Ayala's Angel. Trollope Anthony

was sure of that, although she could not at the moment join any facts with the name. "But I don't know you," she said, hesitating. Though he was so ugly he could not but be better than that ancient dancer whom she saw standing at a distance, looking like a dog that has been deprived of his bone.

      "Yes, you do," said Jonathan Stubbs, "and if you'll come and dance I'll tell you about it. The Marchesa told me to take you."

      "Did she?" said Ayala, getting up, and putting her little hand upon his arm.

      "I'll go and fetch her if you like; only she's a long way off, and we shall lose our place. She's my aunt."

      "Oh," said Ayala, quite satisfied, – remembering now that she had heard her friend Nina boast of a Colonel cousin, who was supposed to be the youngest Colonel in the British army, who had done some wonderful thing, – taken a new province in India, or marched across Africa, or defended the Turks, – or perhaps conquered them. She knew that he was very brave, – but why was he so very ugly? His hair was ruby red, and very short; and he had a thick red beard: not silky, but bristly, with each bristle almost a dagger, – and his mouth was enormous. His eyes were very bright, and there was a smile about him, partly of fun, partly of good humour. But his mouth! And then that bristling beard! Ayala was half inclined to like him, because he was so completely master of himself, so unlike the unhappy ancient gentleman who was still hovering at a distance. But why was he so ugly? And why was he called Jonathan Stubbs?

      "There now," he said, "we can't get in at any of the sets. That's your fault."

      "No, it isn't," said Ayala.

      "Yes, it is. You wouldn't stand up till you had heard all about me."

      "I don't know anything about you now."

      "Then come and walk about and I'll tell you. Then we shall be ready for a waltz. Do you waltz well?"

      "Do you?"

      "I'll back myself against any Englishman, Frenchman, German, or Italian, for a large sum of money. I can't come quite up to the Poles. The fact is, the honester the man is the worse he always dances. Yes; I see what you mean. I must be a rogue. Perhaps I am; – perhaps I'm only an exception. I knew your father."

      "Papa!"

      "Yes, I did. He was down at Stalham with the Alburys once. That was five years ago, and he told me he had a daughter named Ayala. I didn't quite believe him."

      "Why not?"

      "It is such an out-of-the-way name."

      "It's as good as Jonathan, at any rate." And Ayala again nodded her head.

      "There's a prejudice about Jonathan, as there is about Jacob and Jonah. I never could quite tell why. I was going to marry a girl once with a hundred thousand pounds, and she wouldn't have me at last because she couldn't bring her lips to say Jonathan. Do you think she was right?"

      "Did she love you?" said Ayala, looking up into his face.

      "Awfully! But she couldn't bear the name; so within three months she gave herself and all her money to Mr. Montgomery Talbot de Montpellier. He got drunk, and threw her out of the window before a month was over. That's what comes of going in for sweet names."

      "I don't believe a word of it," said Ayala.

      "Very well. Didn't Septimus Traffick marry your cousin?"

      "Of course he did, about a month ago."

      "He is another friend of mine. Why didn't you go to your cousin's marriage?"

      "There were reasons," said Ayala.

      "I know all about it," said the Colonel. "You quarreled with Augusta down in Scotland, and you don't like poor Traffick because he has got a bald head."

      "I believe you're a conjuror," said Ayala.

      "And then your cousin was jealous because you went to the top of St. Peter's, and because you would walk with Mr. Traffick on the Pincian. I was in Rome, and saw all about it."

      "I won't have anything more to do with you," said Ayala.

      "And then you quarreled with one set of uncles and aunts, and now you live with another."

      "Your aunt told you that."

      "And I know your cousin, Tom Tringle."

      "You know Tom?" asked Ayala.

      "Yes; he was ever so good to me in Rome about a horse; I like Tom Tringle in spite of his chains. Don't you think, upon the whole, if that young lady had put up with Jonathan she would have done better than marry Montpellier? But now they're going to waltz, come along."

      Thereupon Ayala got up and danced with him for the next ten minutes. Again and again before the evening was over she danced with him; and although, in the course of the night, many other partners had offered themselves, and many had been accepted, she felt that Colonel Jonathan Stubbs had certainly been the partner of the evening. Why should he be so hideously ugly? said Ayala to herself, as she wished him good night before she left the room with the Marchesa and Nina.

      "What do you think of my nephew?" said the Marchesa, when they were in the carriage together.

      "Do tell us what you think of Jonathan?" asked Nina.

      "I thought he was very good-natured."

      "And very handsome?"

      "Nina, don't be foolish. Jonathan is one of the most rising officers in the British service, and luckily he can be that without being beautiful to look at."

      "I declare," said Nina, "sometimes, when he is talking, I think him perfectly lovely. The fire comes out of his eyes, and he rubs his old red hairs about till they sparkle. Then he shines all over like a carbuncle, and every word he says makes me die of laughter."

      "I laughed too," said Ayala.

      "But you didn't think him beautiful," said Nina.

      "No, I did not," said Ayala. "I liked him very much, but I thought him very ugly. Was it true about the young lady who married Mr. Montgomery de Montpellier and was thrown out of window a week afterwards?"

      "There is one other thing I must tell you about Jonathan," said Nina. "You must not believe a word that he says."

      "That I deny," said the Marchesa; "but here we are. And now, girls, get out of the carriage and go up to bed at once."

      Ayala, before she went to sleep, and again when she woke in the morning, thought a great deal about her new friend. As to shining like a carbuncle, – perhaps he did, but that was not her idea of manly beauty. And hair ought not to sparkle. She was sure that Colonel Stubbs was very, very ugly. She was almost disposed to think that he was the ugliest man she had ever seen. He certainly was a great deal worse than her cousin Tom, who, after all, was not particularly ugly. But, nevertheless, she would very much rather dance with Colonel Stubbs. She was sure of that, even without reference to Tom's objectionable love-making. Upon the whole she liked dancing with Colonel Stubbs, ugly as he was. Indeed, she liked him very much. She had spent a very pleasant evening because he had been there. "It all depends upon whether any one has anything to say." That was the determination to which she came when she endeavoured to explain to herself how it had come to pass that she had liked dancing with anybody so very hideous. The Angel of Light would of course have plenty to say for himself, and would be something altogether different in appearance. He would be handsome, – or rather, intensely interesting, and his talk would be of other things. He would not say of himself that he danced as well as though he were a rogue, or declare that a lady had been thrown out of a window the week after she was married. Nothing could be more unlike an Angel of Light than Colonel Stubbs, – unless, perhaps, it were Tom Tringle. Colonel Stubbs, however, was completely unangelic, – so much so that the marvel was that he should yet be so pleasant. She had no horror of Colonel Stubbs at all. She would go anywhere with Colonel Stubbs, and feel herself to be quite safe. She hoped she might meet him again very often. He was, as it were, the Genius of Comedy, without a touch of which life would be very dull. But the Angel of Light must have something tragic in his composition, – must verge, at any rate, on tragedy. Ayala did not know that beautiful description of a "Sallow, sublime, sort of Werther-faced man," but I fear that in creating her Angel of