AYALA WITH HER FRIENDS.
Some few days after Lady Tringle had been at Kingsbury Crescent,
two visitors, who knew little or nothing of each other, came to see
Ayala. One was a lady and the other a gentleman, and the lady came
first. The gentleman, however, arrived before the lady had gone. Mrs.
Dosett was present while the lady remained; but when the gentleman
came she was invited to leave him alone with her niece,--as shall be
told.
The lady was the Marchesa Baldoni. Can the reader go so far back as
to remember the Marchesa Baldoni? It was she who rather instigated
Ayala to be naughty to the Tringles in Rome, and would have Ayala
at her parties when she did not want the Tringles. The Marchesa was
herself an Englishwoman, though she had lived at Rome all her life,
and had married an Italian nobleman. She was now in London for a few
weeks, and still bore in mind her friendship for Ayala, and a certain
promise she had once made her. In Rome Lady Tringle, actuated by
Augusta, who at the moment was very angry with everybody including
her own lover, had quarrelled with the Marchesa. The Marchesa had
then told Ayala that she, Ayala, must stay with her aunt,--must,
in fact, cease for the time to come to the Marchesa's apartments,
because of the quarrel; but that a time would come in which they
might again be friends. Soon afterwards the Marchesa had heard that
the Tringle family had discarded poor Ayala,--that her own quarrel
had, in fact, extended itself to Ayala, and that Ayala had been
shunted off to a poor relation, far away from all the wealth and
luxuries which she had been allowed to enjoy for so short a time.
Therefore, soon after her arrival in London, the Marchesa had made
herself acquainted with the address of the Dosetts, and now was in
Kingsbury Crescent in fulfilment of her promise made at Rome.
"So now you have got our friend Ayala," said the Marchesa with a
smile to Mrs. Dosett.
"Yes; we have her now. There has been a change. Her sister, Lucy, has
gone to my husband's sister, Lady Tringle."
The Marchesa made a pleasant little bow at each word. She seemed to
Mrs. Dosett to be very gorgeously dressed. She was thoroughly well
dressed, and looked like a Marchesa;--or perhaps, even, like a
Marchioness. She was a tall, handsome woman, with a smile perhaps
a little too continuously sweet, but with a look conscious of her
own position behind it. She had seen in a moment of what nature was
Ayala, how charming, how attractive, how pretty, how clever,--how
completely the very opposite of the Tringles! Ayala learned Italian
so readily that she could talk it almost at once. She could sing,
and play, and draw. The Marchesa had been quite willing that her
own daughter Nina should find a friend in Ayala. Then had come the
quarrel. Now she was quite willing to renew the friendship, though
Ayala's position was so sadly altered. Mrs. Dosett was almost
frightened as the grand lady sat holding Ayala's hand, and patting
it. "We used to know her so well in Rome;--did we not, Ayala?"
"You were very kind to me."
"Nina couldn't come, because her father would make her go with him to
the pictures. But now, my dear, you must come to us just for a little
time. We have a furnished house in Brook Street, near the park, till
the end of the season, and we have one small spare room which will
just do for you. I hope you will let her come to us, for we really
are old friends," said the Marchesa, turning to Mrs. Dosett.
Mrs. Dosett looked black. There are people who always look black when
such applications are made to them,--who look black at any allusions
to pleasures. And then there came across her mind serious thoughts as
to flowers and ribbons,--and then more serious thoughts as to boots,
dresses, and hats. Ayala, no doubt, had come there less than six
months since with good store of everything; but Mrs. Dosett knew that
such a house as would be that of this lady would require a girl to
show herself with the newest sheen on everything. And Ayala knew it
too. The Marchesa turned from the blackness of Mrs. Dosett's face
with her sweetest smile to Ayala. "Can't we manage it?" said the
Marchesa.
"I don't think we can," said Ayala, with a deep sigh.
"And why not?"
Ayala looked furtively round to her aunt. "I suppose I may tell, Aunt
Margaret?" she said.
"You may tell everything, my dear," said Mrs. Dosett.
"Because we are poor," said Ayala.
"What does that matter?" said the Marchesa, brightening up. "We want
you because you are rich in good gifts and pretty ways."
"But I can't get new frocks now as I used to do in Rome. Aunt
Emmeline was cruel to me, and said things which I could not bear. But
they let me have everything. Uncle Reginald gives me all that he has,
and I am much happier here. But we cannot go out and buy things,--can
we, Aunt Margaret?"
"No, my dear; we cannot."
"It does not signify," said the Marchesa. "We are quite quiet, and
what you have got will do very well. Frocks! The frocks you had in
Rome are good enough for London. I won't have a word of all that.
Nina has set her heart upon it, and so has my husband, and so have
I. Mrs. Dosett, when we are at home we are the most homely people in
the world. We think nothing of dressing. Not to come and see your old
friends because of your frocks! We shall send for you the day after
to-morrow. Don't you know, Mrs. Dosett, it will do her good to be
with her young friend for a few days." Mrs. Dosett had not succeeded
in her remonstrances when Sir Thomas Tringle was shown into the room,
and then the Marchesa took her leave. For Sir Thomas Tringle was the
other visitor who came on that morning to see Ayala.
"If you wouldn't mind, Mrs. Dosett," said Sir Thomas before he sat
down, "I should like to see Ayala alone." Mrs. Dosett had not a word
to say against such a request, and at once took her leave.
"My dear," he began, coming and sitting opposite to Ayala, with his
knees almost touching her, "I have got something very particular to
say to you." Ayala was at once much frightened. Her uncle had never
before spoken to her in this way,--had never in truth said a word to
her seriously. He had always been kind to her, making her presents,
and allowing himself to be kissed graciously morning and evening. He
had never scolded her, and, better than all, had never said a word to
her, one way or the other, about Tom. She had always liked her uncle,
because he had never caused her trouble when all the others in his
house had been troublesome to her. But now she was afraid of him. He
did not frown, but he looked very seriously at her, as he might look,
perhaps, when he was counting out all his millions in Lombard Street.
"I hope you think that I have always wished to be kind to you,
Ayala."
"I am sure you have, Uncle Tom."
"When you had come to us I always wished you to stay. I don't like
changes of this sort. I suppose you didn't hit it off with Augusta.
But she's gone now."
"Aunt Emmeline said something." That accusation, as to
"encouragement," so rankled in her heart, that when she looked back
at her grievances among the Tringles that always loomed the largest.
"I don't want to hear anything about it," said Sir Thomas. "Let
bygones be bygones. Your aunt, I am sure, never meant unkindly by
you. Now, I want you to listen to me."
"I will, Uncle Tom."
"Listen to me to the end, like a good girl."
"I will."
"Your Cousin Tom--." Ayala gave a visible shudder, and uttered an
audible groan, but as yet she did not say a word. Sir Thomas, having
seen the shudder, and heard the groan, did frown as he began again.
"Your Cousin Tom is most truly attached to you."
"Why won't he leave me alone, then?"
"Ayala, you promised to listen to me without speaking."
"I will, Uncle Tom. Only--"
"Listen to me, and then I will hear anything you have to say."
"I will," said Ayala, screwing up her lips, so that no words should
come out of them, let the provocation be what it might.
Sir Thomas began again. "Your Cousin Tom is most truly attached to
you. For some time I and his mother disapproved of this. We thought
you were both too young, and there were other reasons which I need
not now mention. But when I came to see how thoroughly he was in
earnest, how he put his heart into it, how the very fact that he
loved you had made a man of him; then how the fact that you would
not return his love unmanned him,--when I saw all that, I gave my
permission." Here he paused, almost as though expecting a word; but
Ayala gave an additional turn to the screw on her lips, and remained
quite silent. "Yes; we gave our permission,--I and your aunt. Of
course, our son's happiness is all in all to us; and I do believe
that you are so good that you would make him a good wife."
"But--"
"Listen till I have done, Ayala." Then there was another squeeze. "I
suppose you are what they call romantic. Romance, my dear, won't buy
bread and butter. Tom is a very good young man, and he loves you
most dearly. If you will consent to be his I will make a rich man of
him. He will then be a respectable man of business, and will become
a partner in the house. You and he can choose a place to live in
almost where you please. You can have your own establishment and your
carriage, and will be able to do a deal of good. You will make him
happy, and you will be my dear child. I have come here to tell you
that I will make you welcome into the family, and to promise that I
will do everything I can to make you happy. Now you may say what you
like; but, Ayala, think a little before you speak."
Ayala thought a little;--not as to what she should say, but as to
the words in which she might say it. She was conscious that a great
compliment was paid to her. And there was a certain pride in her
heart as she thought that this invitation into the family had come to
her after that ignominious accusation of encouragement had been made.
Augusta had snubbed her about Tom, and her aunt; but now she was
asked to come among them, and be one of them, with full observances.
She was aware of all this, and aware, also, that such treatment
required from her a gracious return. But not on that account could
she give herself to the Beast. Not on that account could she be
untrue to her image. Not on that account could she rob her bosom
of that idea of love which was seated there. Not on that account
could she look upon the marriage proposed to her with aught but a
shuddering abhorrence. She sat silent for a minute or two, while her
heavy eyes were fixed upon his. Then, falling on her knees before
him, she put up her little hands to pray to him. "Uncle Tom, I
can't," she said. And then the tears came running down her cheeks.
"Why can't you, Ayala? Why cannot you be sensible, as other girls
are?" said Sir Thomas, lifting her up, and putting her on his knee.
"I can't," she said. "I don't know how to tell you."
"Do you love some other man?"
"No; no; no!" To Uncle Tom, at any rate, she need say nothing of the
image.
"Then why is it?"
"Because I can't. I don't know what to say, but I can't. I know how
very, very, very good you are."
"I would love you as my daughter."
"But I can't, Uncle Tom. Pray tell him, and make him get somebody
else. He would be quite happy if he could get somebody else."
"It is you that he loves."
"But what's the use of it, when I can't? Dear, dear Uncle Tom, do
have it all settled for me. Nothing on earth could ever make me do
it. I should die if I were to try."
"That's nonsense."
"I do so want not to make you angry, Uncle Tom. And I do so wish he
would be happy with someone else. Nobody ought to be made to marry
unless they like it;--ought they?"
"There is no talk of making," said Sir Thomas, frowning.
"At any rate I can't," said Ayala, releasing herself from her uncle's
embrace.
It was in vain that even after this he continued his request, begging
her to come down to Glenbogie, so that she might make herself used
to Tom and his ways. If she could only once more, he thought, be
introduced to the luxuries of a rich house, then she would give way.
But she would not go to Glenbogie; she would not go to Merle Park;
she would not consent to see Tom anywhere. Her uncle told her that
she was romantic and foolish, endeavouring to explain to her over
and over again that the good things of the world were too good to be
thrown away for a dream. At last there was a touch of dignity in the
final repetition of her refusal. "I am sorry to make you angry, but
I can't, Uncle Tom." Then he frowned with all his power of frowning,
and, taking his hat, left the room and the house almost without a
word.
At the time fixed the Marchesa's carriage came, and Ayala with her
boxes was taken away to Brook Street. Uncle Reginald had offered
to do something for her in the way of buying a frock, but this she
refused, declaring that she would not allow herself to become an
expense merely because her friends in Rome had been kind to her. So
she had packed up the best of what she had and started, with her
heart in her mouth, fearing the grandeur of the Marchesa's house. On
her arrival she was received by Nina, who at once threw herself into
all her old intimacy. "Oh, Ayala," she said, "this is so nice to have
you again. I have been looking forward to this ever since we left
Rome."
"Yes," said Ayala, "it is nice."
"But why did you tell mamma you would not come? What nonsense to
talk to her about frocks? Why not come and tell me? You used to have
everything at Rome, much more than I had."
Then Ayala began to explain the great difference between Uncle Tom
and Uncle Reginald,--how Uncle Tom had so many thousands that nobody
could count them, how Uncle Reginald was so shorn in his hundreds
that there was hardly enough to supply the necessaries of life.
"You see," she said, "when papa died Lucy and I were divided. I
got the rich uncle, and Lucy got the poor one; but I made myself
disagreeable, and didn't suit, and so we have been changed."
"But why did you make yourself disagreeable?" said Nina, opening her
eyes. "I remember when we were at Rome your cousin Augusta was always
quarrelling with you. I never quite knew what it was all about."
"It wasn't only that," said Ayala, whispering.
"Did you do anything very bad?"
Then it occurred to Ayala that she might tell the whole story to
her friend, and she told it. She explained the nature of that great
persecution as to Tom. "And that was the real reason why we were
changed," said Ayala, as she completed her story.
"I remember seeing the young man," said Nina.
"He is such a lout!"
"But was he very much in love?" asked Nina.
"Well, I don't know. I suppose he was after his way. I don't think
louts like that can be very much in love to signify. Young men when
they look like that would do with one girl as well as another."
"I don't see that at all," said Nina.
"I am sure he would if he'd only try. At any rate what's the good of
his going on? They can't make a girl marry unless she chooses."
"Won't he be rich?"
"Awfully rich," said Ayala.
"Then I should think about it again," said the young lady from Rome.
"Never," said Ayala, with an impressive whisper. "I will never think
about it again. If he were made of diamonds I would not think about
it again."
"And is that why you were changed?" said Nina.
"Well, yes. No; it is very hard to explain. Aunt Emmeline told me
that--that I encouraged him. I thought I should have rushed out of
the house when she said that. Then I had to be changed. I don't know
whether they could forgive me, but I could not forgive her."
"And how is it now?"
"It is different now," said Ayala, softly. "Only that it can't make
any real difference."
"How different?"
"They'd let me come if I would, I suppose; but I shall never, never
go to them any more."
"I suppose you won't tell me everything?" said Nina, after a pause.
"What everything?"
"You won't be angry if I ask?"
"No, I will not be angry."
"I suppose there is someone else you really care for?"
"There is no one," said Ayala, escaping a little from her friend's
embrace.
"Then why should you be so determined against that poor young man?"
"Because he is a lout and a beast," said Ayala, jumping up. "I wonder
you should ask me;--as if that had anything to do with it. Would you
fall in love with a lout because you had no one else? I would rather
live for ever all alone, even in Kingsbury Crescent, than have to
think of becoming the wife of my cousin Tom." At this Nina shrugged
her shoulders, showing that her education in Italy had been less
romantic than that accorded to Ayala in London.