MARION FAY AND HER FATHER.
"I saw him go in a full quarter of an hour since, and Marion Fay went
in before. I feel quite sure that she knew that he was expected."
Thus spoke Clara Demijohn to her mother.
"How could she have known it," asked Mrs. Duffer, who was present in
Mrs. Demijohn's parlour, where the two younger women were standing
with their faces close to the window, with their gloves on and best
bonnets, ready for church.
"I am sure she did, because she had made herself smarter than ever
with her new brown silk, and her new brown gloves, and her new brown
hat,--sly little Quaker that she is. I can see when a girl has made
herself up for some special occasion. She wouldn't have put on new
gloves surely to go to church with Mrs. Roden."
"If you stay staring there any longer you'll both be late," said Mrs.
Demijohn.
"Mrs. Roden hasn't gone yet," said Clara, lingering. It was Sunday
morning, and the ladies at No. 10 were preparing for their devotions.
Mrs. Demijohn herself never went to church, having some years since
had a temporary attack of sciatica, which had provided her with a
perpetual excuse for not leaving the house on a Sunday morning. She
was always left at home with a volume of Blair's Sermons; but Clara,
who was a clever girl, was well aware that more than half a page was
never read. She was aware also that great progress was then made with
the novel which happened to have last come into the house from the
little circulating library round the corner. The ringing of the
neighbouring church bell had come to its final tinkling, and Mrs.
Duffer knew that she must start, or disgrace herself in the eyes of
the pew-opener. "Come, my dear," she said; and away they went. As the
door of No. 10 opened so did that of No. 11 opposite, and the four
ladies, including Marion Fay, met in the road. "You have a visitor
this morning," said Clara.
"Yes;--a friend of my son's."
"We know all about it," said Clara. "Don't you think he's a very
fine-looking young man, Miss Fay?"
"Yes, I do," said Marion. "He is certainly a handsome young man."
"Beauty is but skin deep," said Mrs. Duffer.
"But still it goes a long way," said Clara, "particularly with high
birth and noble rank."
"He is an excellent young man, as far as I know him," said Mrs.
Roden, thinking that she was called upon to defend her son's friend.
Hampstead had returned home on the Saturday, and had taken the
earliest opportunity on the following Sunday morning to go over to
his friend at Holloway. The distance was about six miles, and he had
driven over, sending the vehicle back with the intention of walking
home. He would get his friend to walk with him, and then should take
place that conversation which he feared would become excessively
unpleasant before it was finished. He was shown up to the
drawing-room of No. 11, and there he found all alone a young woman
whom he had never seen before. This was Marion Fay, the daughter of
Zachary Fay, a Quaker, who lived at No. 17, Paradise Row. "I had
thought Mrs. Roden was here," he said.
"Mrs. Roden will be down directly. She is putting her bonnet on to go
to church."
"And Mr. Roden?" he asked. "He I suppose is not going to church with
her?"
"Ah, no; I wish he were. George Roden never goes to church."
"Is he a friend of yours?"
"For his mother's sake I was speaking;--but why not for his also? He
is not specially my friend, but I wish well to all men. He is not at
home at present, but I understood that he will be here shortly."
"Do you always go to church?" he asked, grounding his question not
on any impertinent curiosity as to her observance of her religious
duties, but because he had thought from her dress she must certainly
be a Quaker.
"I do usually go to your church on a Sunday."
"Nay," said he, "I have no right to claim it as my church. I fear you
must regard me also as a heathen,--as you do George Roden."
"I am sorry for that, sir. It cannot be good that any man should be
a heathen when so much Christian teaching is abroad. But men I think
allow themselves a freedom of thought from which women in their
timidity are apt to shrink. If so it is surely good that we should be
cowards?" Then the door opened, and Mrs. Roden came into the room.
"George is gone," she said, "to call on a sick friend, but he will be
back immediately. He got your letter yesterday evening, and he left
word that I was to tell you that he would be back by eleven. Have you
introduced yourself to my friend Miss Fay?"
"I had not heard her name," he said smiling, "but we had introduced
ourselves."
"Marion Fay is my name," said the girl, "and yours, I suppose
is--Lord Hampstead."
"So now we may be supposed to know each other for ever after," he
replied, laughing; "--only I fear, Mrs. Roden, that your friend will
repudiate the acquaintance because I do not go to church."
"I said not so, Lord Hampstead. The nearer we were to being
friends,--if that were possible,--the more I should regret it." Then
the two ladies started on their morning duty.
Lord Hampstead when he was alone immediately decided that he would
like to have Marion Fay for a friend, and not the less so because
she went to church. He felt that she had been right in saying that
audacity in speculation on religious subjects was not becoming a
young woman. As it was unfitting that his sister Lady Frances should
marry a Post Office clerk, so would it have been unbecoming that
Marion Fay should have been what she herself called a heathen. Surely
of all the women on whom his eyes had ever rested she was,--he would
not say to himself the most lovely,--but certainly the best worth
looking at. The close brown bonnet and the little cap, and the
well-made brown silk dress, and the brown gloves on her little hands,
together made, to his eyes, as pleasing a female attire as a girl
could well wear. Could it have been by accident that the graces of
her form were so excellently shown? It had to be supposed that she,
as a Quaker, was indifferent to outside feminine garniture. It is
the theory of a Quaker that she should be so, and in every article
she had adhered closely to Quaker rule. As far as he could see there
was not a ribbon about her. There was no variety of colour. Her
head-dress was as simple and close as any that could have been worn
by her grandmother. Hardly a margin of smooth hair appeared between
her cap and her forehead. Her dress fitted close to her neck, and
on her shoulders she wore a tight-fitting shawl. The purpose in her
raiment had been Quaker all through. The exquisite grace must have
come altogether by accident,--just because it had pleased nature to
make her gracious! As to all this there might perhaps be room for
doubt. Whether there had been design or not might possibly afford
scope for consideration. But that the grace was there was a matter
which required no consideration, and admitted of no doubt.
As Marion Fay will have much to do with our story, it will be well
that some further description should be given here of herself and of
her condition in life. Zachary Fay, her father, with whom she lived,
was a widower with no other living child. There had been many others,
who had all died, as had also their mother. She had been a prey
to consumption, but had lived long enough to know that she had
bequeathed the fatal legacy to her offspring,--to all of them except
to Marion, who, when her mother died, had seemed to be exempted from
the terrible curse of the family. She had then been old enough to
receive her mother's last instructions as to her father, who was then
a broken-hearted man struggling with difficulty against the cruelty
of Providence. Why should it have been that God should thus afflict
him,--him who had no other pleasure in the world, no delights,
but those which were afforded to him by the love of his wife and
children? It was to be her duty to comfort him, to make up as best
she might by her tenderness for all that he had lost and was losing.
It was to be especially her duty to soften his heart in all worldly
matters, and to turn him as far as possible to the love of heavenly
things. It was now two years since her mother's death, and in all
things she had endeavoured to perform the duties which her mother had
exacted from her.
But Zachary Fay was not a man whom it was easy to turn hither and
thither. He was a stern, hard, just man, of whom it may probably be
said that if a world were altogether composed of such, the condition
of such a world would be much better than that of the world we
know;--for generosity is less efficacious towards permanent good than
justice, and tender speaking less enduring in its beneficial results
than truth. His enemies, for he had enemies, said of him that he
loved money. It was no doubt true; for he that does not love money
must be an idiot. He was certainly a man who liked to have what was
his own, who would have been irate with any one who had endeavoured
to rob him of his own, or had hindered him in his just endeavour
to increase his own. That which belonged to another he did not
covet,--unless it might be in the way of earning it. Things had
prospered with him, and he was--for his condition in life--a rich
man. But his worldly prosperity had not for a moment succeeded in
lessening the asperity of the blow which had fallen upon him. With
all his sternness he was essentially a loving man. To earn money
he would say--or perhaps more probably would only think--was the
necessity imposed upon man by the Fall of Adam; but to have something
warm at his heart, something that should be infinitely dearer to him
than himself and all his possessions,--that was what had been left
of Divine Essence in a man even after the Fall of Adam. Now the one
living thing left for him to love was his daughter Marion.
He was not a man whose wealth was of high order, or his employment of
great moment, or he would not probably have been living at Holloway
in Paradise Row. He was and had now been for many years senior clerk
to Messrs. Pogson and Littlebird, Commission Agents, at the top of
King's Court, Old Broad Street. By Messrs. Pogson and Littlebird he
was trusted with everything, and had become so amalgamated with the
firm as to have achieved in the City almost the credit of a merchant
himself. There were some who thought that Zachary Fay must surely be
a partner in the house, or he would not have been so well known or
so much respected among merchants themselves. But in truth he was
no more than senior clerk, with a salary amounting to four hundred
a year. Nor, though he was anxious about his money, would he have
dreamed of asking for any increase of his stipend. It was for Messrs.
Pogson and Littlebird to say what his services were worth. He would
not on any account have lessened his authority with them by becoming
a suppliant for increased payment. But for many years he had spent
much less than his income, and had known how to use his City
experiences in turning his savings to the best account. Thus, as
regarded Paradise Row and its neighbourhood, Zachary Fay was a rich
man.
He was now old, turned seventy, tall and thin, with long grey hair,
with a slight stoop in his shoulders,--but otherwise hale as well
as healthy. He went every day to his office, leaving his house with
strict punctuality at half-past eight, and entering the door of the
counting-house just as the clock struck nine. With equal accuracy he
returned home at six, having dined in the middle of the day at an
eating-house in the City. All this time was devoted to the interests
of the firm, except for three hours on Thursday, during which he
attended a meeting in a Quaker house of worship. On these occasions
Marion always joined him, making a journey into the City for the
purpose. She would fain have induced him also to accompany her on
Sundays to the English Church. But to this he never would consent
at her instance,--as he had refused to do so at the instance of his
wife. He was he said a Quaker, and did not mean to be aught else
than a Quaker. In truth, though he was very punctual at those Quaker
meetings, he was not at heart a religious man. To go through certain
formularies, Quaker though he was, was as sufficient to him as to
many other votaries of Church ordinances. He had been brought up to
attend Quaker meetings, and no doubt would continue to attend them
as long as his strength might suffice; but it may be presumed of him
without harsh judgment that the price of stocks was often present
to his mind during those tedious hours in the meeting-house. In
his language he always complied with the strict tenets of his sect,
"thou-ing" and "thee-ing" all those whom he addressed; but he had
assented to an omission in this matter on the part of his daughter,
recognizing the fact that there could be no falsehood in using a mode
of language common to all the world. "If a plural pronoun of ignoble
sound," so he said, "were used commonly for the singular because the
singular was too grand and authoritative for ordinary use, it was no
doubt a pity that the language should be so injured; but there could
be no untruth in such usage; and it was better that at any rate the
young should adhere to the manner of speech which was common among
those with whom they lived." Thus Marion was saved from the "thees"
and the "thous," and escaped that touch of hypocrisy which seems to
permeate the now antiquated speeches of Quakers. Zachary Fay in these
latter years of his life was never known to laugh or to joke; but, if
circumstances were favourable, he would sometimes fall into a quaint
mode of conversation in which there was something of drollery and
something also of sarcasm; but this was unfrequent, as Zachary was
slow in making new friends, and never conversed after this fashion
with the mere acquaintance of the hour.
Of Marion Fay's appearance something has already been said; enough,
perhaps,--not to impress any clear idea of her figure on the mind's
eye of a reader, for that I regard as a feat beyond the power of any
writer,--but to enable the reader to form a conception of his own.
She was small of stature, it should be said, with limbs exquisitely
made. It was not the brilliance of her eyes or the chiselled
correctness of her features which had struck Hampstead so forcibly as
a certain expression of earnest eloquence which pervaded her whole
form. And there was a fleeting brightness of colour which went about
her cheeks and forehead, and ran around her mouth, which gave to her
when she was speaking a brilliance which was hardly to be expected
from the ordinary lines of her countenance. Had you been asked, you
would have said that she was a brunette,--till she had been worked
to some excitement in talking. Then, I think, you would have hardly
ventured to describe her complexion by any single word. Lord
Hampstead, had he been asked what he thought about her, as he sat
waiting for his friend, would have declared that some divinity of
grace had been the peculiar gift which had attracted him. And yet
that rapid change of colour had not passed unobserved, as she told
him that she was sorry that he did not go to church.
Marion Fay's life in Paradise Row would have been very lonely had she
not become acquainted with Mrs. Roden before her mother's death. Now
hardly a day passed but what she spent an hour with that lady. They
were, indeed, fast friends,--so much so that Mrs. Vincent had also
come to know Marion, and approving of the girl's religious tendencies
had invited her to spend two or three days at Wimbledon. This was
impossible, because Marion would never leave her father;--but she had
once or twice gone over with Mrs. Roden, when she made her weekly
call, and had certainly ingratiated herself with the austere lady.
Other society she had none, nor did she seem to desire it. Clara
Demijohn, seeing the intimacy which had been struck up between Marion
and Mrs. Roden,--as to which she had her own little jealousies to
endure,--was quite sure that Marion was setting her cap at the Post
Office clerk, and had declared in confidence to Mrs. Duffer that the
girl was doing it in the most brazen-faced manner. Clara had herself
on more than one occasion contrived to throw herself in the clerk's
way on his return homewards on dusky evenings,--perhaps intent only
on knowing what might be the young man's intentions as to Marion Fay.
The young man had been courteous to her, but she had declared to Mrs.
Duffer that he was one of those stiff young men who don't care for
ladies' society. "These are they," said Mrs. Duffer, "who marry the
readiest and make the best husbands." "Oh;--she'll go on sticking
to him till she don't leave a stone unturned," said Clara,--thereby
implying that, as far as she was concerned, she did not think it
worth her while to continue her attacks unless a young man would give
way to her at once. George had been asked more than once to drink tea
at No. 10, but had been asked in vain. Clara, therefore, had declared
quite loudly that Marion had made an absolute prisoner of him,--had
bound him hand and foot,--would not let him call his life his own.
"She interrupts him constantly as he comes from the office," she said
to Mrs. Duffer; "I call that downright unfeminine audacity." Yet she
knew that Mrs. Duffer knew that she had intercepted the young man.
Mrs. Duffer took it all in good part, knowing very well how necessary
it is that a young woman should fight her own battle strenuously.
In the mean time Marion Fay and George Roden were good friends. "He
is engaged;--I must not say to whom," Mrs. Roden had said to her
young friend. "It will, I fear, be a long, long, tedious affair. You
must not speak of it."
"If she be true to him, I hope he will be true to her," said Marion,
with true feminine excitement.
"I only fear that he will be too true."
"No, no;--that cannot be. Even though he suffer let him be true. You
may be sure I will not mention it,--to him, or to any one. I like
him so well that I do hope he may not suffer much." From that time
she found herself able to regard George Roden as a real friend,
and to talk to him as though there need be no cause for dreading
an intimacy. With an engaged man a girl may suffer herself to be
intimate.