AYALA'S ANGEL
by
ANTHONY TROLLOPE,
Author of "Doctor Thorne," "The Prime Minister," "Orley Farm,"
&c., &c.
In Three Volumes.
VOL. I.
London:
Chapman and Hall (Limited),
11, Henrietta Street, Covent Garden.
1881.
[All Rights Reserved.]
Westminster:
J. B. Nichols and Sons, Printers.
25, Parliament Street.
CONTENTS OF VOL. I.
I. THE TWO SISTERS.
II. LUCY WITH HER AUNT DOSETT.
III. LUCY'S TROUBLES.
IV. ISADORE HAMEL.
V. AT GLENBOGIE.
VI. AT ROME.
VII. TOM TRINGLE IN EARNEST.
VIII. THE LOUT.
IX. THE EXCHANGE.
X. AYALA AND HER AUNT MARGARET.
XI. TOM TRINGLE COMES TO THE CRESCENT.
XII. "WOULD YOU?"
XIII. HOW THE TRINGLES FELL INTO TROUBLE.
XIV. FRANK HOUSTON.
XV. AYALA WITH HER FRIENDS.
XVI. JONATHAN STUBBS.
XVII. LUCY IS VERY FIRM.
XVIII. DOWN IN SCOTLAND.
XIX. ISADORE HAMEL IS ASKED TO LUNCH.
XX. STUBBS UPON MATRIMONY.
XXI. AYALA'S INDIGNATION.
XXII. AYALA'S GRATITUDE.
AYALA'S ANGEL.
CHAPTER I.
THE TWO SISTERS.
When Egbert Dormer died he left his two daughters utterly penniless
upon the world, and it must be said of Egbert Dormer that nothing
else could have been expected of him. The two girls were both
pretty, but Lucy, who was twenty-one, was supposed to be simple and
comparatively unattractive, whereas Ayala was credited,--as her
somewhat romantic name might show,--with poetic charm and a taste for
romance. Ayala when her father died was nineteen.
We must begin yet a little earlier and say that there had been,--and
had died many years before the death of Egbert Dormer,--a clerk in
the Admiralty, by name Reginald Dosett, who, and whose wife, had been
conspicuous for personal beauty. Their charms were gone, but the
records of them had been left in various grandchildren. There had
been a son born to Mr. Dosett, who was also a Reginald and a clerk
in the Admiralty, and who also, in his turn, had been a handsome
man. With him, in his decadence, the reader will become acquainted.
There were also two daughters, whose reputation for perfect feminine
beauty had never been contested. The elder had married a city man of
wealth,--of wealth when he married her, but who had become enormously
wealthy by the time of our story. He had when he married been simply
Mister, but was now Sir Thomas Tringle, Baronet, and was senior
partner in the great firm of Travers and Treason. Of Traverses and
Treasons there were none left in these days, and Mr. Tringle was
supposed to manipulate all the millions with which the great firm in
Lombard Street was concerned. He had married old Mr. Dosett's eldest
daughter, Emmeline, who was now Lady Tringle, with a house at the top
of Queen's Gate, rented at £1,500 a year, with a palatial moor in
Scotland, with a seat in Sussex, and as many carriages and horses as
would suit an archduchess. Lady Tringle had everything in the world;
a son, two daughters, and an open-handed stout husband, who was said
to have told her that money was a matter of no consideration.
The second Miss Dosett, Adelaide Dosett, who had been considerably
younger than her sister, had insisted upon giving herself to Egbert
Dormer, the artist, whose death we commemorated in our first line.
But she had died before her husband. They who remembered the two
Miss Dosetts as girls were wont to declare that, though Lady Tringle
might, perhaps, have had the advantage in perfection of feature and
in unequalled symmetry, Adelaide had been the more attractive from
expression and brilliancy. To her Lord Sizes had offered his hand
and coronet, promising to abandon for her sake all the haunts of his
matured life. To her Mr. Tringle had knelt before he had taken the
elder sister. For her Mr. Program, the popular preacher of the day,
for a time so totally lost himself that he was nearly minded to go
over to Rome. She was said to have had offers from a widowed Lord
Chancellor and from a Russian prince. Her triumphs would have quite
obliterated that of her sister had she not insisted on marrying
Egbert Dormer.
Then there had been, and still was, Reginald Dosett, the son of old
Dosett, and the eldest of the family. He too had married, and was now
living with his wife; but to them had no children been born, luckily,
as he was a poor man. Alas, to a beautiful son it is not often that
beauty can be a fortune as to a daughter. Young Reginald Dosett,--he
is anything now but young,--had done but little for himself with his
beauty, having simply married the estimable daughter of a brother
clerk. Now, at the age of fifty, he had his £900 a year from his
office, and might have lived in fair comfort had he not allowed a
small millstone of debt to hang round his neck from his earlier
years. But still he lived creditably in a small but very genteel
house at Notting Hill, and would have undergone any want rather than
have declared himself to be a poor man to his rich relations the
Tringles.
Such were now the remaining two children of old Mr. Dosett,--Lady
Tringle, namely, and Reginald Dosett, the clerk in the Admiralty.
Adelaide, the beauty in chief of the family, was gone; and now
also her husband, the improvident artist, had followed his wife.
Dormer had been by no means a failing artist. He had achieved
great honour,--had at an early age been accepted into the Royal
Academy,--had sold pictures to illustrious princes and more
illustrious dealers, had been engraved and had lived to see his own
works resold at five times their original prices. Egbert Dormer might
also have been a rich man. But he had a taste for other beautiful
things besides a wife. The sweetest little phaeton that was to
cost nothing, the most perfect bijou of a little house at South
Kensington,--he had boasted that it might have been packed without
trouble in his brother-in-law Tringle's dining-room,--the simplest
little gem for his wife, just a blue set of china for his dinner
table, just a painted cornice for his studio, just satin hangings for
his drawing-room,--and a few simple ornaments for his little girls;
these with a few rings for himself, and velvet suits of clothing
in which to do his painting; these, with a few little dinner
parties to show off his blue china, were the first and last of his
extravagances. But when he went, and when his pretty things were
sold, there was not enough to cover his debts. There was, however, a
sweet savour about his name. When he died it was said of him that his
wife's death had killed him. He had dropped his pallette, refused
to finish the ordered portrait of a princess, and had simply turned
himself round and died.
Then there were the two daughters, Lucy and Ayala. It should be
explained that though a proper family intercourse had always been
maintained between the three families, the Tringles, the Dormers, and
the Dosetts, there had never been cordiality between the first and
the two latter. The wealth of the Tringles had seemed to convey with
it a fetid odour. Egbert Dormer, with every luxury around him which
money could purchase, had affected to despise the heavy magnificence
of the Tringles. It may be that he affected a fashion higher than
that which the Tringles really attained. Reginald Dosett, who was
neither brilliant nor fashionable, was in truth independent, and,
perhaps, a little thin-skinned. He would submit to no touch of
arrogance from Sir Thomas; and Sir Thomas seemed to carry arrogance
in his brow and in his paunch. It was there rather, perhaps, than in
his heart; but there are men to whom a knack of fumbling their money
in their pockets and of looking out from under penthouse brows over
an expanse of waistcoat, gives an air of overweening pride which
their true idiosyncracies may not justify. To Dosett had, perhaps,
been spoken a word or two which on some occasion he had inwardly
resented, and from thenceforward he had ever been ready to league
with Dormer against the "bullionaire," as they agreed to call Sir
Thomas. Lady Tringle had even said a word to her sister, Mrs. Dormer,
as to expenses, and that had never been forgiven by the artist. So
things were when Mrs. Dormer died first; and so they remained when
her husband followed her.
Then there arose a sudden necessity for action, which, for a while,
brought Reginald Dosett into connexion with Sir Thomas and Lady
Tringle. Something must be done for the poor girls. That the
something should come out of the pocket of Sir Thomas would have
seemed to be natural. Money with him was no object,--not at all.
Another girl or two would be nothing to him,--as regarded simple
expenditure. But the care of a human being is an important matter,
and so Sir Thomas knew. Dosett had not a child at all, and would be
the better for such a windfall. Dosett he supposed to be,--in his,
Dosett's way,--fairly well off. So he made this proposition. He would
take one girl and let Dosett take the other. To this Lady Tringle
added her proviso, that she should have the choice. To her nerves
affairs of taste were of such paramount importance! To this Dosett
yielded. The matter was decided in Lady Tringle's back drawing-room.
Mrs. Dosett was not even consulted in that matter of choice, having
already acknowledged the duty of mothering a motherless child. Dosett
had thought that the bullionaire should have said a word as to some
future provision for the penniless girl, for whom he would be able
to do so little. But Sir Thomas had said no such word, and Dosett,
himself, lacked both the courage and the coarseness to allude to the
matter. Then Lady Tringle declared that she must have Ayala, and so
the matter was settled. Ayala the romantic; Ayala the poetic! It was
a matter of course that Ayala should be chosen. Ayala had already
been made intimate with the magnificent saloons of the Tringles,
and had been felt by Lady Tringle to be an attraction. Her long
dark black locks, which had never hitherto been tucked up, which
were never curled, which were never so long as to be awkward, were
already known as being the loveliest locks in London. She sang as
though Nature had intended her to be a singing-bird,--requiring no
education, no labour. She had been once for three months in Paris,
and French had come naturally to her. Her father had taught her
something of his art, and flatterers had already begun to say that
she was born to be the one great female artist of the world. Her
hands, her feet, her figure were perfect. Though she was as yet but
nineteen, London had already begun to talk about Ayala Dormer. Of
course Lady Tringle chose Ayala, not remembering at the moment that
her own daughters might probably be superseded by their cousin.
And, therefore, as Lady Tringle said herself to Lucy with her
sweetest smile--Mrs. Dosett had chosen Lucy. The two girls were old
enough to know something of the meaning of such a choice. Ayala,
the younger, was to be adopted into immense wealth, and Lucy was to
be given up to comparative poverty. She knew nothing of her uncle
Dosett's circumstances, but the genteel house at Notting Hill,--No.
3, Kingsbury Crescent,--was known to her, and was but a poor affair
as compared even with the bijou in which she had hitherto lived. Her
aunt Dosett never rose to any vehicle beyond a four-wheeler, and
was careful even in thinking of that accommodation. Ayala would be
whirled about the park by a wire-wig and a pair of brown horses which
they had heard it said were not to be matched in London. Ayala would
be carried with her aunt and her cousin to the show-room of Madame
Tonsonville, the great French milliner of Bond Street, whereas she,
Lucy, might too probably be called on to make her own gowns. All the
fashion of Queen's Gate, something, perhaps, of the fashion of Eaton
Square, would be open to Ayala. Lucy understood enough to know that
Ayala's own charms might probably cause still more August gates to
be opened to her, whereas Aunt Dosett entered no gates. It was quite
natural that Ayala should be chosen. Lucy acknowledged as much to
herself. But they were sisters, and had been so near! By what a chasm
would they be dissevered, now so far asunder!
Lucy herself was a lovely girl, and knew her own loveliness. She
was fairer than Ayala, somewhat taller, and much more quiet in her
demeanour. She was also clever, but her cleverness did not show
itself so quickly. She was a musician, whereas her sister could only
sing. She could really draw, whereas her sister would rush away into
effects in which the drawing was not always very excellent. Lucy was
doing the best she could for herself, knowing something of French
and German, though as yet not very fluent with her tongue. The two
girls were, in truth, both greatly gifted; but Ayala had the gift of
showing her talent without thought of showing it. Lucy saw it all,
and knew that she was outshone; but how great had been the price of
the outshining!
The artist's house had been badly ordered, and the two girls were of
better disposition and better conduct than might have been expected
from such fitful training. Ayala had been the father's pet, and Lucy
the mother's. Parents do ill in making pets, and here they had done
ill. Ayala had been taught to think herself the favourite, because
the artist, himself, had been more prominent before the world than
his wife. But the evil had not been lasting enough to have made bad
feeling between the sisters. Lucy knew that her sister had been
preferred to her, but she had been self-denying enough to be aware
that some such preference was due to Ayala. She, too, admired Ayala,
and loved her with her whole heart. And Ayala was always good to
her,--had tried to divide everything,--had assumed no preference as a
right. The two were true sisters. But when it was decided that Lucy
was to go to Kingsbury Crescent the difference was very great. The
two girls, on their father's death, had been taken to the great red
brick house in Queen's Gate, and from thence, three or four days
after the funeral, Lucy was to be transferred to her Aunt Dosett.
Hitherto there had been little between them but weeping for their
father. Now had come the hour of parting.
The tidings had been communicated to Lucy, and to Lucy alone, by Aunt
Tringle,--"As you are the eldest, dear, we think that you will be
best able to be a comfort to your aunt," said Lady Tringle.
"I will do the best I can, Aunt Emmeline," said Lucy, declaring to
herself that, in giving such a reason, her aunt was lying basely.
"I am sure you will. Poor dear Ayala is younger than her cousins, and
will be more subject to them." So in truth was Lucy younger than her
cousins, but of that she said nothing. "I am sure you will agree with
me that it is best that we should have the youngest."
"Perhaps it is, Aunt Emmeline."
"Sir Thomas would not have had it any other way," said Lady Tringle,
with a little severity, feeling that Lucy's accord had hardly been
as generous as it should be. But she recovered herself quickly,
remembering how much it was that Ayala was to get, how much that Lucy
was to lose. "But, my dear, we shall see you very often, you know.
It is not so far across the park; and when we do have a few parties
again--"
"Oh, aunt, I am not thinking of that."
"Of course not. We can none of us think of it just now. But when
the time does come of course we shall always have you, just as if
you were one of us." Then her aunt gave her a roll of bank-notes, a
little present of twenty-five pounds, to begin the world with, and
told her that the carriage should take her to Kingsbury Crescent
on the following morning. On the whole Lucy behaved well and left
a pleasant impression on her aunt's mind. The difference between
Queen's Gate and Kingsbury Crescent,--between Queen's Gate and
Kingsbury Crescent for life,--was indeed great!
"I wish it were you, with all my heart," said Ayala, clinging to her
sister.
"It could not have been me."
"Why not!"
"Because you are so pretty and you are so clever."
"No!"
"Yes! If we were to be separated of course it would be so. Do not
suppose, dear, that I am disappointed."
"I am."
"If I can only like Aunt Margaret,"--Aunt Margaret was Mrs. Dosett,
with whom neither of the girls had hitherto become intimate, and who
was known to be quiet, domestic, and economical, but who had also
been spoken of as having a will of her own,--"I shall do better with
her than you would, Ayala."
"I don't see why."
"Because I can remain quiet longer than you. It will be very quiet.
I wonder how we shall see each other! I cannot walk across the park
alone."
"Uncle Reg will bring you."
"Not often, I fear. Uncle Reg has enough to do with his office."
"You can come in a cab."
"Cabs cost money, Ayey dear."
"But Uncle Thomas--"
"We had better understand one or two things, Ayala. Uncle Thomas will
pay everything for you, and as he is very rich things will come as
they are wanted. There will be cabs, and if not cabs, carriages.
Uncle Reg must pay for me, and he is very very kind to do so. But
as he is not rich, there will be no carriages, and not a great many
cabs. It is best to understand it all."
"But they will send for you."
"That's as they please. I don't think they will very often. I would
not for the world put you against Uncle Thomas, but I have a feeling
that I shall never get on with him. But you will never separate
yourself from me, Ayala!"
"Separate myself!"
"You will not--not be my sister because you will be one of these rich
ones?"
"Oh, I wish,--I wish that I were to be the poor one. I'm sure I
should like it best. I never cared about being rich. Oh, Lucy, can't
we make them change?"
"No, Ayey, my own, we can't make them change. And if we could, we
wouldn't. It is altogether best that you should be a rich Tringle and
that I should be a poor Dosett."
"I will always be a Dormer," said Ayala, proudly.
"And I will always be so too, my pet. But you should be a bright
Dormer among the Tringles, and I will be a dull Dormer among the
Dosetts. I shall begrudge nothing, if only we can see each other."
So the two girls were parted, the elder being taken away to Kingsbury
Crescent and the latter remaining with her rich relations at Queen's
Gate. Ayala had not probably realized the great difference of their
future positions. To her the attractions of wealth and the privations
of comparative poverty had not made themselves as yet palpably plain.
They do not become so manifest to those to whom the wealth falls,--at
any rate, not in early life,--as to the opposite party. If the other
lot had fallen to Ayala she might have felt it more keenly.
Lucy felt it keenly enough. Without any longing after the
magnificence of the Tringle mansion she knew how great was the fall
from her father's well-assorted luxuries and prettinesses down to the
plain walls, tables, and chairs of her Uncle Dosett's house. Her aunt
did not subscribe to Mudie's. The old piano had not been tuned for
the last ten years. The parlour-maid was a cross old woman. Her aunt
always sat in the dining-room through the greater part of the day,
and of all rooms the dining-room in Kingsbury Crescent was the
dingiest. Lucy understood very well to what she was going. Her father
and mother were gone. Her sister was divided from her. Her life
offered for the future nothing to her. But with it all she carried a
good courage. There was present to her an idea of great misfortune;
but present to her at the same time an idea also that she would do
her duty.