"I CALL IT FOLLY."
Three weeks passed by, and Ayala was still at Stalham. Colonel Stubbs
had not as yet appeared, and very little had been said about him.
Sir Henry would sometimes suggest that if he meant to see any more
hunting he had better come at once, but this was not addressed to
Ayala. She made up her mind that he would not come, and was sure
that she was keeping him away by her presence. He could not--"bring
himself to try over again," as Lady Albury had put it! Why should
he--"bring himself"--to do anything on behalf of one who had treated
him so badly? It had been settled that she should remain to the 25th
of March, when the month should be up from the time in which Lady
Albury had decided upon that as the period of her visit. Of her
secret she had given no slightest hint. If he ever did come again it
should not be because she had asked for his coming. As far as she
knew how to carry out such a purpose, she concealed from Lady Albury
anything like a feeling of regret. And she was so far successful that
Lady Albury thought it expedient to bring in other assistance to help
her cause,--as will be seen by a letter which Ayala received when the
three weeks had passed by.
In the meantime there had been at first dismay, then wonder, and
lastly, some amusement, at the condition of Captain Batsby. When
Captain Batsby had first learned at Merle Park that Ayala and
Jonathan Stubbs were both at Stalham, he wrote very angrily to Lady
Albury. In answer to this his sister-in-law had pleaded guilty,--but
still defending herself. How could she make herself responsible
for the young lady,--who did not indeed seem ready to bestow her
affections on any of her suitors? But still she acknowledged that a
little favour was being shown to Colonel Stubbs,--wishing to train
the man to the idea that, in this special matter, Colonel Stubbs must
be recognised as the Stalham favourite. Then no further letters were
received from the Captain, but there came tidings that he was staying
at Merle Park. Ayala heard continually from her sister, and Lucy sent
some revelations as to the Captain. He seemed to be very much at home
at Merle Park, said Lucy; and then, at last, she expressed her own
opinion that Captain Batsby and Gertrude were becoming very fond of
each other. And yet the whole story of Gertrude and Mr. Houston was
known, of course, to Lucy, and through Lucy to Ayala. To Ayala these
sudden changes were very amusing, as she certainly did not wish to
retain her own hold on the Captain, and was not specially attached to
her cousin Gertrude. From Ayala the tidings went to Lady Albury, and
in this way the fears which had been entertained as to the Captain's
displeasure were turned to wonder and amusement. But up to this
period nothing had been heard of the projected trip to Ostend.
Then came the letter to Ayala, to which allusion has been made, a
letter from her old friend the Marchesa, who was now at Rome. It was
ostensibly in answer to a letter from Ayala herself, but was written
in great part in compliance with instructions received from Lady
Albury. It was as follows;--
DEAR AYALA,--
I was glad to get your letter about Nina. She is very
happy, and Lord George is here. Indeed, to tell the truth,
they arrived together,--which was not at all proper; but
everything will be made proper on Tuesday, 8th April,
which is the day at last fixed for the wedding. I wish you
could have been here to be one of the bridesmaids. Nina
says that you will have it that the Pope is to marry her.
Instead of that it is going to be done by Lord George's
uncle, the Dean of Dorchester, who is coming for this
purpose. Then they are going up to a villa they have
taken on Como, where we shall join them some time before
the spring is over. After that they seem to have no
plans,--except plans of connubial bliss, which is never to
know any interruption.
Now that I have come to connubial bliss, and feel so
satisfied as to Nina's prospects, I have a word or two
to say about the bliss of somebody else. Nina is my own
child, and of course comes first. But one Jonathan Stubbs
is my nephew, and is also very near to my heart. From all
that I hear, I fancy that he has set his mind also on
connubial bliss. Have you not heard that it is so?
A bird has whispered to me that you have not been kind
to him. Why should it be so? Nobody knows better than I
do that a young lady is entitled to the custody of her
own heart, and that she should not be compelled, or even
persuaded, to give her hand in opposition to her own
feelings. If your feelings and your heart are altogether
opposed to the poor fellow, of course there must be an end
of it. But I had thought that from the time you first met
him he had been a favourite of yours;--so much so that
there was a moment in which I feared that you might think
too much of the attentions of a man who has ever been a
favourite with all who have known him. But I have found
that in this I was altogether mistaken. When he came that
evening to see the last of you at the theatre, taking, as
I knew he did, considerable trouble to release himself
from other engagements, I was pretty sure how it was going
to be. He is not a man to be in love with a girl for a
month and then to be in love with another the next month.
When once he allowed himself to think that he was in
love, the thing was done and fixed either for his great
delight,--or else to his great trouble.
I knew how it was to be, and so it has been. Am I not
right in saying that on two occasions, at considerable
intervals, he has come to you and made distinct offers of
his hand? I fear, though I do not actually know it, that
you have just as distinctly rejected those offers. I do
not know it, because none but you and he can know the
exact words with which you received from him the tender
of all that he had to give you. I can easily believe that
he, with all his intelligence, might be deceived by the
feminine reserve and coyness of such a girl as you. If it
be so, I do pray that no folly may be allowed to interfere
with his happiness and with yours.
I call it folly, not because I am adverse to feminine
reserve, not because I am prone to quarrel even with what
I call coyness; but because I know his nature so well, and
feel that he would not bear rebuffs of which many another
man would think nothing; that he would not bring himself
to ask again, perhaps even for a seventh time, as they
might do. And, if it be that by some frequent asking his
happiness and yours could be insured, would it not be
folly that such happiness should be marred by childish
disinclination on your part to tell the truth?
As I said before, if your heart be set against him, there
must be an end of it. I can understand that a girl so
young as you should fail to see the great merit of such a
man. I therefore write as I do, thinking it possible that
in this respect you may be willing to accept from my mouth
something as to the man which shall be regarded as truth.
It is on the inner man, on his nature and disposition,
that the happiness of a wife must depend. A more noble
nature, a more truthful spirit than his, I have never
met. He is one on whom in every phase of life you may
depend,--or I may depend,--as on a rock. He is one without
vacillation, always steady to his purpose, requiring from
himself in the way of duty and conduct infinitely more
than he demands from those around him. If ever there was
a man altogether manly, he is one. And yet no woman, no
angel, ever held a heart more tender within his bosom. See
him with children! Think of his words when he has spoken
to yourself! Remember the estimation in which those
friends hold him who know him best,--such as I and your
friend, Lady Albury, and Sir Harry, and his cousin Nina.
I could name many others, but these are those with whom
you have seen him most frequently. If you can love such a
man, do you not think that he would make you happy? And
if you cannot, must there not be something wrong in your
heart,--unless indeed it be already predisposed to some
one else? Think of all this, dear Ayala, and remember that
I am always
Your affectionate friend,
JULIA BALDONI.
Ayala's first feeling as she read the letter was a conviction that
her friend had altogether wasted her labour in writing it. Of what
use was it to tell her of the man's virtues,--to tell her that the
man's heart was as tender as an angel's, his truth as assured as a
god's, his courage that of a hero,--that he was possessed of all
those attributes which should by right belong to an Angel of Light?
She knew all that without requiring the evidence of a lady from
Rome,--having no need of any evidence on that matter from any other
human being. Of what use could any evidence be on such a subject from
the most truthful lips that ever spoke! Had she not found it all out
herself would any words from others have prevailed with her? But she
had found it out herself. It was already her gospel. That he was
tender and true, manly, heroic,--as brightly angelic as could be
any Angel of Light,--was already an absolute fact to her. No!--her
heart had never been predisposed to any one else. It was of him she
had always dreamed even long before she had seen him. He was the
man, perfect in all good things, who was to come and take her with
him;--if ever man should come and take her. She wanted no Marchesa
Baldoni now to tell her that the angel had in truth come and realised
himself before her in all his glory.
But she had shown herself to be utterly unfit for the angel. Though
she recognised him now, she had not recognised him in time:--and even
when she had recognised him she had been driven by her madness to
reject him. Feminine reserve and coyness! Folly! Yes, indeed; she
knew all that, too, without need of telling from her elders. The kind
of coyness which she had displayed had been the very infatuation of
feminine imbecility. It was because nature had made her utterly unfit
for such a destiny that she had been driven by coyness and feminine
reserve to destroy herself! It was thus that Ayala conversed with
herself.
"I know his nature so well, and feel that he would not bear rebuffs
of which many another man would think nothing." Thus, she did not
doubt, the Marchesa had spoken very truly. But of what value was
all that now? She could not recall the rebuff. She could not now
eradicate the cowardice which had made her repeat those wicked fatal
words,--"I cannot." "I cannot." "I cannot." The letter had come too
late, for there was nothing she could do to amend her doom. She must
send some answer to her friend in Italy, but there could be nothing
in her answer to her to assist her. The feminine reserve and coyness
had become odious to her,--as it had been displayed by herself to
him. But it still remained in full force as to any assistance from
others. She could not tell another to send him back to her. She could
not implore help in her trouble. If he would come himself,--himself
of his own accord,--himself impelled once more by his great
tenderness of heart,--himself once more from his real, real love;
then there should be no more coyness. "If you will still have me,--oh
yes!"
But there was the letter to be written. She so wrote it that by far
the greater part of it,--the larger part at least,--had reference to
Nina and her wedding. "I will think of her on the 8th of April," she
said. "I shall then be at home at Kingsbury Crescent, and I shall
have nothing else to think of." In that was her first allusion to
her own condition with her lover. But on the last side of the sheet
it was necessary that she should say more than that. Something must
be said thoughtfully, carefully, and gratefully in reply to so much
thought, and care, and friendship, as had been shown to her. But it
must be so written that nothing of her secret should be read in it.
The task was so troublesome that she was compelled to recopy the
whole of her long letter, because the sentences as first written did
not please her. "I am so much obliged to you," she said, "by your
kindness about Colonel Stubbs. He did do me the honour of asking me
to be his wife. And I felt it so. You are not to suppose that I did
not understand that. It is all over now, and I cannot explain to
you why I felt that it would not do. It is all over, and therefore
writing about it is no good. Only I want you to be sure of two
things,--that there is no one else, and that I do love you so
much for all your kindness. And you may be sure of a third thing,
too,--that it is all over. I do hope that he will still let me be his
friend. As a friend I have always liked him so much." It was brave
and bold, she thought, in answer to such words as the Marchesa's; but
she did not know how to do it any better.
On Tuesday, the 25th of March, she was to return to Kingsbury
Crescent. Various little words were said at Stalham indicating an
intended break in the arrangement. "The Captain certainly won't come
now," said Lady Albury, alluding to the arrangement as though it had
been made solely with the view of saving Ayala from an encounter with
her objectionable lover. "Croppy has come back," said Sir Harry one
day;--Croppy being the pony which Ayala had ridden. "Miss Dormer can
have him now for what little there is left of the hunting." This was
said on the Saturday before she was to go. How could she ride Croppy
for the rest of the hunting when she would be at Kingsbury Crescent?
On neither of these occasions did she say a word, but she assumed
that little look of contradiction which her friends at Stalham
already knew how to read. Then, on the Sunday morning, there came
a letter for Lady Albury. "What does he say?" asked Sir Harry, at
breakfast. "I'll show it you before you go to church," answered his
wife. Then Ayala knew that the letter was from Colonel Stubbs.
But she did not expect that the letter should be shown her,--which,
however, came to be the case. When she was in the library, waiting
to start to church, Lady Albury came in and threw the letter to her
across the table. "That concerns you," she said, "you had better read
it." There was another lady in the room, also waiting to start on
their walk across the park, and therefore it was natural that nothing
else should be said at the moment. Ayala read the letter, returned
it to the envelope, and then handed it back to Lady Albury,--so that
there was no word spoken about it before church. The letter, which
was very short, was as follows;--
"I shall be at Stalham by the afternoon train on Sunday, 30th,--in
time for dinner, if you will send the dog-cart. I could not leave
this most exigeant of all places this week. I suppose Albury will
go on in the woodlands for a week or ten days in April, and I must
put up with that. I hear that Batsby is altogether fixed by the
fascinations of Merle Park. I hope that you and Albury will receive
consolation in the money." Then there was a postscript. "If Croppy
can be got back again, Miss Dormer might see me tumble into another
river."
It was evident that Lady Albury did not expect anything to be said
at present. She put the letter into her pocket, and there, for the
moment, was the end of it. It may be feared that Ayala's attention
was not fixed that morning so closely as it should have been on the
services of the Church. There was so much in that little letter which
insisted upon having all her attention! Had there been no postscript,
the letter would have been very different. In that case the body
of the letter itself would have intended to have no reference to
her,--or rather it would have had a reference altogether opposite to
that which the postscript gave it. In that case it would have been
manifest to her that he had intentionally postponed his coming till
she had left Stalham. Then his suggestion about the hunting would
have had no interest for her. Everything would have been over. She
would have been at Kingsbury Crescent, and he would have been at
Stalham. But the postscript declared his intention of finding her
still in the old quarters. She would not be there,--as she declared
to herself. After this there would be but one other day, and then she
would be gone. But even this allusion to her and to the pony made the
letter something to her of intense interest. Had it not been so Lady
Albury would not have shown it to her. As it was, why had Lady Albury
shown it to her in that quiet, placid, friendly way,--as though it
were natural that any letter from Colonel Stubbs to Stalham should be
shown to her?
At lunch Sir Harry began about the pony at once. "Miss Dormer," he
said, "the pony will hardly be fit to-morrow, and the distances
during the rest of the week are all too great for you; you had better
wait till Monday week, when Stubbs will be here to look after you."
"But I am going home on Tuesday," said Ayala.
"I've had the pony brought on purpose for you," said Sir Harry.
"You are not going at all," said Lady Albury. "All that has to be
altered. I'll write to Mrs. Dosett."
"I don't think--" began Ayala.
"I shall take it very much amiss," said Sir Harry, "if you go now.
Stubbs is coming on purpose."
"I don't think--" began Ayala again.
"My dear Ayala, it isn't a case for thinking," said Lady Albury. "You
most positively will not leave this house till some day in April,
which will have to be settled hereafter. Do not let us have a word
more about it." Then, on that immediate occasion, no further word
about it was spoken. Ayala was quite unable to speak as she sat
attempting to eat her lunch.