Ayala's Angel [132]
less for that. As to income, the governor will stump up like a brick. Now I want you to write the letter."
"It's a kind of thing a third person can't do," said the Colonel, when he had considered the request for a moment.
"Why not? Yes, you can."
"Do it yourself, and say just the simplest words as they come up. They are sure to go further with any girl than what another man may write. It is impossible that another man should be natural on such a task as that."
"Natural! I don't know about natural," said Tom, who was anxious now to explain the character of the lady in question. "I don't know that a letter that was particularly natural would please her. A touch of poetry and romance would go further than anything natural."
"Who is the lady?" asked the Colonel, who certainly was by this time entitled to be so far inquisitive.
"She is my cousin -- Ayala Dormer."
"Who?"
"Ayala Dormer -- my cousin. She was at Rome, but I do not think you ever saw her there."
"I have seen her since," said the Colonel.
"Have you? I didn't know."
"She was with my aunt, the Marchesa Baldoni."
"Dear me! So she was. I never put the two things together. Don't you admire her?"
"Certainly I do. My dear fellow, I can't write this letter for you." Then he put down the pen which he had taken up as though he had intended to comply with his friend's request. "You may take it as settled that I cannot write it."
"No?"
"Impossible. One man should never write such a letter for another man. You had better give the thing in person -- that is, if you mean to go on with the matter."
"I shall certainly go on with it," said Tom, stoutly.
"After a certain time, you know, reiterated offers do, you know -- do -- do -- partake of the nature of persecution."
"Reiterated refusals are the sort of persecution I don't like." "It seems to me that Ayala -- Miss Dormer, I mean -- should be protected by a sort of feeling -- feeling of -- of what I may perhaps call her dependent position. She is peculiarly -- peculiarly situated."
"If she married me she would be much better situated. I could give her everything she wants."
"It isn't an affair of money, Mr Tringle."
Tom felt, from the use of the word Mister, that he was in some way giving offence; but felt also that there was no true cause for offence. "When a man offers everything," he said, "and asks for nothing, I don't think he should be said to persecute."
"After a time it becomes persecution. I am sure Ayala would feel it so."
"My cousin can't suppose that I am ill-using her," said Tom, who disliked the "Ayala" quite as much as he did the "Mister". "Miss Dormer, I meant. I can have nothing further to say about it. I can't write the letter, and I should not imagine that Ayala -- Miss Dormer -- would be moved in the least by any present that could possibly be made to her. I must go out now, if you don't mind, for half an hour; but I shall be back in time for breakfast."
Then Tom was left alone with the necklace lying on the table before him. He knew that something was wrong with the Colonel, but could not in the least guess what it might be. He was quite aware that early in the interview the Colonel had encouraged him to persevere with the lady, and had then, suddenly, not only advised him to desist, but had told him in so many words that he was bound to desist out of consideration for the lady. And the Colonel had spoken of his cousin in a manner that was distasteful to him. He could not analyse his feelings. He did not exactly know why he was displeased, but he was displeased. The Colonel, when asked for his assistance, was, of course, bound to talk about the lady -- would be compelled, by the nature of the confidence, to mention the lady's name -- would even have been called on to write her Christian name. But this he should have done with a delicacy -- almost with a blush. Instead of that Ayala's name had been common on his tongue. Tom felt himself to be offended, but hardly knew why. And then, why had he been called Mister Tringle?
"It's a kind of thing a third person can't do," said the Colonel, when he had considered the request for a moment.
"Why not? Yes, you can."
"Do it yourself, and say just the simplest words as they come up. They are sure to go further with any girl than what another man may write. It is impossible that another man should be natural on such a task as that."
"Natural! I don't know about natural," said Tom, who was anxious now to explain the character of the lady in question. "I don't know that a letter that was particularly natural would please her. A touch of poetry and romance would go further than anything natural."
"Who is the lady?" asked the Colonel, who certainly was by this time entitled to be so far inquisitive.
"She is my cousin -- Ayala Dormer."
"Who?"
"Ayala Dormer -- my cousin. She was at Rome, but I do not think you ever saw her there."
"I have seen her since," said the Colonel.
"Have you? I didn't know."
"She was with my aunt, the Marchesa Baldoni."
"Dear me! So she was. I never put the two things together. Don't you admire her?"
"Certainly I do. My dear fellow, I can't write this letter for you." Then he put down the pen which he had taken up as though he had intended to comply with his friend's request. "You may take it as settled that I cannot write it."
"No?"
"Impossible. One man should never write such a letter for another man. You had better give the thing in person -- that is, if you mean to go on with the matter."
"I shall certainly go on with it," said Tom, stoutly.
"After a certain time, you know, reiterated offers do, you know -- do -- do -- partake of the nature of persecution."
"Reiterated refusals are the sort of persecution I don't like." "It seems to me that Ayala -- Miss Dormer, I mean -- should be protected by a sort of feeling -- feeling of -- of what I may perhaps call her dependent position. She is peculiarly -- peculiarly situated."
"If she married me she would be much better situated. I could give her everything she wants."
"It isn't an affair of money, Mr Tringle."
Tom felt, from the use of the word Mister, that he was in some way giving offence; but felt also that there was no true cause for offence. "When a man offers everything," he said, "and asks for nothing, I don't think he should be said to persecute."
"After a time it becomes persecution. I am sure Ayala would feel it so."
"My cousin can't suppose that I am ill-using her," said Tom, who disliked the "Ayala" quite as much as he did the "Mister". "Miss Dormer, I meant. I can have nothing further to say about it. I can't write the letter, and I should not imagine that Ayala -- Miss Dormer -- would be moved in the least by any present that could possibly be made to her. I must go out now, if you don't mind, for half an hour; but I shall be back in time for breakfast."
Then Tom was left alone with the necklace lying on the table before him. He knew that something was wrong with the Colonel, but could not in the least guess what it might be. He was quite aware that early in the interview the Colonel had encouraged him to persevere with the lady, and had then, suddenly, not only advised him to desist, but had told him in so many words that he was bound to desist out of consideration for the lady. And the Colonel had spoken of his cousin in a manner that was distasteful to him. He could not analyse his feelings. He did not exactly know why he was displeased, but he was displeased. The Colonel, when asked for his assistance, was, of course, bound to talk about the lady -- would be compelled, by the nature of the confidence, to mention the lady's name -- would even have been called on to write her Christian name. But this he should have done with a delicacy -- almost with a blush. Instead of that Ayala's name had been common on his tongue. Tom felt himself to be offended, but hardly knew why. And then, why had he been called Mister Tringle?