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AYALA’S ANGEL
had been put in their places. Tom was very anxious to take
his uncle home in a cab, but Mr. Dosett would not consent to
lose his walk. Along the Embankment they went, and across
Charing Cross into St. James’s Park, and then by Green Park,
Hyde Park, and Kensington Gardens, all the way to Notting
Hill. Mr. Dosett did not walk very fast, and Tom thought they
would never reach Kingsbury Crescent. His uncle would fain
have talked about the weather, or politics, or the hardships of
the Civil Service generally; but Tom would not be diverted
from his one subject. Would Ayala be gracious to him? Mr.
Dosett had made up his mind to say nothing on the subject.
Tom must plead his own cause. Uncle Reginald thought that
he knew such pleading would be useless, but still would not
say a word to daunt the lover. Neither could he say a word
expressive of hope. As they were fully an hour-and-a-half on
their walk, this reticence was difficult.
Immediately on his arrival, Tom was taken up into the drawing-room. This was empty, for it had been arranged that Mrs.
Dosett should be absent till the meeting was over. “Now I’ll
look for this child,” said Uncle Reginald, in his cheeriest voice
as he left Tom alone in the room. Tom, as he looked round at
the chairs and tables, remembered that he had never received
as much as a kind word or look in the room, and then great
drops of perspiration broke out all over his brow. All that he
had to hope for in the world must depend upon the next five
minutes; — might depend perhaps upon the very selection of
the words which he might use.
Then Ayala entered the room and stood before him.
“Ayala,” he said, giving her his hand.
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ANTHONY TROLLOPE
“Uncle Reg says that you would like to see me once again.”
“Of course I want to see you once, and twice, — and always.
Ayala, if you could know it! If you could only know it!” Then
he clasped his two hands high upon his breast, not as though
appealing to her heart, but striking his bosom in very agony.
“Ayala, I feel that, if I do not have you as my own, I can only die
for the want of you. Ayala, do you believe me?”
“I suppose I believe you, but how can I help it?”
“Try to help it! Try to try and help it! Say a word that you
will perhaps help it by-and-bye.” Then there came a dark
frown upon her brow, — not, indeed, from anger, but from
a feeling that so terrible a task should be thrown upon her.
“I know you think that I am common.”
“I have never said a word, Tom, but that I could not love
you.”
“But I am true, — true as the sun. Would I come again after
all if it were not that I cannot help coming? You have heard
that I have been, — been misbehaving myself?”
“I have not thought about that.”
“It has been so because I have been so wretched. Ayala, you
have made me so unhappy. Ayala, you can make me the happiest man there is in London this day. I seem to want nothing else. As for drink, or clubs, or billiards, and all that, they
are nothing to me, — unless when I try to forget that you are
so — so unkind to me!”
“It is not unkind, not to do as you ask me.”
“To do as I ask you, — that would be kind. Oh, Ayala,
cannot you be kind to me?” She shook her head, still standing in the place which she had occupied from the beginning.
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AYALA’S ANGEL
“May I come again? Will you give me three months, and then
think of it? If you would only say that, I would go back to my
work and never leave it.” But she still shook her head. “Must
I never hope?”
“Not for that, Tom. How can I help it?”
“Not help it.”
“No. How can I help it? One does not fall in love by trying, — nor by trying prevent it.”
“By degrees you might love me, — a little.” She had said
all that she knew how to say, and again shook her head. “It is
that accursed Colonel,” he exclaimed, forgetting himself as he
thought of his rival.
“He is not accursed,” said Ayala, angrily.
“Then you love him?”
“No! But you should not ask. You have no right to ask. It is
not proper.”
“You are not engaged to him?”
“No; I am not engaged to him. I do not love him. As you will
ask, I tell you. But you should not ask; and he is not accursed.
He is better than you, — though I do not love him. You should
not have driven me to say this. I do not ask you questions.”
“There is none that I would not answer. Stay, Ayala,” for
now she was going to leave the room. “Stay yet a moment. Do
you know that you are tearing my heart in pieces? Why is it
that you should make me so wretched? Dear Ayala; — dearest
Ayala; — stay yet a moment.”
“Tom, there is nothing more that I can say. I am very, very
sorry if you are unhappy. I do think that you are good and
true; and if you will shake hands with me, there is my hand.
263
ANTHONY TROLLOPE
But I cannot say what you want me to say.” Tom took her by
the hand and tried to hold her, without, however, speaking to
her again. But she slid away from him and left the room, not
having for a moment sat down in his presence.
When the door was closed he stood awhile looking round
him, trying to resolve what he might do or what he might say
next. He was now at any rate in the house with her, and did
not know whether such an opportunity as that might ever
occur to him again. He felt that there were words within his
bosom which, if he could only bring them up to his mouth,
would melt the heart of a stone. There was his ineffable love,
his whole happiness at stake, his purpose, — his holy purpose, — to devote himself, and all that he had, to her well-being. Of all this he had a full conception within his own heart,
if only he could express it so that others should believe him!
But of what use was it now? He had had this further liberty of
speech accorded to him, and in it he had done nothing, made
no inch of progress. She had hardly spoken a dozen words to
him, but of those she had spoken two remained clear upon his
memory. He must never hope, she had said; and she had said
also that that other man was better than he. Had she said that
he was dearer, the word would hardly have been more bitter.
All the old feeling came upon him of rage against his rival,
and of a desire that something desperate should be done by
which he might wreak his vengeance.
But there he was standing alone in Mrs. Dosett’s drawingroom, and it was necessary that he should carry himself off.
As for dining in that house, sitting down to eat and drink in
Ayala’s presence after such a conversation as that which was
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AYALA’S ANGEL
past, that he felt to be quite out of the question. He crammed his
hat upon his head, left the room, and hurried down the stairs
towards the door.
In the passage he was met by his uncle, coming out of
the dining-room. “Tom,” he said, “you’ll stay and eat your
dinner?”
“No, indeed,” said Tom, angrily.
“You shouldn’t let yourself be disturbed by little trifles
such as these,” said his uncle, trying to put a good face upon
the matter.
“Trifles!” said Tom Tringle. “Trifles!” And he banged
the door after him as he left the house.
END OF VOL. II
Литературно-художественное издание
Anthony Trollope
Ayala’s Angel · II
Выпускающий редактор: H. Головлева
Компьютерная верстка: А. Дятлов
Художественное оформление: М. Соколова
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