In the castle there lived A knight.

Ayala was compelled to consent to remain at Stalham.  The “I don’t think” which she repeated so often was, of course, of no avail to her.  Sir Harry would be angry, and Lady Albury would be disgusted, were she to go, ­and so she remained.  There was to be a week before Colonel Stubbs would come, and she was to remain not only for the week but also for some short time afterwards, ­so that there might be yet a few days left of hunting under the Colonel.  It could not, surely, have been doubtful to her after she had read that letter, ­with the postscript, ­that if she remained her happiness would be insured!  He would not have come again and insisted on her being there to receive him if nothing were to come of it.  And yet she had fought for permission to return to Kingsbury Crescent after her little fashion, and had at last yielded, as she told Lady Albury, ­because Sir Harry seemed to wish it.  “Of course he wishes it,” said Lady Albury.  “He has got the pony on purpose, and nobody likes being disappointed when he has done a thing so much as Sir Harry.”  Ayala, delighted as she was, did not make her secret known.  She was fluttered, and apparently uneasy, ­so that her friend did not know what to make of it, or which way to take it.  Ayala’s secret was to herself a secret still to be maintained with holy reticence.  It might still be possible that Jonathan Stubbs should never say another word to her of his love.  If he did, ­why then all the world might know.  Then there would be no secret.  Then she could sit and discuss her love, and his love, all night long with Lady Albury, if Lady Albury would listen to her.  In the meantime the secret must be a secret.  To confess her love, and then to have her love disappointed, ­that would be death to her!

And thus it went on through the whole week, Lady Albury not quite knowing what to make of it.  Once she did say a word, thinking that she would thus extract the truth, not as yet understanding how potent Ayala could be to keep her secret.  “That man has, at any rate, been very true to you,” she said.  Ayala frowned, and shook her head, and would not say a word upon the subject.  “If she did not mean to take him now, surely she would have gone,” Lady Albury said to her husband.

“She is a pretty little girl enough,” said Sir Harry, “but I doubt whether she is worth all the trouble.”

“Of course she is not.  What pretty little girl ever was?  But as long as he thinks her worth it the trouble has to be taken.”

“Of course she’ll accept him?”

“I am not at all so sure of it.  She has been made to believe that you wanted her to stay, and therefore she has stayed.  She is quite master enough of herself to ride out hunting with him again and then to refuse him.”  And so Lady Albury doubted up to the Sunday, and all through the Sunday, ­up to the very moment when the last preparations were to be made for the man’s arrival.

The train reached the Stalham Road Station at 7 P.M., and the distance was five miles.  On Sundays they usually dined at Stalham at 7.30.  The hour fixed was to be 8 on this occasion, ­and even with this there would be some bustling.  The house was now nearly empty, there being no visitors there except Mr. and Mrs. Gosling and Ayala.  Lady Albury gave many thoughts to the manner of the man’s reception, and determined at last that Jonathan should have an opportunity of saying a word to Ayala immediately on his arrival if he so pleased.  “Mind you are down at half-past seven,” she said to Ayala, coming to her in her bedroom.

“I thought we should not dine till eight.”

“There is no knowing.  Sir Harry is so fussy.  I shall be down, and I should like you to be with me.”  Then Ayala promised.  “And mind you have his frock on.”

“You’ll make me wear it out before any one else sees it,” she said, laughing.  But again she promised.  She got a glimmer of light from it all, nearly understanding what Lady Albury intended.  But against such intentions as these she had no reason to fight.  Why should she not be ready to see him?  Why should she not have on her prettiest dress when he came?  If he meant to say the word, ­then her prettiest dress would all be too poor, and her readiest ears not quick enough to meet so great a joy.  If he were not to say the other word, ­then should she shun him by staying behind, or be afraid of the encounter?  Should she be less gaily attired because it would be unnecessary to please his eye?

Oh, no!  “I’ll be there at half-past seven,” she said.  “But I know the train will be late, and Sir Harry won’t get his dinner till nine.”

“Then, my dear, great as the Colonel is, he may come in and get what is left for him in the middle.  Sir Harry will not wait a minute after eight.”

The buxom woman came and dressed her.  The buxom woman probably knew what was going to happen; ­was perhaps more keenly alive to the truth than Lady Albury herself.  “We have taken great care of it, haven’t we, Miss?” she said, as she fastened the dress behind.  “It’s just as new still.”

“New!” said Ayala.  “It has got to be new with me for the next two years.”

“I don’t know much about that, Miss.  Somebody will have to pay for a good many more new dresses before two years are over, I take it.”  To this Ayala made no answer, but she was quite sure that the buxom woman intended to imply that Colonel Stubbs would have to pay for the new dresses.

Punctually at half-past seven she was in the drawing-room, and there she remained alone for a few minutes.  She endeavoured to sit down and be quiet, but she found it impossible to compose herself.  Almost immediately he would be there, and then, ­as she was quite sure, ­her fate would be known to her instantly.  She knew that the first moment of his presence in the room with her would tell her everything.  If that were told to her which she desired to hear, everything should be re-told to him as quickly.  But, if it were otherwise, then she thought that when the moment came she would still have strength enough to hide her sorrow.  If he had come simply for the hunting, ­simply that they two might ride a-hunting together so that he might show to her that all traces of his disappointment were gone, ­then she would know how to teach him to think that her heart towards him was as it had ever been.  The thing to be done would be so sad as to call from her tears almost of blood in her solitude; but it should be so done that no one should know that any sorrow such as this had touched her bosom.  Not even to Lucy should this secret be told.

There was a clock on the mantelpiece to which her eye was continually turned.  It now wanted twenty minutes to eight, and she was aware that if the train was punctual he might now be at the hall-door.  At this moment Lady Albury entered the room.  “Your knight has come at last,” she said; “I hear his wheels on the gravel.”

“He is no knight of mine,” said Ayala, with that peculiar frown of hers.

“Whose ever knight he is, there he is.  Knight or not, I must go and welcome him.”  Then Lady Albury hurried out of the room and Ayala was again alone.  The door had been left partly open, so that she could hear the sound of voices and steps across the inner hall or billiard-room.  There were the servants waiting upon him, and Sir Harry bidding him to go up and dress at once so as not to keep the whole house waiting, and Lady Albury declaring that there was yet ample time as the dinner certainly would not be on the table for half-an-hour.  She heard it all, and heard him to whom all her thoughts were now given laughing as he declared that he had never been so cold in his life, and that he certainly would not dress himself till he had warmed his fingers.  She was far away from the door, not having stirred from the spot on which she was standing when Lady Albury left her; but she fancied that she heard the murmur of some slight whisper, and she told herself that Lady Albury was telling him where to seek her.  Then she heard the sound of the man’s step across the billiard-room, she heard his hand upon the door, and there he was in her presence!

When she thought of it all afterwards, as she did so many scores of times, she never could tell how it had occurred.  When she accused him in her playfulness, telling him that he had taken for granted that of which he had had no sign, she never knew whether there had been aught of truth in her accusation.  But she did know that he had hardly closed the door behind him when she was in his arms, and felt the burning love of his kisses upon her cheeks.  There had been no more asking whether he was to have any other answer.  Of that she was quite sure.  Had there been such further question she would have answered him, and some remembrance of her own words would have remained with her.  She was quite sure that she had answered no question.  Some memory of mingled granting and denying, of repulses and assents all quickly huddled upon one another, of attempts to escape while she was so happy to remain, and then of a deluge of love terms which fell upon her ears, ­“his own one, his wife, his darling, his Ayala, at last his own sweet Ayala,” ­this was what remained to her of that little interview.  She had not spoken a word.  She thought she was sure of that.  Her breath had left her, ­so that she could not speak.  And yet it had been taken for granted, ­though on former occasions he had pleaded with slow piteous words!  How had it been that he had come to know the truth so suddenly?  Then she became aware that Lady Albury was speaking to Mrs. Gosling in the billiard-room outside, detaining her other guest till the scene within should be over.  At that moment she did speak a word which she remembered afterwards.  “Go; ­go; you must go now.”  Then there had been one other soft repulse, one other sweet assent, and the man had gone.  There was just a moment for her, in which to tell herself that the Angel of Light had come for her, and had taken her to himself.

Mrs. Gosling, who was a pretty little woman, crept softly into the room, hiding her suspicion if she had any.  Lady Albury put out her hand to Ayala behind the other woman’s back, not raising it high, but just so that her young friend might touch it if she pleased.  Ayala did touch it, sliding her little fingers into the offered grasp.  “I thought it would be so,” whispered Lady Albury.  “I thought it would be so.”

“What the deuce are you all up to,” said Sir Harry, bursting into the room.  “It’s eight now, and that man has only just gone up to his room.”

“He hasn’t been in the house above five minutes yet,” said Lady Albury, “and I think he has been very quick.”  Ayala thought so too.

During dinner and afterwards they were very full of hunting for the next day.  It was wonderful to Ayala that there should be thought for such a trifle when there was such a thing as love in the world.  While there was so much to fill her heart, how could there be thoughts of anything else?  But Jonathan, ­he was Jonathan to her now, her Jonathan, her Angel of Light, ­was very keen upon the subject.  There was but one week left.  He thought that Croppy might manage three days as there was to be but one week.  Croppy would have leisure and rest enough afterwards.  “It’s a little sharp,” said Sir Harry.

“Oh, pray don’t,” said Ayala.

But Lady Albury and Jonathan together silenced Sir Harry, and Mrs. Gosling proved the absurdity of the objection by telling the story of a pony who had carried a lady three days running.  “I should not have liked to be either the pony, or the owner, or the lady,” said Sir Harry.  But he was silenced.  What did it matter though the heavens fell, so that Ayala was pleased?  What is too much to be done for a girl who proves herself to be an angel by accepting the right man at the right time?

She had but one moment alone with her lover that night.  “I always loved you,” she whispered to him as she fled away.  The Colonel did not quite understand the assertion, but he was contented with it as he sat smoking his cigar with Sir Harry and Mr. Gosling.

But, though she could have but one word that night with her lover, there were many words between her and Lady Albury before they went to bed.  “And so, like wise people, you have settled it all between you at last,” said Lady Albury.

“I don’t know whether he is wise.”

“We will take that for granted.  At any rate he has been very true.”

“Oh, yes.”

“And you, ­you knew all about it.”

“No; ­I knew nothing.  I did not think he would ever ask again.  I only hoped.”

“But why on earth did you give him so much trouble?”

“I can’t tell you,” said Ayala, shaking her head.

“Do you mean that there is still a secret?”

“No, not that.  I would tell you anything that I could tell, because you have been so very, very good to me.  But I cannot tell.  I cannot explain even to myself.  Oh, Lady Albury, why have you been so good to me?”

“Shall I say because I have loved you?”

“Yes; ­if it be true.”

“But it is not true.”

“Oh, Lady Albury!”

“I do love you dearly.  I shall always love you now.  I do hope I shall love you now, because you will be his wife.  But I have not been kind to you as you call it because I loved you.”

“Then why?”

“Because I loved him.  Cannot you understand that?  Because I was anxious that he should have all that he wanted.  Was it not necessary that there should be some house in which he might meet you?  Could there have been much of a pleasant time for wooing between you in your aunt’s drawing-room in Kingsbury Crescent?”

“Oh, no,” said Ayala.

“Could he have taken you out hunting unless you had been here?  How could he and you have known each other at all unless I had been kind to you?  Now you will understand.”

“Yes,” said Ayala, “I understand now.  Did he ask you?”

“Well, ­he consulted me.  We talked you all over, and made up our minds, between us, that if we petted you down here that would be the best way to win you.  Were we not right?”

“It was a very nice way.  I do so like to be petted.”

“Sir Harry was in the secret, and he did his petting by buying the frock.  That was a success too, I think.”

“Did he care about that, Lady Albury?”

“What he?”

“Jonathan,” said Ayala, almost stumbling over the word, as she pronounced it aloud for the first time.

“I think he liked it.  But whether he would have persevered without it you must ask yourself.  If he tells you that he would never have said another word to you only for this frock, then I think you ought to thank Sir Harry, and give him a kiss.”

“I am sure he will not tell me that,” said Ayala, with mock indignation.

“And now, my dear, as I have told you all my secret, and have explained to you how we laid our heads together, and plotted against you, I think you ought to tell me your secret.  Why was it that you refused him so pertinaciously on that Sunday when you were out walking, and yet you knew your mind about it so clearly as soon as he arrived to-day?”

“I can’t explain it,” said Ayala.

“You must know that you liked him.”

“I always liked him.”

“You must have more than liked on that Sunday.”

“I adored him.”

“Then I don’t understand you.”

“Lady Albury, I think I fell in love with him the first moment I saw him.  The Marchesa took me to a party in London, and there he was.”

“Did he say anything to you then?”

“No.  He was very funny, ­as he often is.  Don’t you know his way?  I remember every word he said to me.  He came up without any introduction and ordered me to dance with him.”

“And you did?”

“Oh yes.  Whatever he told me I should have done.  Then he scolded me because I did not stand up quick enough.  And he invented some story about a woman who was engaged to him and would not marry him because he had red hair and his name was Jonathan.  I knew it was all a joke, and yet I hated the woman.”

“That must have been love at first sight.”

“I think it was.  From that day to this I have always been thinking about him.”

“And yet you refused him twice over?”

“Yes.”

“At ever so long an interval?” Ayala bobbed her head at her companion.  “And why?”

“Ah; ­that I can’t tell.  I shall try to tell him some day, but I know that I never shall.  It was because .  But, Lady Albury, I cannot tell it.  Did you ever picture anything to yourself in a waking dream?”

“Build castles in the air?” suggested Lady Albury.

“That’s just it.”

“Very often.  But they never come true.”

“Never have come true, ­exactly.  I had a castle in the air, and in the castle lived a knight.”  She was still ashamed to say that the inhabitant of the castle was an Angel of Light.  “I wanted to find out whether he was the knight who lived there.  He was.”

“And you were not quite sure till to-day?”

“I have been sure a long time.  But when we walked out on that Sunday I was such an idiot that I did not know how to tell him.  Oh, Lady Albury, I was such a fool!  What should I have done if he hadn’t come back?”

“Sent for him.”

“Never; ­never!  I should have been miserable always!  But now I am so happy.”

“He is the real knight?”

“Oh, yes; indeed.  He is the real, ­real knight, that has always been living in my castle.”

Ayala’s promotion was now so firmly fixed that the buxom female came to assist her off with her clothes when Lady Albury had left her.  From this time forth it was supposed that such assistance would be necessary.  “I take it, Miss,” said the buxom female, “there will be a many new dresses before the end of this time two years.”  From which Ayala was quite sure that everybody in the house knew all about it.

But it was now, now when she was quite alone, that the great sense of her happiness came to her.  In the fulness of her dreams there had never been more than the conviction that such a being, and none other, could be worthy of her love.  There had never been faith in the hope that such a one would come to her, ­never even though she would tell herself that angels had come down from heaven and had sought in marriage the hands of the daughters of men.  Her dreams had been to her a barrier against love rather than an encouragement.  But now he that she had in truth dreamed of had come for her.  Then she brought out the Marchesa’s letter and read that description of her lover.  Yes; he was all that; true, brave, tender, ­a very hero.  But then he was more than all that, ­for he was in truth the very “Angel of Light.”