 Chapter 49 of Ayala's Angel—this LibriVox recording is in the public domain—Ayala's Angel by Anthony Trollop, Chapter 49, The New Frock. Ayala's arrival at Stallum was full of delight to her. There was Nina with all her new-fledged hopes and her perfect assurance in the absolute superiority of Lord George Bideford to any other man, either alive or dead. Ayala was quite willing to allow this assurance to pass current as her angel of light was as yet neither alive nor dead. But she was quite certain, wholly certain, that when the angel should come forth he would be superior to Lord George. The first outpourings of all this took place in the carriage as Nina and Ayala were driven from the station to the house while the Colonel went home alone in a dog-cart. It had been arranged that nothing should be said to Ayala about the Colonel, and in the carriage the Colonel's name was not mentioned. But when they were all in the hall at Stallum taking off their cloaks and depositing their wraps, standing in front of the large fire, Colonel Stubbs was there. Lady Albury was present also welcoming her guests and Sir Harry, who had already come home from hunting, with one or two other men in red coats and top riches, and a small bevy of ladies who were staying in the house. Lady Albury was anxious to know how her friend had sped with Ayala, but at such a moment no question could be asked. But Ayala's spirits were so high that Lady Albury was at a loss to understand whether the whole thing had been settled by Jonathan with success, or whether, on the other hand, Ayala was so happy because she had not been troubled by a word of love. "'He has behaved so badly, Lady Albury,' said Ayala. "'What, Stubbs?' asked Sir Harry, not quite understanding all the ins and outs of the matter. "'Yes, Sir Harry. There was an old lady and an old gentleman. They were very funny and he would laugh at them.' "'I deny it,' said the Colonel. "'Why shouldn't he laugh at them if they were funny?' asked Lady Albury. He knew it would make me laugh out loud. I couldn't help myself, but he could be as grave as a judge all the time. So he went on until the old woman scolded me dreadfully. "'But the old man took your part,' said the Colonel. "'Yes, he did. He said that I was ornamental.' "'A decent and truth-speaking old gentleman,' said one of the sportsmen in top boots. "'Quite so. But then the old lady said that I was perverse and Colonel Stubbs took her part. If you'd have been there, Lady Albury, you would have thought that he'd been in earnest.' "'So I was,' said the Colonel. All this was very pleasant to Ayala. It was a return to the old joyousness when she had first discovered that a light of having such a friend as Colonel Stubbs. Had he flattered her, paid her compliments, been soft and delicate to her as a lover might have been, she would have been troubled in spirit and heavy at heart. But now it seemed as though all that love-making had been an episode which had passed away and that the old pleasant friendship still remained. As yet, while they were standing there in the hall, there had come no moment for her to feel whether there was anything to regret in this. But certainly there had been comfort in it. She had been able to appear before all her stull and friends in the presence even of the man himself, without any of that consciousness which would have oppressed her, had he come there simply as her acknowledged lover, and had she come there conscious before all the guests that it was so. Then they sat for a while drinking tea and eating buttered toast in the drawing-room. A supply of buttered toast fully to gratify the wants of three or four men just home from hunting has never yet been created by the resources of any establishment. But the greater marvel is that the buttered toast has never the slightest effect on the dinner which is to follow in an hour or two. During this period the conversation turned chiefly upon hunting which of all subjects is the most imperious. It never occurs to a hunting man to suppose that either a lady or a bishop or a political economist can be indifferent to hunting. There is something beyond millinery, beyond the interests of the church, beyond the price of wheat, in that great question whether the hounds did or did not change their fox in gobble-goose wood. On the present occasion Sahari was quite sure that the hounds did carry their fox through gobble-goose wood, whereas Captain Glomax, who had formerly been master of the pack which now obeyed Sahari, was perfectly certain that they had got upon another animal who went away from gobble-goose as fresh as paint. He pretended even to ridicule Sahari for supposing that any fox could have run at that pace up Buttlecombe Hill who had travelled all the way from Stickbrogorse. To this Sahari replied resentfully that the Captain did not know what were the running powers of a dog-fox in March. Then he told various stories of what had been done in this way at this special period of the year. Glomax, however, declared that he knew as much of a fox as any man in England, and that he would eat both the foxes and the wood in Sahari, and finally himself if the animal which had run up Buttlecombe Hill was the same which they had brought with them from Stickbrogorse into gobble-goose wood. So the battle raged, and the ladies no doubt were much interested as would have been the bishop had he been there, or the political economist. After this, Sahari was taken up into her room and left to sit there by herself for a while until Lady Aubrey should send her maid. My dear, said Lady Aubrey, there is something on the bed which I expect you to wear tonight. I should be broken-hearted if it doesn't fit you. The frock is a present from Sahari. The scarf comes from me. Don't say a word about it. Sahari always likes to make presents to young ladies. Then she hurried out of the room while Ayala was still thanking her. Lady Aubrey had at first intended to say something about the Colonel as they were sitting together over Ayala's fire. But she had made up her mind against this as soon as she saw their manner towards each other on entering the house. If Ayala had accepted him at a word as they were travelling together, then there would be need of no further interference in the matter. But if not, it would be better that she should hold her peace for the present. Ayala's first instinct was to look at the finery which had been provided for her. It was a light-gray silk, almost pearl-colour, as to which she thought she had never seen anything so lovely before. She measured the waist with her eye and knew at once that it would fit her. She threw the gauzy scarf over her shoulders and turned herself around before the large mirror which stood near the fireplace. Dear Lady Aubrey, she exclaimed. Dear Lady Aubrey, it was impossible that she should have understood that Lady Aubrey's affection had been shown to Jonathan's stubs much rather than to her when those presents were prepared. She got rid of her travelling dress and her boots and let down her hair and seated herself before the fire that she might think of it all in her solitude. Was she or was she not glad? Glad in sober earnest, glad now the moment of her mirth had passed by, the mirth which had made her return to Stallham so easy for her. Was she or was she not glad that this change had come upon the Colonel this return to his old ways? She had got her friend again, but she had lost her lover. She did not want the lover. She was sure of that. She was still sure that if a lover would come to her who would be in truth acceptable, such a lover as would enable her to give herself up to him altogether and submit herself to him as her lord and master, he must be something different from Jonathan's stubs. That had been the theory of her life for many months past, a theory on which she had resolved to rely with all her might from the moment in which this man had spoken to her off his love. Would she give way and render up herself in all her dreams simply because the man was one to be liked? She had declared to herself again and again that it should not be so. There should come the Angel of Light or there should come no lover for her. On that very morning as she was packing up her boxes at Kingsbury Crescent she had arranged the words in which should he speak to her on the subject in the railway train she would make him understand that it could never be. Surely he would understand if she told him so simply with a little prayer that his suit might not be repeated. His suit had not been repeated. Nothing apparently had been further from his intention. He had been droll, pleasant, friendly, just like his old dear self. For in truth the pleasantness in the novelty of his friendship had made him dear to her. He had gone back of his own accord to the old ways without any little prayer from her. Now was she contented? As the question would thrust itself upon her in opposition to her own will, driving out the thoughts which she would feign have welcomed, she cased listlessly at the fire. If it was so, then for what purpose, then for what reason had Lady Aubrey procured for her the pale gray pearl-coloured dress? And why were all these grand people at Stullam so good to her? To her, a poor little girl whose ordinary life was devoted to the mending of linen and to the furtherance of economy in the use of pounds of butter and legs of mutton, why was she taken out of her own sphere and petted in this new luxurious world? She had a knowledge belonging to her, if not quite what we make all common sense, which told her that there must be some cause. Of some intellectual capacity, some appreciation of things and words which were divine in their beauty she was half-conscious. It could not be, she felt, that without some such capacity she should have imaged to herself that angel of light. But not for such capacity as that had she been made welcome at Stullam. As for her prettiness, her beauty of face and form, she thought about them not at all, almost not at all. In appearing in that pale pearl silk with that gauzy scarf upon her shoulders she would take pride. Not to be shamed among other girls by the poorness of her apparel was a pride to her. Perhaps to excel some others by the prettiness of her apparel might be a pride to her. But a feminine beauty as a great gift bestowed upon her she thought not at all. She would look in the mirror for the effect of the scarf, but not for the effect of the neck and shoulders beneath it. Could she have looked in any mirror for the effect of the dream she had thus dreamed? Ah, that would have been the mirror in which she would have loved yet feared to look. Why was Lady Aubrey so kind to her? Perhaps Lady Aubrey did not know that Colonel Stubbs had changed his mind. She would know it very soon, and then maybe everything would be changed. As she thought of this, she longed to put the pearl silk dress aside and not to wear it as yet, to put it aside so that it might never be worn by her if circumstances should so require. It was to be hoped that the man had changed his mind and to be hoped that Lady Aubrey would know that he had done so. Then she would soon see whether there was a change. Could she not give a reason why she should not wear the dress this night? As she sat gazing at the fire a tear ran down her cheek. Was it for the dress she would not wear or for the lover whom she would not love? The question as to the dress was settled for her very soon. Lady Aubrey's maid came into the room. Not a chit of a go, without a thought of her own, except as to her own grandness in being two steps higher than the kitchen maid, but a well-grown, buxom-powerful woman who had no idea of letting such a young lady as Ayala do anything in the matter of dress but what she told her. When Ayala suggested something as to the next evening in reference to the pale pearl silk, the buxom-powerful woman poo-pooed her down in a moment. What! after Sir Harry had taken so much trouble about having it made, having actually inquired about it with his own mouth. Tonight, Miss, you must wear it to-night. My lady would be quite angry. My lady not know what you wear. My lady knows what all the ladies wear morning, noon, and night. That little plan of letting the dress lie by till she should know how she should be received after Colonel Stubbs's change of mind had been declared, fell to the ground altogether under the hands of the buxom-powerful woman. When she went into the drawing-room some of the guests were assembled. Sir Harry and Lady Aubrey were there, and so was Colonel Stubbs. As she walked in, Sir Harry was standing well in front of the fire in advance of the rug, so as to be almost in the middle of the room. Captain Glomax was there also, and the discussion about the foxes was going on. It had occurred to Ayala that as the dress was a present from Sir Harry she must thank him, so she walked up to him and made a little curtsy just before him. Am I nice, Sir Harry? she said. Upon my word, said Sir Harry, that's the best-bent ten-pound note I ever laid out in my life. Then he took her by the hand and gently turned her round so as to look at her in her dress. I don't know whether I'm nice, but you are, she said, curtsying again. Everybody felt that she had had quite a little triumph as she subsided into a seat close by Lady Aubrey, who called her. As she seated herself she caught the Colonel's eye who was looking at her. She fancied that there was a tear in it. Then he turned himself and looked away into the fire. You have won his heart for ever, said Lady Aubrey. Uh, whose heart? asked Ayala, in her confusion. Sir Harry's heart. As to the other, Salah Varsal's deer. You must go on wearing it every night for a week or Sir Harry will want to know why you have left it off. If the woman had made it on you it couldn't have fitted better. Baker—Baker was the buxom female—said she knew it was right. You did that very prettily to Sir Harry. Now go up and ask Colonel Stubbs what he thinks of it. Indeed I won't, said Ayala. Lady Aubrey, a few minutes afterwards, when she saw Ayala walking away towards the drawing-room leaning on the Colonel's arm, acknowledged to herself that she did at last understand it. The Colonel had been able to see it all even without the dress, and she confessed in her mind that the Colonel had eyes with which to see and ears with which to hear, and a judgment with which to appreciate. Don't you think that girl very lovely, she said to Lord Rufford, on whose arm she was leaning? Something almost more than lovely, said Lord Rufford, with unwonted enthusiasm. It was acknowledged now by everybody. Is it true about Colonel Stubbs and Miss Dorma, whispered Lady Rufford to her hoostess in the drawing-room? Upon my word I never inquire into those things, said Lady Aubrey. I suppose he does admire her. Everybody must admire her. Oh, yes, said Lady Rufford. She is certainly very pretty. Who is she, Lady Aubrey? Lady Rufford had been a Miss Penge, and the Penges were supposed to be direct descendants from Bodicea. She's Miss Ayala Dorma. Her father was an artist, and her mother was a very handsome woman. When a girl is as beautiful as Miss Dorma, and as clever it doesn't much signify who she is. Then the direct descendant from Bodicea withdrew, holding an opinion much at variance with that expressed by her hoostess. Who is that young lady who sat next to you, asked Captain Glomax of Colonel Stubbs after the ladies had gone? She's a Miss Ayala Dorma. Did I not see her out hunting with you once or twice early in the season? You saw her out hunting, no doubt, and I was there. I did not specially bring her. She was staying here, and rode one of Aubrey's horses. Take a top and bottom and all around, said Captain Glomax. She's a pretty little thing I've seen for many a day. When she curts it to Sir Harry in the drawing-room, I almost thought that I should like to be a marrying man myself. Stubbs did not carry on the conversation, having felt displeased rather than otherwise by the admiration expressed. I didn't quite understand before, said Sir Harry to his wife that night, what it was that made Jonathan so furious about that girl. But I think I see it now. Fine feathers make fine birds, said his wife, laughing. Feathers ever so fine, said Sir Harry, don't make well-bred birds. To tell the truth, said Lady Aubrey, I think we shall all have to own that Jonathan has been right. This took place upstairs, but before they left the drawing-room Lady Aubrey whispered a few words to her young friend. We have had terrible trouble about you, Ayala. Trouble about me, Lady Aubrey, I should be so sorry. It's not exactly your fault, but we haven't at all known what to do with that unfortunate man. What man? asked Ayala, forgetful at the moment of all men except Colonel Stubbs. You naughty girl, don't you know that my brother-in-law is broken-hearted about you? Captain Batsby, whispered Ayala in her faintest voice. Yes, Captain Batsby. A Captain has as much right to be considered as a Colonel in such a matter as this. Here Ayala frowned, but said nothing. Of course I can't help it, who may break his heart, but poor Ben is always supposed to be at Stullum at just this time of the year, and now I have been obliged to tell him one fib upon another to keep him away. When he comes to know it all, what on earth will he say to me? I'm sure it's not been my fault, said Ayala. That's what young ladies always say when gentlemen break their hearts. When Ayala was again in her room and had got rid of the Buxom female who came to assist her in taking off her new finery, she was aware of having passed the evening triumphantly. She was conscious of admiration. She knew that Sahari had been pleased by her appearance. She was sure that Lady Albury was satisfied with her, and she had seen something in the Colonel's glance that made her feel that he had not been indifferent. But in their conversation at the dinner table, he had said nothing which any other man might not have said, if any other man could have made himself as agreeable. Those hunting days were all again described with their various incidents, with the great triumph over the brook, and 20 men's wife and baby, and Fat Lord Rufford, who was at the moment sitting there opposite to them, and the ball in London with the lady who was thrown out of the window, and the old gentleman and the old lady of today who had been so peculiar in their remarks. There had been nothing else in their conversation, and it surely was not possible that a man who intended to put himself forward as a lover should have talked in such a fashion as that. But then there were other things which occurred to her. Why had there been that tear in his eye? And that Salah Vasa's dear, which had come from Lady Aubrey in her railing-wood, what had that meant? Lady Aubrey, when she said that, could not have known that the Colonel had changed his purpose. But after all, what is a dress? Let it be ever so pretty. The Angel of Light would not care for her dress, let her wear which she might. Were he to seek her, because of her dress, he would not be the Angel of Light of whom she had dreamed. It was not by any dress that she would prevail over him. She did rejoice because of her little triumph, but she knew that she rejoiced because she was not an Angel of Light herself. Her only chance lay in this, that the Angels of Yore did come down from heaven to ask for love and worship from the daughters of men. As she went to bed she determined that she would still be true to her dream. Not because folk admired a new frock would she be ready to give herself to a man who was only a man—a man of the earth, really—who had about him no more than a few of the real attributes of an Angel of Light. The next two days were not quite so triumphant to Ayala as had been the evening of her arrival. There was hunting on both of those days the gentlemen having gone on the Friday a way out of Sahari's country to the brake-hounds. Ayala and the Colonel had arrived on the Thursday. Ayala had not expected to be asked to hunt again, had not even thought about it. It had been arranged before on Nina's account, and Nina now was not to hunt any more. Lord George did not altogether approve of it, and Nina was quite in accord with Lord George, though she had held up her whip and shaken it in triumph when she jumped over the cranberry brook, and the horse which Ayala had ridden was no longer in the stables. My dear, I am so sorry, but I'm afraid we can't mount you, Lady Orbury said. In answer to this, Ayala declared that she had not thought of it for a moment. But yet the day seemed to be dull with her. Lady Rufford was, well, perhaps a little patronising to her, and patronage such as that was not at all to Ayala's taste. Lady Orbury seems to be quite a kind friend to you, Lady Rufford said. Nothing could be more true. The idea, implied, was true also. The idea that such a one as Ayala was much in luck's way to find such a friend as Lady Orbury. It was true, no doubt, but nevertheless it was ungracious and had to be resented. A very kind friend indeed. Some people only make friends of those who are as grand as themselves. I'm sure we should be very glad to see what Rufford, if you remain long in the country, said Lady Rufford a little time afterwards. But even in this there was not a touch of that cordiality which might have won Ayala's heart. I'm not at all likely to stay, said Ayala. I live with my uncle and aunt at Notting Hill, and I very rarely go away from home. Lady Rufford, however, did not quite understand it. It had been whispered to her that morning that Ayala was certainly going to marry Colonel Stubbs, and if so, why should she not come to Rufford? On that day, the Friday, she was taken into dinner by Captain Glomax. I remember quite as if it were yesterday, said the Captain. It was the day we rode the Grandbury Brook. Ayala looked up into his face, also remembering everything as well as it were yesterday. Mr. Twentyman rode over it, she said, and Colonel Stubbs rode into it. Oh, yes, Stubbs got a ducking, so he did. The Captain had not got a ducking, but then he'd gone round by the road. It was a good run, that. I thought so. We haven't been lucky since Sir Harry has had the hound somehow. There doesn't seem to be the dash about them he used to be when I was here. I had him before, Sir Harry, you know. And this was nearly in a whisper. Were you Master? asked Ayala, with the tone of surprise which was not altogether pleasing to the Captain. Indeed I was, but the fag of it was too great and the thanks too small, I gave it up. They used to get four days a week out of me. During the two years that the Captain had had the hounds there had been no doubt two or three weeks in which he had hunted four days. Ayala liked hunting, but she did not care much for Captain Glomax, who having seen her once or twice on horseback would talk to her about nothing else. A little way on the other side of the table Nina was sitting next to Colonel Stubbs, and she could hear their voices and almost their words. Nina and Jonathan were first cousins, and of course could be happy together without giving her any cause for jealousy, but she almost envied Nina. Yet she had hoped that it might not fall to her lot to be taken out again that evening by the Colonel. Here the two she had not even spoken to him during the day. They had started to the meet very early, and the gentlemen had almost finished their breakfast before she had come down. If there had been any fault it was her fault, but yet she almost felt that there was something of a disruption between them. It was so evident to her that he was perfectly happy whilst he was talking to Nina. After dinner it seemed to be very late before the men came into the drawing-room, and then they were still engaged upon that weary talk about hunting, until Lady Rufford, in order to put a stop to it, offered to sing. I always do, she said, if Rufford ventures to name a fox in the drawing-room after dinner. She did sing, and Ayala thought that the singing was more weary than the talk about hunting. While this was going on the Colonel had got himself shut up in a corner of the room. Lady Albury had first taken him there, and afterwards he had been hemmed in when Lady Rufford sat down to the piano. Ayala had hardly ventured even to glance at him, but yet she knew all that he did and heard almost every word that he spoke. The words were not many, but still when he did speak his voice was cheerful. Nina now and again had run up to him, and Lady Rufford had asked him some questions about the music. But why didn't he come and speak to her, thought Ayala? Though all that nonsense about love was over, still he ought not to have allowed a day to pass at Stalam without speaking to her. He was the oldest friend there in that house except Nina. It was indeed no more than nine months since she had first seen him, but still it seemed to her that he was an old friend. She did feel as she endeavoured to answer the questions that Lord Rufford was asking her that Jonathan Stubbs was treating her unkindly. Then came the moment in which Lady Albury marshalled her guests out of the room towards their chambers. Have you found yourself dull without the hunting? the colonel said to Ayala. Oh dear no! I must have a dull time if I do, seeing that I've only hunted three days in my life. There was something in the tone of her voice which, as she herself was aware, almost expressed dissatisfaction, and yet not for worlds which she had shown herself to be dissatisfied with him could she have helped it? I thought that perhaps you might have regretted the little pony, he said. Because a thing has been very pleasant it should not be regretted because it cannot be had always. To me a thing may become so pleasant that unless I can have it always my life must be one long regret. The pony is not quite like that, said Ayala, smiling as she followed the other ladies out of the room. On the next morning the meat was nearer and some of the ladies were taken there in an open carriage. Lady Rufford went and Mrs. Gosling and Nina and Ayala. Of course there's a place for you, Lady Albury had said to her, had I wanted to go I would have made Sir Harry send the drag, but I've got to stop at home and see that the buttered toast is ready by the time the gentlemen all come back. The morning was almost warm, so that the sportsmen were saying evil things of violets and primroses, as is the won't of sportsmen on such occasions, and at the meet the ladies got out of the carriage and walked out among the hounds, making civil speeches to old Tony. No, my lady, said Tony, I don't like these sunshiney mornings at all, there ain't no kind ascent and I goes riding about these big roads up and down, till my shirt is as wet on my back with the sweat as though I'd been pulled through the river. Then Lady Rufford walked away and did not ask Tony any more questions. Ayala was patting one of the hounds when the Colonel, who had given his horse to a groom, came and joined her. If you don't regret that pony, said he, somebody else does. I do regret him in one way, of course, I did like it very much, but I don't think it nice when so much has been done for me to say that I want to have more done. Of course I knew what you meant. Perhaps you would go and tell Sahari and then he would think me very ungrateful. Ayala, he said, I will never say anything of you that will make anybody think evil of you, but between ourselves, as Sahari is not here, I suppose I may confess that I regret the pony. I should like it, of course, whispered Ayala, and so should I, so much. I suppose all these men here would think me and ask if they knew how little I care about the day's work, whether we find, or whether we run, or whether we kill, just because the pony is not here. If the pony were here, I should have that feeling of expectation of joy, which is so common to girls when some much thought-of ball or promised pleasure is just before them. Then Tony went off with his hounds, and Jonathan, mounting his horse, followed with the ruck. Ayala knew very well what the pony meant as spoken of by the Colonel. When he declared that he regretted the pony, it was because the pony might have carried herself. He had meant her to understand that the much thought-of ball or promised pleasure would have been the delight of again riding with herself. And then he had again called her Ayala. She could remember well every occasion on which he had addressed her by her Christian name. It had been but seldom. Once, however, it had occurred in the full flow of their early intimacy before that love-making had been begun. It had struck her as being almost wrong, but still as very pleasant. If it might be made right by some feeling of brotherly friendship, how pleasant would it be? And now she would like it again, if only it might be taken as a sign of friendship rather than of love. It never occurred to her to be angry as she would have been angry with any other man. How she would have looked at Captain Batsby had he dared to call her Ayala. Colonel Stubbs should call her Ayala as long as he pleased, if it were done only in friendship. After that they were driven about for a while seeing what Tony did with the hounds, as tidings came to them now and again that one fox had broken this way and another had gone the other. But Ayala, through it all, could not interest herself about the foxes. She was thinking only of Jonathan Stubbs. She knew that she was pleased because he had spoken to her, and had said kind, pleasant words to her. She knew that she had been displeased when he had sat apart from her talking to others. But yet she could not explain to herself why she had been either pleased or displeased. She feared that there was more than friendship than mere friendship in that declaration of his that he did in truth regret the pony. His voice had been, oh, so sweet as he had said it. Something told her that men do not speak in mere friendship after that fashion. Not even in the softness of friendship between a man and a woman will the man's voice become as musical as that. Young as she was, child as she was, there was an instinct in her breast which declared that it was so. But then, if it were so, was not everything again wrong with her. If it were so, then must that condition of things becoming back which it had been and still was her firm resolve to avoid. And yet, as the carriage was being driven about, and as the frequent exclamations came that the frocks had traversed this way or that, her pride was gratified, and she was happy. What was Colonel Stubb saying to you, asked Nina when they were at home in the house after lunch? He was talking about the dear pony which I used to ride. About nothing else? No, about nothing else. This Ayala said with a short, dry manner of utterance which she would assume when she was determined not to have a subject carried on. Ayala, why do you not tell me everything? I told you everything as soon as it happened. Nothing has happened. I know he asked you, said Nina, and I answered him. Is that to be everything? Yes, that is to be everything, said Ayala, with a short, dry manner of utterance. It was so plain that even Nina could not pursue the subject. There was nothing done on that day in the way of sport. Glomax thought that Tony had been idle, and had made a holiday of the day from the first. But Sir Harry declared that there had not been a yard of scent. The buttered toast, however, was eaten, and the regular sporting conversation was carried on. Ayala, however, was not there to hear it. Ayala was in her own room dreaming. She was taken into dinner by a curate in the neighbourhood, to whom she endeavoured to make herself very pleasant, while the colonel sat at her other side. The curate had a good deal to say as to lawn tennis, if the weather remained as it was, it was thought that they could all play lawn tennis on the Tuesday when there would be no hunting. The curate was a pleasant young fellow, and Ayala devoted herself to him and to their joint hopes for next Tuesday. Colonel Stubbs never once attempted to interfere with the curate's opportunity. There was Lady Rufford on the other side of him, and to Lady Rufford he said all that he did say during dinner. At one period of the repast she was more than generally lively, because she felt herself called upon to warn her husband that an attack of the gout was imminent, and would be certainly produced instantaneously if he could not deny himself the delight of a certain dish which was going the round of the table. His lordship smiled and denied himself, thinking as he did so whether another wife plus the gout or door would not have been better for him. All this either amused Colonel Stubbs sufficiently or else made him so thoughtful that he made no attempt to interfere with the curate. In the evening there was again music which resulted in a declaration made upstairs by Sahari to his wife that that wife of Ruffords was a confounded bore. We all knew that, my dear, as soon as he married her, said Lady Albury. Why did he marry a bore? Because he wanted a wife to look after himself and not to amuse his friends. The wonder used to be that he had done so well. Not a word had there been, not a word since that sound of Ayala had fallen upon her ears. No, he was not handsome, and his name was Jonathan Stubbs, but surely no voice so sweet had ever fallen from a man's lips. So she sat and dreamed far into the night. He, the Angel of Light, would certainly have a sweeter voice. That was an attribute without which no angel could be angelic. As to the face and the name that would not perhaps signify, but he must have an intellect high-soring, a soul tuned to music and a mind versed in nothing but great matters. He might be an artist, or more probably a poet, or perhaps a musician. Yet she had read of poets, artists and musicians who had misused their wives, been fond of money, and had perhaps been drunkards. The Angel of Light must have the gifts and most certainly be without the vices. The next day was Sunday, and they all went to church. In the afternoon they, as many of them as pleased, were to walk as far as Gobblegoose would, which was only three miles from the house. They could not hunt, and therefore they must go to the very scene of the late contest and again discuss it there. Sahari and the captain would walk, and so would Ayala and Nina and some others. Lord Rufford did not like walking, and Lady Rufford would stay at home to console him. Ayala used her little wiles to keep herself in close company with Nina, but the Colonel's wiles were more effective, and then perhaps Nina assisted the Colonel rather than Ayala. It came to pass that before they had left Gobblegoose would, Ayala and the Colonel were together. When it was so, he did not beat about the bush for a moment longer. He had fixed his opportunity for himself, and he put it to use at once. Ayala, he said, am I to have any other answer? What answer? Nay, my dearest, my own, own dearest, as I feign would have you. Who shall say what answer but you? Ayala, you know that I love you. I thought you'd given it up. Given it up? Never, never. Does a man give up his joy, the pride of his life, the one only delight on which is hard to set itself? No, my darling, I have not given it up. Because you would not have it, as I wished when I first spoke to you, I have not gone on troubling you. I thought I would wait until you were used again to the look of me into my voice. I shall never give it up, Ayala. When you came into the room that night with your new frock on—then he paused, and she glanced around upon him, and saw that a tear again was in his eye. When you came in and curtsied to Sahari, I could hardly keep within myself, because I thought you were so beautiful. It was the new gown which he'd given me. No, my pet, no. You may add grace to address, but it can do but little for you. It was the little motion, the little word, the light in your eye. It twinkles at me sometimes when you glance about, so that I do not know whether it's meant for me or not. I fear that it is never meant for me. It's meant for nothing, said Ayala. And yet it goes into my very bosom. When you were talking to that clergyman at dinner, I could see every sparkle that came from it. Then I wonder to myself whether you can ever be thinking of me as I'm always thinking of you. She knew that she had been thinking of him every waking moment since she had been at Albury, and through many of her sleeping moments also. Ayala, one little word, one other glance from your eyes, one slightest touch from your hand upon my arm. She'll tell me—she'll tell me—she'll tell me that I'm the happiest, the proudest man in all the world. She walked on steadfastly, closing her very teeth against a word, with her eyes fixed before her so that no slightest glance should wander. Her two hands were in her little muff, and she kept them with her fingers clasped together, as though afraid lest one might rebel and fly away and touch the sleeve of his coat. Ayala, how is it to be with me? I cannot, she said sternly, and her eyes were still fixed before her, and her fingers were still bound in one with another. And yet she loved him. Yet she knew that she loved him. She could have hung upon his arm and smiled up into his face, and frowned her refusal only with mock anger as he pressed to his bosom. Only that those dreams were so palpable to her, and so dear, had been to her so vast a portion of her young life. I cannot, she said again. I cannot. Is that to be your answer for ever? To this she made no immediate reply. Must it be so, Ayala? I cannot, she said. But the last little word was so impeded by the sobs which she could not restrain as almost to be inaudible. I will not make you unhappy, Ayala. Yes, she was unhappy. She was unhappy because she knew that she could not rule herself to her own happiness, because even at this moment she was aware that she was wrong. If she could only release part of herself from the other, then could she fly into his arms and tell him that that spirit which had troubled her had flown. But the spirit was too strong for her and would not fly. Shall we go and join them? he asked her in a voice altered, but still so sweet to her ears. If you think so, she replied. Perhaps it will be best, Ayala. Do not be angry with me now. I will not call you so again. Angry? Oh, no, she was not angry with him. But it was very bitter to her to be told that she should never hear the word again from his lips. The aunt at Fox never went up Buttlecamille, never. If he did, I'll eat every Fox in the rougher and offered country. This was heard, spoken in most angry tones by Captain Glomax, as the Colonel and Ayala joined the rest of the party. Ayala, from the walk to the wood, spent the remainder of the afternoon in tears. During the walk she kept close to Sir Harry pretending to listen to the arguments about the Fox, but she said nothing. Her ears were really intent on endeavouring to catch the tones of her lover's voice, as he went on in front of them talking to Nina. Nothing could be more pleasant than the sound as he said a word or two now and again, encouraging Nina in her rhapsody ses to Lord George and all Lord George's family. But Ayala learned nothing from that. She had come to know the man well enough to be aware that he could tune his voice to the occasion and could hide his feelings, let them be ever so strong. She did not doubt his love now. She did not doubt that at this moment his heart was heavy with rejected love. She quite believed in him. But nevertheless his words were pleasant and kind as he encouraged Nina. Nor did she doubt her own love. She was alone in her room that afternoon till she told herself at last the truth. Oh yes, she loved him. She was sure of that. But now he was gone. Why had she been so foolish? Then it seemed as though at that moment the separation took place between herself and the spirit which had haunted her. She seemed to know now, now at this very moment, that the man was too good for her. The knowledge had been coming to her. It had almost come when he had spoken to her in the wood. If it could only have been that he should have delayed his appeal to her for yet another day or two, she thought now that if he could have delayed it but for a few hours the cure would have been complete. If he had talked to her as he so well knew how to talk while they were in the wood together while they were walking home, so is to have exorcised the spirit from her by the sweetness of his words, and then have told her that there was his love to have if she chose to have it. Then she thought she would have taken it. But he had come to her while those words which she had prepared under the guidance of the spirit were yet upon her tongue. I cannot, she had said. I cannot. But she had not told him that she did not love him. I did love him, she said to herself, almost acknowledging that the spirit had been wholly exorcised. The fashion of her mind was altogether different from that which had so strongly prevailed with her. He was an honest noble man, high in the world's repute, clever, a gentleman, a man of taste, and possessed of that gentle ever-present humour which was so inexpressibly delightful to her. She never again spoke to herself even in her thoughts of that angel of light, never comforted herself again with the vision of that which was to come. There had appeared to her a man better than all other men, and when he had asked her for her hand she had simply said, I cannot. And yet she had loved him all the time. How foolish, how false, how wicked she had been. It was thus that she thought of it all as she sat there alone in her bedroom through the long hours of the afternoon. When they sent up for her asking her to come down, she begged that she might be allowed to remain there until dinner-time, because she was tired with her walk. He would not come again now. Oh, no, he was too proud, too firm, too manly for that. It was not for such a one as he to come whining after a girl like her cousin Tom. Would it be possible that she should even yet tell him? Could she say to him one little word contradicting that which she had so often uttered in the wood? Now I can, once whispered in his ear, would do it all. But as to this she was aware that there was no room for hope, to speak such a word, lo as it might be spoken, simple and little as it might be, was altogether impossible. She had had her chance and had lost it because of those idle dreams. That the dreams had been all idle she declared to herself, not aware that the Ayala whom her lover had loved would not have been an Ayala to be loved by him but for the dreams. Now she must go back to her uncle and aunt and to Kingsbury Crescent with the added sorrow that the world of dreams was closed to her forever. When the maid came to her she consented to have the frock put on, the frock which Sir Harry had given her, boldly resolving to struggle through her sorrow till Lady Albury should have dismissed her to her home. Nobody would want her now at Stullum and the dismissal would soon come. While she had been alone in her room the Colonel had been closeted with Lady Albury. They had at least thus been shut up together for some half hour during which he had told his tale. I have to own, said he, half laughing as he began his tale, that I thoroughly respect Ms. Dorma. Why is she to be called Ms. Dorma? Because she's shown herself worthy of my respect. What is it that you mean, Jonathan? She knew her own mind when she told me at first that she could not accept the offer which I did myself the honour of making her, and now she sticks to her purpose. I think that a young lady who will do that should be respected. She has refused you again. All together. As how? Well, I hardly know that I'm prepared to explain the as-how even to you. I'm about as thick-skinned a man in such matters as you may find anywhere, but I do not know that even I can bring myself to tell the as-how. The as-how was very clear in one respect. It was manifest that she knew her own mind, which is a knowledge not in the possession of all young ladies. She told me that she could not marry me. I do not believe it. Not that she told me so. Not that she knew her own mind. She's a little simple fool who, with some vaguer in her brain, is throwing away utterly her own happiness while she's vexing you. As to the vexation, you're right. Cross-grain little idiot. An idiot she certainly is not, and as to being cross-grain I have never found it. A human being with the grains running more directly all in the same way I have never come across. Do not talk to me, Jonathan, like that, she said. When I call her cross-grained, I mean that she is running counter to her own happiness. I cannot tell anything about that. I should have endeavoured, I think, to make her happy. She's certainly run counter to my happiness. And now? What, as to this very moment, I shall leave Stullum to-morrow. Why should you do that? Let her go, if one must go. That is just what I want to prevent. Why should she lose her little pleasure? You don't suppose that we can make the house happy to her now. Why should we care to do so when she will have driven you away? He sat silent for a minute or two looking at the fire with his hands on his two knees. You must acknowledge, Jonathan, continued she, that I have taken kindly to this Ayala of yours. I do acknowledge it. But it cannot be that she should be the same to us, simply as a young lady, staying here as it were on her own behalf, as she was when we regarded her as your possible wife. Then every little trick and grace belonging to her endeared itself to us, because we regarded her as one who was about to become one of ourselves. But what are her tricks and graces to us now? They're all the world to me, said the Colonel. But you must wipe them out of your memory, unless indeed you mean to ask her again. Ah, that is it. You will ask her again? I do not say so, but I do not wish to rob myself of the chance. It may be that I shall. Of course I should to-morrow, if I thought there was a hope. To-morrow there would be none. But I should like to know that I could find her again in hand so friendly as yours, if at the end of a month I should think myself strong enough to encounter the risk of another refusal. Would Sir Harry allow her to remain here for another month? He would say probably nothing about it. My plan is this, he continued. Let her remain here, say, for three weeks or a month. Do you continue all your kindness to her, if not for her sake than for mine? Let her feel that she has made one of yourselves, as you say. That will be hard, said Lady Aubrey. It would not be hard if you thought that she was going to become so at last. Try it for my sake. Say not a word to her about me, though not shunning my name. Be to her, as though I had told you nothing of this. Then when the period is over I will come again, if I find that I can do so. If my love is still stronger than my sense of self-respect I shall do so. All this, Lady Aubrey promised to do, and then the interview between them was over. Colonel Stubbs is going to Aldershot tomorrow, said she, to Ayala in the drawing room after dinner. He finds now that he cannot very well remain away. There was no hesitation in her voice as she said this, and no look in her eye which taught Ayala to suppose that she had heard anything of what had occurred in the wood. Is he indeed, said Ayala, trying but in vain to be equally under-monstrative? It's a great trouble to ask, but we're quite unable to prevent it, unless you indeed can control him. I cannot control him, said Ayala, with that fixed look of resolution with which Lady Aubrey had already become familiar. That evening before they went to bed the Colonel bad them all good-bye as he intended to start early in the morning. I never saw such a fellow as you are for sudden changes, said Sahari. What's the good of staying here for hunting when the ground and Tony's temper are both as hard as brick-bats? If I go now I can get another week further on in March if the rain should come. With this Sahari seemed to be satisfied, but Ayala felt sure that Tony's temper and the rain had had nothing to do with it. Good-bye, Miss Dorma, he said, with his pleasantest smile and his pleasantest voice. Good-bye, she repeated. What would she not have given that her voice should be as pleasant as his and her smile? But she failed so utterly that the little word was inaudible, almost obliterated by the choking of a sob. How bitterly severe had that word Miss Dorma sounded from his mouth? Could he not have called her Ayala for the last time, even though all the world should have heard it? She was wide awake in the morning and heard the wheels of his cart as he was driven off. As the sound died away upon her ear, she felt that he was gone from her forever. How had it been that she had said, I cannot so often, when all her heart was set upon, I can? And now it remained to her to take herself away from Stalem as fast as she might. She understood perfectly all those ideas which Lady Albury had expressed to her well-loved friend. She was nothing to anybody at Stalem, simply a young lady staying at the house, as might be some young lady connected with them by blood or some young lady whose father and mother had been their friends. She had been brought here to Stalem, now the second time, in order that Jonathan Stubbs might take her as his wife. Driven by some madness she had refused her destiny, and now nobody would want her at Stalem any longer. She had better begin to pack up at once and go. The coldness of the people, now that she had refused to do as she had been asked, would be unbearable to her. And yet she must not let it appear that Stalem was no longer dear to her, merely because Colonel Stubbs had left it. She would let a day go by and then say, with all the ease she could muster, that she would take her departure on the next. After that her life before her would be a blank. She had known up to this, so at least she told herself that Jonathan Stubbs would afford her at any rate another chance. Now there could be no other chance. The first blank day passed away, and it seemed to her almost as though she had no right to speak to any one. She was sure that Lady Rufford knew what had occurred because nothing more was said as to the proposed visit. Mrs. Colonel Stubbs would have been welcome anywhere, but who was Ayala Dorma? Even though Lady Albury bad her come out in the carriage, it seemed to her to be done as a final effort of kindness. Of course they would be anxious to be rid of her. That evening the Buxom woman did not come to help address herself. It was an accident. The Buxom woman was wanted here and there until it was too late, and Ayala had left her room. Ayala, in truth, required no assistance in dressing. When the first agonizing moment of the new frock had been passed over, she would sooner have arrayed herself without assistance. But now it seemed as though the Buxom woman was running away because she, Ayala, was thought to be no longer worthy of her services. On the next morning she began her little speech to Lady Albury. Going away to-morrow, said Lady Albury. Or perhaps the next day, suggested Ayala. My dear, it has been arranged that you should stay here for another three weeks. No. I say it was arranged. Everybody understood it. I'm sure you aren't understood it, because one person goes, everybody else isn't to follow, so as to break up a party, on among thieves. Thieves? Well, anything else you like to call us all. The party has been made up, and to tell the truth I don't think that young ladies have the same right of changing their minds and rushing about, as men assume. Young ladies ought to be more steady. Where am I to get another young lady at a moment's notice to play lawn tennis with Mr. Green? Compose yourself and stay where you are, like a good girl. What will Sir Harry say? Sir Harry will probably go on talking about the stillbra fox and quarrelling with that odious Captain Glomax. That is, if you remain here, if you go all of a sudden, he will perhaps hint. Hint what, Lady Albury? Never mind. He shall make no hints if you're a good girl. Nothing was said at the moment about the Colonel, nothing further than the little illusion made above. Then there came the lawn tennis, and Ayala regained something of her spirits as she contrived with the assistance of Sir Harry to beat Nina and the curate. But on the following day Lady Albury spoke out more plainly. It was because of Colonel Stubbs that you said that you would go away. Ayala paused for a moment and then answered startily, yes, it was because of Colonel Stubbs. And why? Ayala paused again and the startness almost deserted her. Because—well, my dear. I don't think I ought to be asked, said Ayala. Well, you shall not be asked. I will not be cruel to you. But do you not know that if I ask anything it is with a view to your own good? Oh, yes, said Ayala. But though I may not ask, I suppose I may speak. To this Ayala made no reply, either assenting or dissenting. You know, do you know that I and Colonel Stubbs love each other like brother and sister, more dearly than many brothers and sisters? I suppose so. And that therefore he tells me everything. He told me what took place in the wood, and because of that he's gone away. Of course, you're angry with me, because he's gone away. I'm sorry that he has gone because of the cause of it. I always wish that he should have everything that he desires, and now I wish that he should have this thing because he desires it above all other things. Does he desire it above all other things? thought Ayala to herself. And if it be really so, cannot I now tell her that he shall have it? Can't I say that I too long to get it quite as eagerly as he long to have it? The suggestion rushed quickly to her mind, but the answer to it came as quickly. No, she could not do so. No offer of the kind would come from her. By what she had said must she abide, unless indeed he should come to her again. But why should you go, Ayala, because he has gone? Why should you say aloud that you had come here to listen to his offer, and that you had gone away as soon as you had resolved that for this reason all that it was not satisfactory to you? O Lady Aubrey, that would be the conclusion drawn. Remain here with us, and see if you can like us well enough to be one of us. Dear Lady Aubrey, I do love you dearly. What he may do I cannot say. Whether he may bring himself to try once again I do not know, nor will I ask you whether there might possibly be any other answer were he to do so. No, said Ayala, driven by a sudden fit of obstinacy which she could not control. I ask no questions about it, but I am sure it will be better for you to remain here for a few weeks. We will make you happy if we can, and you can learn to think over what has passed without emotion. Thus it was decided that Ayala should prolong her visit into the middle of March. She could not understand her own conduct when she again found herself alone. Why had she ejaculated that sudden no, when Lady Aubrey had suggested to her the possibility of changing her purpose? She knew that she would feign change it if it were possible, and yet when the idea was presented to her she replied with a sudden denial of its possibility. But still there was hope, even though the hope was faint. Whether he may bring himself to try again I do not know. So it was that Lady Aubrey had spoken of him, and of what Lady Aubrey said to her she now believed every word. Whether he could bring himself. Surely such a one as he would not condescend so far as that. But if he did one word should be sufficient. By no one else would she allow it to be thought for an instant that she would wish to reverse her decision. It must still be known to any other person from whom such suggestion might come. But should he give her the chance she would tell him instantly the truth of everything? Can I love you? Oh, my love it is impossible that I should not love you. It would be thus that the answer should be given to him should he allow her the chance of making it. End of Chapter 51 Three weeks passed by and Ayala was still at Stullam. Colonel Stubbs had not yet appeared and very little had been said about him. Sir Henry would sometimes suggest that if he meant to see any more hunting he'd better come at once, but this was not addressed to Ayala. She made up her mind that he would not come and was sure that she was keeping him away by her presence. He could not bring himself to try over again as Lady Aubrey had put it. Why should he bring himself to do anything on behalf of one who had treated him so badly? It had been settled that she should remain to the twenty-fifth of March, when the month should be up from the time in which Lady Aubrey had decided upon that as the period of her visit. Of her secret she had given no slightest hint. If he ever did come again it should not be because she had asked for his coming. As far as she knew how to carry out such a purpose she concealed from Lady Aubrey anything like a feeling of regret. And she was so far successful that Lady Aubrey thought it expedient to bring in other assistance to help her cause, as will be seen by a letter which Ayala received when the three weeks had passed by. In the meantime there had been at first dismay, then wonder, and lastly some amusement at the condition of Captain Batsby. When Captain Batsby had first learned at Merle Park that Ayala and Jonathan Stubbs were both at Stullam he wrote very angrily to Lady Aubrey. In answer to this his sister-in-law had pleaded guilty but still defending herself. How could she make herself responsible for the young lady who did not indeed seem ready to bestow her affections on any of her suitors? But still she acknowledged that a little favour was being shown to Colonel Stubbs, wishing to train the man to the idea that in this special matter Colonel Stubbs must be recognised as the Stullam favourite. Then no further letters were received from the Captain, but there came tidings that he was staying at Merle Park. Ayala heard continually from her sister and Lucy sent some revelations as to the Captain. He seemed to be very much at home in Merle Park, said Lucy, and then at last she expressed her own opinion that Captain Batsby and Gertrud were becoming very fond of each other. And yet the whole story of Gertrud and Mr. Houston was known, of course, to Lucy and through Lucy to Ayala. To Ayala these sudden changes were very amusing as she certainly did not wish to retain her own hold on the Captain and was not specially attached to her cousin Gertrud. From Ayala the tidings went to Lady Aubrey, and in this way the fears which had been entertained as to the Captain's displeasure were turned to wonder and amusement. But up to this period nothing had been heard of the projected trip to our stand. Then came the letter to Ayala to which illusion has been made, a letter from her old friend the Marquesa who was now at Rome. It was ostensibly an answer to a letter from Ayala herself, but was written in great part in compliance with instructions received from Lady Aubrey. It was as follows. Dear Ayala, I was glad to get your letter about Nina. She is very happy and Lord George is here. Indeed, to tell the truth they arrived together, which was not at all proper, but everything will be made proper on Tuesday the 8th of April, which is the day at last fixed for the wedding. I wish you could have been here to be one of the bridesmaids. Nina says that you will have it that the Pope is to marry her. Instead of that it's going to be done by Lord George's uncle, the Dean of Dorchester, who is coming for this purpose. Then they are going up to a villa they have taken on Como, where we shall join them some time before the spring is over. After that they seem to have no plans, except plans of Canubial Bliss, which is never to know any interruption. Now that I have come to Canubial Bliss and feel so satisfied as to Nina's prospects, I have a word or two to say about the bliss of somebody else. Nina is my own child and, of course, comes first, but one Jonathan stubs is my nephew, and is also very near to my heart. From all that I hear, I fancy that he has set his mind also on Canubial Bliss. Have you not heard that it is so? A bird has whispered to me that you have not been kind to him. Why should it be so? Nobody knows better than I do that a young lady is entitled to the custody of her own heart, and that she should not be compelled or even persuaded to give her hand in opposition to her own feelings. If your feelings and your heart are altogether opposed to the poor fellow, of course there must be an end of it. But I had thought that from the time you first met him he had been a favourite of yours—so much so that there was a moment in which I feared that you might think too much of the attentions of a man who has ever been a favourite with all who have known him. But I have found that in this I was altogether mistaken. When he came that evening to see the last of you at the theatre, taking, as I know he did, considerable trouble to release himself from other engagements, I was pretty sure how it was going to be. He is not a man to be in love with a girl for a month and then to be in love with another the next month. When once he allowed himself to think that he was in love, the thing was done and fixed, either for his great delight or else to his great trouble. I knew how it was to be and so it has been. Am I not right in saying that on two occasions, at considerable intervals, he has come to you and made distinct offers of his hand? I fear, though I do not actually know it, that you have just as distinctly rejected those offers. I do not know it, because none but you and he can know the exact words with which you received from him the tender of all that he had to give you. I can easily believe that he, with all his intelligence, might be deceived by the feminine reserve and coinice of such a girl as you. If it be so, I do pray that no folly may be allowed to interfere with his happiness and with yours. I call it folly, not because I am adverse to feminine reserve, nor because I am prone to quarrel even with what I call coinice, but because I know his nature so well and feel that he would not bear rebuffs of which many another man would think nothing, that he would not bring himself to ask again perhaps even for a seventh time as they might do. And if it be that by some frequent asking his happiness and yours could be ensured, would it not be folly that such happiness should be marred by childish disinclination on your part to tell the truth? As I said before, if your heart be set against him there must be an end of it. I can understand that a girl so young as you should fail to see the great merit of such a man. I therefore write as I do, thinking it possible that in this respect you may be willing to accept from my mouth something as to the man which shall be regarded as truth. It is on the inner man, on his nature and disposition, that the happiness of a wife must depend. A more noble nature, a more truthful spirit than his, I have never met. He is one on whom in every phase of life you may depend, or I may depend, as on a rock. He is one without vacillation, always steady to his purpose, requiring from himself in the way of duty and conduct infinitely more than he demands from those around him. If ever there was a man altogether manly, he is one. And yet no woman, no angel, ever held a heart more tender within his bosom. See him with children. Think of his words when he has spoken to yourself. Remember the estimation in which those friends hold him who know him best, such as I and your friend Lady Aubrey and Sir Harry and his cousin Nina. I could name many others, but these are those with whom you have seen him most frequently. If you can love such a man, do you not think that he would make you happy? And if you cannot, must there not be something wrong in your heart, unless indeed it be already predisposed to someone else? Think of all this, dear Ayala, and remember that I am always your affectionate friend, Julia Baldoni. Ayala's first feeling as she read the letter was a conviction that her friend had altogether wasted her labour in writing it. Of what use was it to tell her of the man's virtues, to tell her that the man's heart was as tender as an angel's, his truth as assured as a god's, his courage that of a hero, that he was possessed of all those attributes which should by right belong to an angel of light? She knew all that without requiring the evidence of a lady from Rome, having no need of any evidence in that matter from any other human being. Of what use could any evidence be on such a subject from the most truthful lips that ever spoke? Had she not found it all out herself, would any words from others have prevailed with her? But she had found it out herself. It was already her gospel, that he was tender and true, manly, heroic, as brightly angelic as could be any angel of light, was already an absolute fact to her. No, her heart had never been predisposed to any one else. It was of him she had always dreamed, even long before she had seen him. He was the man perfect in all good things who was to come and take her with him, if ever man should come and take her. She wanted no Marquesa Baldoni now to tell her that the angel had in truth come and realized himself before her in all his glory. But she had shown herself to be utterly unfit for the angel, though she recognized him now she had not recognized him in time, and even when she had recognized him she had been driven by her madness to reject him. Feminine reserve and coiness, folly! Yes, indeed she knew all that, too, without need of telling from her elders. The kind of coiness which she had displayed had been the very infatuation of feminine imbecility. It was because nature had made her utterly unfit for such a destiny that she had been driven by coiness and feminine reserve to destroy herself. It was thus that Ayala conversed with herself. I know his nature so well and feel that he would not bear rebuffs of which many another man would think nothing. This she did not doubt the Marquesa had spoken very truly. But of what value was all that now? She could not recall the rebuff. She could not now eradicate the cowardice which had made her repeat those fatal wicked words, I cannot, I cannot, I cannot. The letter had come too late, for there was nothing she could do to amend her doom. She must send some answer to her friend in Italy, but there could be nothing in her answer to her to assist her. The feminine reserve and coiness had become odious to her, as it had been displayed by herself to him. But it still remained in full force as to any assistance from others. She could not tell another to send him back to her. She could not implore help in her trouble. If he would come himself, himself of his own accord, himself impelled once more by his great tenderness of heart, himself once more from his real, real love, then there should be no more coiness. If you will still have me, oh yes! But there was the letter to be written. She wrote it that by far the greater part of it, the larger part at least, had referenced to Nina and her wedding. I will think of her on the eighth of April, she said. I shall then be at home in Kingsbury Crescent, and I shall have nothing else to think of. In that was her first allusion to her own condition with her lover. But on the last side of the sheet it was necessary that you should say more than that. Something must be said thoughtfully, carefully and gratefully, in reply to so much thought and care and friendship as had been shown to her. But it must be so written that nothing of her secret should be read in it. The task was so troublesome that she was compelled to recopy the whole of her long letter, because the sentences as first written did not please her. I am so much obliged to you, she said, by your kindness about Colonel Stubbs. He did do me the honour of asking me to be his wife, and I felt it so. You are not to suppose that I did not understand that. It is all over now, and I cannot explain to you why I felt that it would not do. It is all over, and therefore writing about it is no good. Only I want you to be sure of two things, that there is no one else, and that I do love you so much for all your kindness, and you may be sure of a third thing too, that it is all over. I do hope that he will still let me be his friend, as a friend I have always liked him so much. It was brave and bold, she thought, in answer to such words as the Marquesas, but she did not know how to do it any better. On Tuesday the twenty-fifth of March she was to return to Kingsbury Crescent. Various little words were said at Stullum indicating an intended break in the arrangement. The captain certainly won't come now, said Lady Orbury, alluding to the arrangement as though it had been made solely with the view of saving Ayala from an encounter with her objectionable lover. Croppie has come back, said Sir Harry, one day, Croppie being the pony which Ayala had written. Miss Dorma can have him now for what little there is left of the hunting. This was said on the Saturday before she was to go. How could she ride Croppie for the rest of the hunting when she would be at Kingsbury Crescent? On neither of these occasions did she say a word, but she assumed that little look of contradiction which her friends at Stullum already knew how to read. Then on the Sunday morning there came a letter for Lady Orbury. What does he say? asked Sir Harry at breakfast. I'll show it to you before you go to church, answered his wife. Then Ayala knew that the letter was from Colonel Stubbs. But she did not expect that the letter should be shown to her, which however came to be the case. When she was in the library waiting to start to church, Lady Orbury came in and threw the letter to her across the table. That concerns you, she said, you'd better read it. There was another lady in the room also waiting to start on their walk across the park, and therefore it was natural that nothing else should be said at the moment. Ayala read the letter, returned it to the envelope, and then handed it back to Lady Orbury, so that there was no word spoken about it before church. The letter, which was very short, was as follows. I shall be at Stullum by the afternoon train on Sunday the 30th, in time for dinner, if you will send the dog cart. I could not leave this most exigent of all places this week. I suppose Orbury will go on in the woodlands for a week or ten days in April, and I must put up with that. I hear that Batsby is altogether fixed by the fascinations of Merle Park. I hope that you and Orbury will receive consolation in the money. Then there was a post-script. If croppy can be got back again, Miss Dorma might see me tumble into another river. It was evident that Lady Orbury did not expect anything to be said at present. She put the letter into her pocket, and there for the moment was an end of it. It may be feared that Ayala's attention was not fixed that morning so closely as it should have been on the services of the church. There was so much in that little letter which insisted on having all her attention. Had there been no post-script, the letter would have been very different. In that case the body of the letter itself would have intended to have no reference to her, or rather it would have had a reference altogether opposite to that which the post-script gave it. In that case it would have been manifest to her that he had intentionally postponed his coming until she had left Stullum. Then his suggestion about the hunting would have had no interest for her. Everything would have been over. She would have been at Kingsbury Crescent, and he would have been at Stullum. But the post-script declared his intention of finding her still in the old quarters. She would not be there, as she declared to herself. After this there would be but one other day, and then she would be gone. But even this allusion to her and to the pony made the letter something to her of intense interest. Had it not been so, Lady Albury would not have shown it to her. As it was, why had Lady Albury shown it to her in that quiet, placid, friendly way, as though it were natural that any letter from Colonel Stubbs to Stullum should be shown to her? At lunch Sir Harry began about the pony at once. Miss Dorma, he said, the pony will hardly be fit tomorrow in the distances during the rest of the week are all too great for you. You'd better wait till Monday week, when Stubbs will be here to look after you. But I'm going home on Tuesday, said Ayala. I've had the pony brought on purpose for you, said Sir Harry. You're not going at all, said Lady Albury. All that has to be altered. I'll write, Mrs. Dossett. I don't think, began Ayala. I shall take it very much amiss, said Sir Harry, if you go now. Stubbs is coming on purpose. I don't think, began Ayala again. My dear Ayala, it isn't a case for thinking, said Lady Albury. You most positively will not leave this house until some day in April, which will have to be settled hereafter. Do not let us have a word more about it. Then on that immediate occasion no further word about it was spoken. Ayala was quite unable to speak as she sat attempting to eat her lunch. We must go again to Merle Park, where the Tringle family was still living, and from which Gertrude had not as yet been violently abducted, at the period to which the reader has been brought in the relation which has been given of the affairs at Stullum. Jonathan Stubbs' little note to Lady Albury was received on Sunday the 23rd of March, and Gertrude was not abducted until the 29th. On Sunday the 30th she was brought back, not in great triumph. At that time the house was considerably perturbed. Sir Thomas was very angry with his daughter Augusta, having been led to believe that she had been privy to Gertrude's escapade, so angry that very violent words had been spoken as to her expulsion from the house. Tom also was ill, absolutely ill in bed with a doctor to see him, and all from love, declaring that he would throw himself over the ship's side and drown himself, while there was yet a chance left to him for Ayala. And in the midst of this Lady Tringle herself was by no means exempt from the paternal wrath. She was told that she must have known what was going on between her daughter and that idiot captain, that she encouraged the trafics to remain, that she coddled up her son till he was sick from sheer lackadaisical idleness. The only one in the house who seemed to be exempt from the wrath of Sir Thomas was Lucy, and therefore it was upon Lucy's head that fell the concentrated energy of Aunt Emily's revenge. When Captain Batsby was spoken of with contumely in the light of her husband, this being always done by Sir Thomas, Lady Tringle would make her rejoinder to this when Sir Thomas had turned his back by saying that a Captain in her Majesty's army, with good blood in his veins and a competent fortune, was at any rate better than a poor artist who had, so to say, no blood, and was unable to earn his bread. And when Tom was ridiculed for his love for Ayala, she would go on to explain, always after Sir Thomas's back had been turned, that poor Tom had been encouraged by his father, whereas Lucy had taken upon herself to engage herself in opposition to her pastors and masters. And then came the climax. It was all very well to say that Augusta was intruding, but there were people who intruded much worse than Augusta without half so much right. When this was said the poor, sore-hearted woman felt her own cruelty and endeavoured to withdraw the harsh words, but the wound had been given, and the venom rankled so bitterly that Lucy could no longer bear her existence among the tringles. I ought not to remain after that, she wrote to her lover, though I went into the poor house I ought not to remain. I wrote to Mr. Hummel, she said to her aunt, and told him that as you did not like me being here, I had better—better go away. But where are you to go? And I didn't say that I didn't like you being here, who wouldn't it take me up in that way? I do feel that I'm in the way, aunt, and I think that I had better go. But where are you to go? I declare that everybody says everything to break my heart. Of course you ought to remain here until he's got a house to keep you in. But the letter had gone, and a reply had come telling Lucy that whatever might be the poor house to which you would be destined, he would be there to share it with her. Hummel wrote this with high heart. He had already resolved, previous to this, that he would at once prepare a home for his coming bride, though he was sore distressed by the emergency of his position. His father had become more and more bitter with him, as he learned that his son would in no respect be guided by him. There was a sum of money which he now declared to be due to him, and which Isidor acknowledged to have been lent to him. Of this the father demanded repayment. If, said he, you acknowledge anything of the obedience of a son, that money is at your disposal and any other that you may want. But if you determined to be as free from my control and as deaf to my advice as might be any other young man, then you must be to me as might be any other young man. He had written to his father, saying that the money should be repaid as soon as possible. The misfortune had come to him at a trying time. It was, however, before he had received Lucy's last account of her own misery at Mole Park, so that when that was received he was in part prepared. Our colonel, in writing to Lady Albury, had declared Aldershot to be a most exigent place, by which he had intended to imply that his professional cares were too heavy to allow his frequent absence. But nevertheless he would contrive occasionally to fly up to London for a little relief. Once when doing so he had found himself sitting in the sculptor's studio and there listening to Hummel's account of Lucy's troubles at Mole Park. Hummel said nothing as to his own difficulties, but was very eager in explaining the necessity of removing Lucy from the tyranny to which she was subjected. It will perhaps be remembered that Hummel down in Scotland had declared to his friend his purpose of asking Lucy Dorma to be his wife, and also the success of his enterprise after he had gone across the lake to Glen Bogie. It will be borne in mind also that should the colonel succeed in winning Ayala to his way of thinking the two men would become the husbands of the two sisters, each fully sympathized with the other, and in this way they had become sincere and intimate friends. Is she like her sister? asked the colonel, who was not as yet acquainted with Lucy. Hardly like her, though in truth there is a family likeness. Lucy is taller, with perhaps more regular features, and certainly more quiet in her manner. Ayala can be very quiet, too, said the lover. Oh yes, because she varies in her moods. I remember her almost as a child, when she would remain perfectly still for a quarter of an hour, and then would be up and about the house everywhere, glancing about like a ray of the sun reflected from a mirror as you move it in your hand. She's grown steadier since that, said the colonel. I cannot imagine her to be steady. Not as Lucy is steady. Lucy, if it be necessary, can sit and fill herself with her own thoughts for the hour together. Which of them was most like their father? They were both of them like him in their thorough love for things beautiful, but they are both of them unlike him in this, that he was self-indulgent, while they, like women in general, are always devoting themselves to others. She will not devote herself to me, thought Jonathan stubs to himself, but that may be because, like her father, she loves things beautiful. My poor Lucy, continued Hummel, would feign devote herself to those around her if they would only permit it. She would probably prefer devoting herself to you, said the colonel. No doubt she would, if it were expedient. If I may presume that she loves me, I may presume also that she would wish to live with me. Is it not expedient? asked the other. It will be so, I trust, before long. But it seems to be so necessary just at present. To this the sculptor at the moment made no reply. If, continued stubs, they treat her among them as you say, she ought at any rate to be relieved from her misery. She ought to be relieved, certainly. She shall be relieved. But you say that it's not expedient. I only meant that there were difficulties, difficulties which will have to be got over. I think that all difficulties are got over when a man looks at them steadily. This, I suppose, is an affair of money. Well, yes. All difficulties seem to me to be an affair of money. A man, of course, would wish to earn enough before he marries to make his wife comfortable. I would struggle on as I am, and not be impatient, were it not that I fear she is more uncomfortable as she is now, than she would be here in the midst of my poverty. After all, Hamel, what is the extent of the poverty? What are the real circumstances? As you've gone so far you might as well tell me everything. Then, after considerable pressure, the sculptor did tell him everything. There was an income of less than three hundred a year, which would probably become about four within the next twelve months. There were no funds prepared with which to buy the necessary furniture for the incoming of a wife, and there was that debt demanded by his father. Must that be paid, asked the colonel? I would starve rather than not pay it, said Hamel, if I alone were to be considered. It would certainly be paid within the next six months if I were alone, even though I should starve. Then his friend told him that the debt should be paid at once. It amounted to but little more than a hundred pounds. And then, of course, the conversation was carried further. When a friend inquires as to the pecuniary distresses of a friend, he feels himself as a matter of course bound to relieve him. He would supply also the means necessary for the incoming of the young wife. With much energy in for a long time, Hamel refused to accept the assistance offered to him, but the colonel insisted in the first place on what he considered to be due from himself to Iala's sister. And then on the fact that he doubted not in the least the ultimate success which would attend on the professional industry of his friend. And so, before the day was over, it was settled among them. The money was to be forthcoming at once so that the debt might be paid in the preparations made, and Hamel was to write to Lucy and declare that he should be ready to receive her as soon as arrangements should be made for their immediate marriage. Then came the further outrage, that cruel speeches to intruders, and Lucy wrote to her lover, owning that it would be well for her that she should be relieved. The news was, of course, declared to the family at Mole Park. I never knew anything so hard, said Aunt Emmeline. Of course you have told him that it was all my fault. When Lucy made no answer to this, she went on with her complaint. I know that you have told him that I have turned you out, which is not true. I told him it was better I should go, as you did not like my being here. I suppose Lucy was in a little hurry to have the marriage come off, said Augusta, who would surely have spared her cousin if at the moment she had remembered the haste which had been displayed by his sister. I thought it best, said Lucy. I'm sure I don't know how it is to be done, said Aunt Emmeline. You must tell your uncle yourself. I don't know how you're to be married from here, seeing the trouble wherein. We should be up in London before that, said Gertrude. Or from Queensgate either, continued Aunt Emmeline. I don't suppose that will much signify. I shall just go to the church. Like a servant maid, asked Gertrude. Yes, like a servant maid, said Lucy. That is to say, a servant maid would, I suppose, simply walk in and be married, and I shall do the same. I think you had better tell your uncle, said Aunt Emmeline. But I'm sure I did not mean that you were to go away like this. It will be your own doing, and I cannot help if you will do it. Then Lucy did tell her uncle. And you mean to live upon three hundred a year, exclaimed Sir Thomas. You don't know what you're talking about. I think Mr. Hummel knows. He's as ignorant as a babe unborn. I mean about that kind of thing. I don't doubt he can make things in stone as well as anybody. In marble, Uncle Tom. Marble is stone, I suppose, or in iron. Bronze, Uncle Tom. Very well, there's iron in bronze, I suppose, but he doesn't know what a wife will cost as he bought any furniture. He's going to buy it just a little, what will do? Why should you want to bring him into this? Lucy looked wistfully up into his face. He himself had been personally kind to her, and she found it to be impossible to complain to him of her aunt. You're not happy here? My aunt and cousins think that I'm wrong, but I must be married to him now, Uncle Tom. Why did he kick up his heels when I wanted to help him? Nevertheless he gave his orders on the subject very much in Lucy's favour. She was to be married from Queensgate, and Gertrude must be her bridesmaid. Ayala no doubt would be the other. When his wife expostulated he consented that the marriage should be very quiet, but still he would have it as he had said. Then he bestowed a check upon Lucy, larger in a month and stubs his loan, saying that after what had passed in Lombard Street he would not venture to send money to so independent a person as Mr. Isidore Hummel, but adding that Lucy, perhaps, would condescend to accept it. There was a smile in his eyes, he said, the otherwise ill-natured word, so that Lucy, without any wound to her feelings, could kiss him and accept his bounty. I suppose I'm to have nothing to do in settling the day, said Aunt Emilyne. It was, however, settled between them that the marriage should take place on a certain day in May. Upon this Lucy was, of course, overjoyed and wrote to her lover in a full flow of spirits, and she sent him the check, having written her name with great pride on the back of it. There was a little trouble about this, as a part of it had to come back as her true so, but still the arrangement was pleasantly made. Then Sir Thomas again became more kind to her in his rough manner, even when his troubles were at the worst after the return of Gertrude. If it will not be altogether oppressive to his pride, you may tell him that I shall make you an allowance of a hundred a year as my niece, just for your personal expenses. I don't know that he is so proud, Uncle Tom. He seemed so to me. But if you say nothing to him about it, and just buy a few gowns now and again, he will perhaps be so wrapped up in the higher affairs of his art as not to take any notice. I'm sure he will notice what I wear, said Lucy. However, she communicated her uncle's intentions to her lover, and he sent back his grateful thanks to Sir Thomas. As one effect of all this, the Colonel's money was sent back to him with an assurance that as things were now settling themselves, such pecuniary assistance was not needed. But this was not done until Ayala had heard what the Angel of Light had done on her sister's behalf. But as to Ayala's feelings, in that respect we must be silent here, as otherwise we should make premature allusion to the condition in which Ayala found herself before she had at last managed to escape from Stullum Park. Papa, said Gertrude to her father one evening, don't you think you could do something for me too now? Just at this time Sir Thomas, greatly to his own annoyance, was coming down to Merle Park every evening. According to their plans, as at present arranged, they were to stay in the country till after Easter, and then they were to go up to town in time to dispatch poor Tom upon his long journey around the world. But poor Tom was now in bed, apparently ill, and there seemed to be great doubt whether he could be made to go on the appointed day in spite of the taking of his birth and the preparation of his outfit. Tom, if well enough, was to sail on the nineteenth of April, and there now wanted not about ten days to that time. Don't you think you could do something for me now? asked Gertrude. Hitherto Sir Thomas had extended no sign of pardon to his youngest daughter, and never failed to allude to her and to Captain Batsby as those two idiots whenever their names were mentioned before him. Yes, my dear, I'll endeavour to do a good deal for you, if you'll behave yourself. What do you call behaving myself, Papa? In the first place telling me that you're very sorry for your misbehaviour with that idiot. Of course I'm sorry if I've offended you. Well, that shall go for something. But how about the idiot? Papa! she exclaimed. Was he not an idiot? Would any one but an idiot have gone on such an errand as that? Gentlemen and ladies have done it before, Papa. I doubt it, he said. Gentlemen have run away with young ladies before, and generally have behaved very badly when they have done so. He behaved very badly indeed, because he'd come to my house, with my sanction, with the express purpose of expressing his affection for another young lady. But I think that his folly in this special running away was worse even than his conduct. How did he come to think that he could get himself married merely by crossing over the sea to our stand? I should be utterly ashamed of him as a son-in-law, chiefly because he has shown himself to be an idiot. But, Papa, you will accept him, won't you? No, my dear, I will not. Not though I love him. If I were to give you a choice, which would you take him or Mr. Huston? Huston is a scoundrel. Very likely, but then is not an idiot. My choice would be altogether in favour of Mr. Huston. Shall I tell you what I will do, my dear? I will consent to accept Captain Bathsby as my son-in-law if he will consent to become your husband without having a shilling with you. Would that be kind, Papa? I do not think I could show you any greater kindness than to protect you from a man who, I am quite sure, does not care a farthing about you. He has, you tell me, an ample income of his own. Oh, yes, Papa. Then he can afford to marry you without a fortune. Poor Mr. Huston could not have done so because he had nothing of his own. I declare, as I think of it all, I am becoming very tender-hearted towards Mr. Huston. Don't you think we'd better have Mr. Huston back again? I suppose he would come, if you would ascend for him. Then she burst into tears and went away and hit herself. CHAPTER 54 TOM'S LAST ATTEMPT While Gertrude was still away on her illum and voyage in quest of a parson, Lady Tringle was stirred up to a great enterprise on behalf of her unhappy son. Though wanted now little more than a fortnight before the starting of the ship which his father still declared should carry him out across the world, and he had progressed so far in contemplating the matter as to own to himself that it would be best for him to obey his father, if there was no hope. But his mind was still swayed by a theory of love and constancy. He had heard of men who had succeeded after a dozen times of asking. If stubs, the hated but generous stubs, were in truth a successful rival, then indeed the thing would be over. Then he would go the sooner the better, and as he told his mother half a dozen times a day it would matter nothing to him whether he were sent to Japan or the Rocky Mountains or the North Pole. In such a case he would be quite content to go if only for the sake of going. But how was he to be sure? He was indeed nearly sure in the other direction. If Ayala were in truth engaged to Colonel Stubbs it would certainly be known through Lucy. Then he had heard through Lucy that although Ayala was staying at Stullum the Colonel was not there. He had gone, and Ayala had remained week after week without him. Then towards the end of March he wrote a letter to his Uncle Reginald which was very piteous in its tone. Dear Uncle Reginald, the letter said, I don't know whether you have heard of it, but I have been very ill and unhappy. I am now in bed, and nobody here knows that I am sending this letter to you. It's all about Ayala, and I'm not such a fool as to suppose that you can do anything for me. If you could I think you would, but of course you can't. She must choose for herself, only I do so wish that she should choose me. Nobody would ever be more kind to her. But you can tell me really how it is. Is she engaged to marry Colonel Stubbs? I know that she refused him because he told me so himself. If she is not engaged to him I think that I would have another shy at it. You know what the poet says, faint heart, never one fair lady. Do tell me if she is or is not engaged. I know that she's with those Albreys and that Colonel Stubbs is their friend, but they can't make her marry Colonel Stubbs any more than my friends can make her marry me. I wish they could. I mean my friends, not his. If she were really engaged I would go away and hide myself in the furthermost corner of the world, Siberia or Central Africa would be the same to me. They would have little trouble in getting rid of me if I knew that it was all over with me, but I will never stir from these realms till I know my fate. Therefore, waiting your reply, I am your affectionate nephew, Thomas Tringle, Jr. Mr. Dossett, when he received this letter, consulted his wife before he replied to it, and then did so very shortly. My dear Tom, as far as I know, or her aunt, your cousin Ayala is not engaged to marry any one. But I should deceive you, if I did not add my belief that she is resolved not to accept the offer you have done her the honour to make her, your affectionate uncle, Reginald Dossett. The latter portion of this paragraph had no influence whatsoever on Tom. Did he not know all that before? Had he ever attempted to conceal from his relations the fact that Ayala had refused him again and again? Was not that as notorious to the world at large as a minister's promise that the income tax should be abolished? But the income tax was not abolished, and as yet Ayala was not married to any one else. Ayala was not even engaged to any other suitor. Why should she not change her mind as well as the minister? Certainly he would not go either to the North Pole or to New York as long as there should be a hope of bliss for him in England. Then he called his mother to his bedside. Go to Stullum, my dear, said his mother. Why not? They can't eat you. Lady Aubrey is no more than a baronet's wife, just the same as you. It isn't about eating me, Tom. I should know what to say to them. You need not tell them anything. Say that you'd come to call upon your niece. But it would be such an odd thing to do. I never do call on Ayala, even when I'm in London. What does it matter being odd? You could learn the truth at any rate. If she does not care for any one else, why shouldn't she have me? I could make her a baronet's wife, that is, some day, when the governor. Don't, Tom, don't talk in that way. I only meant in the course of nature, sons do come after their fathers, you know. And as for money, I suppose the governor is quite as rich as those Aubreys. I don't think that would matter. It does count, mother. I suppose Ayala is the same as other girls in that respect. I'm sure I don't know why it is that she should have taken such an aversion to me. I suppose it is that she doesn't think me so much. Well, quite such a swell as some other men. One can't account for such things, Tom. No, that is just it. And therefore she might come round without accounting for it. At any rate, you might try. You might tell her that it is ruining me, that I shall have to go about wandering all over the world because she's so hard-hearted. I don't think I could, my dear, said Lady Tringle, after considering the matter for a while. Why not? Is it because of the trouble? No, my dear, a mother does not think what trouble she may take for her child, if any good may be done. It's not the trouble. I would walk all around England to get her for you, if that would do it. Why not, then? At any rate you might get an answer from her. She would tell you something of her intention, mother. I shall never go away until I know more about it than I do now. The Governor says that he will turn me out. Let him turn me out. That won't make me go away. Oh, Tom, he doesn't mean it. But he says it. If I knew that it was all over, that every chance was gone, then I would go away. It's not the Orbris that I'm afraid of, said Lady Tringle. What then? It is your father. I cannot go, if he will not let me. Nevertheless she promised before she left his bedside that she would ask Sir Thomas when he came home whether he would permit her to make the journey. All this occurred while Sir Thomas was away in quest of his daughter, and it may be a match in that immediately after his return he was hardly in a humour to yield to any such request as that which had been suggested. He was, for the moment, almost sick of his children, sick of Mole Park, sick of his wife, and inclined to think that the only comfort to be found in the world was to be had among his millions in that little back parlour in Lombard Street. It was on a Sunday that he returned, and on that day he did not see his son. On the Monday morning he went into the room and Tom was about to press upon him the prayer which he had addressed to his mother when his lips were closed by his father's harshness. Tom, he said, you'll be pleased to remember that you start on the nineteenth. But father, you start on the nineteenth, said Sir Thomas, then he left the room closing the door behind him with none of the tenderness generally accorded to an invalid. You have not asked him, Tom said to his mother shortly afterwards. Not yet, my dear, his mind is so disturbed by this unfortunate affair. And is not my mind disturbed? You may tell him that I will not go, though he should turn me out a dozen times, unless I know more about it than I do now. Sir Thomas came home again that evening, very sour in temper, and nothing could be said to him. He was angry with everybody, and Lady Trenkel hardly dared to go near him, either then or on the following morning. On the Tuesday evening, however, he returned somewhat softened in his demeanour. The millions had perhaps gone right, though his children would go so wrong. When he spoke, either to his younger daughter or of her, he did so in that jeering tone which he afterwards always assumed when allusion was made to Captain Batsby, and which, disagreeable as it was, seemed to imply something of forgiveness. And he ate his dinner and drank his glass of wine without making any allusion to the parsimonious habits of his son-in-law, Mr. Traffic. Lady Trenkel therefore considered that she might approach him with Tom's request. You go to Stalem, he exclaimed. Well, my dear, I suppose I could see her. And what would you learn from her? I don't suppose I could learn much. She was always a pig-headed, stiff-necked creature. I'm sure it wouldn't be any pleasure to me to see her. What good would it do? demanded Sir Thomas. Well, my dear, he says that he won't go unless he can get a message from her. I'm sure I don't want to go to Stalem. Nothing on earth could be so disagreeable. But perhaps I could bring back a word or two which would make him go upon his journey. What sort of a word? Why, if I were to say that she were engaged to this Colonel Stubbs, then he would go. He says that he would start at once if he knew that his cousin was really engaged to somebody else. But if she be not, perhaps I could just colour it a little. It would be such a grand thing to get him away in he and this miserable condition. If he were once on his travels I do think he would soon begin to forget it all. Of course he would, said Sir Thomas. Then I might as well try. He'd set his heart upon it, and if he thinks that I have done his bidding then he will obey you. As for turning him out, Tom of course you do not really mean that. In answer to this Sir Thomas said nothing. He knew well enough that Tom couldn't be turned out. The turning out of a son is a difficult task to accomplish, and one altogether beyond the powers of Sir Thomas. The chief cause of his sorrow lay in the fact that he, as the head of Travers and Treason, was debarred from the assistance and companionship of his son. All Travers and Treason was nothing to him because his son would run so far away from the right path. There was nothing he would not do to bring him back. If Ayala could have been bought by any reasonable or even unreasonable amount of thousands, he would have bought her willingly for his boys delight. It was a thing wonderful to him that Tom should have been upset so absolutely by his love. He did appreciate the feeling so far that he was willing to condone all those follies already committed if Tom would only put himself in the way of recovery. That massacring of the policeman, those ill-spent nights at the mountaineers and at Bolivia's, that foolish challenge, and the almost more foolish blow unto the portico at the hay market, should all be forgiven if Tom would only consent to go through some slight purgation which would again fit him for Travers and Treason. And the purgation should be made as pleasant as possible. He should travel about the world with his pocket full of money and with every arrangement for luxurious comfort. Only he must go. There was no other way in which he could be so purged as to be again fit for Travers and Treason. He did not at all believe that Ayala could now be purchased. Whether pig-headed or not, Ayala was certainly self-willed. No good such as Tom expected would come from this projected visit to Stullum, but if he would allow it to be made in obedience to Tom's request, then perhaps some tidings might be brought back which, whether strictly true or not, might induce Tom to allow himself to be put on board the ship. Arguing thus with himself, Sir Thomas at last gave his consent. It was a most disagreeable task which the mother thus undertook. She could not go from Merle Park to Stullum and back in one day. It was necessary that she should sleep two nights in London. It was arranged, therefore, that she should go up to London on the Thursday, then make her journey down to Stullum and back on the Friday, and get home on the Saturday. There would then still remain nearly a fortnight before Tom would have to leave Merle Park. After much consideration it was decided that a note should be written to Ayala, appraising her of her aunt's coming. I hope Lady Aubrey will not be surprised at my visit, said the note, but I am so anxious to see you just for half an hour upon a matter of great importance that I shall run my chance. She would prefer to have seen the girl without any notice, but then, had no notice been given, the girl would perhaps have been out of the way. As it was, a telegram was received back in reply. I shall be at home. Lady Aubrey will be very glad to see you at lunch. She says there shall be a room already if you will sleep. I certainly shall not stay there, Lady Tringle said to Mrs. Traffic, but it is as well to know that they will be civil to me. There are stuck-up sort of people, I believe, said Augusta, just like that Marquesa Baldoni, who is one of them. But as to their being civil, that is a matter of course. They would hardly be uncivil to any one connected with Lord Border Trade. Then came the Thursday on which the journey was to be commenced. As the moment came near, Lady Tringle was very much afraid of the task before her. She was afraid even of her niece Ayala, who had assumed increased proportions in her eyes, since she had persistently refused not only Tom, but also Colonel Stubbs and Captain Batsby, and then, in spite of her own connection with Lord Border Trade, of whom, since her daughter's marriage, she had learned to think less than she had done before, she did feel that the Aubrey's were fashionable people, and that Ayala, as their guest, had achieved something for herself. Stallum was no doubt superior in general estimation to Merle Park, and with her there had always been a certain aura of Ayala which she had not felt in reference to Lucy. Ayala's demand that Augusta should go upstairs and fetch the scrapbook had had its effect, as had also her success in going up St. Peter's and to the Marquesa's dance, and then there would be Lady Aubrey herself and all the Aubrey's. Only that Tom was very anxious she would even now have abandoned the undertaking. Mother, said Tom on the last morning, you will do the best you can for me. Oh, yes, my dear. I do think that if you would make her understand the real truth, she might have me yet. She wouldn't like it that a fellow should die. I'm afraid that she's heart-hearted, Tom. I do not believe it, mother. I have seen her when she couldn't kill even a fly, if she could only be made to see all the good she could do. I'm afraid she won't care for that unless she can bring herself really to love you. Why shouldn't she love me? Ah, my boy, how am I to tell you, perhaps if you hadn't loved her so well it might have been different if you had scorned her. Scorned her? I couldn't scorn her. I've heard of that kind of thing before, but how is one to help oneself? You can't scorn a friend just because you choose to say so to yourself. When I see her she's something so precious to me that I could not be rough to her to save my life. When she first came it wasn't so I could laugh at her then. But now. They talk about goddesses, but I'm sure she's a goddess to me. If you had made no more than a woman of her it might have been better, Tom. All that was too late now. The doctrine which Lady Tringle was enunciating to her son, and which he repudiated, is one that has been often preached and never practiced. A man, when he's conscious of the presence of a mere woman, to whom he feels that no worship is due, may for his own purpose be able to tell a lie to her and make her believe that he acknowledges a divinity in her presence. But when he feels the goddess he cannot carry himself before her as though she were a mere woman, and as such inferior to himself in her attributes. Poor Tom had felt the touch of something divine, and had fallen immediately prostrate before the shrine with his face to the ground. His chance with Ayala could in no circumstances have been great, but she was certainly not one to have yielded to a prostrate worshiper. Mother, said Tom, recalling Lady Tringle as she was leaving the room. What is it, my dear? I really must go now. I shall be too late for the train. Mother, tell her—tell her—tell her that I love her. His mother ran back, kissed his brow, and then left the room. Lady Tringle spent that evening at Queen's Gate, where Sir Thomas remained with her. The hours passed heavily, as they had not much present to their mind with which to console each other. Sir Thomas had no belief whatever in the journey, except insofar as it might help to induce his son to proceed upon his travels. But his wife had been so far softened by poor Tom's sorrows as to hope a little, in spite of her judgment, that Ayala might yet relent. Her heart was soft towards her son, so that she felt that the girl would deserve all manner of punishment unless she would at last yield to Tom's wishes. She was all but sure that it could not be so, and yet in spite of her convictions she hoped. On the next morning the train took her safely to the Sallam Road station, and as she approached the end of her journey, her heart became heavier within her. She felt that she could not but fail to give any excuse to the Albury's for such a journey, unless indeed Ayala should do as she would have her. At the station she found the Albury carriage with the Albury coachman and the Albury footman and the Albury liveries waiting for her. It was a closed carriage, and for a moment she thought that Ayala might be there. In that case she could have performed her commission in the carriage, and then have returned to London without going to the house at all. But Ayala was not there. Lady Tringle was driven up to the house, and then taken through the hall into a small sitting-room where for a moment she was alone. Then the door opened, and Ayala, radiant with beauty in all the prettiness of her best morning costume, was in a moment in her arms. She seemed in her brightness to be different from that Ayala who had been known before at Glen Bogey and in Rome. Dear Art, said Ayala, I am so delighted to see you at Sallam.