The next two days were not quite so triumphant to Ayala as had been the evening of her arrival.
There was hunting on both of those days, the gentlemen having gone on the Friday away out of Sir Harry’s country to the Brake hounds. Ayala and the Colonel had arrived on the Thursday. Ayala had not expected to be asked to hunt again — had not even thought about it. It had been arranged before on Nina’s account, and Nina now was not to hunt any more. Lord George did not altogether approve of it, and Nina was quite in accord with Lord George — though she had held up her whip and shaken it in triumph when she jumped over the Cranbury Brook. And the horse which Ayala had ridden was no longer in the stables. “My dear, I am so sorry; but I’m afraid we can’t mount you,” Lady Albury said. In answer to this Ayala declared that she had not thought of it for a moment. But yet the days seemed to be dull with her. Lady Rufford was — well — perhaps a little patronising to her, and patronage such as that was not at all to Ayala’s taste. “Lady Albury seems to be quite a kind friend to you,” Lady Rufford said. Nothing could be more true. The idea implied was true also — the idea that such a one as Ayala was much in luck’s way to find such a friend as Lady Albury. It was true no doubt; but, nevertheless, it was ungracious, and had to be resented. “A very kind friend, indeed. Some people only make friends of those who are as grand as themselves.”
“I am sure we should be very glad to see you at Rufford if you remain long in the country,” said Lady Rufford, a little time afterwards. But even in this there was not a touch of that cordiality which might have won Ayala’s heart. “I am not at all likely to stay,” said Ayala. “I live with my uncle and aunt at Notting Hill, and I very rarely go away from home.” Lady Rufford, however, did not quite understand it. It had been whispered to her that morning that Ayala was certainly going to marry Colonel Stubbs; and, if so, why should she not come to Rufford?
On that day, the Friday, she was taken in to dinner by Captain Glomax. “I remember quite as if it were yesterday,” said the Captain. “It was the day we rode the Cranbury Brook.”
Ayala looked up into his face, also remembering everything as well as it were yesterday. “Mr Twentyman rode over it,” she said, “and Colonel Stubbs rode into it.”
“Oh, yes; Stubbs got a ducking; so he did.” The Captain had not got a ducking, but then he had gone round by the road. “It was a good run that.”
“I thought so.”
“We haven’t been lucky since Sir Harry has had the hounds somehow. There doesn’t seem to be the dash about ’em there used to be when I was here. I had them before Sir Harry, you know.” All this was nearly in a whisper.
“Were you Master?” asked Ayala, with a tone of surprise which was not altogether pleasing to the Captain.
“Indeed I was, but the fag of it was too great, and the thanks too small, so I gave it up. They used to get four days a week out of me.” During the two years that the Captain had had the hounds, there had been, no doubt, two or three weeks in which he had hunted four days.
Ayala liked hunting, but she did not care much for Captain Glomax, who, having seen her once or twice on horseback, would talk to her about nothing else. A little away on the other side of the table Nina was sitting next to Colonel Stubbs, and she could hear their voices and almost their words. Nina and Jonathan were first cousins, and, of course, could be happy together without giving her any cause for jealousy — but she almost envied Nina. Yet she had hoped that it might not fall to her lot to be taken out again that evening by the Colonel. Hitherto she had not even spoken to him during the day. They had started to the meet very early, and the gentlemen had almost finished their breakfast before she had come down. If there had been any fault it was her fault, but yet she almost felt that there was something of a disruption between them. It was so evident to her that he was perfectly happy whilst he was talking to Nina.
After dinner it seemed to be very late before the men came into the drawing-room, and then they were still engaged upon that weary talk about hunting, till Lady Rufford, in order to put a stop to it, offered to sing. “I always do”, she said, if Rufford ventures to name a fox in the drawing-room after dinner.” She did sing, and Ayala thought that the singing was more weary than the talk about hunting.
While this was going on, the Colonel had got himself shut up in a corner of the room. Lady Albury had first taken him there, and afterwards he had been hemmed in when Lady Rufford sat down to the piano. Ayala had hardly ventured even to glance at him, but yet she knew all that he did, and heard almost every word that he spoke. The words were not many, but still when he did speak his voice was cheerful. Nina now and again had run up to him, and Lady Rufford had asked him some questions about the music. But why didn’t he come and speak to her? thought Ayala. Though all that nonsense about love was over, still he ought not to have allowed a day to pass at Stalham without speaking to her. He was the oldest friend there in that house except Nina. It was indeed no more than nine months since she had first seen him, but still it seemed to her that he was an old friend. She did feel, as she endeavoured to answer the questions that Lord Rufford was asking her, that Jonathan Stubbs was treating her unkindly.
Then came the moment in which Lady Albury marshalled her guests out of the room towards their chambers. “Have you found yourself dull without the hunting?” the Colonel said to Ayala.
“Oh dear no; I must have a dull time if I do, seeing that I have only hunted three days in my life.” There was something in the tone of her voice which, as she herself was aware, almost expressed dissatisfaction. And yet not for worlds would she have shown herself to be dissatisfied with him could she have helped it.
“I thought that perhaps you might have regretted the little pony,” he said.
“Because a thing has been very pleasant, it should not be regretted because it cannot be had always.”
“To me a thing may become so pleasant, that unless I can have it always my life must be one long regret.”
“The pony is not quite like that,” said Ayala, smiling as she followed the other ladies out of the room.
On the next morning the meet was nearer, and some of the ladies were taken there in an open carriage. Lady Rufford went, and Mrs Gosling, and Nina and Ayala. “Of course there is a place for you,” Lady Albury had said to her. “Had I wanted to go I would have made Sir Harry send the drag; but I’ve got to stop at home and see that the buttered toast is ready by the time the gentlemen all come back.” The morning was almost warm, so that the sportsmen were saying evil things of violets and primroses, as is the wont of sportsmen on such occasions, and at the meet the ladies got out of the carriage and walked about among the hounds, making civil speeches to old Tony. “No, my lady,” said Tony, I don’t like these sunshiny mornings at all; there ain’t no kind of scent, and I goes riding about these big woods, up and down, till my shirt is as wet on my back with the sweat as though I’d been pulled through the river.” Then Lady Rufford walked away and did not ask Tony any more questions.
Ayala was patting one of the hounds when the Colonel, who had given his horse to a groom, came and joined her. “If you don’t regret that pony,” said he, “somebody else does.
“I do regret him in one way, of course. I did like it very much; but I don’t think it nice, when much has been done for me, to say that I want to have more done.”
“Of course I knew what you meant.”
“Perhaps you would go and tell Sir Harry and then he would think me very ungrateful.”
“Ayala,” he said, I will never say anything of you that will make anybody think evil of you. But, between ourselves, as Sir Harry is not here, I suppose I may confess that I regret the pony.”
“I should like it, of course,” whispered Ayala.
“And so should I— so much! I suppose all these men here would think me an ass if they knew how little I care about the day’s work — whether we find, or whether we run, or whether we kill — just because the pony is not here. If the pony were here I should have that feeling of expectation of joy, which is so common to girls when some much-thought-of ball or promised pleasure is just before them.” Then Tony went off with his hounds, and Jonathan, mounting his horse, followed with the ruck.
Ayala knew very well what the pony meant, as spoken of by the Colonel. When he declared that he regretted the pony, it was because the pony might have carried herself. He had meant her to understand that the much-thought-of ball or promised pleasure would have been the delight of again riding with herself. And then he had again called her Ayala. She could remember well every occasion on which he had addressed her by her Christian name. It had been but seldom. Once, however, it had occurred in the full flow of their early intimacy, before that love-making had been begun. It had struck her as being almost wrong, but still as very pleasant. If it might be made right by some feeling of brotherly friendship, how pleasant would it be! And now she would like it again, if only it might be taken as a sign of friendship rather than of love. It never occurred to her to be angry as she would have been angry with any other man. How she would have looked at Captain Batsby had he dared to call her Ayala! Colonel Stubbs should call her Ayala as long as he pleased — if it were done only in friendship.
After that they were driven about for a while, seeing what Tony did with the hounds, as tidings came to them now and again that one fox had broken this way and another had gone the other. But Ayala, through it all, could not interest herself about the foxes. She was thinking only of Jonathan Stubbs. She knew that she was pleased because he had spoken to her, and had said kind, pleasant words to her. She knew that she had been displeased while he had sat apart from her, talking to others. But yet she could not explain to herself why she had been either pleased or displeased. She feared that there was more than friendship — than mere friendship, in that declaration of his that he did in truth regret the pony. His voice had been, oh, so sweet as he had said it! Something told her that men do not speak in mere friendship after that fashion. Not even in the softness of friendship between a man and a woman will the man’s voice become as musical as that! Young as she was, child as she was, there was an instinct in her breast which declared to her that it was so. But then, if it were so, was not everything again wrong with her? If it were so, then must that condition of things be coming back which it had been, and still was, her firm resolve to avoid. And yet, as the carriage was being driven about, and as the frequent exclamations came that the fox had traversed this way or that, her pride was gratified and she was happy.
“What was Colonel Stubbs saying to you?” asked Nina, when they were at home at the house after lunch.
“He was talking about the dear pony which I used to ride.”
“About nothing else?”
“No — about nothing else.” This Ayala said with a short, dry manner of utterance which she would assume when she was determined not to have a subject carried on.
“Ayala, why do you not tell me everything? I told you everything as soon as it happened.”
“Nothing has happened.”
“I know he asked you,” said Nina.
“And I answered him.”
“Is that to be everything?”
“Yes — that is to be everything,” said Ayala, with a short, dry manner of utterance. It was so plain, that even Nina could not pursue the subject.
There was nothing done on that day in the way of sport. Glomax thought that Tony had been idle, and had made a holiday of the day from the first. But Sir Harry declared that there had not been a yard of scent. The buttered toast, however, was eaten, and the regular sporting conversation was carried on. Ayala, however, was not there to hear it. Ayala was in her own room dreaming.
She was taken in to dinner by a curate in the neighbourhood — to whom she endeavoured to make herself very pleasant, while the Colonel sat at her other side. The curate had a good deal to say as to lawn tennis. If the weather remained as it was, it was thought that they could all play lawn tennis on the Tuesday — when there would be no hunting. The curate was a pleasant young fellow, and Ayala devoted herself to him and to their joint hopes for next Tuesday. Colonel Stubbs never once attempted to interfere with the curate’s opportunity. There was Lady Rufford on the other side of him, and to Lady Rufford he said all that he did say during dinner. At one period of the repast she was more than generally lively, because she felt herself called upon to warn her husband that an attack of the gout was imminent, and would be certainly produced instantaneously if he could not deny himself the delight of a certain dish which was going the round of the table. His lordship smiled and denied himself — thinking, as he did so, whether another wife, plus the gout, would or would not have been better for him. All this either amused Colonel Stubbs sufficiently, or else made him so thoughtful, that he made no attempt to interfere with the curate. In the evening there was again music — which resulted in a declaration made upstairs by Sir Harry to his wife that that wife of Rufford’s was a confounded bore. “We all knew that, my dear, as soon as he married her,” said Lady Albury.
“Why did he marry a bore?”
“Because he wanted a wife to look after himself, and not to amuse his friends. The wonder used to be that he had done so well.”
Not a word had there been — not a word, since that sound of “Ayala” had fallen upon her ears. No — he was not handsome, and his name was Jonathan Stubbs — but surely no voice so sweet had ever fallen from a man’s lips! So she sat and dreamed far into the night. He, the Angel of Light, would certainly have a sweeter voice! That was an attribute without which no angel could be angelic! As to the face and the name, that would not perhaps signify. But he must have an intellect high soaring, a soul tuned to music, and a mind versed in nothing but great matters. He might be an artist, or more probably a poet — or perhaps a musician. Yet she had read of poets, artists, and musicians, who had misused their wives, been fond of money, and had perhaps been drunkards. The Angel of Light must have the gifts, and must certainly be without the vices.
The next day was Sunday and they all went to church. In the afternoon they, as many of them as pleased, were to walk as far as Gobblegoose Wood, which was only three miles from the house. They could not hunt and therefore they must go to the very scene of the late contest and again discuss it there. Sir Harry and the Captain would walk and so would Ayala and Nina and some others. Lord Rufford did not like walking, and Lady Rufford would stay at home to console him. Ayala used her little wiles to keep herself in close company with Nina; but the Colonel’s wiles were more effective — and then, perhaps, Nina assisted the Colonel rather than Ayala. It came to pass that before they had left Gobblegoose Wood Ayala and the Colonel were together. When it was so he did not beat about the bush for a moment longer. He had fixed his opportunity for himself and he put it to use at once. “Ayala,” he said, am I to have any other answer?”
“Nay, my dearest — my own, own dearest as I fain would have you — who shall say what answer but you? Ayala, you know that I love you!”
“I thought you had given it up.”
“Given it up. Never — never! Does a man give up his joy — the pride of his life — the one only delight on which his heart has set itself! No, my darling, I have not given it up. Because you would not have it as I wished when I first spoke to you, I have not gone on troubling you. I thought I would wait till you were used again to the look of me, and to my voice. I shall never give it up, Ayala. When you came into the room that night with your new frock on — “ Then he paused, and she glanced round upon him, and saw that a tear again was in his eye. “When you came in and curtseyed to Sir Harry I could hardly keep within myself because I thought you were so beautiful.”
“It was the new gown which he had given me.”
“No, my pet — no! You may add a grace to a dress, but it can do but little for you. It was the little motion, the little word, the light in your eye! It twinkles at me sometimes when you glance about, so that I do not know whether it is meant for me or not. I fear that it is never meant for me.”
“It is meant for nothing,” said Ayala.
“And yet it goes into my very bosom. When you were talking to that clergyman at dinner I could see every sparkle that came from it. Then I wonder to myself whether you can ever be thinking of me as I am always thinking of you.” She knew that she had been thinking of him every waking moment since she had been at Albury and through many of her sleeping moments also. “Ayala, one little word, one other glance from your eyes, one slightest touch from your hand upon my arm, shall tell me — shall tell me — shall tell me that I am the happiest, the proudest man in all the world.” She walked on steadfastly, closing her very teeth against a word, with her eyes fixed before her so that no slightest glance should wander. Her two hands were in her little muff, and she kept them with her fingers clasped together, as though afraid lest one might rebel, and fly away, and touch the sleeve of his coat. “Ayala, how is it to be with me?”
“I cannot,” she said sternly. And her eyes were still fixed before her, and her fingers were still bound in one with another. And yet she loved him. Yet she knew that she loved him. She could have hung upon his arm and smiled up into his face, and frowned her refusal only with mock anger as he pressed to his bosom — only that those dreams were so palpable to her and so dear, had been to her so vast a portion of her young life! “I cannot,” she said again. I cannot.”
“Is that to be your answer for ever?” To this she made no immediate reply. “Must it be so, Ayala?”
“I cannot,” she said. But the last little word was so impeded by the sobs which she could not restrain as almost to be inaudible.
“I will not make you unhappy, Ayala.” Yes, she was unhappy. She was unhappy because she knew that she could not rule herself to her own happiness; because, even at this moment, she was aware that she was wrong. If she could only release part of herself from the other, then could she fly into his arms and tell him that that spirit which had troubled her had flown. But the spirit was too strong for her, and would not fly. “Shall we go and join them?” he asked her in a voice altered, but still so sweet to her ears.
“If you think so,” she replied.
“Perhaps it will be best, Ayala. Do not be angry with me now. I will not call you so again.” Angry! Oh, no! She was not angry with him! But it was very bitter to her to be told that she should never hear the word again from his lips.
“The hunted fox never went up Buddlecombe Hill — never. If he did I’ll eat every fox in the Rufford and Offord country.” This was heard, spoken in most angry tones by Captain Glomax, as the Colonel and Ayala joined the rest of the party.
Last updated Monday, December 22, 2014 at 10:55