AYALA'S INDIGNATION.
Perhaps Mrs. Dosett had some just cause for refusing her sanction for
the proposed visit to Albury. If Fate did require that Ayala should
live permanently in Kingsbury Crescent, the gaiety of a very gay
house, and the wealth of a very wealthy house, would hardly be good
preparation for such a life. Up to the time of her going to the
Marchesa in Brook Street, Ayala had certainly done her best to suit
herself to her aunt's manners,--though she had done it with pain and
suffering. She had hemmed the towels and mended the sheets, and had
made the rounds to the shops. She had endeavoured to attend to the
pounds of meat and to sympathise with her aunt in the interest taken
in the relics of the joints as they escaped from the hungry treatment
of the two maidens in the kitchen. Ayala had been clever enough to
understand that her aunt had been wounded by Lucy's indifference, not
so much because she had desired to avail herself of Lucy's labours
as from a feeling that that indifference had seemed to declare that
her own pursuits were mean and vulgar. Understanding this she had
struggled to make those pursuits her own,--and had in part succeeded.
Her aunt could talk to her about the butter and the washing, matters
as to which her lips had been closed in any conversation with Lucy.
That Ayala was struggling Mrs. Dosett had been aware;--but she had
thought that such struggles were good and had not been hopeless. Then
came the visit to Brook Street, and Ayala returned quite an altered
young woman. It seemed as though she neither could nor would struggle
any longer. "I hate mutton-bones," she said to her aunt one morning
soon after her return.
"No doubt we would all like meat joints the best," said her aunt,
frowning.
"I hate joints too."
"You have, I dare say, been cockered up at the Marchesa's with made
dishes."
"I hate dishes," said Ayala, petulantly.
"You don't hate eating?"
"Yes, I do. It is ignoble. Nature should have managed it differently.
We ought to have sucked it in from the atmosphere through our fingers
and hairs, as the trees do by their leaves. There should have been no
butchers, and no grease, and no nasty smells from the kitchen,--and
no gin."
This was worse than all,--this allusion to the mild but unfashionable
stimulant to which Mr. Dosett had been reduced by his good nature.
"You are flying in the face of the Creator, Miss," said Aunt
Margaret, in her most angry voice,--"in the face of the Creator who
made everything, and ordained what his creatures should eat and drink
by His infinite wisdom."
"Nevertheless," said Ayala, "I think we might have done without
boiled mutton." Then she turned to some articles of domestic
needlework which were in her lap so as to show that in spite of the
wickedness of her opinions she did not mean to be idle. But Mrs.
Dosett, in her wrath, snatched the work from her niece's hands
and carried it out of the room, thus declaring that not even a
pillow-case in her house should owe a stitch to the hands of a girl
so ungrateful and so blasphemous.
The wrath wore off soon. Ayala, though not contrite was meek, and
walked home with her aunt on the following morning, patiently
carrying a pound of butter, six eggs, and a small lump of bacon in a
basket. After that the pillow-case was recommitted to her. But there
still was left evidence enough that the girl's mind had been upset by
the luxuries of Brook Street,--evidence to which Aunt Margaret paid
very much attention, insisting upon it in her colloquies with her
husband. "I think that a little amusement is good for young people,"
said Uncle Reginald, weakly.
"And for old people too. No doubt about it, if they can get it so as
not to do them any harm at the same time. Nothing can be good for a
young woman which unfits her for that state of life to which it has
pleased God to call her. Ayala has to live with us. No doubt there
was a struggle when she first came from your sister, Lady Tringle,
but she made it gallantly, and I gave her great credit. She was just
falling into a quiet mode of life when there came this invitation
from the Marchesa Baldoni. Now she has come back quite an altered
person, and the struggle has to be made all over again." Uncle
Reginald again expressed his opinion that young people ought to have
a little amusement, but he was not strong enough to insist very much
upon his theory. It certainly, however, was true that Ayala, though
she still struggled, had been very much disturbed by the visit.
Then came the invitation to Stalham. There was a very pretty note
from Lady Albury to Ayala herself, saying how much pleasure she would
have in seeing Miss Dormer at her house, where Ayala's old friends
the Marchesa and Nina were then staying. This was accompanied by a
long letter from Nina herself, in which all the charms of Stalham,
including Mr. Ponsonby and lawn tennis, were set forth at full
length. Ayala had already heard much about Stalham and the Alburys
from her friend Nina, who had hinted in a whisper that such an
invitation as this might perhaps be forthcoming. She was ready enough
for the visit, having looked through her wardrobe, and resolved that
things which had been good enough for Brook Street would still be
good enough for Stalham. But the same post had brought a letter for
Mrs. Dosett, and Ayala could see, that, as the letter was read, a
frown came upon her aunt's brow, and that the look on her aunt's
face was decidedly averse to Stalham. This took place soon after
breakfast, when Uncle Reginald had just started for his office, and
neither of them for awhile said a word to the other of the letter
that had been received. It was not till after lunch that Ayala spoke.
"Aunt," she said, "you have had a letter from Lady Albury?"
"Yes," said Mrs. Dosett, grimly, "I have had a letter from Lady
Albury."
Then there was another silence, till Ayala, whose mind was full of
promised delights, could not refrain herself longer. "Aunt Margaret,"
she said, "I hope you mean to let me go." For a minute or two there
was no reply, and Ayala again pressed her question. "Lady Albury
wants me to go to Stalham."
"She has written to me to say that she would receive you."
"And I may go?"
"I am strongly of opinion that you had better not," said Mrs. Dosett,
confirming her decree by a nod which might have suited Jupiter.
"Oh, Aunt Margaret, why not?"
"I think it would be most prudent to decline."
"But why,--why,--why, Aunt Margaret?"
"There must be expense."
"I have money enough for the journey left of my own from what Uncle
Tom gave me," said Ayala, pleading her cause with all her eloquence.
"It is not only the money. There are other reasons,--very strong
reasons."
"What reasons, Aunt Margaret?"
"My dear, it is your lot to have to live with us, and not with such
people as the Marchesa Baldoni and Lady Albury."
"I am sure I do not complain."
"But you would complain after having for a time been used to the
luxuries of Albury Park. I do not say that as finding fault, Ayala.
It is human nature that it should be so."
"But I won't complain. Have I ever complained?"
"Yes, my dear. You told me the other day that you did not like bones
of mutton, and you were disgusted because things were greasy. I do
not say this by way of scolding you, Ayala, but only that you may
understand what must be the effect of your going from such a house as
this to such a house as Stalham, and then returning back from Stalham
to such a house as this. You had better be contented with your
position."
"I am contented with my position," sobbed Ayala.
"And allow me to write to Lady Albury refusing the invitation."
But Ayala could not be brought to look at the matter with her aunt's
eyes. When her aunt pressed her for an answer which should convey
her consent she would give none, and at last left the room bitterly
sobbing. Turning the matter over in her own bosom upstairs she
determined to be mutinous. No doubt she owed a certain amount of
obedience to her aunt; but had she not been obedient, had she
not worked hard and lugged about that basket of provisions, and
endeavoured to take an interest in all her aunt's concerns? Was she
so absolutely the property of her aunt that she was bound to do
everything her aunt desired to the utter annihilation of all her
hopes, to the extermination of her promised joys? She felt that she
had succeeded in Brook Street. She had met no Angel of Light, but she
was associated with people whom she had liked, and had been talked to
by those to whom it had been a pleasure to listen. That colonel with
the quaint name and the ugly face was still present to her memory
as he had leaned over her shoulder at the theatre, making her now
laugh by his drollery, and now filling her mind with interest by his
description of the scenes which she was seeing. She was sure that
all this, or something of the same nature, would be renewed for her
delight at Stalham. And was she to be robbed of this,--the only
pleasure which seemed to remain to her in this world,--merely because
her aunt chose to entertain severe notions as to duty and pleasure?
Other girls went out when they were asked. At Rome, when that
question of the dance at the Marchesa's had been discussed, she had
had her own way in opposition to her Aunt Emmeline and her cousin
Augusta. No doubt she had, in consequence partly of her conduct on
that occasion, been turned out of her Uncle Tom's house; but of that
she did not think at the present moment. She would be mutinous, and
would appeal to her Uncle Reginald for assistance.
But the letter which contained the real invitation had been addressed
to her aunt, and her aunt could in truth answer it as she pleased.
The answer might at this moment be in the act of being written, and
should it be averse Ayala knew very well that she could not go in
opposition to it. And yet her aunt came to her in the afternoon
consulting her again, quite unconquered as to her own opinion, but
still evidently unwilling to write the fatal letter without Ayala's
permission. Then Ayala assured herself that she had rights of her
own, which her aunt did not care to contravene. "I think I ought to
be allowed to go," she said, when her aunt came to her during the
afternoon.
"When I think it will be bad for you?"
"It won't be bad. They are very good people. I think that I ought to
be allowed to go."
"Have you no reliance on those who are your natural guardians?"
"Uncle Reginald is my natural guardian," said Ayala, through her
tears.
"Very well! If you refuse to be guided by me as though I were not
your aunt, and as you will pay no attention to what I tell you is
proper for you and best, the question must be left till your uncle
comes home. I cannot but be very much hurt that you should think so
little of me. I have always endeavoured to do the best I could for
you, just as though I were your mother."
"I think that I ought to be allowed to go," repeated Ayala.
As the first consequence of this, the replies to all the three
letters were delayed for the next day's post. Ayala had considered
much with what pretty words she might best answer Lady Albury's kind
note, and she had settled upon a form of words which she had felt to
be very pretty. Unless her uncle would support her, that would be of
no avail, and another form must be chosen. To Nina she would tell the
whole truth, either how full of joy she was,--or else how cruelly
used and how thoroughly broken-hearted. But she could not think
that her uncle would be unkind to her. Her uncle had been uniformly
gentle. Her uncle, when he should know how much her heart was set
upon it, would surely let her go.
The poor girl, when she tacitly agreed that her uncle should be the
arbiter in the matter, thus pledging herself to abide by her uncle's
decision, let it be what it might, did not think what great advantage
her aunt would have over her in that discussion which would be held
upstairs while the master of the house was washing his hands before
dinner. Nor did she know of how much stronger will was her Aunt
Margaret than her Uncle Reginald. While he was washing his hands and
putting on his slippers, the matter was settled in a manner quite
destructive of poor Ayala's hopes. "I won't have it," said Mrs.
Dosett, in reply to the old argument that young people ought to have
some amusement. "If I am to be responsible for the girl I must be
allowed my own way with her. It is trouble enough, and very little
thanks I get for it. Of course she hates me. Nevertheless, I can
endeavour to do my duty, and I will. It is not thanks, nor love, nor
even gratitude, that I look for. I am bound to do the best I can by
her because she is your niece, and because she has no other real
friends. I knew what would come of it when she went to that house in
Brook Street. I was soft then and gave way. The girl has moped about
like a miserable creature ever since. If I am not to have my way
now I will have done with her altogether." Having heard this very
powerful speech, Uncle Reginald was obliged to give way, and it was
settled that after dinner he should convey to Ayala the decision to
which they had come.
Ayala, as she sat at the dinner-table, was all expectation, but she
asked no question. She asked no question after dinner, while her
uncle slowly, solemnly, and sadly sipped his one beaker of cold
gin-and-water. He sipped it very slowly, no doubt because he was
anxious to postpone the evil moment in which he must communicate her
fate to his niece. But at last the melancholy glass was drained, and
then, according to the custom of the family, Mrs. Dosett led the way
up into the drawing-room, followed by Ayala and her husband. He, when
he was on the stairs, and when the eyes of his wife were not upon
him, tremulously put out his hand and laid it on Ayala's shoulder,
as though to embrace her. The poor girl knew well that mark of
affection. There would have been no need for such embracing had the
offered joys of Stalham been in store for her. The tears were already
in her eyes when she seated herself in the drawing-room, as far
removed as possible from the arm-chair which was occupied by her
aunt.
Then her uncle pronounced his judgment in a vacillating voice,--with
a vacillation which was ineffectual of any good to Ayala. "Ayala,"
he said, "your aunt and I have been talking over this invitation to
Stalham, and we are of opinion, my dear, that you had better not
accept it."
"Why not, Uncle Reginald?"
"There would be expense."
"I can pay for my own ticket."
"There would be many expenses, which I need not explain to you more
fully. The truth is, my dear, that poor people cannot afford to live
with rich people, and had better not attempt it."
"I don't want to live with them."
"Visiting them is living with them for a time. I am sorry, Ayala,
that we are not able to put you in a position in which you might
enjoy more of the pleasures incidental to your age; but you must take
the things as they are. Looking at the matter all round, I am sure
that your aunt is right in advising that you should stay at home."
"It isn't advice at all," said Ayala.
"Ayala!" exclaimed her aunt, in a tone of indignation.
"It isn't advice," repeated Ayala. "Of course, if you won't let me
go, I can't."
"You are a very wicked girl," said Mrs. Dosett, "to speak to your
uncle like that, after all that he has done for you."
"Not wicked," said the uncle.
"I say, wicked. But it doesn't matter. I shall at once write to
Lady Albury, as you desire, and of course there will be no further
question as to her going." Soon after that Mrs. Dosett sat down to
her desk, and wrote that letter to which the Marchesa had alluded in
hers to her nephew. No doubt it was stern and hard, and of a nature
to make such a woman as the Marchesa feel that Mrs. Dosett would not
be a pleasant companion for a girl like Ayala. But it was written
with a full conviction that duty required it; and the words, though
hard and stiff, had been chosen with the purpose of showing that the
doing of this disagreeable duty had been felt to be imperative.
When the matter had been thus decided, Ayala soon retreated to her
own room. Her very soul was burning with indignation at the tyranny
to which she thought herself subjected. The use of that weak word,
advice, had angered her more than anything. It had not been advice.
It had not been given as advice. A command had been laid upon her, a
most cruel and unjust command, which she was forced to obey, because
she lacked the power of escaping from her condition of slavery.
Advice, indeed! Advice is a thing with which the advised one may or
may not comply, as that advised one may choose. A slave must obey an
order! Her own papa and her own mamma had always advised her, and the
advice had always been followed, even when read only in the glance of
an eye, in a smile, or a nod. Then she had known what it was to be
advised. Now she was ordered,--as slaves are ordered; and there was
no escape from her slavery!
She, too, must write her letter, but there was no need now of that
pretty studied phrase, in which she had hoped to thank Lady Albury
fitly for her great kindness. She found, after a vain attempt or two,
that it was hopeless to endeavour to write to Lady Albury. The words
would not come to her pen. But she did write to Nina;--
DEAR, DEAREST NINA,
They won't let me go! Oh, my darling, I am so miserable!
Why should they not let me go, when people are so kind, so
very kind, as Lady Albury and your dear mamma? I feel as
though I should like to run from the house, and never come
back, even though I had to die in the streets. I was so
happy when I got your letter and Lady Albury's, and now I
am so wretched! I cannot write to Lady Albury. You must
just tell her, with many thanks from me, that they will
not let me go!
Your unhappy but affectionate friend,
AYALA.