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AYALA’S ANGEL
smiles of the ladies, whom he loved in a general way, — these
would be done with for ever! Earn his own bread! Why, he
was going to earn his bread, and that in a most disagreeable
manner. He would set up an establishment, not because such
an establishment would have any charms for him, but because
he was compelled by lack of money to make some change in
his present manner of life. And yet the time had been when
he had looked forward to a marriage as the happiest thing that
could befall him. As far as his nature could love, he had loved
Imogene Docimer. There had come a glimpse upon him of
something better than the little dinners and the little rubbers. There had been a prospect of an income, — not ample,
as would have been that forthcoming from Sir Thomas, — but
sufficient for a sweet and modest home, in which he thought
that it would have sufficed for his happiness to paint a few pictures, and read a few books, and to love his wife and children.
Even as to that there had been a doubt. There was a regret as to
the charms of London life. But, nevertheless, he had made up
his mind, — and she, without any doubt, had made up hers.
Then that wicked uncle had died, and was found to have expended on his own pursuits the money which was to have
been left to his nephew. Upon that there was an explanation
between Frank and Imogene; and it was agreed that their engagement should be over, while a doubtful and dangerous
friendship was to be encouraged between them.
Such was the condition of things when Frank first met
Gertrude Tringle at Rome, now considerably more than
twelve months since. When Gertrude had first received his
proposition favourably he had written to Imogene a letter in
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ANTHONY TROLLOPE
that drolling spirit common to him, in which he declared his
purpose; — or rather, not his purpose, but his untoward fate,
should the gods be unkind to him. She had answered him after the same fashion, saying, that in regard to his future welfare she hoped that the gods would prove unkind. But had
he known how to read all that her letter expressed between
the lines, he would have perceived that her heart was more
strongly moved than his own. Since that time he had learned
the lesson. There had been a letter or two; and then there had
been that walk in the wood on the Italian side of the Tyrolese
Alps. The reader may remember how he was hurried away in
the diligence for Innspruck, because it was considered that his
further sojourn in the same house with Imogene was dangerous. He had gone, and even as he went had attempted to make
a joke of the whole affair. But it had not been quite a joke to
him even then. There was Imogene’s love and Imogene’s anger, — and together with these an aversion towards the poor
girl whom he intended to marry, — which became the stronger the more strongly he was convinced both of Imogene’s love
and of her anger.
Nevertheless, he persevered, — not with the best success,
as has already been told. Now, as he left the house in Lombard
Street, and wrote what was intended to be his last epistle to
Gertrude, he was driven again to think of Miss Docimer. Indeed, he had in his pocket, as he sat at his club, a little note
which he had lately received from that lady, which, in truth,
had disturbed him much when he made his last futile efforts at Merle Park and in Lombard Street. The little note was
as follows; —
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AYALA’S ANGEL
'ൾൺඋ)උൺඇ,
One little friendly word in spite of our storm on the Tyrolese hill-side! If Miss Tringle is to be the arbiter of your
fate; — why, then, let there be an end of everything between
us. I should not care to be called upon to receive such a Mrs.
Frank Houston as a dear friend. But if Tringle père should at
the last moment prove hard-hearted, then let me see you
again. — Yours,
I.
With this letter in his pocket he had gone down to Merle
Park, determined to put an end to the Tringle affair in one way
or the other. His duty, as he had planned it to himself, would
not be altered by Imogene’s letter; but if that duty should become impracticable, why, then, it would be open to him to
consider whatever Imogene might have to say to him.
The Docimers were now in London, where it was their
custom to live during six months of the year; but Houston
had not been at their house since he had parted from them in
the Tyrol. He had spent but little of his time in London since
the autumn, and, when there, had not been anxious to see people who had, at any rate, treated him somewhat roughly. But
now it would be necessary that he should answer Imogene’s
letter. What should be the nature of such answer he certainly
had not as yet decided, nor could he have decided before those
very convincing assurances of Sir Thomas Tringle. That matter was at any rate over, and now the “Adriatic might wed an-
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ANTHONY TROLLOPE
other,” — if the Adriatic thought well to do so. The matter,
however, was one which required a good deal of consideration.
He gave to it ten minutes of intense thought, during which he
consumed a cup of coffee and a cigarette; and then, throwing
away the burnt end of the paper, he hurried into the morningroom, and wrote to the lady as follows; —
'ൾൺඋ,ආඈൾඇൾ,
You will not have to press to your bosom as my wife the second daughter of Sir Thomas Tringle, Bart. The high honour of
that alliance has at last been refused by him in very plain language. Had she become Mrs. Frank Houston, I do not doubt
but you would have done your duty to your own cousin. That
lot, however, has not been written for me in the Book of Fates.
The father is persistent in looking upon me as an idle profligate adventurer; and though he has been kind enough to hint
more than once that it might be possible for me to achieve
the young lady, he has succeeded in convincing me that I never should achieve anything beyond the barren possession of
her beauty. A wife and family on my present very moderate
income would be burdensome; and, therefore, with infinite regrets, I have bade adieu to Miss Tringle.
I have not hitherto been to see either you or your brother or
Mrs. Docimer because I have been altogether unaware whether you or your brother or Mrs. Docimer would be glad to see
me. As you say yourself, there was a storm on the Tyrolese hillside, — in which there was more than one wind blowing at
the same time. I do not find fault with anybody, — perhaps
a storm was needed to clear the air. But I hate storms. I do not
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AYALA’S ANGEL
pretend to be a very grand fellow, but I do endeavour not to be
disagreeable. Your brother, if you remember, was a little hard.
But, in truth, I say this only to account for my apparent incivility.
And, perhaps, with another object; — to gain a little time
before I plunge into the stern necessity of answering all that
you say in your very comprehensive letter of five lines. The
first four lines I have answered. There will be no such Mrs.
Frank Houston as that suggested. And then, as to the last line.
Of course, you will see me again, and that very speedily. So it
would seem that the whole letter is answered.
But yet it is not answered. There is so much in it that whole
sheets would not answer it. A quire of note-paper stuffed full
would hardly contain all that I might find to say in answer to
it, — on one side and the other. Nay, I might fill as many
reams of folio as are required for a three-volume novel. And
then I might call it by one of two names, “The Doubts of Frank
Houston,” or “The Constancy of Imogene Docimer,” — as
I should at last bring my story to one ending or the other. But
the novel would contain that fault which is so prevalent in
the novels of the present day. The hero would be a very namby-mamby sort of a fellow, whereas the heroine would be too
perfect for human nature.
The hero would be always repeating to himself a certain
line out of a Latin poet, which, of all lines, is the most heart-
breaking; —
The better course I see and know; —
The worser one is where I go.
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ANTHONY TROLLOPE
But then in novels the most indifferent hero comes out
right at last. Some god comes out of a theatrical cloud and leaves
the poor devil ten thousand a-year and a title. He isn’t much of
a hero when he does go right under such inducements, but he
suffices for the plot, and everything is rose-coloured. I would
be virtuous at a much cheaper rate; — if only a young man
with his family might have enough to eat and drink. What is
your idea of the lowest income at which a prudent, — say not
idiotically-quixotic hero, — might safely venture to be heroic?
Now I have written to you a long letter, and think that
I have indicated to you the true state of my feelings. Whatever
may turn up I do not think I shall go fortune-hunting again.
If half-a-million in female hands were to throw itself at my
head, there is no saying whether I might not yield. But I do
not think that I shall again make inquiry as to the amount of
booty supposed to be within the walls of a city, and then sit
down to besiege the city with regular lines of approach. It is
a disgusting piece of work. I do not say but what I can lie, and
did lie foully on the last siege operation; but I do not like it.
And then to be told that one is unmanly by the father, and
a coward by the young lady, as occurred to me in this affair, is
disheartening. They were both right, though I repudiated their
assertions. This might be borne as a prelude to success; but, as
part of a failure, it is disgusting. At the present moment I am
considering what economy might effect as to a future bachelor
life, and am meditating to begin with a couple of mutton chops
and half-a-pint of sherry for my dinner to-day. I know I shall
break down and have a woodcock and some champagne.
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AYALA’S ANGEL
I will come to you about three on Sunday. If you can manage that your brother should go out and make his calls, and
your sister attend divine service in the afternoon, it would be
a comfort.
Yours always,
)+ඈඎඌඍඈඇ.
It was a long rambling letter, without a word in it of solid
clearly-expressed meaning; but Imogene, as she read it, understood very well its real purport. She understood more than its
purport, for she could see by it, — more clearly than the writer
did himself, — how far her influence over the man had been
restored, and how far she might be able to restore it. But was
it well that she should regain her influence? Her influence regained would simply mean a renewed engagement. No doubt
the storm on the hill-side had come from the violence of true
love on her part! No doubt her heart had been outraged by
the idea that he should give himself up to another woman after
all that had passed between them. She had been devoted to him
altogether; but yet she had been taught by him to regard her
love as a passion which of its nature contained something of
the ridiculous. He had never ceased gently to laugh at himself, even in her presence, because he had subjected himself to
her attraction. She had caught up the same spirit, — or at any
rate the expression of spirit, — and, deceived by that, he had
thought that to relieve herself from the burden of her love
would be as easy to her as to him. In making this mistake he
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ANTHONY TROLLOPE
had been ignorant of the intrinsic difference in the nature of
a man’s and of a woman’s heart, and had been unaware that
that, which to a man at his best can only be a part of his interest in his life’s concerns, will to a woman be everything.
She had attempted to follow his lead when it did not seem
that by doing so she would lose anything. But when the moment of trial came she had not in truth followed his lead at all.
She made the attempt, and in making the attempt gave him
her permission to go from her; but when she realised the fact
that he was gone, — or going, — then she broke down utterly. Then there came these contentions between her and her
brother, and that storm on the hill-side.
After that she passed some months of wretchedness. There
was no possibility for her to droll away her love. She had taught
herself to love the man whether he were good or whether he
were bad, — whether he were strong-hearted or whether he
were fickle, — and the thing was there present to her, either
as a permanent blessing, or, much more probably, a permanent curse. As the months went on she learned, though she
never saw Frank himself, that his purpose of marrying Gertrude Tringle was not likely to be carried out. Then at last she
wrote that comprehensive letter of five lines, — as Houston
had called it. It had been intended to be comprehensive, and
did, in fact, contain much more than it seemed to say. “If you
can bring yourself to return to me, and to endure whatever
inconveniences may be incidental to your doing so, I hereby
declare that I will do the same; and I declare also that I can
find for myself no other content in the world except what may
come to me from such an agreement between us.” It was this
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AYALA’S ANGEL
that she said in that last line, in which she had begged him to
come to her, if at the last moment “Tringle père” should
prove to be hard-hearted. All troubles of poverty, all the lingering annoyance of waiting, all her possible doubts as to his
future want of persistency, would be preferable to the great
loss which she found herself unable to endure.
Yes; it would be very well that both her brother and her
sister-in-law should be absent when he came to her. To neither of them had she said a word of her last correspondence; — to neither of them a word of her renewed hopes. For
the objections which might be raised by either of them would
she care little if she could succeed with Frank. But while that
success was still doubtful it would be well to get at any rate
the assistance of her sister-in-law. On the Sunday afternoon
Mr. Docimer would certainly be away from the house. It was
his custom to go off among his friends almost immediately after lunch, and his absence might be counted on as assured. But
with his wife it was different. That project of sending her to
church was quite out of the question. Mrs. Docimer generally
went to church of a Sunday morning, and then always considered herself to have performed the duties of the day. Nor
did Imogene like the idea of this appointment with her lover
without a word spoken about it to her sister-in-law. “Mary,”
she said, “Frank Houston is coming here on Sunday.”
“Frank!” exclaimed Mrs. Docimer. “I thought we were to
consider ourselves as altogether separated from that fortunate youth.”
“I don’t see why.”
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ANTHONY TROLLOPE
“Well; he left us not with the kindest possible feelings in
the Tyrol; and he has allowed ever so many months to pass by
without coming to see us. I asked Mudbury whether we should
have him to dinner one day last week, and he said it would be
better to let him go his own way.”
“Nevertheless, he is coming here on Sunday.”
“Has he written to you?”
“Yes, he has written to me, — in answer to a line from me.
I told him that I wished to see him.”
“Was that wise?”
“Wise or not, I did so.”
“Why should you wish to see him?”
“Am I to tell you the truth or a lie?”
“Not a lie, certainly. I will not ask for the truth if the truth
be unpalatable to you.”
“It is unpalatable; — but yet I might as well tell it you.
I wrote to ask him to come and see me, because I love him so
dearly.”
“Oh, Imogene!”
“It is the truth.”
“Did you tell him so?”
“No; I told him nothing. I merely said, that, if this match
was over between him and that girl of Sir Thomas Tringle,
then he might come and see me again. That was all that I said.
His letter was very much longer, but yet it did not say much.
However, he is to come, and I am prepared to renew our engagement should he declare that he is willing to do so.”
“What will Mudbury say?”
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