Chapter 25 of Ayala's Angel Ayala had been a week at Stullum, and according to the understanding which had existed, she should now have returned to Kingsbury Crescent. She had come for a week, and she had had her week.  Jonathan Stubbs had become to her the pleasantest of friends. Lady Albury had covered her with caresses and little presents. Nina was the most perfect of friends. So Harry had never been cross except for that one moment in the wood. And as for Sprite, Sprite had nearly realised her idea of an angel of light. Oh, how happy she had been! She was to return on the Monday, having thus comprised two Sundays within her elongated week. She knew that her heaven was to be at an end, but she was grateful and was determined in her gratitude to be happy and cheerful to the close. But early on this Sunday morning Colonel Stubbs spoke a word to Lady Albury. That little girl is so thoroughly happy here, can it you prolong it for her just for another three days? Is it to be for her or for Colonel Stubbs, who is enamoured of the little girl, asked Lady Albury? For both, said the Colonel rather gravely. Are you in earnest? What do you call in earnest? I do love to see a pretty creature enjoy herself thoroughly, as she does. If you will make her stay till Thursday, Albury will let her ride the little horse again at Star Cross on Wednesday. Of course she shall stay all the season, if you wish it. She is indeed a happy girl, if you are in earnest. Then it was settled, and Lady Albury, in her happiest manner, informed Ayala that she was not to be allowed to take her departure until after she had ridden Sprite once again. So Harry says that you have given the little horse quite a name, and that you must finish off his character for him at Star Cross. As was the heart of the Perry when the gate of Paradise was open for her, so was the heart of Ayala. There were to be four days with the fourth as a hunting day before she need think of going. There was an eternity of bliss before her. But Aunt Margaret, she said, not however doubting for a moment that she would stay. Who cares for a frowning aunt at the distance of an eternity? I fear that in the ecstasy of her joy she had forgotten the promise made that she would always remember her aunt's goodness to her. I will write a note to Mrs. Dosset and make it all straight, said Lady Albury. The note was written, and whether matters were straight or crooked at Kingsbury Crescent, Ayala remained at Albury. Colonel Stubbs had thought about the matter and determined that he was quite in earnest. He had, he told himself, enough for modest living, for modest living without poverty.  The general was already past seventy. What was the use of independence if he could not allow himself to have the girl whom he really loved? Had any human being so perfectly lovely as Ayala ever flashed before his eyes before, was there ever a sweeter voice heard from a woman's mouth?  When she would open her eyes and nod her head and pout with her lips, he would declare to himself that he could no longer live without her. And then every word that fell from her lips seemed to have something in it a pretty humour. In fact the Colonel was in love, and had now resolved that he would give way to his love in spite of his aunt the Marquesa, and in spite of his own philosophy. He felt by no means sure of success, but yet he thought that he might succeed. From the moment in which, as the reader may remember, he had accosted her at the ball and desired her to dance with him in obedience to his aunt's behests, it had been understood by every one around him that Ayala had liked him. They had become fast friends. Ayala allowed him to do many little things which by some feminine instinct of her own would have been put altogether beyond the reach of Captain Batsby. The Colonel knew all this, and knew at the same time that he could not trust to it only. But still he could not but trust to it in some degree. Lady Ulbry had told him that Ayala would be a happy girl if he were in earnest, and he himself was well aware of Ayala's dependent position and of the discomforts of Kingsbury Crescent. Ayala had spoken quite openly to him of Kingsbury Crescent as to a confidential friend. But on all that he did not lean much as being in his favour. He could understand that such a girl as Ayala would not accept a husband merely with the object of avoiding domestic poverty. Little qualms of doubt came upon him as he remembered the nature of the girl so that he confessed to himself that Lady Ulbry knew nothing about it. But nevertheless he hoped.  He had been taught by popularity to think himself a popular man, and then Ayala had shown so many signs of her friendship. There was shooting on Saturday, and he went out with the shooters saying nothing to anyone of an intended early return, but at three o'clock he was back at the house. Then he found that Ayala was out in the carriage when he waited. He sat in the library pretending to read until he heard the sounds of the carriage-wheels and then he met the ladies in the hall. Are they all home from shooting? asked Lady Ulbry. The Colonel explained that no one was home but himself.  I am the most ignominious creature in existence, he said, laughing. One day I tumble into a ditch three feet wide. It was ten yards at least, said Nina, jealous as to the glory of her jump. And today I cannot hit a bird. I shall take to writing a book and leave the severe pursuit of sport to more enterprising persons.  Ayala, taken somewhat by surprise at the request, looked up into Lady Ulbry's face. Go with him, my dear, if you're not tired, said Lady Ulbry. He deserves consolation after all his good deeds to you. Ayala still doubted. Though she was on terms of pleasant friendship with the man, yet she felt almost all struck at this sudden request that she should walk alone with him. But not to do so, especially after Lady Ulbry's injunction would have been peculiar. She certainly was not tired and had such a walk come naturally, it would have been an additional pleasure to her. But now, though she went, she hesitated, and showed her hesitation. Are you afraid to come with me? he said, as soon as they were out on the gravel together. Afraid? Oh, dear, no! I should not be afraid to go anywhere with you, I think. Only it seems odd that you did not ask Nina, too. Shall I tell you why? Why was it? Because I have something to say to you, which I do not wish Nina to hear just at this moment, and then I thought that we were such friends that you would not mind coming with me. Of course we are, said Ayala. I don't know why it should be so, but I seem to have known you years instead of days. Perhaps that is because you knew Papa. More likely because I have learned to know your Papa's daughter. Do you mean Lucy? I mean Ayala. That's saying the same thing twice over. You know me because you know me. Just that. How long do you suppose I have known that Mrs. Gregory, who sat opposite to us yesterday? How can I tell? Just fifteen years. I was going to harrow when she came as young girl to stay with my mother. Her people and my people had known each other for the last fifty years. Since that I have seen her constantly, and of course we are very intimate. I suppose so. I know as much about her after all that as if we had lived on two different hemispheres and couldn't speak a word of each other's language. There isn't a thought or a feeling in common between us. I ask after her husband and her children, and then tell her it's going to rain. She says something about the old general's health, and then there is an end of everything between us. When next we meet we do it all over again. How very uninteresting, said Ayala. Very uninteresting. It's because there are so many Mrs. Gregorys about that I like to go down to drum-caller and live by myself.  Why should I be a Mrs. Gregory? I don't think I'm at all like Mrs. Gregory. Not to me, Ayala. Now she heard the Ayala and felt something of what it meant. There had been moments at which she had almost disliked to hear him call her Miss Dorma, but now she wished that he had not called her Ayala. She strove to assume a serious expression of face, but having done so she could not dare to turn it up towards him. The glance of her little anger, if there was any, fell only upon the ground. It is because you are, to me, a creature so essentially different from Mrs. Gregory, that I seem to know you so well. I never want to go to drum-caller if you are near me, or, if I think of drum-caller, it is that I might be there with you. I'm sure the place is very pretty, but I don't suppose I shall ever see it. Do you know about your sister and Mr. Hummel? Yes, said Ayala, surprised. She's told me all about it. How do you know? He was staying at drum-caller. He and I, together, with no one else, when he went over to ask her. I never saw a man so happy as when he came back from Glen Bogie. He's got all that he wanted in the world. I do so love him because he loves her, and I love her because she loves you. It's not the same, you know, said Ayala, trying to think it all out. May I not love her? He is to be my brother. That's why I love him.  The poor girl, though she had tried to think it all out, had not thought very far. Can she not, he said? Of course not. Lucy is to marry Mr. Hummel. And whom am I to marry? Then she saw it all. Ayala, Ayala, who is to be my wife? I do not know, she said, speaking with a gruff voice, but still in a whisper, with a manner altogether different, thinking how well it would be that she should be taken at once back into the house. Do you know whom I would feign havers my life? Then he felt that it behooved him to speak out plainly. He was already sure that she would not at once tell him that it should be as he would have it, that she would not instantly throw herself into his arms, but he must speak plainly to her and then fight his cause as best he might. Ayala, I have asked you to come out with me that I might ask you to be my wife. It is that that I did not wish Nina to hear at once. If you will put out your hand and say that it shall be so, Nina and all the world shall know. I shall be as proud then as humble and as happy, happier, I think. It seems to me that no one can love as I do now. Ayala, it has grown upon me from hour to hour as I have seen you. When I first took you away to that dance it was so already. Do you remember that night at the theatre, when I had come away from everything and striven so hard that I might be near you before you went back to your home? Ayala, I loved you then so dearly, but not as I love you now. When I saw you riding away from me yesterday, when I could not get over the brook, I told myself that unless I might catch you at last and have you all to myself I could never again be happy. Do you remember when you stooped down and kissed that man's baby at the farmhouse? Oh, Ayala, I thought then that if you would not be my wife, if you would not be my wife, I should never have wife, never should have baby, never should have home of my own. She walked on by his side listening, but she had not a word to say to him. It had been easy enough to her to reject and to rebuke and to scorn Tom Tringle when he had persisted in his suit, but she knew not with what words to reject this man who stood so high in her estimation, who was in many respects so perfect, whom she so thoroughly liked, but whom nevertheless she must reject. He was not the Angel of Light. There was nothing there of the azure wings upon which should soar the orbit celestial being to whom she could condescend to give herself and her love. He was pleasant, good, friendly, kind-hearted, all that a friend or a brother should be, but he was not the Angel of Light. She was sure of that. She told herself that she was quite sure of it, and she walked beside him in silence along the path.  I have seen at last the one human being with whom I feel I can be happy to spend my life, and having seen her, I ask her to be my wife. The hope has been dwelling with me and growing since I first met you. Shall it be a vain hope, Ayala? May I still hope? No, she said abruptly. Is that all? It's all that I can say. Is that one no to be the end of everything between us? I don't know what else I ought to say to you, Colonel Stubbs. Do you mean that you can never love me? Never, she said. That is a hard word and hardly friendly. Is there to be no more than one hard word between you and me? Though I did not venture to think that you could tell me that you loved me, I looked for something kinder, something gentler than that. From such a sharp and waspish word as no to pluck the sting. Ayala did not know the lines I have quoted, but the idea conveyed in them was present clearly to her mind. She would feign have told him, had she known how to do so, that her heart was very gentle towards him, was very kind, gentle and kind as a sister's, but that she could not love him so as to become his wife. You are not he, not he, not that angel of light, which must come to me, radiant with poetry, beautiful to the eye, full of all excellences of art, lifted above the earth by the qualities of his mind. Such a one as must come to me if it be that I am ever to confess that I love. You are not he, and I cannot love you.  It was all there, clear enough in her mind, but she had not the words. I don't know what it is that I ought to say, she exclaimed through her sobs. The truth at any rate, he answered sternly, but not the truth half and half after the fashion of some young ladies. Do not think that you should paltre with the truth, either because it may not be palatable to me or seem decorous to yourself. To my happiness this matter is all important, and you are something to my happiness, if only because I have risked it on your love. Tell me, why cannot you love me? The altered tone of his voice, which now had in it something of severity, seemed to give her more power. It is because—then she paused. Because why? Out with it, whatever it is. If it be something that a man may remedy, I will remedy it. Do not fear to hurt me. Is it because I'm ugly? That I cannot remedy. She did not dare to tell him that it was so, but she looked up at him, not dissenting by any motion of her head. Then God help me, for ugly I must remain. It's not that only. Is it because my name is Stubbs, Jonathan Stubbs? Now she did dissent, nodding her head at him. He had bad her tell him the truth, and she was anxious to do as he bad her. If it be so, Ayala, I must tell you that you are wrong, wrong and foolish, that you're carried away by a feeling of romance, which is a false romance. Far be it from me to say that I could make you happy, but I am sure that your happiness cannot be made and cannot be marred by such accidents as that. Do you think that my means are not sufficient? No, no, she cried. I know nothing of your means. If I could love you, I would not condescend to ask, even to hear. There is no other man, I think. There is no other man. But your imagination has depicted to something grander than I am. Then she assented quickly, turning around and nodding her head to him. Someone who shall better respond to that spirit of poetry which is within you. Again she nodded her head approvingly, as though to assure him that now he knew the whole truth. Then, Ayala, I must strive to soar until I can approach your dreams. But if you dare to desire things which are really grand, do not allow yourself to be mean at the same time. Do not let the sound of a name move you, or I shall not believe in your aspirations. Now shall I take you back to the house? Back to the house they went and there was not another word spoken between them. By those last words of his she had felt herself to be rebuked. If it were possible that he could ask her again whether that sound, Jonathan Stubbs, had anything to do with it, she would let him know now by some signal that she no longer found a barrier in the name. But there were other barriers, barriers which he himself had not pretended to call vain. As to his ugliness, that he had confessed he could not remedy calling on God to pity him because he was so. And as for that something grander which he had described and for which her soul sighed, he had simply said that he would seek for it. She was sure that he would not find it. It was not to such as he that the something grander, which was to be the peculiar attribute of the Angel of Light, could be accorded, but he had owned that the something grander might exist. CHAPTER XXVI The Colonel and Ayala returned to the house without a word. When they were passing through the hall she turned to go at once up the stairs to her own room. As she did so he put out his hand to her and she took it. But she passed on without speaking, and when she was alone she considered it overall in her own mind. There could be no doubt that she was right, of that she was quite sure. It was certainly a fixed law that a girl should not marry a man unless she loved him. She did not love this man, and therefore she ought not to marry him. But there were some qualms at her heart as to the possible reality of the image which she had created for her own idolatry. And she had been wounded when he told her that she should not allow herself to be mean amidst her soaring. She had been wounded, and yet she knew that he had been right. He had intended to teach her the same lesson when he told her the absurd story of the woman who had been flung out of the window. She could not love him, but that name of his should never again be a reason for not doing so. Let the angel of light come to her with his necessary angelic qualities, and no want of euphony in a sound should be a barrier to him. Nor in truth could any outside appearance be an attribute of angelic light. The angel of light might be there even with red hair. Something as to the truth of this also came across her, though the colonel had not rebuked her on that head. But how should she carry herself now during the four days which remained to her at Stullum Park? All the loveliness seemed to depart from her prospect. She would hardly know how to open her mouth before her late friend. She suspected that Lady Albury knew with what purpose the colonel had taken her out in the shrubbery, and she would not dare to look Lady Albury in the face. How could she answer Nina if Nina were to ask her questions about the walk? The hunt for next Wednesday was no longer a delight to which she could look forward. How would it be possible that Colonel Stubbs should direct her now as to her riding and instruct her as to her conduct on the hunting field? It would be better for her that she should return at once to Kingsbury Crescent. As she thought of this there did come upon her a reflection that had she been able to accept Colonel Stubbs's offer there would have been an end forever to the miseries of her aunt's house. She would have been lifted at once into the mode of life in which the man lived. Instead of being a stranger admitted by special grace into such an Elysium as that of Stullum Park she would become one of those to whom such an Elysium belonged almost to right. By her own gift she would have won her way into that upper and brighter life which seemed to her to be all smiles and all joy. As to his income she thought nothing and cared nothing. He lived with men who had horses and carriages and who spent their time in pleasurable pursuits, and she would live amongst ladies who were always arrayed in bright garments, who too had horses and carriages at their command, and were never troubled by these sordid cares which made life at Kingsbury Crescent so sad and tedious. One little word would have done it all for her, would have enabled her to take the step by which she would be placed among the bright ones of the earth. But the remembrance of all this only made her firmer in her resolution. If there was any law of right and wrong fixed absolutely in her bosom it was this, that no question of happiness or unhappiness of suffering or joy would affect her duty to the angel of light. She owed herself to him should he come to seek her. She owed herself to him no less even though he failed to come, and she owed herself equally whether he should be rich or poor. As she was fortifying herself with these assurances Nina came to ask her whether she would not come down to tea. Ayala pleaded headache and said that she would rest until dinner. Has anything happened? asked Nina. Ayala simply begged that she might be asked no questions then because her head was aching. If you do not tell me everything I shall think you are no true friends said Nina as she left the room. As evening drew on she dressed for dinner and went down into the drawing room. In doing so it was necessary to pass through the billiard room and there she found Colonel Stubbs knocking about the balls. Are you dressed for dinner? he exclaimed. I hadn't begun to think of it yet, and Sir Harry hates a man when he comes in late. That rich Batsby has beaten me four games. With that he rushed off, putting down the queue with a rattle and seeming to Ayala to have recovered altogether from the late prostration of his spirits. In the drawing room Ayala was for a few minutes alone and then as she was glad to see three or four ladies all came in at once so that no question could be asked her by Lady Albury. They went into dinner without the Colonel who was in truth late and she was taken in by Mr. Gosling whose pretty little wife was just opposite to her. On the other side of her sat Lord Rufford who had come to Stullum with his wife for a day or two and who immediately began to congratulate her on the performance of the day before.  I should assume think of jumping the serpentine. I did it because somebody told me. Ah, said Lord Rufford with a sigh, there's nothing like ignorance, innocence, and youth combined, but why didn't Colonel Stubbs get over after you? Because Colonel Stubbs couldn't said that gentleman as he took his seat in the vacant chair. It may be possible, said Sir Harry, that a gentleman should not be able to jump over cranberry brook, but any gentleman, if he will take a little trouble, may come down in time for dinner. Now that I have been duly snubbed left and right, said the Colonel, perhaps I may eat my soup. Ayala, who had expected she hardly knew what further troubles, and who had almost feared that nobody would speak to her because she had misbehaved herself, endeavoured to take a heart of grace when she found that all around her, including the Colonel himself, were as pleasant as ever. She had fancied that Lady Albury had looked at her specially when Colonel Stubbs took his seat, and she had specially noticed the fact that his chair had not been next her own. These little matters she was aware Lady Albury managed herself, and was aware also that in accordance with the due rotation of things she and the Colonel should have been placed together. She was glad that it was not so, but at the same time she was confident that Lady Albury knew something of what had passed between herself and her suitor. The evening, however, went off easily, and nothing occurred to disturb her, except that the Colonel had called her by her Christian name, when as usual he brought to her a cup of tea in the drawing-room. Oh, that he would continue to do so, and yet not demand from her more than their old friendship. The next morning was Sunday, and they all went to church. It was allure at Stalem that every one should go to church on Sunday morning. Sir Harry himself, who was not supposed to be a particularly religious man, was always angry when any male guest did not show himself in the enormous family pew.  But nobody was expected to go twice, and consequently nobody ever did go twice. Lunch was protracted later than usual. The men would roam about the grounds with cigars in their mouths, and ladies would take to reading in their own rooms, in following which occupation they would spend a considerable part of the afternoon asleep. On this afternoon Lady Albury did not go to sleep, but contrived to get Ayala alone upstairs into her little sitting-room. Ayala, she said with something between a smile and a frown, I am afraid I am going to be angry with you. Please don't be angry, Lady Albury. If I am right in what I surmise you had an offer made to you yesterday, which ought to satisfy the heart of almost any girl in England. Here she paused, but Ayala had not a word to say for herself. If it was so, the best man I know asked you to share his fortune with him. Has he told you? But he did. I shall not tell, said Ayala proudly. I know he did. I know it was his intention before. Are you aware what kind of man is my cousin, Jonathan Stubbs? Has it occurred to you that in truth and gallantry, in honour, honesty, courage, and real tenderness, is so perfect as to be quite unlike to the crowd of men you see? I do know that he's good, said Ayala. Good! Where will you find anyone good like him? Compare him to the other men around him, and then say whether he is good. Can it be possible that you should refuse the love of such a man as that? I don't think I ought to be made to talk about it, said Ayala, hesitating. My dear, it is for your own sake and for his. When you go away from here, it may be so difficult for him to see you again. I don't suppose he will ever want, said Ayala. It is sufficient that he wants it now. What better can you expect for yourself? I expect nothing, said Ayala proudly. I have got nothing, and I expect nothing. He will give you everything simply because he loves you. My dear, I should not take the trouble to tell you all this if I did not know that he is a man who ought to be accepted when he asks such a request as that. Your happiness would be safe in his hands. She paused, but Ayala had not a word to say. And he is not a man likely to renew such a request. He is too proud for that. I can conceive no possible reason for such a refusal, unless it be that you are engaged. If there be someone else, then, of course, there must be an end to it. There is no one else.  When the general dies, you will have over two thousand a year. As if that had anything to do with it, said Ayala, holding herself aloft in her wroth and throwing angry glances at the lady. It is what I call romance, said Lady Aubrey. Romance can never make you happy. At any rate, it's not riches. What you call romance may be what I like best. At any rate, if I do not love Colonel Stubbs, I am sure I ought not to marry him, and I won't. After this there was nothing further to be said. Ayala thought that she would be turned out of the room almost out of the house in disgrace. But Lady Aubrey, who was simply playing her part, was not in the least angry. Well, my dear, she said, pray, pray, think better of it. I am in earnest, of course, because of my cousin, because he seems to have put his heart upon it. He is just the man to be absolutely in love when he is in love. But I would not speak, as I do, unless I were sure that he would make you happy. My cousin Jonathan is to me the finest hero that I know. When a man is a hero, he shouldn't be broken-hearted for wonderful woman's smiles, should he? She ought not to smile unless she loves him, said Ayala, as she left the room. The Monday and Tuesday went very quietly. Lady Aubrey said nothing more on the great subject, and the Colonel himself behaved exactly as though there had been no word of love at all. There was nothing special said about the Wednesday's hunt through the two days, until Ayala almost thought that there would be no hunt for her. Nor indeed did she much wish for it. It had been the Colonel who had instigated her to deeds of daring, and under his sanction that she had ventured to ride. She would hardly know how to go through the Wednesday, whether still to trust him or whether to hold herself aloof from him. When nothing was said on the subject, until later in the evening of the Tuesday, she had almost resolved that she would not put on her habit when the morning came. But just as she was about to leave the drawing-room with her bed-candle, Colonel Stubbs came to her. Most of us ride to the meet tomorrow, he said, but you and Nina shall be taken in the wagonet, so as to save you a little. It's all arranged." She bowed and thanked him, going to bed almost sorry that it should have been so settled. When the morning came, Nina could not ride. She had hurt her foot, and coming early into Ayala's room declared with tears that she could not go. The neither shall I, said Ayala, who was at that moment preparing to put on her habit. But you must. It's all settled, and Sahari would be offended if you did not go. What has Jonathan done that you should refuse to ride with him because I am lame?" Nothing, said Ayala. Oh, Ayala, do tell me. I should tell you everything. Of course you must hunt, whatever it is. Even though he should have offered and you refused him, of course you must go. Must I, said Ayala. Then you have refused him. I have. Oh, Nina, pray do not speak of it. Do not think of it if you can help it. Why should everything be disturbed because I have been a fool? Then you think you've been a fool? Other people think so. But if so, I shall at any rate be constant to my folly. What I mean is that it has been done and should be passed over as done with. I'm quite sure that I ought not to be scolded, but Lady Albury did scold me. Then they went down together to breakfast. Ayala, having prepared herself properly for the hunting field. In the wagonnet there were, with her, Lady Albury, Mrs. Gosling and Nina, who was not prevented by her lameness from going to the meat. The gentlemen all rode, so that there was no immediate difficulty as to Colonel Stubbs. But when she had been put on her horse by his assistants, and found herself compelled to ride away from the carriage, apparently under his special guidance, her heart misgave her, and she thoroughly wished that she was at home in the Crescent. Though she was especially under his guidance, there were at first others close around her, and while they were on the road going to the cupboard which they were to draw, conversation was kept up, so it was not necessary for her to speak. But what should she do when she should find herself alone with him, as would certainly be the case? It soon was the case. The hounds were at work in a large wood, in which, she was told, they might possibly pass the best part of the day, and it was not long before the men had dispersed themselves, some on this side, some on that, and she found herself with no one near her but the Colonel. Ayala, he said, Of course you know that it is my duty to look after you, and to do it better if I can than I did on Friday. I understand, she said. Do not let any remembrance of that walk on Saturday interfere with your happiness to-day, who knows when you may be out hunting again. Never, she said, I don't suppose I shall ever hunt again. Carpe diem, he said, laughing. Do you know what carpe diem means? It's Latin, perhaps? Yes, and therefore you're not supposed to understand it. This is what it means. As an hour for joy has come, do not let any trouble interfere with it. Let it all be, for this day at least, as though there had been no walk in the stull and woods. There's Larry Twentyman. If I break down, as I did on Friday, you may always trust to him. Larry anew are old friends now. Carpe diem, she said to herself. Oh, yes, if it were only possible. How is one to carpe diem with one's heart full of troubles? And it was the less possible, because this man whom she had rejected was so anxious to do everything for her happiness. Lady Aubrey had told her that he was a hero, that he was perfect in honour, honesty, and gallantry, and she felt inclined to own that Lady Aubrey was almost right. Yet, yet how far was he from that image of manly perfection which her daily thoughts had created for her. Good she had found an appropriate word with which to thank him, she would have done so, but there was no such word, and Larry Twentyman was now with them, taking off his hat and overflowing with compliments. Oh, Miss Dorma, I'm so delighted to see you out again. How is the baby, Mr. Twentyman? Brisk as a bee, and hungry as a hunter. And how is Mrs. Twentyman? Presker and hungrier than the baby. What do you think of the day, Colonel? A very good sort of day, Twentyman, if we were anywhere out of these big woods. Larry shook his head solemnly. The Mudcombe Woods in which they were now at work had been known to occupy Tony Tappert in his whole pack from eleven o'clock until the dusk of evening. We've got to draw them, of course, continued the Colonel. Then Mr. Twentyman discoursed at some length on the excellence of Mudcombe Woods. What would any county be without a nursery for young foxes? Gorse covets, hedge-rows, and little spinnies would be of no avail unless there were some grandly wild domain in which maternal and paternal foxes could roam in comparative security. All this was just as Ayala would have it, because it enabled her to ask questions and save her from subjects which might be painful to her. The day, in truth, was not propitious to hunting even. Foxes were found in Plenty, and two of them were killed within the recesses of the wood. But on no occasion did they run a mile into the open. For Ayala it was very well, because she was galloping hither and thither, and because, before the day was over, she found herself able to talk to the Colonel in her wanted manner. But there was no great glory for her as there had been the glory of little Cranbury Brock. On the next morning she was taken back to London, and handed over to her aunt in King's Precrescent, without another word having been spoken by Colonel Stubbs in reference to his love. End of Chapter 26 I have had a letter from Lady Aubrey, said Aunt Margaret, almost as soon as Ayala had taken off her hat and cloak. Yes, I know, Aunt Margaret, she wrote to ask that I might stay for four more days. I hope it was not wrong. I have had another letter since that, on Monday, about it. I have determined to show it to you. There it is. You had better read it by yourself, and I will come to you again in half an hour. Then, very solemnly, but with no trace of ill humour, Mrs. Dosset left the room. There was something in her tone and gait, so exceedingly solemn, that Ayala was almost frightened. Of course the letter must be about Colonel Stubbs, and of course the writer of it would find fault with her. She was conscious that she was adding one to her terribly long list of sins in not consenting to marry Colonel Stubbs. It was her misfortune that all her friends found fault with everything that she did. Among them there was not one, not even Nina, who fully sympathised with her. Not even to Lucy could she expatiate with a certainty of sympathy in regard to the Angel of Light. And now, though her aunt was apparently not angry, only solemn, she felt already sure that she was to be told that it was her duty to marry Colonel Stubbs. It was only the other day that her aunt was preaching to her as to the propriety of marrying her cousin Tom. It seemed, she said to herself, that people thought that a girl was bound to marry any man who could provide a house for her, and bread to eat, and clothes to wear. All this passed through her mind as she slowly drew Lady Albury's letter from the envelope and prepared to read it. The letter was as follows. Albury, Monday the 18th of November, 1870 something. Dear Madam, your niece will return to you as your request on Thursday, but before she reaches you I think it my duty to inform you of a little circumstance which has occurred here. My cousin, Colonel Jonathan Stubbs, who is also the nephew of the Marquesa Baldoni, has made Miss Dormer an offer. I am bound to add that I did not think it improbable that it would be so when I called on your husband and begged him to allow your niece to come to us. I did not then know my cousin's intention as a fact. I doubt whether he knew it himself, but from what I had heard I thought it probable, and as I conceived that any young lady would be fortunate in becoming my cousin's wife I had no scruple. He has proposed to her, and she has rejected him. He has set his heart upon the matter, and I am most anxious that he should succeed because I know him to be a man who will not easily brook disappointment where he has set his heart. Of all men I know he is the most steadfast in his purpose. I took the liberty of speaking to your niece on the subject, and am disposed to think that she is deterred by some feeling of foolish romance, partly because she does not like the name, partly because my cousin is not a handsome man in a girl's eyes. More probably, however, she has built up to herself some poetic fiction and dreams if she knows not what. If it be so, it is a pity that you should lose an opportunity of settling herself well and happily in life. She gave us a reason that she did not love him. My experience is not so long as yours, perhaps, but such as I have has taught me to think that a wife will love her husband when she finds herself used well at all points. Mercenary marriages are, of course, bad, but it is a pity, I think, that a girl such as your niece should lose the chance of so much happiness by a freak of romance. Colonel Stubbs, who is only twenty-eight years of age, has a staff appointment at Aldershot. He has private means of his own on which alone he would be justified in marrying. On the death of his uncle, General Stubbs, he will inherit a considerable accession of fortune. He is not, of course, a rich man, but he has ample for the wants of a family. In all other good gifts, temper, manliness, truth, and tenderness, I know no one to excel him. I should trust any young friend of my own into his hands with perfect safety. I have thought it right to tell you this. You will use your own judgment in saying what you think fit to your niece. Should she be made to understand that her own immediate friends approve of the offer, she would probably be induced to accept it. I have not heard my cousin say what may be his future plans. I think it possible that as he is quite in earnest he will not take one repulse. Should he ask again, I hope that your niece may receive him with altered views. Pray believe me to be, my dear madame, or sincerely, Rosaline Albury. Ayala read the letter twice over before her aunt returned to her, and as she read it, felt something of a feeling of renewed kindness come upon her in reference to the writer of it. Not that she was in the least changed in her own resolution, but that she liked Lady Albury for wishing to change her. The reasons given, however, were altogether impotent with her. Colonel Stubbs had the means of keeping a wife. If that were a reason, then also ought she to marry her cousin Tom Tringle. Colonel Stubbs was good and true, but so very probably was Tom Tringle. She would not compare the two men. She knew that her cousin Tom was altogether distasteful to her, while she took delight in the companionship of the Colonel. But the reasons for marrying one were to her thinking as strong as for marrying the other. There could only be one valid excuse for marriage, that of adoring the man, and she was quite sure that she did not adore Colonel Jonathan Stubbs. Lady Albury had said in her letter that a girl would be sure to love a man who treated her well after marriage, but that would not suffice for her, were she to marry at all, it would be necessary that she should love the man before her marriage. Have you read the letter, my dear? said Mrs. Dosset as she entered the room and closed the door carefully behind her. She spoke almost in a whisper and seemed to be altogether changed by the magnitude of the occasion. Yes, St. Margaret, I've read it. I suppose it is true. True, it's true in part. You did meet this Colonel Stubbs. Oh, yes, I met him, and you had met him before. Yes, St. Margaret, he used to come to Brookstreet. He's the Marqueser's nephew. Did he? This question, Aunt Margaret asked in a very low whisper and her most solemn voice. Did he make love to you in Brookstreet? No, said Ayala sharply. Not at all? Not at all. I never thought of such a thing. I never dreamed of such a thing when he began talking to me out in the woods at Stallum on Saturday. Have you been on friendly terms with him? Very friendly terms. We were quite friends and used to talk about all manner of things. I was very fond of him and never afraid of anything that he said to me. He was Nina's cousin and seemed almost to be my cousin, too. Then you do like him? Of course I do. Everybody must like him, but that's no reason why I should want to marry him. Upon this, Mrs. Dosset sat silent for a while, turning the great matter over in her thoughts. It was quite clear to her that every word which Ayala had spoken was true and probable also that Lady Albury's words were true.  Here was a girl who had not a shilling of her own who was simply a burden on relatives whom she did not especially love, who was doomed to a life which was essentially distasteful to her. For all this, in respect to herself and her house, Mrs. Dosset had sense enough to acknowledge, who seemed devoted to the society of rich and gay people and yet would not take the opportunities that were offered her of escaping what she disliked and going to that which she loved. Two offers had now been made to her, both of them thoroughly eligible, to neither of which would objection have been made by any of the persons concerned. Sir Thomas had shown himself to be absolutely anxious for the success of his son, and now it seemed that the grand relations of this Colonel Stubbs were in favour of the match. What it was in Ayala that entitled her to such promotion Mrs. Dosset did not quite perceive. To her eyes her niece was a fantastic girl, pretty indeed, but not endowed with that regular tranquil beauty which she thought to be of all feminine graces the most attractive. Why, Tom Tringle, should have been so deeply smitten with Ayala had been a marvel to her, and now this story of Colonel Stubbs was a greater marvel. Ayala, she said, you ought to think better of it. Think better of what, Aunt Margaret? You have seen what this Lady Orbury says about her cousin, Colonel Stubbs. What is that to do with it? You believe what she says? If so, why would you not accept him? Because I can't, said Ayala. Have you any idea what is to become of your future life? Said Mrs. Dosset very gravely. Not in the least, said Ayala. But that was a fib because she had an idea that in the fullness of time it would be her heavenly fate to put her hand into that of the Angel of Light. Gentlemen won't come running after you always, my dear. This was almost as bad as being told by her Aunt Emily in the cheer encouraged her cousin Tom. It's a great shame to say that. I don't want anybody to run after me. I never did. No, my dear. No, I don't think that you ever did. Mrs. Dosset, who was just as itself, did acknowledge to herself that of any such fault as that suggested Ayala was innocent. Her fault was quite in the other direction and consisted of an unwillingness to settle herself and to free her relations of the burden of maintaining her when proper opportunities arose for doing so. I only want to explain to you that people must make their hay while the sun shines. You're young now. I'm not one and twenty yet, said Ayala proudly. One and twenty is a very good time for a girl to marry, that is to say, if a proper sort of gentleman asks her. I don't think I ought to be scolded because they don't seem to me to be the proper sort. I don't want anybody to come. Nobody ought to be talked to about it at all. If I cared about anyone that you or Uncle Reginald did not approve, then you might talk to me. But I don't think that anything ought to be said about anybody unless I like him myself. So the conversation was over and Mrs. Dosset felt that she had been entirely vanquished. Lady Albury's letter was shown to Mr. Dosset, but he refused to say a word to his niece on the subject. In the argument which followed between him and his wife, he took his niece's part, opposing altogether that idea that hay should be made while the sun shines. It simply means selling herself to clared Mr. Dosset. That is nonsense, Reginald. Of course such a girl as Ayala has to do the best she can with her good looks. What else is she to depend upon? My brother-in-law will do something for her. I hope he will, though I do not think that a very safe read to depend upon as she has twice offended him. But of course a girl thinks of marrying. Ayala would be very much disgusted if she were told that she was to be an old maid and live upon a hundred pounds a year supplied by Sir Thomas's bounty. It might have been that she would have to do it, but now that chances are open she ought to take them. She should choose between her cousin Tom and this Colonel Stubbs and you should tell her that if she will not he will no longer be responsible for her. To this Mr. Dosset turned altogether a deaf ear. He was quite sure that his responsibility must be continued until the Ayala should marry or until he should die, and he would not make a threat which he would certainly be unable to carry out. He would be very glad if Ayala could bring herself to marry either of these young men. It was a pity that she should feel her self-compelled to refuse offers so excellent, but it was a matter for her own judgment and one in which she would not interfere. For two days this almost led to a coldness between the man and his wife, during which the sufferings of poor Mrs. Dosset were heart-rending. Not many days after Ayala's return her sister Lucy came to see her. Certain reasons had caused Lady Tringle to stay at Glenburgie longer than usual, and the family was now passing through London on their way to Merle Park. Perhaps it was the fact that the traffic had been effectually extruded from Glenburgie, but would doubtless turn up at Merle Park should Lady Tringle take up her residence there before the autumn was over. That they should spend their Christmas at Merle Park was an acknowledged thing, to Mama Tringle an acknowledged benefit, because she liked to have her daughter with her, to Papa Tringle an acknowledged evil, because he could not endure to be made to give more than he intended to give. That they should remain there afterwards through January, and until the meeting of Parliament was to be expected, but it was hoped that they might be driven to find some home for themselves if they were left homeless by Sir Thomas for a while. The little plan was hardly successful, as Mr. Traffic had put his wife into lodgings at Hastings, ready to pounce down on Merle Park as soon as Lady Tringle should have occupied the house a few days. Lady Tringle was now going there with the rest of the family, Sir Thomas having been in town for the last six weeks. Lucy took advantage of the day which they passed in London and succeeded in getting across to the Crescent. At this time she had heard nothing of Colonel Stubbs and was indeed full of her own troubles. You haven't seen him? she said to her sister. Seen who? asked Ayala, who had to him, Mr. Herbow, and thought at the moment rather of her own two hymns than of Lucy's one. Is it all? he said that he would call here. Ayala explained that she had not seen him having been absent from town during the last ten days, during which Mr. Hummel had in fact called at the house. Ayala concluded Lucy what am I to do? Stick to him, said Ayala firmly. Of course I shall, but Aunt Emilyne thinks that I ought to give him up or— or what? Or go away, said Lucy very gravely. Where would you go to? Oh, where indeed! Of course he would have me, but it would be ruined to him to marry a wife without a penny when he earns only enough for his own wants. His father has quarreled with him altogether. He says that nobody can prevent our being married, if we please, and that he is quite ready to make a home for me instantly. But I know that last year he hardly earned more than two hundred pounds after paying all his expenses, and were I to take him at his word, I should ruin him. Would Uncle Tom turn you out? He has been away almost ever since Mr. Hummel came to Glenbowgee, and I do not know what he will say. Aunt Emilyne declares that I can only stay with them just as though I were her daughter, and that a daughter would be bound to obey her. Does Gertrude obey her about Mr. Houston? Gertrude has her own way with her mother altogether, and of course her daughter cannot really be turned out. If she tells me to go, I suppose I must go. I should ask Uncle Tom, said Ayala. She could not make you go out into the street. When she had to get rid of me, she could send me here in exchange. But she can't say now that you don't suit and have me back again. Oh, Ayala, it is so miserable. I feel that I do not know what to do with myself. Nor do I, said Ayala, jumping up from the bed on which she was sitting. It does seem to be so cross-grained. Nobody will let you marry, and everybody will make me. Do they still trouble you about Tom? It's not Tom now, Lucy. Another man has come up. As a lover. Oh, yes, quite so. His name is such a name, Lucy. His name is Colonel Jonathan Stubbs. That is, Isidore's friend, the man who lives at Drumcaller. Exactly. He told me that Mr. Hummel was at Drumcaller with him, and now he wants me to be his wife. Do you not like him? That's the worst part of it all, Lucy. If I did not like him, I shouldn't mind it half so much. It's just because I like him so very much that I'm so very unhappy. His hair is just the colour of Aunt Emily in Spingshaw. What does that signify? And his mouth stretches almost from ear to ear. I shouldn't care a bit for his mouth. I don't think I do much, because he does look so good-natured when he laughs. Indeed, he's always the most good-natured man that ever lived. Has he got an income enough for marriage, arse Lucy, whose sorrows were already springing from that most fertile source of sorrowing? Plenty, they tell me, though I do not know in the least what plenty means. Then, Ayala, why should you not have him? Because I can't, said Ayala. How is a girl to love a man if she does not love him? Liking has nothing to do with it. You don't think liking ought to have anything to do with it? The question had not been answered when Aunt Margaret came into the room, declaring that the tringle man-servant who had walked across the park with Miss Dorma was waxing impatient. The sisters, therefore, were separated, and Lucy returned to Queen's Gate. CHAPTER XXVIII I tell you fairly that I think you altogether wrong, that it is cowardly, unmanly, and disgraceful. I don't mean you see to put what you call a fine point upon it. No, you don't. It is one of those matters on which a person must speak the truth or not speak at all. I should not have spoken unless you forced it upon me. You don't care for her in the least. That's true. I do not know that I'm especially quick at what you call caring for young ladies. If I care for anybody, it is for you. I suppose so, but that may as well be dropped for the present. You mean to marry this girl simply because she's got a lot of money. Exactly that, as you, before long, will marry some gentleman only because he has got money. You have no right to say so because I'm engaged to no man. But if I were so, it is quite different. Unless I marry, I can be nobody. I can have no existence that I can call my own. I have no other way of pushing myself into the world's notice. You are a man. You mean to say that I could become a merchant or a lawyer, be a Lord Chancellor in time, or perhaps an Archbishop of Canterbury. You can live and eat and drink and go where you wish without being dependent on anyone. If I had your freedom and your means, do you think that I would marry for money? In this dialogue the main part was taken by Mr. Frank Houston, whose ambition it was to marry Ms. Gertrude Tringle, and the ladies' part by his cousin and intimate friend, Ms. Imogen Dossomer. The scene was a walk through a pine forest in the southern slopes of the Tyrolian Alps, and the occasion had been made a little more exhilarating than usual by the fact that Imogen had been strongly advised, both by her brother, Mr. Mudbury Dossomer, and by her sister-in-law, Mrs. Mudbury Dossomer, not to take any more distant rambles with her faraway cousin, Frank Houston. In the teeth of that advice this walk was taken, and the conversation in the pine wood had at the present moment arrived at the point above given. I do not know that any two persons were ever further asunder in an argument than you and I in this, said Frank, not in the least disconcerted by the severe epithets which had been applied to him. I concede that you are led away by a desire to deceive yourself, whereas hypocrisy should only be used with the object of deceiving others. How do I deceive myself? In making believe that men are generally different from what they are, in trying to suppose that I ought to be if I am not a hero. You shall not find a man whose main object is not that of securing an income. The clergyman, who preaches against gold, licks the ground beneath the minister's feet in order that he may become a bishop. The barrister cares not with what case he may foul his hands so long as he may become rich. The man in trade is so aware of his own daily dishonesty that he makes two separate existences for himself, and endeavours to atone for his rascality in the city by his performance of all duties at the West End. I regard myself to be so infinitely cleaner in my conscience than other men that I could not bring myself to be a bishop, an attorney general, or a great merchant. Of all the ways open to me, this seems to me to be the least sordid. I give her the only two things which she desires, myself and a position. She will give me the only thing I desire, which is some money. When you marry, you'll make an equally fine bargain. Only your wares will be your beauty. You will not give her yourself, not your heart. Yes, I shall. I shall make the most of her, and she'll do so by becoming as fond of her as I can. Of course I like reading. Of course I like beauty. Of course I like that aroma of feminine charm, which can only be produced by a mixture of intellect, loveliness, taste, and early association. I don't pretend to say that my future would not be much sweeter before me with you as my wife, if only either of us had a sufficiency of income. I acknowledge that. But then I acknowledge also that I prefer Miss Stringle with a hundred thousand pounds to you with nothing. And I do not think that I ought to be called unmanly, disgraceful, and a-coward, because I have courage enough to speak the truth openly to a friend whom I trust. My theory of life shocks you, not because it is uncommon, but because it is not commonly declared. They were silent for a while as they went on through the path, and then Miss Dossimer spoke to him in an altered voice. I must ask you not to speak to me again as one who by any possibility could have been your wife. Very well. You will not wish me to abandon the privilege of thinking of past possibilities. I would if it were possible. Quite impossible. One's thoughts I imagine are always supposed to be one's own. You know what I mean. A gentleman will always spare a woman if he can do so, and there are cases such as have been ours in which it is a most imperative duty to do so. You should not have followed us when you had made up your mind about this young lady. I took care to let you know beforehand that I intended it. You should not have thrown the weight upon me. You should not even have written to me. I wonder what you would have said then.  Would you not have told me that I had not the courage to be open with you? He paused for an answer, but she made none. But I do recognize the necessity of my becoming subject to abuse in this state of affairs. I have been in no respect false nor in any way wanting an affection. When I suggested to you that six hundred pounds a year between us with an increasing family and lodgings in Marlebone would be uncomfortable, you shuddered at the prospect. When I explained to you that you would have the worst of it because my club would always be open to me, you were almost angry with me because I seemed to imply that there could be any other than one decision. There could only be one decision, unless you were man enough to earn your bread. But I wasn't. But I ain't. You might as well let that accident pass, sans-dier. Was there ever a moment in which you thought that I should earn my bread? Never for a moment did I endow you with the power of doing anything so manly. Then why throw it in my teeth now, that's not fair. However, I do own that I have to be abused. I don't see any way in which you and I depart without it, but you need not descend to Billingsgate. I have not descended to Billingsgate, Mr. Houston. Upper World Billingsgate? Cowardice as an accusation from a woman to a man is Upper World Billingsgate. But it doesn't matter. Of course I know what it means. Do you think your brother wants me to go away at once? At once, she said, that would be disagreeable and absurd. You mean to sit to me for that head? Certainly not. I cannot in the least understand why not. What is a question of art to do with marriage or giving in marriage?  There are questions which it is of no avail to answer. I have come out with you now because I thought it well that we should have a final opportunity of understanding each other. You understand me at any rate." Perfectly, he said, you have taken a special care on this occasion to make yourself intelligible. So I intended, and as you do understand me, and know how far I am from approving your philosophy, you can hardly wish to remain with us longer. Then they walked on together in absolute silence from above a mile. They had come out of the wood and were descending by a steep and narrow path to the village, in which stood the hotel at which the party was staying. Another ten minutes would take them down to the high road. The path here ran by the side of a rivulet, the course of which was so steep that the waters made their way down in a succession of little cataracts. From the other side of the path was a fence, so close to it, that on this particular spot there was room only for one to walk. Here Frank Huston stepped in front of his companion, so as to stop her. Imogen, he said, if it is intended that I am to start by the diligence for Innsbrook this evening, you had better bid me farewell at once. I have bidden you farewell, she said. Then you have done it in so bitter a mood that you had better try your hand at it again. Heaven only knows in what manner you or I may meet again. What does it matter, she asked. I have always felt that the hearts of men are softer than the hearts of women. A woman's hand is soft, but she can steal her heart when she thinks it necessary, as no man can do. Does it occur to you at this moment that there has been some true affection between you and me in former days? I wish it did not. It may be so that I wish it also, but there is the fact. No wishing will enable me to get rid of it. No wishing will save me from the memory of early dreams and sweet longings and vain triumphs. There is the remembrance of bright glory made very sad to me by the meanness of the existing truth. I do not say but that I would obliterate it if I could, but it is not to be obliterated. The past will not be made more pleasant to me by any pretense of present indignation. I should have thought that it would have been the same with you. There has been no glory, she said, though I quite acknowledged the meanness. There has been, at any rate, some love. Miss Placed, you'd better let me pass on. I have, as you say, steeled myself. I will not condescend to any tenderness. In my brother's presence and my sister's, I will wish you could buy and express a hope that you may be successful in your enterprises. Here, by the brookside, out upon the mountain path, where there is no one to hear us, but our two selves, I will bid you no fair well softer than that already spoken. Go and do as you propose. You have my leave. When it shall have been done there shall never be a word spoken by me against it. But when you ask me whether you are right, I will only say that I think you to be wrong. It may be that you owe nothing to me, but you owe something to her and something also to yourself. Now, Mr. Hooster, I shall be glad to pass on." He shrugged his shoulders and then stepped out of the path, thinking as he did so, how ignorant he had been, after all that had passed, of much of the character of image and Osama. It could not be, he had thought, but that she would melt into softness at last. I will not condescend to any tenderness, she had said, and it seemed that she would be as good as her word. He then walked down before her in silence, and in silence they reached the inn. Mr. Houston, said Mrs. Osama, before they sat down to dinner together, I thought it was understood that you and Imogen should not go out alone together again. I have taken my place to Innsbrook by the diligence this evening, he answered. Perhaps it will be better so, though both Mudbury and I will be sorry to lose your company. Yes, Mrs. Osama, I have taken my place. Your sister seemed to think that there would be great danger if I waited till tomorrow morning when I could have got a pleasant lift in a return carriage.  I'm sorry you should be inconvenienced. It does not signify what a man without a wife may suffer in that way never does signify. It's just fourteen hours you wouldn't like Dosama to come with me. That's nonsense. You needn't go the whole way unless you like. You could sleep at Brunneken. Brunneken is only twelve miles, and it might be dangerous. Of course you choose to turn everything into ridicule. Better than tears, Mrs. Osama, what's the good of crying? I can't make myself an elder son. I can't end our image in with a hundred thousand pounds. She told me just now that I might earn my bread, but she knows that I can't. It's very sad, but what can be got by being melancholy? At any rate you had better be away from her. I'm going this evening. Shall I walk on half a stage at once without any dinner? I wish you had heard the kind of thing she said to me.  Have you not deserved them? I think not, but nevertheless I bore them. A woman, of course, can say what she pleases. There's Dosama.  Mr. Dosama came out on the terrace on which the two were standing, looking as sour as death. He's going by the diligence to Innsbruck this afternoon, said Mrs. Dosama. Why did he come? A man with a grain of feeling would have remained away. Now, Dosama, said Frank, pray do not make yourself unpleasant. Your sister has been abusing me all the morning like a pickpocket, and your wife looks at me as though she would say just as much if she dared. After all, what is it that I have done that you think so wicked? What will everybody think at home, said Mrs. Dosama, when they know that you're with us again? What chance is she to have if you follow her about in this way? I shall not follow her very long, said Frank. My wings will soon be cut, and then I shall never fly again. They were at this time walking up and down the terrace together, and it seemed for a while that neither of them had another word to say in the matter of the dispute between them. Then Houston went on again in his own defence. Of course it's all bad, he said. Of course we have all been fools.  We thought that when your uncle died there would have been money, said Dosama, with a subdued growl. Exactly, and so did I. You do not mean to say that I deceived either you or her. There should have been an end of it when that hope was over. Of course there should. There should never have been a dream that she or I could marry on six hundred a year. Had not all of us been fools, we should have taken our hats off, and bade each other farewell for ever when the state of the old man's affairs was known. We were fools, but we were fools together, and none of us have a right to abuse the others. When I became acquainted with this young lady at Rome, it had been settled among us that Imogen and I must seek our fortunes apart. Then why did you come after her? again asked Mr. Dosama. At this moment Imogen herself joined them on the terrace. Mary, she said to her sister-in-law, I hope you're not carrying on this battle with Mr. Houston. I have said what there was to be said. You should have held your tongue and said nothing, growled her brother. Be that as it may, I have said it, and he quite understands what I think about it.  He has the world free before him, which he no doubt will open like an oyster, though he does not carry a sword. Soon after this they did dine, and contented themselves with abusing the meat and the wine, and finding fault with Tirely's cookery, just as though they had no deeper cares near their hearts. Precisely at six the heavy diligence stopped before the hotel door, and Houston, who was then smoking with Dosama on the terrace, got up to bid them adieu. Mrs. Dosama was kind and almost affectionate with the Tire in her eye. Well, oh fellow, said Dosama, take care of yourself. Perhaps everything will turn upright some of these days. Good-bye, Mr. Houston, said Imogen, just giving him her hand to touch in the lightest manner possible.  But there was none in hers, as she stood looking at him while he prepared himself for his departure, nor did she say another word to him as he went. And now, said she, when the three of them were left upon the terrace, I will ask a great favour of you both. I will beg you not to let there be another word about Mr. Houston among us. After that she rambled out by herself and was not seen again by either of them that evening. When she was alone she too shed her tears, though she felt impatient and vexed with herself as they came into her eyes. It was not perhaps only for her lost love that she wept. Had no one known that her love had been given and then lost, she might have borne it without weeping. But now, in carrying on this vain affair of hers, in devoting herself to a lover who had with her own consent passed away from her, she had spent the sweet fresh years of her youth, and all those who knew her would know that it had been so. He had told her that it would be her fate to purchase for herself a husband with her beauty. It might be so. At any rate, she did not doubt her own beauty. But if it were to be so, then the romance and the charm of her life were gone. She had quite agreed that six hundred a year and lodgings in Mar-A-Le-Bone would be quite unendurable. But what was there left for her that would be endurable? He could be happy with the prospect of Gertrude Tringle's money. She could not be happy looking forward to that unloved husband who was to be purchased by her beauty. Sir Thomas took the real holiday of the year at Glen Bogey, where he was too far removed from Lombard Street to be drawn daily into the vortex of his millions. He would stay usually six weeks at Glen Bogey, which were by no means the happiest weeks of the year. Of all the grand things in the world which his energy and industry had produced for him, he loved his millions the best. It was not because they were his, as indeed they were not, a considerable filing of them, what he regarded as his percentage, annually became his own, but it was not this that he loved. In describing a man's character it is the author's duty to give the man his due. Sir Thomas liked his own wealth well enough, whereas the rich man who does not, or whereas the poor man who does not wish that he had it to like. But what he loved were the millions with which Travers and Treason dealt. He was Travers and Treason, though his name did not even appear on the firm, and he dealt with the millions. He could affect the rate of money throughout Europe and emissaries from national treasuries would listen to his words. He had been Governor and Deputy Governor of the Bank of England. All the city respected him, not so much because he was rich, as that he was one who thoroughly understood millions. If Russia required to borrow some infinite number of roubles, he knew how to arrange it, and could tell to a rouble at what rate money could be made by it, and at what rate money would certainly be lost. He liked his millions, and was therefore never quite comfortable at Glen Bogey. But at Merle Park he was within easy reach of London. At Merle Park he was not obliged to live from week's end to week's end without a sight of Lombard Street. The family might be at Merle Park while he might come down on a Friday and remain until Tuesday morning. That was the plan proposed for Merle Park, as a fact he would spend four days in town and only two down in the country. Therefore, although he spent his so-named holiday at Glen Bogey, Merle Park was the residence which he loved. In this autumn he went up to London long before his family, and then found them at Merle Park on the Saturday after their arrival there. They had gone down on the previous Wednesday. On the Saturday, when he entered the house, the first thing he saw was Mr. Traffic's hat in the hall. This was Saturday the 23rd of November, and there would be three months before Parliament would meet. A curse was not muttered, but just formed between his teeth as he saw the hat. Sir Thomas, in his angriest mood, never went so far as quite to mutter his curses. Will one have to expiate the anathemas which are kept well within the barrier of the teeth, or only those which have achieved some amount of utterance? Sir Thomas went on, with a servant at his heels, chucking about the doors rather violently until he found Mr. Traffic alone in the drawing-room. Mr. Traffic had had a glass of sherry and bitters brought in for his refreshment, and Sir Thomas saw the glass on the mantelpiece. He never took sherry and bitters himself. One glass of wine with his two o'clock mutton-chop sufficed him until dinner. It was all very well to be a member of Parliament, but after all members of Parliament never do anything. Men who work don't take sherry and bitters. Men who work don't put their hats in other people's halls without leave from the master of the house. Where's your mistress? said Sir Thomas to the man, without taking any notice of his son-in-law. The ladies had only just come in from driving, were very cold, and had gone up to dress. Sir Thomas went out of the room again banging the door, and again taking no notice of Mr. Traffic. Mr. Traffic put his hand up to the mantelpiece, and finished his sherry and bitters. My dear, said Mr. Traffic to his wife up in her bedroom, your father has come down in one of his tantrums. I knew he would, said Augusta. But it does not signify the least. Give him a kiss when you see him, and don't seem to notice it. There is not a man in the world has a higher regard for me than your father, but if any one were to see him in one of his tantrums, they would suppose he meant to be uncivil. I hope he won't be downright unkind, Septimus, said his wife. Never fear, the kindest-hearted man in the world is your father. So he's here. That was the first word of greeting which Sir Thomas addressed to his wife in her bedroom. Yes, Tom, they're here. When did they come? Well, to tell the truth, we found them here. They— But Sir Thomas restrained the word on the right, or inside of the teeth.  They were to come, you know. I wish I knew when they were to go. You don't want to turn your daughter out of your own house? Why doesn't he get a house of his own for her? For her sake, why doesn't he do it? He has the spending of six thousand pounds a year of my money, and yet I'm to keep him. No, I don't want to turn my daughter out of the house, but it'll end in my turning him out. When a week had passed by, Mr. Traffic had not been as yet turned out. Sir Thomas, when he came back to Merle Park on the following Friday, condescended to speak to his son-in-law and to say something to him as to the news of the day. But this he did in an evident spirit of preconceived hostility. Everything's down again, he said. Fluctuations are always common at this time of year, said Traffic, but I observe that trade always becomes brisk a little before Christmas. To a man with a fixed income like you, it doesn't much matter, said Sir Thomas. I was looking at it in a public light. Exactly! A man who has an income and ever spends it need not trouble himself with private views as to the money market. Mr. Traffic rubbed his hands and asked whether the new buildings at the back of the Lombard Street premises were nearly finished. Mr. Traffic's economy had a deleterious effect upon Gertrude, which she, poor girl, did not deserve. Sir Thomas, deeply resolving in his mind that he would at some not very distant date, find means by which he would rid himself of Mr. Traffic, declared to himself that he would not at any rate burden himself with another son-in-law of the same kind. Frank Houston was to his thinking of the same kind, and therefore he heartened his heart against Frank Houston. Now, Frank Houston could he have got his wife with six thousand pounds a year, as Mr. Traffic had done, would certainly not have troubled the Tringle Manchants with too much of his presence. It would have been his object to remove himself as far as possible from the Tringles and to have enjoyed his life luxuriously with the proceeds of his wife's fortune. But his hopes in this respect were unjustly impeded by Mr. Traffic's past money. Soon after leaving the hotel in the Tyrol at which we lately saw him, Frank Houston wrote to his lady-love, declaring the impatience of his order and suggesting that it would be convenient if everything could be settled before Christmas. In his letter he declared to Gertrude how very uncomfortable it was to him to have to discuss money matters with her father. It was so disagreeable that he did not think that he could bring himself to do it again. But if she would only be urgent with her father, she would, of course, prevail. Acting upon this, Gertrude determined to be urgent with her father on his second coming to Mel Park, when, as has been explained, Sir Thomas was in a frame of mind very much opposed to Impecunia's sons-in-law. Previous to attacking her father, Gertrude had tried her hand again with her mother, but Lady Tringle had declined. If anything is to be done, you must do it yourself, Lady Tringle had said. Papa, said Gertrude, having followed him into a little sitting-room where he digested and arranged his telegrams when at Mel Park, I wish something could be settled about Mr. Houston. Sir Thomas, at this moment, was very angry. Mr. Traffic had not only asked for the loan of a carriage to take him into Hastings, but had expressed a wish that there might be a peculiar kind of claret served at dinner with which he was conversant and to which he was much attached. Then, said he, you may as well have it all settled at once. How, Papa? You may understand for good and all that I will have nothing to do with Mr. Houston. Papa, that would be very cruel. My dear, if you call me cruel, I will not allow you to come and talk to me at all. Cruel indeed, what is your idea of cruelty? Everybody knows that we're attached to each other. Everybody knows nothing of the kind.  Mr. Houston is a penniless adventurer who is only attached to my money. He shall never see a penny of it. He's not an adventurer, Papa. He's much less like an adventurer than Mr. Traffic. He has an income of his own, only it's not much. About as much as would pay his bill at the club for cigars and champagne. You may make your mind at rest, for I will not give Mr. Houston a shilling. Why should a man expect to live out of my earnings, who never did a day's work in his life? Gertrude left the room despondently, as there was nothing more to be done on the occasion. But it seemed to her as though she were being used with the utmost cruelty. Augusta had been allowed to marry her man without a shilling, and had been enriched with a hundred and twenty thousand pounds. Why should she be treated worse than Augusta? She was very strongly of the opinion that Frank Houston was very much better than Septimus Traffic. Mr. Traffic's aptitude for saving his money was already known to the whole household. Frank would never wish to save. Frank would spend her income for her like a gentleman. Frank would not hang about Glen Bogie or Merle Park till he should be turned out. Everybody was fond of Frank, but she Gertrude had already learned to despise Mr. Traffic, member of Parliament, though he was. She had already begun to think that having been chosen by Frank Houston, who was decidedly a man of fashion, she had proved herself to be of higher calibre than her sister Augusta. But her father's refusal to her had not only been very rough but very decided. She would not abandon her Frank. Such an idea never for a moment crossed her mind. But what step should she next take? Thinking over it during the whole of the day, she did at last form a plan, but she greatly feared that the plan would not recommend itself to Mr. Frank Houston. She was not timid, but he might be so. In spite of her father's anger and roughness, she would not doubt his ultimate generosity. But Frank might doubt it. If Frank could be induced to come and carry her off from Merle Park and marry her in some manner approved for such occasions, she would stand the risk of getting the money afterwards. But she was greatly afraid that the risk would be too much for Frank. She did not, however, see any other scheme before her. As to waiting patiently till her father's obdurate heart should be softened by the greater obduracy of her own love, there was a tedium and a prolonged dullness in such a prospect which were anything but attractive to her. Had it been possible, she would have made a bargain with her father. If you won't give us a hundred and twenty thousand pounds, let us begin with sixty thousand pounds. But even this she feared would not be altogether agreeable to Frank. Let her think of it how she would, that plan of being run away with seemed alone to be feasible, and not altogether disagreeable. It was necessary that she should answer her lover's letter. No embargo had as yet been put upon her correspondence, and therefore she could send her reply without external difficulty. Dear Frank, she said, I quite agree with you about Christmas. It ought to be settled. But I have very bad news to send you. I have been to Papar as you told me, but he was very unkind. Nothing could be worse. He said that you ought to earn your bread, which is, of course, all humbug. He didn't understand that there ought to be some gentleman who never earn their bread.  He says that he will not give a single shilling. I think he's angry because Augusta's husband will come and live here always. That is disgusting, of course, but it isn't my fault. It is either that or else some money has gone wrong, or perhaps he had a very bad fit of indigestion. He was, however, so savage that I really do not know how to go to him again. Momar is quite afraid of him, and does not dare say a word, because it was she who managed about Mr. Traffic. What ought to be done? Of course I don't like to think that you should be kept waiting. I am not sure that I quite like it myself.  If we could get married without his knowing anything about it, I'm sure he'd give the money afterwards, because he's always so good-natured in the long run and so generous. He can be very savage, but he would be sure to forgive. How would it be if I were to go away? I am of age, and I believe that no one could stop me. If you could manage that we should get married in that way, I would do my best. I know people can get themselves married at our stand. I do not see what else is to be done. You can write to me at present here, and nothing wrong will come of it. But Augusta says that if Papa were to begin to suspect anything about my going away, he would stop my letters. Dear Frank, I am yours always and always most lovingly Gertrude. You needn't be a bit afraid, but that I should be quite up to going off if you could arrange it. I believe, Papa, said Mrs. Traffic, on the afternoon of the day on which this was written, that Gertrude is thinking of doing something wrong, and therefore I feel it to be my duty to bring you this letter. Augusta had not been unable to read the letter, but had discussed with her sister the propriety of a loping. I won't advise it, she'd said, but if you do, Mr. Houston should arrange to be married at our stand. I know that that can be done. Some second thought had perhaps told her that any such arrangement would be injurious to the noble blood of the traffic family, and she had therefore felt it to be her duty to extract the letter from the family letter-box and give it to her father. A daughter who could so excellently do her duty would surely not be turned out before parliament met. Sir Thomas took the letter and said not a word to his elder child. When he was alone, he doubted. He was half-minded to send the letter on. What harm could the two fools do by writing to each other? While he held the strings of the purse there could be no marriage. Then he befought himself of his paternal authority of the right he had to know all that his daughter did, and he opened the letter. There ought to be gentlemen who don't earn their bread. Ot there! said he to himself, if so those gentlemen ought not to come to him for bread. He was already supporting one such, and that was quite enough. Mamar is quite afraid of him and doesn't dare say a word. That he rather liked. I am sure he'd give the money afterwards. I am sure he'd do no such thing, he said to himself, and he reflected that in such a condition he should rather be delighted than otherwise in watching the impecunious importunities of his baffled son-in-law. The next sentence reconciled his girl to him almost entirely. He's always so good-natured in the long run and so generous. For good-natured he did not care much, but he liked to be thought generous. Then he calmly tore the letter in little bits and threw them into the waste-paper basket. He sat for ten minutes thinking what he had better do, finding the task thus imposed upon him to be much more difficult than the distribution of a loan. At last he determined that if he did nothing things would probably settle themselves. Mr. Houston, when he received no reply from his lady-love, would certainly be quiescent, and Gertrude, without any assent from her lover, could hardly arrange her journey to Ostend. Perhaps it might be well that he should say a word of caution to his wife, but as to that he did not at present quite make up his mind as he was grievously disturbed while he was considering the subject. If you please, Sir Thomas, said the coachman, hurrying into the room almost without the ceremony of knocking, if you please, Phoebe Mayer has been brought home with both her knees cut down to the bone. What! exclaimed Sir Thomas, who indulged himself in a taste for horse-flesh and pretended to know one animal from another. Yes, indeed, Sir Thomas, down to the bone, said the coachman, who entertained all that animosity against Mr. Traffic, which domestics feel for habitual guests who omit the ceremony of tipping. Mr. Traffic brought her down on Windover Hill, Sir Thomas, and she'll never be worth a feed of oats again. I didn't think a man was born who could throw that mare off her feet, Sir Thomas. Now, Mr. Traffic, when he had borrowed the fairton and pair of horses that morning to go into Hastings, had dispensed with the services of a coachman and had insisted on driving himself. As any irascible reader, any reader who thoroughly enjoys the pleasure of being in a rage, encountered suddenly some grievance which, heavy as it may be, has been more than compensated by the privilege it has afforded of blowing up the offender. Such was the feeling of Sir Thomas as he quickly followed his coachman out of the room. He had been very proud of his Phoebe Mayer, who could trot with him from the station to the house at the rate of twelve miles an hour. But in his present frame of mind he had liked the mare less than he disliked his son-in-law. Mr. Traffic had done him this injury, and he now had Mr. Traffic on the hip. There are some injuries for which a host cannot abuse his guest. If your best Venetian decanter be broken at table, you're bound to look as though you liked it. But if a horse be damaged, a similar amount of courtesy is hardly required. The well-nurtured gentleman, even in that case, will only look unhappy in not say a word. Sir Thomas was hardly to be called a well-nurtured gentleman, and then it must be remembered that the offender was his son-in-law. Good heavens! he exclaimed, hurrying into the yard. What is this? The mare was standing out on the pavement with three men around her, of whom one was holding her head, another was down on his knees, washing her wounds, and the third was describing the fatal nature of the wounds which she had received. Traffic was standing at a little distance, listening in silence to the implied rebukes of the groom. Good heavens! what is this? repeated Sir Thomas as he joined the conclave. There are a lot of loose stones on that hill, said Traffic, and she tripped on one and came down, all in a lump, before you could look at her. I'm awfully sorry, but it might have happened to any one. Sir Thomas knew how to fix his darts better than by throwing them direct at his enemy.  I'm afraid she has, Sir Thomas. The joint oil will be sure to run on both knees. The gashes is so mortal deep. I've driven that mare hundreds of times down that hill, said Sir Thomas, and I never knew her to trip before. Never, Sir Thomas, said the groom. She'd have come down with you to-day, said Mr. Traffic, defending himself. It was my own fault, Bunsum. That's all that can be said about it. Bunsum, the groom, kneeling as he was, expressed by his grimaces his complete agreement with this last opinion of his master. Of course I ought to have known that he couldn't drive, said Sir Thomas. A horse may fall down with anybody, said Mr. Traffic. He'd better take her and shoot her, said Sir Thomas, still addressing the groom. She was the best thing we had in the stable, but now she's done four. With that he turned away from the yard without having as yet addressed a word to his son-in-law. This was so intolerable that even Mr. Traffic could not bear it in silence. I have told you that I'm very sorry, said he, following Sir Thomas closely, and I don't know what a man can do more. Nothing, unless it be not to borrow a horse again. You may be sure I will never do that. I'm not sure of it at all, if you wanted another to-morrow you'd ask for him, if you thought you could get him. I call that very uncivil Sir Thomas and very unkind. Bother, said Sir Thomas, it's no good in being kind to a fellow like you. Did you ever hear what the cabman did who had a sovereign given to him for driving a mile? He asked the fool who gave it him to make it a guinea. I am the fool, and by George you are the cabman. With this Sir Thomas turned into the house by a small door, leaving his son-in-law to wander round to the front by himself.  What's the matter now, Septimus?  That's Phoebe, said Augusta, she was his favourite. It's a kind of thing that might happen to any one, and no gentleman thinks of mentioning it. He said such things to me that upon my word I don't think I can stop in this house any longer. Oh, yes you will, said the wife. Of course it is a difference coming from one's father-in-law. It's almost the same as from one's father. He didn't mean it, Septimus. I suppose not. If he had, I really couldn't have borne it. He does become very rough sometimes, but I know that at bottom he has a thorough respect for me. It's only that induces me to bear it. Then it was settled between husband and wife that they should remain in their present quarters, and that not a word further should be said at any rate by them about the Phoebe mare. Nor did Sir Thomas say another word about the mare, but he added a note to those already written in the tablets of his memory as to his son-in-law, and the note declared that no hint, let it be ever so broad, would be effectual with Mr. Traffic. The next day was a Sunday, and then another trouble awaited Sir Thomas. At this time it was not customary with Tom to come often to Merle Park. He had his own lodgings in London and his own club, and did not care much for the rural charms of Merle Park. But on this occasion he had condescended to appear, and on the Sunday afternoon informed his father that there was a matter which he desired to discuss with him.   There is a sort of comfort in it, sir, said Tom, but if it's objectionable I'll drop it. It is objectionable. I'll drop it, sir, but nevertheless I am very sick of it. What are you sick of, Tom? All this affair with my cousin. Then if you'll take my advice you'll drop that, too. I couldn't do that, Father. A word is all very well. A man can drop a word, but a girl is a different sort of thing. One can't drop a girl even if one tries. Have you tried, Tom? Yes, I have. I've done my best to try. I put it out of my mind for a fortnight and wouldn't think of her. I had a bottle of champagne every day at dinner and then went to the theatre. But it was all of no use. I have set my heart on it and I can't give her up. I'll tell you what I'd like to do. I'd like to give her a diamond necklace. It wouldn't be the slightest use, said Sir Thomas, shaking his head. Why not? It's what other men do. I mean it to be something handsome, about three hundred pounds. That's a large sum of money for a necklace. Some of them cost a deal more than that. And you'd only throw away your money. If she took it, she'd take me, too. If she didn't, why, I should still have the diamonds. I mean to try, anyway. Then it's of no use your coming to me. I thought you'd let me have the money. It's no good running into debt for them. And then if you'd add something of your own, a locket, or something of that kind, I think it would have an effect. I've seen a necklace at Ricolais, and if I could pay ready money for it, I could have twenty percent of it. The price named is three hundred guineas. That would make it two hundred and fifty-four pounds five shillings. Two hundred and fifty pounds would buy it if the check was offered. There was a spirit about the son which was not displeasing to the father. The idea that the gift, if accepted, would be efficacious, or if not that it would be rejected, so that Tom would not lose his hopes and his diamonds together, seemed to be sound. Sir Thomas, therefore, promised the money with the distinct understanding that if the gift were not accepted by Ayala it should be consigned to his own hands. But as for any present from himself he felt that this would not be the time for it. He had called upon his niece and solicited her himself, and she had been deft to his words. After that he could not condescend to send her gifts. Should she become my promised daughter-in-law, then I would send her presents, said Sir Thomas. The poor man certainly received less pleasure from his wealth than was credited to him by those who knew his circumstances. Yet he endeavored to be good to those around him and especially good to his children. There had been present to him ever since the beginning of his successes, ever since his marriage, a fixed resolution that he would not be a curmudgeon with his money, that he would endeavour to make those happy who depended on him, and that he would be liberal in such settlements for his children as might be conducive to their happiness and fortunes in life. In this way he had been very generous to Mr. Traffic. The man was a member of Parliament, the son of a peer and laborious. Why should he expect more? Money was wanting, but he could supply the money. So he had supplied it, and had been content to think that a good man should be propped up in the world by his means. What that had come to, the reader knows. He thoroughly detested his son-in-law, and would have given much to have had his money back again, so that Mr. Traffic should have had no share in it. Then there was his second daughter. What should be done with Gertrude? The money should be forthcoming for her, too, if the fitting man could be found. But he would have nothing further to do with the penniless lover. Let his position in the world of fashion, or even the world of politics, be what it might. The man should either have wealth of his own, or should be satisfied to work for it. Houston had been unfortunate in the moment of his approaches. Sir Thomas had been driven by his angry feelings to use hard, sharp words, and now was forced to act up to his words. He declared roughly that Mr. Houston should not have a shilling of his money, as he had certainly been justified for doing, and his daughter, who had always been indulged in every kind of luxury, had at once concocted a plot for running away from her home. As he thought of the plot, it seemed to be wonderful to him that she should be willing to incur such a danger, to be ready without a penny to marry a penniless man, till he confessed to himself that were she to do so, she would certainly have the money sooner or later. He was capable of passion, capable of flying out, and saying a very severe thing to Septimus' traffic, or another, when his temper was hot, but he was incapable of sustained wrath. He was already aware that if Mr. traffic chose to stay, he would stay, that if Mr. Houston were brave enough to be persistent, he might have both the money and the girl. As he thought of it all, he was angry with himself, wishing that he were less generous, less soft, less forgiving. And now here was Tom, whom at the present moment he liked the best of all his children, who out of the three was the least inclined to run counter to him, ready to break his heart, because he could not get a little chit of a girl, of whom he would probably be tired in twelve months after he possessed her. Remembering what Tom had been, he was at a loss to understand how such a lad should be so thoroughly in love. At the present moment, had Ayala been purchasable, he would have been willing to buy her at a great price, because he would feign have pleased Tom had it been possible. But Ayala, who had not a penny in the world, who never would have a penny unless he should give it her, would not be purchased, and would have nothing to do with Tom. The world was running counter to him, so that he had no pleasure in his home, no pleasure in his money, no pleasure in his children. The little-back parlor in Lombard Street was sweeter to him than Merle Park with all its charms. His daughter Gertrude wanted to run away from him, while by no inducement could he get Mr. Traffic to leave the house. While he was in this humour, he met his niece Lucy roaming about the garden. He knew the whole story of Lucy's love, and had been induced by his wife to acknowledge that her marriage with the sculptor was not to be sanctioned. He had merely expressed his scorn when the unfortunate circumstances of Hummel's birth had been explained to him again and again. He had ridiculed the horror felt by his wife at the equally ill-born brothers and sisters in Rome. He had merely shaken his head when he was told that Hummel's father never went inside any place of worship. But when it was explained to him that the young man had, so to say, no income at all, then he was forced to acknowledge that the young man ought not to be allowed to marry his niece. To Lucy herself he had, as yet, said nothing on the subject since he had asked the lover into lunch at Glen Bogey. He heard bad accounts of her. He had been told by his wife on different occasions, not in the mere way of conversation, but with premeditated energy of fault-finding, that Lucy was a disobedient girl, she was worse than Ayala. She persisted in saying that she would marry the penniless artist as soon as he should profess himself to be ready. It had been different, she had tried to explain to her aunt, before she had been engaged to him. Now she considered herself to be altogether at his disposal. This had been her plea, but her plea had been altogether unacceptable to Aunt Emilyne. She can do as she pleases, of course, Sir Thomas had said. That might be all very well, but Aunt Emilyne was strongly of opinion that an adopted daughter of Queensgate of Glen Bogey of Inmirl Park ought not to be allowed to do as she pleased with herself. A girl ought not to be allowed to have the luxuries of palatial residences and the luxuries of free liberty of choice at the same time. More than once it had occurred to Sir Thomas that he would put an end to all these miseries by mere scratch of his pen. It need not be a hundred and twenty thousand pounds or a hundred thousand pounds as with the daughter. A few modest thousands would do it. And then this man Hummel, though the circumstances of his birth had been unfortunate, was not an idler like Frank Huston. As far as Sir Thomas could learn, the man did work and was willing to work. The present small income earned would gradually become more. He had a kindly feeling towards Lucy, although he had been inclined to own that her marriage with Hummel was out of the question. My dear, he said to her, why are you walking about alone? She did not like to say that she was walking alone because she had no one to walk with her. No such companion as Isidore would be if Isidore were allowed to come to Merle Park, so she simply smiled and went on by her uncle's side. Do you like this place as well as Glen Bogey? He asked. Oh, yes. Perhaps you'll be glad to get back to London again. Oh, no. Which do you like best then? They're also nice, if— If what, Lucy? Caillum non-animum mutant, he trans marais courant, Lucy might have said had she known the passage. As it was, she put the same feeling into simpler words. I should like one as well as the other, Uncle Tom, if things went comfortably. There's a great deal in that, he said. I suppose the meaning is that you do not get on well with your aunt. I'm afraid she's angry with me, Uncle Tom. Why do you make her angry, Lucy, when she tells you what is your duty? Why do you not endeavour to do it? I cannot do what she tells me, said Lucy, and as I cannot, I think I ought not to be here. Have you anywhere else to go to? To this she made no reply, but walked on in silence. When you say you ought not to be here, what idea have you formed in your own mind as to the future? That I shall marry Mr. Hummel some day. Do you think it would be well to marry any man without an income to live upon? Would it be a comfort to him seeing that he had just enough to maintain himself and no more? These were terrible questions to her, questions which he could not answer, but yet as to which her mind entertained an easy answer. A little help from him, who was willing to indulge her with so many luxuries while she was under his roof, would enable her to be an assistance rather than a burden to her lover. But of this she could not utter a word. Love is all very well, continued Sir Thomas in his gruffest voice, but love should be regulated by good sense. It is a crime when two beggars think of marrying each other. Two beggars who are not prepared to live as beggars do. He's not a beggar, said Lucy indignantly. He's begged nothing, nor have I. Sure, said Sir Thomas, I was laying down a general rule. I did not mean to call anybody a beggar. You shouldn't take me up like that. I beg your pardon, Uncle Tom, she said piteously. Very well, very well, that will do. But still he went on walking with her, and she felt she could not leave him until he gave her some signal that she was to go. They continued in this way, until they had come nearly round the large garden when he stopped as he was walking and addressed her again.  Yes, said Lucy boldly. Write to him at once and tell him to come and see me in Lombard Street on Tuesday at two o'clock. Give me the letter, and I will take care it is sent to him directly I get to town. Now you'd better go in, for it's getting very cold.