite him to the house the matter would be worse that way than the other. He had no confidence in his dress-coat, which he was aware had been damaged by nocturnal orgies. It is all very well to tell a fellow to be as big a swell as anybody else, as Tom had told him, but Faddle acknowledged to himself the difficulty of acting up to such advice. Even the eyes of Colonel Stubbs turned upon him after receipt of the letter would oppress him. Nevertheless, he must do his best, and he took a gig at the station nearest Albury. He was careful to carry his bag with him, but still he lived in hope that he would be able to return to London the same day. When he found himself within the lodges of Stullum Park he could hardly keep himself from shivering, and when he asked the footman at the door where the Colonel Stubbs was there he longed to be told that Colonel Stubbs had gone away on the previous day to some, he did not care what, distant part of the globe, but Colonel Stubbs had not gone away. Colonel Stubbs was in the house. Our friend the Colonel had not suffered as Tom had suffered since his rejection, but nevertheless he had been much concerned. He had set his heart upon Ayala before he had asked her and could not bring himself to change his heart because she had refused him. He had gone down to Aldershot and had performed his duties, abstaining for the present from repeating his offer. The offer, of course, must be repeated, but as to the when, the where, and the how he had not as yet made up his mind. Then Tom Tringle had come to him at Aldershot, communicating to him the fact that he had a rival, and also the other fact that the other rival, like himself, had hitherto been unsuccessful. It seemed improbable to him that such a girl as Ayala should attach herself to such a man as her cousin Tom, but nevertheless he was uneasy. He regarded Tom Tringle as a miracle of wealth, and felt certain that the united efforts of the whole family would be used to arrange the match. Ayala had refused him also, and therefore up to the present moment the chances of the other man were no better than his own. When Tom left him at Aldershot he hardly remembered that Tom knew nothing of his secret, whereas Tom had communicated to him his own. It never for a moment occurred to him that Tom would quarrel with him, although he had seen that the poor fellow had been disgusted because he had refused to write the letter. On Christmas Eve he had gone down to Stullum, and there he had remained, discussing the matter of his love with Lady Albury. To no one else in the house had the affair been mentioned, and by Sir Harry he was supposed to remain there only for the sake of the hunting. With Sir Harry he was of all guests the most popular, and thus it came to pass that his prolonged presence at Stullum was not a matter of special remark. Much of his time he did devote to hunting, but there were half hours devoted in company with Lady Albury to Ayala's perfection and Ayala's obstinacy. Lady Albury was almost inclined to think that Ayala should be given up. Married ladies seldom estimate even the girls they like best at their full value. It seems to such a one as Lady Albury almost a pity that such a one as Colonel Stubbs should waste his energy upon anything so insignificant as Ayala Dorma. The specialty of the attraction is, of course, absent of the woman, and unless she has considered the matter so far as to be able to clothe her thoughts in male vestments, as some women do, she cannot understand the longing that is felt for so small a treasure. Lady Albury thought that young ladies were very well, and that Ayala was very well among young ladies. But Ayala, in getting Colonel Stubbs for a husband, would, as Lady Albury thought, have received so much more than her dessert that she was now almost inclined to be angry with the Colonel. My dear friend, he said to her one day, you may as well take it for granted. I shall go after my princess with all the energy which a princess merits. The question is whether she be a princess, said Lady Albury. Allow me to say that that is a point on which I cannot admit a doubt. She is a princess to me, and just at present I must be regarded as the only judge in the matter. She shall be a goddess, if you please, said Lady Albury. Goddess, princess, pink, or pearl, any name you please, supposed to convey perfection, shall be the same to me. It may be that she is in truth no better or more lovely or divine than many another young lady, who is at the present moment exercising the heart of many another gentleman. You know enough of the world to be aware that every Jack has his Jill. She is my Jill, and that's an end of it. I hope, then, that she may be your Jill. And in order that she may, you must have her here again. I should absolutely not know how to go to work were I to find myself in the presence of Aunt Dosset in King's Recrescent. In answer to this Lady Albury assured him that she would be quite willing to have the girl again at Stalem if it could be managed. She was reminding him, however, how difficult it had been on a previous occasion to overcome the scruples of Mrs. Dosset when a servant brought in word to Colonel Stubbs that there was a man in the hall desirous of seeing him immediately on particular business. Then the servant presented our friend Faddle's card. Mr. Samuel Faddle won badminton gardens. Yes, sir, said the servant, he says he has a letter which he must put into your own particular annes. That looks like a bailiff, said Lady Albury, laughing. Colonel Stubbs, declaring that he had no special reason to be afraid of any bailiff, left the room and went down into the hall. At Stalem the real hall of the house was used as a billiard room, and here, leaning against the billiard table, the Colonel found poor Faddle. When a man is compelled by some chance circumstance to address another man whom he does not know, and whom by inspection he feels he shall never wish to know, he always hardens his face and sometimes also his voice. So it was with the Colonel when he looked at Faddle, a word he did say, not in words absolutely uncivil, as to the nature of the business in hand. Then Faddle, showing his emotion by a quaver in his voice, suggested that, as the matter was one of extreme delicacy, some more private apartment might be provided. Upon this Stubbs led the way into a little room which was, for the most part, filled with hunting gear, and offered the stranger one of the three chairs which it contained. Faddle sat down, finding himself so compelled, though the Colonel still remained standing, and then extracted the fatal epistle from his pocket. Colonel Stubbs said he, handing up the missive, I am directed by my friend, Mr. Thomas Stringell Jr., to put this letter into your own hand, when you have read it I shall be ready to consult with you as to its contents. These few words he had learned by heart on his journey down, having practiced them continually. The Colonel took the letter, and turning to the window read it with his back to the visitor. He read it twice, from beginning to end, in order that he might have time to resolve whether he would laugh aloud at both Faddle and Tringle, or whether it might not be better to endeavour to soften the anger of poor Tom by a message which should be at any rate kindly worded. This is from my friend, Tom Tringle, he said. From Mr. Thomas Stringell Jr. said Faddle proudly. So I perceive. I am sorry to think that he should be in so much trouble. He is one of the best fellows I know, and I am greatly grieved that he should be unhappy. This, you know, is all nonsense. It's not nonsense at all, Colonel Stubbs. You must allow me to be the judge of that, Mr. Faddle. It is, at any rate, nonsense to me. He wants me to go somewhere and fight a duel, which I should not do with any man under any circumstances. Here there is no possible ground for any quarrel whatsoever, as I will endeavour to explain myself to my friend, Mr. Tringle. I shall be sure to write to him at once, and so I will bid you good afternoon. But this did not at all suit poor Faddle after so long a journey. I thought it probable that you would write Colonel Stubbs, and therefore I am prepared to wait. If I cannot be accommodated here I will wait elsewhere. That will not be at all necessary. We have a post to London twice a day. You must be aware, Colonel Stubbs, that letters of this sort should not be sent by post. The kind of letter I shall write may be sent by post very well. It will not be bellicose, and therefore there can be no objection. I rarely think, Colonel Stubbs, that you are making very little of a very serious matter. Mr. Faddle, I really must manage my own affairs after my own way. Would you like a glass of sherry? If not, I need hardly ask you to stay here any longer. Upon that he went out into the billiard-room and rang the bell. Poor Faddle would have liked the glass of sherry, but he felt that it would be incompatible with the angry dignity which he assumed, and he left the house without another word or even a gesture of courtesy. Then he returned to London, having taken his bag and dress-coat all the way to Stullum for nothing. Tom's letter was almost too good to be lost, but there was no one to whom the joke could be made known except Lady Albury. She, he was sure, would keep poor Tom's secret as well as his own, and to her he showed the letter. I pity him from the bottom of my heart, he said. Lady Albury declared that the writer of such a letter was too absurd for pity. Not at all. Unless he really loved her he wouldn't have been so enraged. I suppose he does think that I injured him. He did tell me his story, and I didn't tell him mine. I can understand it all, though I didn't imagine he was such a fool as to invite me to travel all round the world because of the harsh laws of Great Britain. Nevertheless I shall write to him quite an affectionate letter, remembering that should I succeed myself he will be my first cousin by marriage. Before he went to bed that night he wrote his letter, and the reader may as well see the whole correspondence. My dear Tringle, if you will think of it all round you will see that you have got no cause of quarrel with me any more than I have with you. If it be the case that we are both attached to your cousin, we must abide to a decision whether it be in favour of either of us, or as may be to probably the case equally adverse to both of us. If I understand your letter rightly you think that I behaved unfairly when I did not tell you of my own affairs upon hearing yours from your own lips. Why should I? Why should I have been held to be constrained to tell my secret, because you for your own sake had told me yours? Had I been engaged to your cousin, which I regret to say is very far from the case, I should have told you naturally. I should have regarded the matter as settled, and should have acquainted you with a fact which would have concerned you. But as such was not a fact I was by no means bound to tell you how my affairs stood. This ought to be clear to you, and I hope will be when you have read what I say. I may as well go on to declare that under no circumstances should I fight a duel with you. If I thought I had done wrong in the matter I would beg your pardon. I can't do that as it is, although I am most anxious to appease you, because I have done you no wrong. Pray forget your animosity, which is in truth unfounded, and let us be friends as we were before. Yours very sincerely, Jonathan Stubbs. Faddle reached London the evening before the Colonel's letter, and again dined with his friend at Bolivia's. At first they were both extremely angry, as abating each other's wrath. Now that he was safe back in London, Faddle thought that he would have enjoyed an evening among the swells of Stallum, and felt himself to be injured by the inhospitable treatment he had received. After going all the way down there, hardly to be asked to sit down. Not asked to sit down? Well, yes, I was, on a miserable cane-bottom chair in sort of cupboard, and he didn't sit down. You may call them swells, but I think your Colonel Stubbs is a very vulgar sort of fellow. When I told him the post isn't the proper thing for such a letter, he only laughed. I suppose he doesn't know what is the kind of thing among gentlemen. I should think he does know, said Tom. And why doesn't he act accordingly? Would you believe it? He never so much as asked me whether I had a mouth on. It was just lunch and time, too. I suppose they lunch late. They might have asked me. I shouldn't have taken it. He did say something about a glass of sherry, but it was in that sort of tone that tells a fellow that he's expected not to take it. And then he pretended to laugh. I could see that he was shaking in his shoes at the idea of having to fight. He, go to the torrid zone. He'd much rather go to a police office if he thought there was any fighting on hand. I should dust his jacket with a stick if I were you. Later on in the evening Tom declared that this was what he would do, but before he came to that a third bottle of Signor Bolivia's Champagne had been made to appear. The evening passed between them not without much enjoyment. On the opening of that third cork the wine was declared to be less excellent than what had gone before, and Signor Bolivia was invoked in person. A gentleman named Walker, who looked after the establishment, made his appearance, and with many smiles having been induced to swallow a bumper of the compound himself, declared with a knowing shake of the head in an astute twinkle of the eye that the wine was not equal to the last. He took a great deal of trouble, he assured them, to import an article which could not be surpassed if it could be equaled in London, always visiting a pernée himself once a year for the purpose of going through the wine vaults. Let him do what he would, an inferior bottle, or rather a bottle somewhat inferior, would sometimes make its way into his cellar. Would Mr. Tringle let him have the honour of drawing another cork, so that the exact amount of difference might be ascertained? Tom gave his sanction, the fourth cork was drawn, and Mr. Walker, sitting down and consuming the wine with his customers, was enabled to point out to a hair-spreads the nature and the extent of the variation. Tringle still thought that the difference was considerable. Faddle was on the whole inclined to agree with Signor Bolivia. It need hardly be said that the four bottles were paid for, or rather scored against, Tringle, who at the present time had a little account at the establishment. Sure, fellow, fellow, Zleromora! Such, or something like that, was Faddle's last request to his friend as they bade each other farewell for the night in Palmel. But Faddle was never destined to see the Colonel's epistle. On his attempting to let himself in at badminton gardens, he was kidnapped by his father in his night-shirt and dressing-gown, and was sent out of London on the following morning by Long Sea down to Aberdeen, wither he was entrusted to the charge of a stern uncle. Our friend Tom saw nothing more of his faithful friend till years had rolled over both their heads. By the morning post, while Tom was still lying sick with headache, for even with Signor Bolivia's wine the pulling of many corks is up to be dangerous, there came the letter from the Colonel. Bad as Tom was he felt himself constrained to read it at once, and learned that neither the Torrid Zone nor Arctic Circle would require his immediate attendance. He was very sick, and perhaps therefore less high in courage than on the few previous days. Partly, perhaps from that course, but partly also from the Colonel's logic, he did find that his wrath was somewhat abated. Not but what it was still present to his mind that if two men loved the same girl as ardently, as desperately as eternally as he loved Ayala, the best thing for them would be to be put together like the Kilkenny cats till whatever remnant should be left of one might have its chance with the young lady. He still thought that it would be well that they should fight to the death, but a glimmering of light fell upon his mind as to the Colonel's abnegation of all treason in the matter. I suppose it wasn't to be expected that he should tell, he said to himself. Perhaps I shouldn't have told in the same place, but as to forgetting animosity, that is out of the question. How is a man to forget his animosity when two men wanted married the same girl? About three o'clock on that day he dressed himself and sat waiting for Faddle to come to him. He knew how anxious his friend would be to see the Colonel's letter. But Faddle by this time had passed the gnaw and had added seasickness to his other maladies. Faddle came to him no more and the tedious hours of the afternoon wore themselves away in his lodgings until he found his solitude to be almost more unbearable than his previous misfortunes. At last came the time when he must go out for his dinner. He did not dare to attempt the mountaineers, and as for Bolivia, Bolivia with his corks and his eating-house and his vintages was abominable to him. About eight o'clock he slunk into a quiet little house on the north side of Oxford Street and there had two mutton chops, some buttered toast and some tea. As he drank his tea he told himself that on the morrow he would go back to his mother at Merle Park and get from her such consolation as might be possible.