CHAPTER XXII.

AGAIN AT TRAFFORD.

The meeting between Hampstead and his sister was affectionate and,

upon the whole, satisfactory, though it was necessary that a few

words should be spoken which could hardly be pleasant in themselves.

"I had a dinner-party here last night," he said laughing, desirous of

telling her something of George Roden,--and something also of Marion

Fay.

"Who were the guests?"

"Roden was here." Then there was silence. She was glad that her lover

had been one of the guests, but she was not as yet moved to say

anything respecting him. "And his mother."

"I am sure I shall like his mother," said Lady Frances.

"I have mentioned it," continued her brother, speaking with unusual

care, "because, in compliance with the agreement I made at Trafford,

I cannot ask him here again at present."

"I am sorry that I should be in your way, John."

"You are not in my way, as I think you know. Let us say no more than

that at present. Then I had a singular old Quaker, named Zachary Fay,

an earnest, honest, but humble man, who blew me up instantly for

talking slang."

"Where did you pick him up?"

"He comes out of the City," he said, not wishing to refer again to

Paradise Row and the neighbourhood of the Rodens,--"and he brought

his daughter."

"A young lady?"

"Certainly a young lady."

"Ah, but young,--and beautiful?"

"Young,--and beautiful."

"Now you are laughing. I suppose she is some strong-minded, rather

repulsive, middle-aged woman."

"As to the strength of her mind, I have not seen enough to constitute

myself a judge," said Hampstead, almost with a tone of offence. "Why

you should imagine her to be repulsive because she is a Quaker, or

why middle-aged, I do not understand. She is not repulsive to me."

"Oh, John, I am so sorry! Now I know that you have found some divine

beauty."

"We sometimes entertain angels unawares. I thought that I had done so

when she took her departure."

"Are you in earnest?"

"I am quite in earnest as to the angel. Now I have to consult you as

to a project." It may be remembered that Hampstead had spoken to his

father as to the expediency of giving up his horses if he found that

his means were not sufficient to keep up Hendon Hall, his yacht, and

his hunting establishment in Northamptonshire. The Marquis, without

saying a word to his son, had settled that matter, and Gorse Hall,

with its stables, was continued. The proposition now made to Lady

Frances was that she should go down with him and remain there for a

week or two till she should find the place too dull. He had intended

to fix an almost immediate day; but now he was debarred from this by

his determination to see Marion yet once again before he took himself

altogether beyond the reach of Holloway. The plan, therefore, though

it was fixed as far as his own intention went and the assent of

Lady Frances, was left undefined as to time. The more he thought of

Holloway, and the difficulties of approaching Paradise Row, the more

convinced he became that his only mode of approaching Marion must be

through Mrs. Roden. He had taken two or three days to consider what

would be the most appropriate manner of going through this operation,

when on a sudden he was arrested by a letter from his father, begging

his presence down at Trafford. The Marquis was ill, and was anxious

to see his son. The letter in which the request was made was sad and

plaintive throughout. He was hardly able to write, Lord Kingsbury

said, because he was so unwell; but he had no one to write for him.

Mr. Greenwood had made himself so disagreeable that he could no

longer employ him for such purposes. "Your stepmother is causing me

much vexation, which I do not think that I deserve from her." He then

added that it would be necessary for him to have his lawyer down at

Trafford, but that he wished to see Hampstead first in order that

they might settle as to certain arrangements which were required in

regard to the disposition of the property. There were some things

which Hampstead could not fail to perceive from this letter. He was

sure that his father was alarmed as to his own condition, or he

would not have thought of sending for the lawyer to Trafford. He had

hitherto always been glad to seize an opportunity of running up to

London when any matter of business had seemed to justify the journey.

Then it occurred to his son that his father had rarely or ever spoken

or written to him of his "stepmother." In certain moods the Marquis

had been wont to call his wife either the Marchioness or Lady

Kingsbury. When in good humour he had generally spoken of her to his

son as "your mother." The injurious though strictly legal name now

given to her was a certain index of abiding wrath. But things must

have been very bad with the Marquis at Trafford when he had utterly

discarded the services of Mr. Greenwood,--services to which he had

been used for a time to which the memory of his son did not go back.

Hampstead of course obeyed his father's injunctions, and went down to

Trafford instantly, leaving his sister alone at Hendon Hall. He found

the Marquis not in bed indeed, but confined to his own sitting-room,

and to a very small bed-chamber which had been fitted up for him

close to it. Mr. Greenwood had been anxious to give up his own rooms

as being more spacious; but the offer had been peremptorily and

almost indignantly refused. The Marquis had been unwilling to accept

anything like a courtesy from Mr. Greenwood. Should he make up his

mind to turn Mr. Greenwood out of the house,--and he had almost made

up his mind to do so,--then he could do what he pleased with Mr.

Greenwood's rooms. But he wasn't going to accept the loan of chambers

in his own house as a favour from Mr. Greenwood.

Hampstead on arriving at the house saw the Marchioness for a moment

before he went to his father. "I cannot tell how he is," said Lady

Kingsbury, speaking in evident dudgeon. "He will hardly let me go

near him. Doctor Spicer seems to think that we need not be alarmed.

He shuts himself up in those gloomy rooms down-stairs. Of course it

would be better for him to be off the ground floor, where he would

have more light and air. But he has become so obstinate, that I do

not know how to deal with him."

"He has always liked to live in the room next to Mr. Greenwood's."

"He has taken an absolute hatred to Mr. Greenwood. You had better not

mention the poor old gentleman's name to him. Shut up as I am here, I

have no one else to speak a word to, and for that reason, I suppose,

he wishes to get rid of him. He is absolutely talking of sending the

man away after having had him with him for nearly thirty years."

In answer to all this Hampstead said almost nothing. He knew his

stepmother, and was aware that he could do no service by telling

her what he might find it to be his duty to say to his father as

to Mr. Greenwood, or on any other subject. He did not hate his

stepmother,--as she hated him. But he regarded her as one to whom it

was quite useless to speak seriously as to the affairs of the family.

He knew her to be prejudiced, ignorant, and falsely proud,--but he

did not suppose her to be either wicked or cruel.

His father began almost instantly about Mr. Greenwood, so that it

would have been quite impossible for him to follow Lady Kingsbury's

advice on that matter had he been ever so well minded. "Of course I'm

ill," he said; "I suffer so much from sickness and dyspepsia that

I can eat nothing. Doctor Spicer seems to think that I should get

better if I did not worry myself; but there are so many things to

worry me. The conduct of that man is abominable."

"What man, sir?" asked Hampstead,--who knew, however, very well what

was coming.

"That clergyman," said Lord Kingsbury, pointing in the direction of

Mr. Greenwood's room.

"He does not come to you, sir, unless you send for him?"

"I haven't seen him for the last five days, and I don't care if I

never see him again."

"How has he offended you, sir?"

"I gave him my express injunctions that he should not speak of

your sister either to me or the Marchioness. He gave me his solemn

promise, and I know very well that they are talking about her every

hour of the day."

"Perhaps that is not his fault."

"Yes, it is. A man needn't talk to a woman unless he likes. It is

downright impudence on his part. Your stepmother comes to me every

day, and never leaves me without abusing Fanny."

"That is why I thought it better that Fanny should come to me."

"And then, when I argue with her, she always tells me what Mr.

Greenwood says about it. Who cares about Mr. Greenwood? What business

has Mr. Greenwood to interfere in my family? He does not know how to

behave himself, and he shall go."

"He has been here a great many years, sir," said Hampstead, pleading

for the old man.

"Too many," said the Marquis. "When you've had a man about you so

long as that, he is sure to take liberties."

"You must provide for him, sir, if he goes."

"I have thought of that. He must have something, of course. He

has had three hundred a-year for the last ten years, and has had

everything found for him down to his washing and his cab fares. For

five-and-twenty years he has never paid for a bed or a meal out of

his own pocket. What has he done with his money? He ought to be a

rich man for his degree."

"What a man does with his money is, I suppose, no concern to those

who pay it. It is supposed to have been earned, and there is an end

of it as far as they are concerned."

"He shall have a thousand pounds," said the Marquis.

"That would hardly be liberal. I would think twice before I dismissed

him, sir."

"I have thought a dozen times."

"I would let him remain," said Hampstead, "if only because he's a

comfort to Lady Kingsbury. What does it matter though he does talk

of Fanny? Were he to go she would talk to somebody else who might

be perhaps less fit to hear her, and he would, of course, talk to

everybody."

"Why has he not obeyed me?" demanded the Marquis, angrily. "It is

I who have employed him. I have been his patron, and now he turns

against me." Thus the Marquis went on till his strength would not

suffice for any further talking. Hampstead found himself quite unable

to bring him to any other subject on that day. He was sore with the

injury done him in that he was not allowed to be the master in his

own house.

On the next morning Hampstead heard from Dr. Spicer that his father

was in a state of health very far from satisfactory. The doctor

recommended that he should be taken away from Trafford, and at last

went so far as to say that his advice extended to separating his

patient from Lady Kingsbury. "It is, of course, a very disagreeable

subject," said the doctor, "for a medical man to meddle with; but,

my lord, the truth is that Lady Kingsbury frets him. I don't, of

course, care to hear what it is, but there is something wrong."

Lord Hampstead, who knew very well what it was, did not attempt

to contradict him. When, however, he spoke to his father of the

expediency of change of air, the Marquis told him that he would

rather die at Trafford than elsewhere.

That his father was really thinking of his death was only too

apparent from all that was said and done. As to those matters of

business, they were soon settled between them. There was, at any

rate, that comfort to the poor man that there was no probability of

any difference between him and his heir as to the property or as to

money. Half-an-hour settled all that. Then came the time which had

been arranged for Hampstead's return to his sister. But before he

went there were conversations between him and Mr. Greenwood, between

him and his stepmother, and between him and his father, to which, for

the sake of our story, it may be as well to refer.

"I think your father is ill-treating me," said Mr. Greenwood. Mr.

Greenwood had allowed himself to be talked into a thorough contempt

and dislike for the young lord; so that he had almost brought himself

to believe in those predictions as to the young lord's death in which

Lady Kingsbury was always indulging. As a consequence of this, he now

spoke in a voice very different from those obsequious tones which he

had before been accustomed to use when he had regarded Lord Hampstead

as his young patron.

"I am sure my father would never do that," said Hampstead, angrily.

"It looks very like it. I have devoted all the best of my life to his

service, and he now talks of dismissing me as though I were no better

than a servant."

"Whatever he does, he will, I am sure, have adequate cause for

doing."

"I have done nothing but my duty. It is out of the question that a

man in my position should submit to orders as to what he is to talk

about and what not. It is natural that Lady Kingsbury should come to

me in her troubles."

"If you will take my advice," said Lord Hampstead, in that tone

of voice which always produces in the mind of the listener a

determination that the special advice offered shall not be taken,

"you will comply with my father's wishes while it suits you to live

in his house. If you cannot do that, it would become you, I think,

to leave it." In every word of this there was a rebuke; and Mr.

Greenwood, who did not like being rebuked, remembered it.

"Of course I am nobody in this house now," said the Marchioness in

her last interview with her stepson. It is of no use to argue with an

angry woman, and in answer to this Hampstead made some gentle murmur

which was intended neither to assent or to dispute the proposition

made to him. "Because I ventured to disapprove of Mr. Roden as a

husband for your sister I have been shut up here, and not allowed to

speak to any one."

"Fanny has left the house, so that she may no longer cause you

annoyance by her presence."

"She has left the house in order that she may be near the abominable

lover with whom you have furnished her."

"This is not true," said Hampstead, who was moved beyond his control

by the double falseness of the accusation.

"Of course you can be insolent to me, and tell me that I speak

falsehoods. It is part of your new creed that you should be neither

respectful to a parent, nor civil to a lady."

"I beg your pardon, Lady Kingsbury,"--he had never called her Lady

Kingsbury before,--"if I have been disrespectful or uncivil, but your

statements were very hard to bear. Fanny's engagement with Mr. Roden

has not even received my sanction. Much less was it arranged or

encouraged by me. She has not gone to Hendon Hall to be near Mr.

Roden, with whom she had undertaken to hold no communication as long

as she remains there with me. Both for my own sake and for hers I

am bound to repudiate the accusation." Then he went without further

adieu, leaving with her a conviction that she had been treated with

the greatest contumely by her husband's rebellious heir.

Nothing could be sadder than the last words which the Marquis spoke

to his son. "I don't suppose, Hampstead, that we shall ever meet

again in this world."

"Oh, father!"

"I don't think Mr. Spicer knows how bad I am."

"Will you have Sir James down from London?"

"No Sir James can do me any good, I fear. It is ill ministering to a

mind diseased."

"Why, sir, should you have a mind diseased? With few men can things

be said to be more prosperous than with you. Surely this affair of

Fanny's is not of such a nature as to make you feel that all things

are bitter round you."

"It is not that."

"What then? I hope I have not been a cause of grief to you?"

"No, my boy;--no. It irks me sometimes to think that I should have

trained you to ideas which you have taken up too violently. But it is

not that."

"My mother--?"

"She has set her heart against me,--against you and Fanny. I feel

that a division has been made between my two families. Why should my

daughter be expelled from my own house? Why should I not be able to

have you here, except as an enemy in the camp? Why am I to have that

man take up arms against me, whom I have fed in idleness all his

life?"

"I would not let him trouble my thoughts."

"When you are old and weak you will find it hard to banish thoughts

that trouble you. As to going, where am I to go to?"

"Come to Hendon."

"And leave her here with him, so that all the world shall say that I

am running away from my own wife? Hendon is your house now, and this

is mine;--and here I must stay till my time has come."

This was very sad, not as indicating the state of his father's

health, as to which he was more disposed to take the doctor's opinion

than that of the patient, but as showing the infirmity of his

father's mind. He had been aware of a certain weakness in his

father's character,--a desire not so much for ruling as for seeming

to rule all that were around him. The Marquis had wished to be

thought a despot even when he had delighted in submitting himself to

the stronger mind of his first wife. Now he felt the chains that were

imposed upon him, so that they galled him when he could not throw

them off. All this was very sad to Hampstead; but it did not make him

think that his father's health had in truth been seriously affected.

END OF VOL. I.

* * * * * *

MARION FAY.

A Novel.

by

ANTHONY TROLLOPE,

Author of

"Framley Parsonage," "Orley Farm," "The Way We Live Now," etc., etc.

In Three Volumes.

VOL. II.

London:

Chapman & Hall, Limited, 11, Henrietta St.

1882

[All Rights reserved.]

Bungay:

Clay and Taylor, Printers.

CONTENTS OF VOLUME II.

I. THE IRREPRESSIBLE CROCKER.

II. MRS. RODEN'S ELOQUENCE.

III. MARION'S VIEWS ABOUT MARRIAGE.

IV. LORD HAMPSTEAD IS IMPATIENT.

V. THE QUAKER'S ELOQUENCE.

VI. MARION'S OBSTINACY.

VII. MRS. DEMIJOHN'S PARTY.

VIII. NEW YEAR'S DAY.

IX. MISS DEMIJOHN'S INGENUITY.

X. KING'S COURT, OLD BROAD STREET.

XI. MR. GREENWOOD BECOMES AMBITIOUS.

XII. LIKE THE POOR CAT I' THE ADAGE.

XIII. LADY FRANCES SEES HER LOVER.

XIV. MR. GREENWOOD'S FEELINGS.

XV. "THAT WOULD BE DISAGREEABLE."

XVI. "I DO."

XVII. AT GORSE HALL.

XVIII. POOR WALKER.

XIX. FALSE TIDINGS.

XX. NEVER, NEVER, TO COME AGAIN.

XXI. DI CRINOLA.

MARION FAY.

CHAPTER I.

THE IRREPRESSIBLE CROCKER.

Hampstead remained nearly a fortnight down at Trafford, returning to

Hendon only a few days before Christmas. Crocker, the Post Office

clerk, came back to his duties at the same time, but, as was the

custom with him, stole a day more than belonged to him, and thus

incurred the frowns of Mr. Jerningham and the heavy wrath of the

great Æolus. The Æoluses of the Civil Service are necessarily much

exercised in their minds by such irregularities. To them personally

it matters not at all whether one or another young man may be

neglectful. It may be known to such a one that a Crocker may be

missed from his seat without any great injury,--possibly with no

injury at all,--to the Queen's service. There are Crockers whom it

would be better to pay for their absence than their presence. This

Æolus thought it was so with this Crocker. Then why not dismiss

Crocker, and thus save the waste of public money? But there is a

necessity,--almost a necessity,--that the Crockers of the world

should live. They have mothers, or perhaps even wives, with backs

to be clothed and stomachs to be fed, or perhaps with hearts to be

broken. There is, at any rate, a dislike to proceed to the ultimate

resort of what may be called the capital punishment of the Civil

Service. To threaten, to frown, to scold, to make a young man's life

a burden to him, are all within the compass of an official Æolus.

You would think occasionally that such a one was resolved to turn

half the clerks in his office out into the streets,--so loud are the

threats. In regard to individuals he often is resolved to do so at

the very next fault. But when the time comes his heart misgives him.

Even an Æolus is subject to mercy, and at last his conscience becomes

so callous to his first imperative duty of protecting the public

service, that it grows to be a settled thing with him, that though

a man's life is to be made a burden to him, the man is not to be

actually dismissed. But there are men to whom you cannot make their

life a burden,--men upon whom no frowns, no scoldings, no threats

operate at all; and men unfortunately sharp enough to perceive what

is that ultimate decision to which their Æolus had been brought. Such

a one was our Crocker, who cared very little for the blusterings.

On this occasion he had remained away for the sake of having an

additional day with the Braeside Harriers, and when he pleaded a

bilious headache no one believed him for an instant. It was in vain

for Æolus to tell him that a man subject to health so precarious

was altogether unfitted for the Civil Service. Crocker had known

beforehand exactly what was going to be said to him, and had

discounted it at its exact worth. Even in the presence of Mr.

Jerningham he spoke openly of the day's hunting, knowing that Mr.

Jerningham would prefer his own ease to the trouble of renewed

complaint. "If you would sit at your desk now that you have come

back, and go on with your docketing, instead of making everybody else

idle, it would be a great deal better," said Mr. Jerningham.

"Then my horse took the wall in a fly, and old Amblethwaite crept

over afterwards," continued Crocker, standing with his back to the

fire, utterly disregarding Mr. Jerningham's admonitions.

On his first entrance into the room Crocker had shaken hands with

Mr. Jerningham, then with Bobbin and Geraghty, and at last he came

to Roden, with whom he would willingly have struck up terms of

affectionate friendship had it been possible for him to do so. He had

resolved that it should be so, but when the moment came his courage

a little failed him. He had made himself very offensive to Roden at

their last interview, and could see at a glance that Roden remembered

it. As far as his own feelings were concerned such "tiffs," as he

called them, went for nothing. He had, indeed, no feelings, and was

accustomed to say that he liked the system of give and take,--meaning

that he liked being impudent to others, and did not care how impudent

others might be to him. This toughness and insolence are as sharp

as needles to others who do not possess the same gifts. Roden had

learned to detest the presence of the young man, to be sore when he

was even spoken to, and yet did not know how to put him down. You may

have a fierce bull shut up. You may muzzle a dog that will bite. You

may shoot a horse that you cannot cure of biting and tearing. But you

cannot bring yourself to spend a morning in hunting a bug or killing

a flea. Crocker had made himself a serious annoyance even to Lord

Hampstead, though their presence together had only been for a very

short time. But Roden had to pass his life at the same desk with

the odious companion. Absolutely to cut him, to let it be known all

through the office that they two did not speak, was to make too

much of the matter. But yet it was essentially necessary for his

peace that some step should be taken to save himself from the man's

insolence. On the present occasion he nodded his head to Crocker,

being careful not to lay the pen down from his fingers. "Ain't you

going to give us your hand, old fellow?" said Crocker, putting on his

best show of courage.

"I don't know that I am," said Roden. "Perhaps some of these days you

may learn to make yourself less disagreeable."

"I'm sure I've always meant to be very friendly, especially with

you," said Crocker; "but it is so hard to get what one says taken in

the proper sense."

After this not a word was spoken between the two all the morning.

This happened on a Saturday,--Saturday, the 20th of December, on

which day Hampstead was to return to his own house. Punctually at

one Crocker left his desk, and with a comic bow of mock courtesy

to Mr. Jerningham, stuck his hat on the side of his head, and left

the office. His mind, as he took himself home to his lodgings, was

full of Roden's demeanour towards him. Since he had become assured

that his brother clerk was engaged to marry Lady Frances Trafford,

he was quite determined to cultivate an enduring and affectionate

friendship. But what steps should he take to recover the ground which

he had lost? It occurred to him now that while he was in Cumberland

he had established quite an intimacy with Lord Hampstead, and he

thought that it would be well to use Lord Hampstead's acknowledged

good-nature for recovering the ground which he had lost with his

brother clerk.

* * * * * *

At about three o'clock that afternoon, when Lady Frances was

beginning to think that the time of her brother's arrival was near

at hand, the servant came into the drawing-room, and told her that

a gentleman had called, and was desirous of seeing her. "What

gentleman?" asked Lady Frances. "Has he sent his name?"

"No, my lady; but he says,--he says that he is a clerk from the Post

Office." Lady Frances was at the moment so dismayed that she did not

know what answer to give. There could be but one Post Office clerk

who should be anxious to see her, and she had felt from the tone of

the servant's voice that he had known that it was her lover who had

called. Everybody knew that the Post Office clerk was her lover. Some

immediate answer was necessary. She quite understood the pledge that

her brother had made on her behalf; and, though she had not herself

made any actual promise, she felt that she was bound not to receive

George Roden. But yet she could not bring herself to turn him away

from the door, and so to let the servant suppose that she was ashamed

to see him to whom she had given the promise of her hand. "You had

better show the gentleman in," she said at last, with a voice that

almost trembled. A moment afterwards the door was opened, and Mr.

Crocker entered the room!

She had endeavoured in the minute which had been allowed her to study

the manner in which she should receive her lover. As she heard the

approaching footsteps, she prepared herself. She had just risen from

her seat, nearly risen, when the strange man appeared. It has to be

acknowledged that she was grievously disappointed, although she had

told herself that Roden ought not to have come to her. What woman is

there will not forgive her lover for coming, even though he certainly

should not have come? What woman is there will fail to receive a

stranger with hard looks when a stranger shall appear to her instead

of an expected lover? "Sir?" she said, standing as he walked up the

room and made a low bow to her as he took his position before her.

Crocker was dressed up to the eyes, and wore yellow kid gloves. "Lady

Frances," he said, "I am Mr. Crocker, Mr. Samuel Crocker, of the

General Post Office. You may not perhaps have heard of me from my

friend, Mr. Roden?"

"No, indeed, sir."

"You might have done so, as we sit in the same room and at the same

desk. Or you may remember meeting me at dinner at your uncle's castle

in Cumberland."

"Is anything,--anything the matter with Mr. Roden?"

"Not in the least, my lady. I had the pleasure of leaving him in

very good health about two hours since. There is nothing at all to

occasion your ladyship the slightest uneasiness." A dark frown came

across her brow as she heard the man talk thus freely of her interest

in George Roden's condition. She no doubt had betrayed her own secret

as far as there was a secret; but she was not on that account the

less angry because he had forced her to do so.

"Has Mr. Roden sent you as a messenger?" she asked.

"No, my lady; no. That would not be at all probable. I am sure he

would very much rather come with any message of his own." At this

he sniggered most offensively. "I called with a hope of seeing your

brother, Lord Hampstead, with whom I may take the liberty of saying

that I have a slight acquaintance."

"Lord Hampstead is not at home."

"So the servant told me. Then it occurred to me that as I had come

all the way down from London for a certain purpose, to ask a little

favour from his lordship, and as I was not fortunate enough to find

his lordship at home, I might ask the same from your ladyship."

"There can be nothing that I can do for you, sir."

"You can do it, my lady, much better than any one else in the world.

You can be more powerful in this matter even than his lordship."

"What can it be?" asked Lady Frances.

"If your ladyship will allow me I will sit down, as the story I

have to tell is somewhat particular." It was impossible to refuse

him the use of a chair, and she could therefore only bow as he

seated himself. "I and George Roden, my lady, have known each other

intimately for these ever so many years." Again she bowed her head.

"And I may say that we used to be quite pals. When two men sit at the

same desk together they ought to be thick as thieves. See what a cat

and dog life it is else! Don't you think so, my lady?"

"I know nothing of office life. As I don't think that I can help you,

perhaps you wouldn't mind--going away?"

"Oh, my lady, you must hear me to the end, because you are just the

person who can help me. Of course as you two are situated he would do

anything you were to bid him. Now he has taken it into his head to be

very huffy with me."

"Indeed I can do nothing in the matter," she said, in a tone of deep

distress.

"If you would only just tell him that I have never meant to offend

him! I am sure I don't know what it is that has come up. It may be

that I said a word in joke about Lord Hampstead, only that there

really could not have been anything in that. Nobody could have a more

profound respect for his lordship's qualities than I have, and I may

say the same for your ladyship most sincerely. I have always thought

it a great feather in Roden's cap that he should be so closely

connected,--more than closely, I may say,--with your noble family."

What on earth was she to do with a man who would go on talking to

her, making at every moment insolent allusions to the most cherished

secret of her heart! "I must beg you to go away and leave me, sir,"

she said. "My brother will be here almost immediately."

This had escaped from her with a vain idea that the man would receive

it as a threat,--that he would think probably that her brother

would turn him out of the house for his insolence. In this she was

altogether mistaken. He had no idea that he was insolent. "Then

perhaps you will allow me to wait for his lordship," he said.

"Oh dear, no! He may come or he may not. You really cannot wait. You

ought not to have come at all."

"But for the sake of peace, my lady! One word from your fair lips--."

Lady Frances could endure it no longer. She got up from her seat and

walked out of the room, leaving Mr. Crocker planted in his chair. In

the hall she found one of the servants, whom she told to "take that

man to the front door at once." The servant did as he was bid, and

Crocker was ushered out of the house without any feeling on his part

that he had misbehaved himself.

Crocker had hardly got beyond the grounds when Hampstead did in truth

return. The first words spoken between him and his sister of course

referred to their father's health. "He is unhappy rather than ill,"

said Hampstead.

"Is it about me?" she asked.

"No; not at all about you in the first instance."

"What does that mean?"

"It is not because of you; but from what others say about you."

"Mamma?" she asked.

"Yes; and Mr. Greenwood."

"Does he interfere?"

"I am afraid he does;--not directly with my father, but through her

ladyship, who daily tells my father what the stupid old man says.

Lady Kingsbury is most irrational and harassing. I have always

thought her to be silly, but now I cannot keep myself from feeling

that she misbehaves herself grievously. She does everything she can

to add to his annoyance."

"That is very bad."

"It is bad. He can turn Mr. Greenwood out of the house if Mr.

Greenwood becomes unbearable. But he cannot turn his wife out."

"Could he not come here?"

"I am afraid not,--without bringing her too. She has taken it into

her stupid head that you and I are disgracing the family. As for me,

she seems to think that I am actually robbing her own boys of their

rights. I would do anything for them, or even for her, if I could

comfort her; but she is determined to look upon us as enemies. My

father says that it will worry him into his grave."

"Poor papa!"

"We can run away, but he can not. I became very angry when I was

there, both with her ladyship and that pestilential old clergyman,

and told them both pretty much what I thought. I have the comfort of

knowing that I have two bitter enemies in the house."

"Can they hurt you?"

"Not in the least,--except in this, that they can teach those little

boys to regard me as an enemy. I would fain have had my brothers

left to me. Mr. Greenwood, and I must now say her ladyship also, are

nothing to me."

It was not till after dinner that the story was told about Crocker.

"Think what I must have felt when I was told that a clerk from the

Post Office wanted to see me!"

"And then that brute Crocker was shown in?" asked Hampstead.

"Do you really know him?"

"Know him! I should rather think so. Don't you remember him at Castle

Hautboy?"

"Not in the least. But he told me that he had been there."

"He never would leave me. He absolutely drove me out of the country

because he would follow me about when we were hunting. He insulted me

so grievously that I had to turn tail and run away from him. What did

he want of me?"

"To intercede for him with George Roden."

"He is an abominable man, irrepressible, so thick-skinned that you

cannot possibly get at him so as to hurt him. It is of no use telling

him to keep his distance, for he does not in the least know what you

mean. I do not doubt that he has left the house with a conviction

that he has gained a sincere friend in you."

* * * * * *

It was now more than a fortnight since Marion Fay had dined at

Hendon, and Hampstead felt that unless he could succeed in carrying

on the attack which he had commenced, any little beginning of a

friendship which he had made with the Quaker would be obliterated by

the length of time. If she thought about him at all, she must think

that he was very indifferent to let so long a time pass by without

any struggle on his part to see her again. There had been no word

of love spoken. He had been sure of that. But still there had been

something of affectionate intercourse which she could not have failed

to recognize. What must she think of him if he allowed that to pass

away without any renewal, without an attempt at carrying it further?

When she had bade him go in out of the cold there had been something

in her voice which had made him feel that she was in truth anxious

for him. Now more than a fortnight had gone, and there had been no

renewal! "Fanny," he said, "how would it be if we were to ask those

Quakers to dine here on Christmas Day?"

"It would be odd, wouldn't it, as they are strangers, and dined here

so lately?"

"People like that do not stand on ceremony at all. I don't see

why they shouldn't come. I could say that you want to make their

acquaintance."

"Would you ask them alone?"

In that he felt that the great difficulty lay. The Fays would hardly

come without Mrs. Roden, and the Rodens could not be asked. "One

doesn't always ask the same people to meet each other."

"It would be very odd, and I don't think they'd come," said Lady

Frances, gravely. Then after a pause she went on. "I fear, John, that

there is more in it than mere dinner company."

"Certainly there is," he said boldly;--"much more in it."

"You are not in love with the Quaker's daughter?"

"I rather think I am. When I have seen her three or four times more,

I shall be able to find out. You may be sure of this, that I mean to

see her three or four times more, and at any rate one of the times

must be before I go down to Gorse Hall." Then of course she knew the

whole truth. He did, however, give up the idea as to the Christmas

dinner-party, having arrived at the belief, after turning the matter

over in his mind, that Zachary Fay would not bring his daughter again

so soon.

CHAPTER II.

MRS. RODEN'S ELOQUENCE.

On Sunday Hampstead was nervous and fidgety. He had at one time

thought that it would be the very day for him to go to Holloway. He

would be sure to find Mrs. Roden at home after church, and then, if

he could carry things to the necessary length, he might also see

Zachary Fay. But on consideration it appeared to him that Sunday

would not suit his purpose. George Roden would be there, and would be

sadly in the way. And the Quaker himself would be in the way, as it

would be necessary that he should have some preliminary interview

with Marion before anything could be serviceably said to her father.

He was driven, therefore, to postpone his visit. Nor would Monday do,

as he knew enough of the manners of Paradise Row to be aware that on

Monday Mrs. Vincent would certainly be there. It would be his object,

if things could be made to go pleasantly, first to see Mrs. Roden

for a few minutes, and then to spend as much of the afternoon as

might be possible with Marion Fay. He therefore fixed on the Tuesday

for his purpose, and having telegraphed about the country for his

horses, groom, and other appurtenances, he went down to Leighton

on the Monday, and consoled himself with a day's hunting with the

staghounds.

On his return his sister spoke to him very seriously as to her own

affairs. "Is not this almost silly, John, about Mr. Roden not coming

here?"

"Not silly at all, according to my ideas."

"All the world knows that we are engaged. The very servants have

heard of it. That horrid young man who came from the Post Office was

aware of it."

"What has all that to do with it?"

"If it has been made public in that way, what can be the object of

keeping us apart? Mamma no doubt told her sister, and Lady Persiflage

has published it everywhere. Her daughter is going to marry a duke,

and it has crowned her triumph to let it be known that I am going

to marry only a Post Office clerk. I don't begrudge her that in the

least. But as they have talked about it so much, they ought, at any

rate, to let me have my Post Office clerk."

"I have nothing to say about it one way or the other," said

Hampstead. "I say nothing about it, at any rate now."

"What do you mean by that, John?"

"When I saw how miserable you were at Trafford I did my best to bring

you away. But I could only bring you here on an express stipulation

that you should not meet George Roden while you were in my house. If

you can get my father's consent to your meeting him, then that part

of the contract will be over."

"I don't think I made any promise."

"I understand it so."

"I said nothing to papa on the subject,--and I do not remember that I

made any promise to you. I am sure I did not."

"I promised for you." To this she was silent. "Are you going to ask

him to come here?"

"Certainly not. But if he did come, how could I refuse to see him?

I thought that he was here on Saturday, and I told Richard to admit

him. I could not send him away from the door."

"I do not think he will come unless he is asked," said Hampstead.

Then the conversation was over.

On the following day, at two o'clock, Lord Hampstead again started

for Holloway. On this occasion he drove over, and left his trap

and servant at the "Duchess of Edinburgh." He was so well known in

the neighbourhood now as hardly to be able to hope to enter on the

domains of Paradise Row without being recognized. He felt that it was

hard that his motions should be watched, telling himself that it was

one of the evils belonging to an hereditary nobility; but he must

accept this mischief as he did others, and he walked up the street

trying to look as though he didn't know that his motions were being

watched first from Number Fifteen as he passed it, and then from

Number Ten opposite, as he stood at Mrs. Roden's door.

Mrs. Roden was at home, and received him, of course, with her most

gracious smile; but her heart sank within her as she saw him, for she

felt sure that he had come in pursuit of Marion Fay. "It is very kind

of you to call," she said. "I had heard from George that you had gone

down into the country since we had the pleasure of dining with you."

"Yes; my father has been unwell, and I had to stay with him a few

days or I should have been here sooner. You got home all of you quite

well?"

"Oh, yes."

"Miss Fay did not catch cold?"

"Not at all;--though I fear she is hardly strong."

"She is not ill, I hope?"

"Oh, no; not that. But she lives here very quietly, and I doubt

whether the excitement of going out is good for her."

"There was not much excitement at Hendon Hall, I think," he said,

laughing.

"Not for you, but for her perhaps. In appreciating our own condition

we are so apt to forget what is the condition of others! To Marion

Fay it was a strange event to have to dine at your house,--and

strange also to receive little courtesies such as yours. It is hard

for you to conceive how strongly the nature of such a girl may be

effected by novelties. I have almost regretted, Lord Hampstead, that

I should have consented to take her there."

"Has she said anything?"

"Oh, no; there was nothing for her to say. You are not to suppose

that any harm has been done."

"What harm could have been done?" he asked. Of what nature was the

harm of which Mrs. Roden was speaking? Could it be that Marion had

made any sign of altered feelings; had declared in any way her liking

or disliking; had given outward testimony of thoughts which would

have been pleasant to him,--or perhaps unpleasant,--had he known

them?

"No harm, of course," said Mrs. Roden;--"only to a nature such as

hers all excitement is evil."

"I cannot believe that," he said, after a pause. "Now and then in the

lives of all of us there must come moments of excitement which cannot

be all evil. What would Marion say if I were to tell her that I loved

her?"

"I hope you will not do that, my lord."

"Why should you hope so? What right have you to hope so? If I do love

her, is it not proper that I should tell her?"

"But it would not be proper that you should love her."

"There, Mrs. Roden, I take the liberty of declaring that you

are altogether in the wrong, and that you speak without due

consideration."

"Do I, my lord?"

"I think so. Why am I not to be allowed the ordinary privilege of a

man,--that of declaring my passion to a woman when I meet one who

seems in all things to fulfil the image of perfection which I have

formed for myself,--when I see a girl that I fancy I can love?"

"Ah, there is the worst! It is only a fancy."

"I will not be accused in that way without defending myself. Let it

be fancy or what not, I love Marion Fay, and I have come here to tell

her so. If I can make any impression on her I shall come again and

tell her father so. I am here now because I think that you can help

me. If you will not, I shall go on without your help."

"What can I do?"

"Go to her with me now, at once. You say that excitement is bad for

her. The excitement will be less if you will come with me to her

house."

Then there was a long pause in the conversation, during which Mrs.

Roden was endeavouring to determine what might be her duty at this

moment. She certainly did not think that it would be well that Lord

Hampstead, the eldest son of the Marquis of Kingsbury, should marry

Marion Fay. She was quite sure that she had all the world with her

there. Were any one to know that she had assisted in arranging such

a marriage, that any one would certainly condemn her. That would

assuredly be the case, not only with the young lord's family, not

only with others of the young lord's order, but with all the educated

world of Great Britain. How could it be that such a one as Marion

Fay should be a fitting wife for such a one as Lord Hampstead?

Marion Fay had undoubtedly great gifts of her own. She was beautiful,

intelligent, sweet-minded, and possessed of natural delicacy,--so

much so that to Mrs. Roden herself she had become as dear almost as

a daughter; but it was impossible that she should have either the

education or the manners fit for the wife of a great English peer.

Though her manners might be good and her education excellent, they

were not those required for that special position. And then there was

cause for other fears. Marion's mother and brothers and sisters had

all died young. The girl herself had hitherto seemed to escape the

scourge under which they perished. But occasionally there would rise

to her cheeks a bright colour, which for the moment would cause Mrs.

Roden's heart to sink within her. Occasionally there would be heard

from her not a cough, but that little preparation for coughing which

has become so painfully familiar to the ears of those whose fate

it has been to see their beloved ones gradually fade from presumed

health. She had already found herself constrained to say a word or

two to the old Quaker, not telling him that she feared any coming

evil, but hinting that change of air would certainly be beneficial

to such a one as Marion. Acting under this impulse, he had taken her

during the inclemency of the past spring to the Isle of Wight. She

was minded gradually to go on with this counsel, so as if possible

to induce the father to send his girl out of London for some

considerable portion of the year. If this were so, how could she

possibly encourage Lord Hampstead in his desire to make Marion his

wife?

And then, as to the girl herself, could it be for her happiness that

she should be thus lifted into a strange world, a world that would

be hard and ungracious to her, and in which it might be only too

probable that the young lord should see her defects when it would be

too late for either of them to remedy the evil that had been done?

She had thought something of all this before, having recognized the

possibility of such a step as this after what she had seen at Hendon

Hall. She had told herself that it would be well at any rate to

discourage any such idea in Marion's heart, and had spoken jokingly

of the gallantry of men of rank. Marion had smiled sweetly as she

had listened to her friend's words, and had at once said that such

manners were at any rate pretty and becoming in one so placed as Lord

Hampstead. There had been something in this to make Mrs. Roden almost

fear that her words had been taken as intending too much,--that

Marion had accepted them as a caution against danger. Not for

worlds would she have induced the girl to think that any danger was

apprehended. But now the danger had come, and it behoved Mrs. Roden

if possible to prevent the evil. "Will you come across with me now?"

said Hampstead, having sat silent in his chair while these thoughts

were passing through the lady's mind.

"I think not, my lord."

"Why not, Mrs. Roden? Will it not be better than that I should go

alone?"

"I hope you will not go at all."

"I shall go,--certainly. I consider myself bound by all laws of

honesty to tell her what she has done to me. She can then judge what

may be best for herself."

"Do not go at any rate to-day, Lord Hampstead. Let me beg at least as

much as that of you. Consider the importance of the step you will be

taking."

"I have thought of it," said he.

"Marion is as good as gold."

"I know she is."

"Marion, I say, is as good as gold; but is it likely that any girl

should remain untouched and undazzled by such an offer as you can

make her?"

"Touched I hope she may be. As for dazzled,--I do not believe in it

in the least. There are eyes which no false lights can dazzle."

"But if she were touched, as would no doubt be the case," said Mrs.

Roden, "could it be well that you with such duties before you should

marry the daughter of Zachary Fay? Listen to me a moment," she

continued, as he attempted to interrupt her. "I know what you would

say, and I sympathize with much of it; but it cannot be well for

society that classes should be mixed together suddenly and roughly."

"What roughness would there be?" he asked.

"As lords and ladies are at present, as dukes are, and duchesses, and

such like, there would be a roughness to them in having Marion Fay

presented to them as one of themselves. Lords have married low-born

girls, I know, and the wives have been contented with a position

which has almost been denied to them, or only grudgingly accorded. I

have known something of that, my lord, and have felt--at any rate I

have seen--its bitterness. Marion Fay would fade and sink to nothing

if she were subjected to such contumely. To be Marion Fay is enough

for her. To be your wife, and not to be thought fit to be your wife,

would not be half enough."

"She shall be thought fit."

"You can make her Lady Hampstead, and demand that she shall be

received at Court. You can deck her with diamonds, and cause her to

be seated high in honour according to your own rank. But could you

induce your father's wife to smile on her?" In answer to this he was

dumb. "Do you think she would be contented if your father's wife were

to frown on her?"

"My father's wife is not everybody."

"She would necessarily be much to your wife. Take a week, my lord, or

a month, and think upon it. She expects nothing from you yet, and it

is still in your power to save her from unhappiness."

"I would make her happy, Mrs. Roden."

"Think about it;--think about it."

"And I would make myself happy also. You count my feelings as being

nothing in the matter."

"Nothing as compared with hers. You see how plainly I deal with you.

Let me say that for a time your heart will be sore;--that you do in

truth love this girl so as to feel that she is necessary to your

happiness. Do you not know that if she were placed beyond your reach

you would recover from that sting? The duties of the world would

still be open to you. Being a man, you would still have before you

many years for recovery before your youth had departed from you. Of

course you would find some other woman, and be happy with her. For

her, if she came to shipwreck in this venture, there would be no

other chance."

"I would make this chance enough for her."

"So you think; but if you will look abroad you will see that the

perils to her happiness which I have attempted to describe are not

vain. I can say no more, my lord, but can only beg that you will take

some little time to think of it before you put the thing out of your

own reach. If she had once accepted your love I know that you would

never go back."

"Never."

"Therefore think again while there is time." He slowly dragged

himself up from his chair, and left her almost without a word at

parting. She had persuaded him--to take another week. It was not that

he doubted in the least his own purpose, but he did not know how to

gainsay her as to this small request. In that frame of mind which is

common to young men when they do not get all that they want, angry,

disappointed, and foiled, he went down-stairs, and opened the front

door,--and there on the very steps he met Marion Fay.

"Marion," he said, pouring all the tenderness of his heart into his

voice.

"My lord?"

"Come in, Marion,--for one moment." Then she followed him into the

little passage, and there they stood. "I had come over to ask you how

you are after our little party."

"I am quite well;--and you?"

"I have been away with my father, or I should have come sooner."

"Nay;--it was not necessary that you should trouble yourself."

"It is necessary;--it is necessary; or I should be troubled very

much. I am troubled." She stood there looking down on the ground as

though she were biding her time, but she did not speak to him. "She

would not come with me," he said, pointing up the stairs on which

Mrs. Roden was now standing. "She has told me that it is bad that

I should come; but I will come one day soon." He was almost beside

himself with love as he was speaking. The girl was so completely

after his own heart as he stood there close to her, filled with her

influences, that he was unable to restrain himself.

"Come up, Marion dear," said Mrs. Roden, speaking from the landing.

"It is hardly fair to keep Lord Hampstead standing in the passage."

"It is most unfair," said Marion. "Good day, my lord."

"I will stand here till you come down to me, unless you will speak to

me again. I will not be turned out while you are here. Marion, you

are all the world to me. I love you with my whole, whole heart. I had

come here, dear, to tell you so;--but she has delayed me. She made

me promise that I would not come again for a week, as though weeks

or years could change me? Say one word to me, Marion. One word shall

suffice now, and then I will go. Marion, can you love me?"

"Come to me, Marion, come to me," said Mrs. Roden. "Do not answer him

now."

"No," said Marion, looking up, and laying her hand gently on the

sleeve of his coat. "I will not answer him now. It is too sudden. I

must think of words to answer such a speech. Lord Hampstead, I will

go to her now."

"But I shall hear from you."

"You shall come to me again, and I will tell you."

"To-morrow?"

"Nay; but give me a day or two. On Friday I will be ready with my

answer."

"You will give me your hand, Marion." She gave it to him, and he

covered it with kisses. "Only have this in your mind, fixed as fate,

that no man ever loved a woman more truly than I love you. No man was

ever more determined to carry out his purpose. I am in your hands.

Think if you cannot dare to trust yourself into mine." Then he left

her, and went back to the "Duchess of Edinburgh," not thinking much

of the eyes which might be looking at him.

CHAPTER III.

MARION'S VIEWS ABOUT MARRIAGE.

When Lord Hampstead shut the door behind him, Marion went slowly up

the stairs to Mrs. Roden, who had returned to her drawing-room. When

she entered, her friend was standing near the door, with anxiety

plainly written on her face,--with almost more than anxiety. She took

Marion by the hand and, kissing her, led her to the sofa. "I would

have stopped him if I could," she said.

"Why should you have stopped him?"

"Such things should be considered more."

"He had made it too late for considering to be of service. I knew, I

almost knew, that he would come."

"You did?"

"I can tell myself now that I did, though I could not say it even

to myself before." There was a smile on her face as she spoke, and,

though her colour was heightened, there was none of that peculiar

flush which Mrs. Roden so greatly feared to see. Nor was there any

special excitement in her manner. There was no look either of awe or

of triumph. She seemed to take it as a matter of course, quite as

much at least as any Lady Amaldina could have done, who might have

been justified by her position in expecting that some young noble

eldest son would fling himself at her feet.

"And are you ready with your answer?" Marion turned her eyes towards

her friend, but made no immediate reply. "My darling girl,--for you

in truth are very dear to me,--much thought should be given to such

an appeal as that before any answer is made."

"I have thought."

"And are you ready?"

"I think so. Dear Mrs. Roden, do not look at me like that. If I do

not say more to tell you immediately it is because I am not perhaps

quite sure;--not sure, at any rate, of the reasons I may have to

give. I will come to you to-morrow, and then I will tell you."

There was room then at any rate for hope! If the girl had not quite

resolved to grasp at the high destiny offered to her, it was still

her friend's duty to say something that might influence her.

"Marion, dear!"

"Say all that you think, Mrs. Roden. Surely you know that I know that

whatever may come from you will come in love. I have no mother, and

to whom can I go better than to you to fill a mother's place?"

"Dear Marion, it is thus I feel towards you. What I would say to you

I would say to my own child. There are great differences in the ranks

of men."

"I have felt that."

"And though I do in my honest belief think that the best and

honestest of God's creatures are not always to be found among

so-called nobles, yet I think that a certain great respect should be

paid to those whom chance has raised to high places."

"Do I not respect him?"

"I hope so. But perhaps you may not show it best by loving him."

"As to that, it is a matter in which one can, perhaps, hardly control

oneself. If asked for love it will come from you like water from a

fountain. Unless it be so, then it cannot come at all."

"That surely is a dangerous doctrine for a young woman."

"Young women, I think, are compassed by many dangers," said Marion;

"and I know but one way of meeting them."

"What way is that, dear?"

"I will tell you, if I can find how to tell it, to-morrow."

"There is one point, Marion, on which I feel myself bound to warn

you, as I endeavoured also to warn him. To him my words seemed to

have availed nothing; but you, I think, are more reasonable. Unequal

marriages never make happy either the one side or the other."

"I hope I may do nothing to make him unhappy."

"Unhappy for a moment you must make him;--for a month, perhaps, or

for a year; though it were for years, what would that be to his whole

life?"

"For years?" said Marion. "No, not for years. Would it be more than

for days, do you think?"

"I cannot tell what may be the nature of the young man's heart;--nor

can you. But as to that, it cannot be your duty to take much thought.

Of his lasting welfare you are bound to think."

"Oh, yes; of that certainly;--of that above all things."

"I mean as to this world. Of what may come afterwards to one so

little known we here can hardly dare to speak,--or even to think. But

a girl, when she has been asked to marry a man, is bound to think of

his welfare in this life."

"I cannot but think of his eternal welfare also," said Marion.

"Unequal marriages are always unhappy," said Mrs. Roden, repeating

her great argument.

"Always?"

"I fear so. Could you be happy if his great friends, his father, and

his stepmother, and all those high-born lords and ladies who are

connected with him,--could you be happy if they frowned on you?"

"What would their frowns be to me? If he smiled I should be happy. If

the world were light and bright to him, it would certainly be light

and bright to me."

"I thought so once, Marion. I argued with myself once just as you are

arguing now."

"Nay, Mrs. Roden, I am hardly arguing."

"It was just so that I spoke to myself, saying that the joy which I

took in a man's love would certainly be enough for my happiness. But

oh, alas! I fell to the ground. I will tell you now more of myself

than I have told any one for many a year, more even than I have told

George. I will tell you because I know that I can trust your faith."

"Yes; you can trust me," said Marion.

"I also married greatly; greatly, as the world's honours are

concerned. In mere rank I stood as a girl higher perhaps than you

do now. But I was lifted out of my own degree, and in accepting the

name which my husband gave me I assured myself that I would do honour

to it, at any rate by my conduct. I did it no dishonour;--but my

marriage was most unfortunate."

"Was he good?" asked Marion.

"He was weak. Are you sure that Lord Hampstead is strong? He was

fickle-hearted. Can you be sure that Lord Hampstead will be constant

amidst the charms of others whose manners will be more like his own

than yours can be?"

"I think he would be constant," said Marion.

"Because you are ready to worship him who has condescended to step

down from his high pedestal and worship you. Is it not so?"

"It may be that it is so," said Marion.

"Ah, yes, my child. It may be that it is so. And then, think of what

may follow,--not only for him, but for you also; not only for you,

but for him also. Broken hearts, crushed ambitions, hopes all dead,

personal dislikes, and perhaps hatred."

"Not hatred; not hatred."

"I lived to be hated;--and why not another?" Then she was silent, and

Marion rising from her seat kissed her, and went away to her home.

She had very much to think of. Though she had declared that she had

almost expected this offer from her lover, still it could not be that

the Quaker girl, the daughter of Zachary Fay, Messrs. Pogson and

Littlebird's clerk, should not be astounded by having such an offer

from such a suitor as Lord Hampstead. But in truth the glory of the

thing was not very much to her. It was something, no doubt. It must

be something to a girl to find that her own personal charms have

sufficed to lure down from his lofty perch the topmost bird of them

all. That Marion was open to some such weakness may be acknowledged

of her. But of the coronet, of the diamonds, of the lofty title,

and high seats, of the castle, and the parks, and well-arranged

equipages, of the rich dresses, of the obsequious servants, and

fawning world that would be gathered around her, it may be said that

she thought not at all. She had in her short life seen one man who

had pleased her ear and her eye, and had touched her heart; and that

one man had instantly declared himself to be all her own. That made

her bosom glow with some feeling of triumph!

That same evening she abruptly told the whole story to her father.

"Father," she said, "Lord Hampstead was here to-day."

"Here, in this house?"

"Not in this house. But I met him at our friend's, whom I went to

see, as is my custom almost daily."

"I am glad he came not here," said the Quaker.

"Why should you be glad?" To this the Quaker made no answer.

"His purpose was to have come here. It was to see me that he came."

"To see thee?"

"Father, the young lord has asked me to be his wife."

"Asked thee to be his wife!"

"Yes, indeed. Have you not often heard that young men may be

infatuated? It has chanced that I have been the Cinderella for his

eyes."

"But thou art no princess, child."

"And, therefore, am unfit to mate with this prince. I could not

answer him at once, father. It was too sudden for me to find the

words. And the place was hardly fitting. But I have found them now."

"What words, my child?"

"I will tell him with all respect and deference,--nay, I will tell

him with some love, for I do love him,--that it will become him to

look for his wife elsewhere."

"Marion," said the Quaker, who was somewhat moved by those things

which had altogether failed with the girl herself; "Marion, must it

be so?"

"Father, it must certainly be so."

"And yet thou lovest him?"

"Though I were dying for his love it must be so."

"Why, my child, why? As far as I saw the young man he is good and

gracious, of great promise, and like to be true-hearted."

"Good, and gracious, and true-hearted! Oh, yes! And would you have

it that I should bring such a one as that to sorrow,--perhaps to

disgrace?"

"Why to sorrow? Why to disgrace? Wouldst thou be more likely to

disgrace a husband than one of those painted Jezebels who know no

worship but that of their faded beauty? Thou hast not answered him,

Marion?"

"No, father. He is to come on Friday for my answer."

"Think of it yet again, my child. Three days are no time for

considering a matter of such moment. Bid him leave you for ten days

further."

"I am ready now," said Marion.

"And yet thou lovest him! That is not true to nature, Marion. I would

not bid thee take a man's hand because he is rich and great if thou

couldst not give him thy heart in return. I would not have thee break

any law of God or man for the glitter of gold or tinsel of rank. But

the good things of this world, if they be come by honestly, are good.

And the love of an honest man, if thou lovest him thyself in return,

is not of the less worth because he stands high in wealth and in

honour."

"Shall I think nothing of him, father?"

"Yea, verily; it will be thy duty to think of him, almost exclusively

of him,--when thou shalt be his wife."

"Then, father, shall I never think of him."

"Wilt thou pay no heed to my words, so as to crave from him further

time for thought?"

"Not a moment. Father, you must not be angry with your child for

this. My own feelings tell me true. My own heart, and my own

heart alone, can dictate to me what I shall say to him. There are

reasons--"

"What reasons?"

"There are reasons why my mother's daughter should not marry this

man." Then there came a cloud across his brow, and he looked at her

as though almost overcome by his anger. It seemed as though he strove

to speak; but he sat for a while in silence. Then rising from his

chair he left the room, and did not see her again that night.

This was on a Tuesday; on the Wednesday he did not speak to her on

the subject. The Thursday was Christmas Day, and she went to church

with Mrs. Roden. Nor did he on that day allude to the matter; but on

the evening she made to him a little request. "To-morrow, father, is

a holiday, is it not, in the City?"

"So they tell me. I hate such tom-fooleries. When I was young a man

might be allowed to earn his bread on all lawful days of the week.

Now he is expected to spend the wages he cannot earn in drinking and

shows."

"Father, you must leave me here alone after our dinner. He will come

for his answer."

"And you will give it?"

"Certainly, father, certainly. Do not question me further, for it

must be as I told you." Then he left her as he had done before; but

he did not urge her with any repetition of his request.

This was what occurred between Marion and her father; but on the

Wednesday she had gone to Mrs. Roden as she had promised, and there

explained her purpose more fully than she had before been able to do.

"I have come, you see," she said, smiling. "I might have told you all

at once, for I have changed nothing of my mind since first he spoke

to me all so suddenly in the passage down-stairs."

"Are you so sure of yourself?"

"Quite sure;--quite sure. Do you think I would hurt him?"

"No, no. You would not, I know, do so willingly."

"And yet I must hurt him a little. I hope it will hurt him just

a little." Mrs. Roden stared at her. "Oh, if I could make him

understand it all! If I could bid him be a man, so that it should

wound him only for a short time."

"What wound!"

"Did you think that I could take him, I, the daughter of a City

clerk, to go and sit in his halls, and shame him before all the

world, because he had thought fit to make me his wife? Never!"

"Marion, Marion!"

"Because he has made a mistake which has honoured me, shall I mistake

also, so as to dishonour him? Because he has not seen the distance,

shall I be blind to it? He would have given himself up for me. Shall

I not be able to make a sacrifice? To such a one as I am to sacrifice

myself is all that I can do in the world."

"Is it such a sacrifice?"

"Could it be that I should not love him? When such a one comes,

casting his pearls about, throwing sweet odours through the air,

whispering words which are soft-sounding as music in the heavens,

whispering them to me, casting them at me, turning on me the laughing

glances of his young eyes, how could I help to love him? Do you

remember when for a moment he knelt almost at my feet, and told me

that I was his friend, and spoke to me of his hearth? Did you think

that that did not move me?"

"So soon, my child;--so soon?"

"In a moment. Is it not so that it is done always?"

"Hearts are harder than that, Marion."

"Mine, I think, was so soft just then that the half of his sweet

things would have ravished it from my bosom. But I feel for myself

that there are two parts in me. Though the one can melt away, and

pass altogether from my control, can gush like water that runs

out and cannot be checked, the other has something in it of hard

substance which can stand against blows, even from him."

"What is that something, Marion?"

"Nay, I cannot name it. I think it be another heart, of finer

substance, or it may be it is woman's pride, which will suffer all

things rather than hurt the one it loves. I know myself. No words

from him,--no desire to see his joy, as he would be joyful, if I told

him that I could give him all he asks,--no longing for all his love

could do for me, shall move me one tittle. He shall tell himself to

his dying day that the Quaker girl, because she loved him, was true

to his interests."

"My child;--my child!" said Mrs. Roden, taking Marion in her arms.

"Do you think that I do not know,--that I have forgotten? Was it

nothing to me to see my--mother die, and her little ones? Do I not

know that I am not, as others are, free to wed, not a lord like that,

but even one of my own standing? Mrs. Roden, if I can live till my

poor father shall have gone before me, so that he may not be left

alone when the weakness of age shall have come upon him,--then,--then

I shall be satisfied to follow them. No dream of loving had ever

crossed my mind. He has come, and without my mind, the dream has been

dreamed. I think that my lot will be happier so, than if I had passed

away without any feeling such as that I have now. Perhaps he will not

marry till I am gone."

"Would that hurt you so sorely?"

"It ought not. It shall not. It will be well that he should marry,

and I will not wish to cause him evil. He will have gone away, and I

shall hardly know of it. Perhaps they will not tell me." Mrs. Roden

could only embrace her, sobbing, wiping her eyes with piteousness.

"But I will not begrudge aught of the sacrifice," she continued.

"There is nothing, I think, sweeter than to deny oneself all things

for love. What are our lessons for but to teach us that? Shall I not

do unto him as it would be well for me that some such girl should do

for my sake if I were such as he?"

"Oh, Marion, you have got the better part."

"And yet,--and yet--. I would that he should feel a little because

he cannot have the toy that has pleased his eye. What was it that he

saw in me, do you think?" As she asked the question she cheered up

wonderfully.

"The beauty of your brow and eyes,--the softness of your woman's

voice."

"Nay, but I think it was my Quaker dress. His eye, perhaps, likes

things all of a colour. I had, too, new gloves and a new frock when

he saw me. How well I remember his coming,--how he would glance round

at me till I hardly knew whether I was glad that he should observe

me so much,--or offended at his persistence. I think that I was glad,

though I told myself that he should not have glanced at me so often.

And then, when he asked us to go down to his house I did long,--I did

long,--to win father's consent to the journey. Had he not gone--"

"Do not think of it, Marion."

"That I will not promise;--but I will not talk of it. Now, dear Mrs.

Roden, let all then be as though it had never been. I do not mean to

mope, or to neglect my work, because a young lord has crossed my path

and told me that he loves me. I must send him from me, and then I

will be just as I have been always." Having made this promise she

went away, leaving Mrs. Roden much more flurried by the interview

than was she herself. When the Friday came, holiday as it was, the

Quaker took himself off to the City after dinner, without another

word as to his daughter's lover.

CHAPTER IV.

LORD HAMPSTEAD IS IMPATIENT.

Hampstead, when he was sent away from Paradise Row, and bade to

wait till Friday for an answer, was disappointed, almost cross,

and unreasonable in his feelings towards Mrs. Roden. To Mrs. Roden

altogether he attributed it that Marion had deferred her reply.

Whether the delay thus enjoined told well or ill for his hopes he

could not bring himself to determine. As he drove himself home his

mind was swayed now in one direction and now in the other. Unless she

loved him somewhat, unless she thought it possible that she should

love him, she would hardly have asked for time to think of it all.

And yet, had she really have loved him, why should she have asked

for time? He had done for her all that a man could do for a girl,

and if she loved him she should not have tormented him by foolish

delays,--by coying her love!

It should be said on his behalf that he attributed to himself no

preponderance of excellence, either on the score of his money or his

rank. He was able so to honour the girl as to think of her that such

things would go for nothing with her. It was not that he had put his

coronet at her feet, but his heart. It was of that he thought when he

reminded himself of all that he had done for her, and told himself

angrily that she should not have tormented him. He was as arrogant

and impatient of disappointment as any young lord of them all,--but

it was not, however, because he was a lord that he thought that

Marion's heart was due to him.

"I have been over to Holloway," he said to his sister, almost as soon

as he had returned.

Out of the full heart the mouth speaks. "Have you seen George?" asked

Lady Frances.

"No; I did not go to see him. He, of course, would be at his office

during the day. I went about my own business."

"You need not be so savage with me, John. What was your own business

at Holloway?"

"I went to ask Marion Fay to be my wife."

"You did?"

"Yes; I did. Why should I not? It seems the fashion for us all now to

marry just those we fancy best."

"And why not? Have I gainsaid you? If this Quaker's daughter be good

and honest, and fair to look at--"

"That she is fair to look at I can say certainly. That she is good I

believe thoroughly. That she is honest, at any rate to me, I cannot

say as yet."

"Not honest?"

"She will not steal or pick a pocket, if you mean that."

"What is it, John? Why do you speak of her in this way?"

"Because I have chosen to tell you. Having made up my mind to do this

thing, I would not keep it secret as though I were ashamed of it. How

can I say that she is honest till she has answered me honestly?"

"What answer has she made you?" she asked.

"None;--as yet! She has told me to come again another day."

"I like her better for that."

"Why should you like her better? Just because you're a woman, and

think that shilly-shallying and pretending not to know your own mind,

and keeping a fellow in suspense, is becoming. I am not going to

change my mind about Marion; but I do think that mock hesitation is

unnecessary, and in some degree dishonest."

"Must it necessarily be mock hesitation? Ought she not to be sure of

herself that she can love you?"

"Certainly; or that she should not love me. I am not such a puppy as

to suppose that she is to throw herself into my arms just because I

ask her. But I think that she must have known something of herself

so as to have been able to tell me either to hope or not to hope.

She was as calm as a Minister in the House of Commons answering a

question; and she told me to wait till Friday just as those fellows

do when they have to find out from the clerks in the office what it

is they ought to say."

"You will go again on Friday?" she asked.

"Of course I must. It is not likely that she should come to me. And

then if she says that she'd rather not, I must come home once more

with my tail between my legs."

"I do not think she will say that."

"How can you tell?"

"It is the nature of a girl, I think," said Lady Frances, "to doubt

a little when she thinks that she can love, but not to doubt at all

when she feels that she cannot. She may be persuaded afterwards to

change her mind, but at first she is certain enough."

"I call that shilly-shally."

"Not at all. The girl I'm speaking of is honest throughout. And Miss

Fay will have been honest should she accept you now. It is not often

that such a one as you, John, can ask a girl in vain."

"That is mean," he said, angrily. "That is imputing falseness, and

greed, and dishonour to the girl I love. If she has liked some fellow

clerk in her father's office better than she likes me, shall she

accept me merely because I am my father's son?"

"It was not that of which I was thinking. A man may have personal

gifts which will certainly prevail with a girl young and unsullied by

the world, as I suppose is your Marion Fay."

"Bosh," he said, laughing. "As far as personal gifts are concerned,

one fellow is pretty nearly the same as another. A girl has to be

good-looking. A man has got to have something to buy bread and

cheese with. After that it is all a mere matter of liking and

disliking--unless, indeed, people are dishonest, which they very

often are."

Up to this period of his life Lord Hampstead had never met any girl

whom he had thought it desirable to make his wife. It was now two

years since the present Marchioness had endeavoured to arrange an

alliance between him and her own niece, Lady Amaldina Hauteville.

This, though but two years had passed since, seemed to him to have

occurred at a distant period of his life. Very much had occurred to

him during those two years. His political creed had been strengthened

by the convictions of others, especially by those of George Roden,

till it had included those advanced opinions which have been

described. He had annoyed, and then dismayed, his father by his

continued refusal to go into Parliament. He had taken to himself ways

of living of his own, which gave to him the manners and appearance of

more advanced age. At that period, two years since, his stepmother

still conceived high hopes of him, even though he would occasionally

utter in her presence opinions which seemed to be terrible. He was

then not of age, and there would be time enough for a woman of her

tact and intellect to cure all those follies. The best way of curing

them, she thought, would be by arranging a marriage between the heir

to the Marquisate and the daughter of so distinguished a conservative

Peer as her brother-in-law, Lord Persiflage. Having this high object

in view, she opened the matter with diplomatic caution to her sister.

Lady Persiflage had at that moment begun to regard Lord Llwddythlw as

a possible son-in-law, but was alive to the fact that Lord Hampstead

possessed some superior advantages. It was possible that her girl

should really love such a one as Lord Hampstead,--hardly possible

that there should be anything romantic in a marriage with the heir

of the Duke of Merioneth. As far as wealth and rank went there was

enough in both competitors. She whispered therefore to her girl the

name of the younger aspirant,--aspirant as he might be hoped to

be,--and the girl was not opposed to the idea. Only let there be no

falling to the ground between two stools; no starving for want of

fodder between two bundles of hay! Lord Llwddythlw had already begun

to give symptoms. No doubt he was bald; no doubt he was pre-occupied

with Parliament and the county. There was no doubt that his wife

would have to encounter that touch of ridicule which a young girl

incurs when she marries a man altogether removed beyond the world of

romance. But dukes are scarce, and the man of business was known to

be a man of high honour. There would be no gambling, no difficulties,

no possible question of a want of money. And then his politics were

the grandest known in England,--those of an old Tory willing always

to work for his party without desiring any of those rewards which the

"party" wishes to divide among as select a number as possible. What

Lord Hampstead might turn out to be, there was as yet no knowing. He

had already declared himself to be a Radical. He was fond of hunting,

and it was quite on the cards that he should take to Newmarket. Then,

too, his father might live for five-and-twenty years, whereas the

Duke of Merioneth was already nearly eighty. But Hampstead was as

beautiful as a young Phoebus, and the pair would instantly become

famous if only from their good looks alone. The chance was given to

Lady Amaldina, but only given on the understanding that she must make

very quick work of her time.

Hampstead was coaxed down to Castle Hautboy for a month in September,

with an idea that the young lovers might be as romantic as they

pleased among the Lakes. Some little romance there was; but at the

end of the first week Amaldina wisely told her mother that the thing

wouldn't do. She would always be glad to regard Lord Hampstead as a

cousin, but as to anything else, there must be an end of it. "I shall

some day give up my title and abandon the property to Freddy. I shall

then go to the United States, and do the best I can there to earn

my own bread." This little speech, made by the proposed lover to

the girl he was expected to marry, opened Lady Amaldina's eyes to

the danger of her situation. Lord Llwddythlw was induced to spend

two days in the following month at Castle Hautboy, and then the

arrangements for the Welsh alliance were completed.

From that time forth a feeling of ill-will on the part of Lady

Kingsbury towards her stepson had grown and become strong from month

to month. She had not at first conceived any idea that her Lord

Frederic ought to come to the throne. That had come gradually when

she perceived, or thought that she perceived, that Hampstead would

hardly make a marriage properly aristocratic. Hitherto no tidings of

any proposed marriage had reached her ears. She lived at last in

daily fear, as any marriage would be the almost sure forerunner of a

little Lord Highgate. If something might happen,--something which she

had taught herself to regard as beneficent and fitting rather than

fatal,--something which might ensure to her little Lord Frederic

those prospects which he had almost a right to expect, then in

spite of all her sufferings Heaven would have done something for her

for which she might be thankful. "What will her ladyship say when

she hears of my maid Marion?" said Hampstead to his sister on the

Christmas Day before his further visit to Holloway.

"Will it matter much?" asked Lady Frances.

"I think my feelings towards her are softer than yours. She is

silly, arrogant, harsh, and insolent to my father, and altogether

unprincipled in her expectations and ambitions."

"What a character you give her," said his sister.

"But nevertheless I feel for her to such an extent that I almost

think I ought to abolish myself."

"I cannot say that I feel for her."

"It is all for her son that she wants it; and I agree with her in

thinking that Freddy will be better fitted than I am for the position

in question. I am determined to marry Marion if I can get her; but

all the Traffords, unless it be yourself, will be broken-hearted at

such a marriage. If once I have a son of my own the matter will be

hopeless. If I were to call myself Snooks, and refused to take a

shilling from the property, I should do them no good. Marion's boy

would be just as much in their way as I am."

"What a way of looking at it."

"How my stepmother will hate her! A Quaker's daughter! A clerk at

Pogson and Littlebird's! Living at Paradise Row! Can't you see her!

Is it not hard upon her that we should both go to Paradise Row?" Lady

Frances could not keep herself from laughing. "You can't do her any

permanent injury, because you are only a girl; but I think she will

poison me. It will end in her getting Mr. Greenwood to give me some

broth."

"John, you are too terrible."

"If I could be on the jury afterwards, I would certainly acquit them

both on the ground of extreme provocation."

Early on the following morning he was in a fidget, having fixed no

hour for his visit to Holloway. It was not likely that she should be

out or engaged, but he determined not to go till after lunch. All

employment was out of the question, and he was rather a trouble to

his sister; but in the course of the morning there came a letter

which did for a while occupy his thoughts. The envelope was addressed

in a hand he did not know, and was absurdly addressed to the

"RIGHT HONOURABLE,

THE LORD HAMPSTEAD."

"I wonder who this ass is," said he, tearing it open. The ass was

Samuel Crocker, and the letter was as follows;--

Heathcote Street,

Mecklenburg Square,

Christmas Day, 18--.

MY DEAR LORD HAMPSTEAD,

I hope I may be excused for addressing your lordship in

this familiar manner. I take occasion of this happy day

to write to your lordship on a message of peace. Since

I had the honour of meeting you at your noble uncle's

mansion, Castle Hautboy, I have considered it one of the

greatest delights of my life to be able to boast of your

acquaintance. You will not, I am sure, forget that we have

been fellow sportsmen, and that we rode together on that

celebrated run when we killed our fox in the field just

over Airey Force. I shall never forget the occasion, or

how well your lordship went over our rough country. To my

mind there is no bond of union so strong as that of sport.

"Up strikes little Davy with his musical horn."

I am sure you will remember that, my lord, and the

beautiful song to which it belongs. I remember, too, how,

as we were riding home after the run, your lordship was

talking all the way about our mutual friend, George Roden.

He is a man for whom I have a most sincere regard, both as

being an excellent public servant, and as a friend of your

lordship's. It is quite a pleasure to see the way in which

he devotes himself to the service,--as I do also. When

you have taken the Queen's shilling you ought to earn

it. Those are my principles, my lord. We have a couple

of young fellows there whose only object it is to get

through the day and eat their lunches. I always tell them

that official hours ain't their own. I suppose they'll

understand me some day.

But as I was saying to your lordship about George

Roden, there has something come up which I don't quite

understand, which seems to have turned him against me.

Nothing has ever given me so much pleasure as when I

heard of his prospects as to a certain matter--which

your lordship will know what I mean. Nothing could be

more flattering than the way I've wished him joy ever so

many times. So I do also your lordship and her ladyship,

because he is a most respectable young man, though his

station in life isn't so high as some people's. But a

clerk in H. M. S. has always been taken for a gentleman

which I am proud to think is my position as well as his.

But, as I was saying to your lordship, something seems to

have gone against him as to our mutual friendship. He sits

there opposite and won't speak a word to me, except just

to answer a question, and that hardly civil. He is as

sweet as sugar to those fellows who ain't at the same

desk with him as I am,--or I should think it was his

future prospects were making him upsetting. Couldn't

your lordship do something to make things up between us

again,--especially on this festive occasion? I'm sure your

lordship will remember how pleasant we were together at

Castle Hautboy, and at the hunt, and especially as we were

riding home together on that day. I did take the liberty

of calling at Hendon Hall, when her ladyship was kind

enough to see me. Of course there was a delicacy in

speaking to her ladyship about Mr. Roden, which nobody

could understand better than I do; but I think she made me

something of a promise that she would say a word when a

proper time might come.

It could only have been a joke of mine; and I do joke

sometimes, as your lordship may have observed. But I

shouldn't think Roden would be the man to be mortally

offended by anything of that sort. Anyway, I will leave

the matter in your lordship's hands, merely remarking

that,--as your lordship may remember,--"Blessed are the

peace-makers, for theirs is the Kingdom of Heaven."

I have the honour to be,

My dear Lord Hampstead,

Your lordship's most obedient,

Very humble servant,

SAMUEL CROCKER.

Fretful and impatient as he was on that morning, it was impossible

for Hampstead not to laugh at this letter. He showed it to his

sister, who, in spite of her annoyance, was constrained to laugh

also. "I shall tell George to take him to his bosom at once," said

he.

"Why should George be bothered with him?"

"Because George can't help himself. They sit at the same desk

together, as Crocker has not forgotten to tell me a dozen times. When

a man perseveres in this way, and is thick-skinned enough to bear all

rebuffs, there is nothing he will not accomplish. I have no doubt

he will be riding my horses in Leicestershire before the season

is over." An answer, however, was written to him in the following

words;--

DEAR MR. CROCKER,

I am afraid I cannot interfere with Mr. Roden, who doesn't

like to be dictated to in such matters.

Yours truly,

HAMPSTEAD.

"There," said he; "I do not think he can take that letter as a mark

of friendship."

In this way the morning was passed till the time came for the start

to Holloway. Lady Frances, standing at the hall door as he got into

his trap, saw that the fashion of his face was unusually serious.

CHAPTER V.

THE QUAKER'S ELOQUENCE.

When the Friday morning came in Paradise Row both father and

daughter, at No. 17, were full of thought as they came down to

breakfast. To each of them it was a day laden with importance.

The father's mind had been full of the matter ever since the news

had been told to him. He had received Marion's positive assurance

that such a marriage was altogether impossible with something of

impatience till she had used that argument as to her own health,

which was so powerful with her. On hearing that he had said nothing,

but had gone away. Nor had he spoken a word on the subject since.

But his mind had been full of it. He had lost his wife,--and all his

little ones, as she had said; but he had declared to himself with

strong confidence that this child was to be spared to him. He was

a man whose confidence was unbounded in things as to which he had

resolved. It was as though he had determined, in spite of Fate, in

spite of God, that his Marion should live. And she had grown up under

his eyes, if not robust, by no means a weak creature. She did her

work about the house, and never complained. In his eyes she was very

beautiful; but he saw nothing in her colour which was not to him a

sign of health. He told himself that it was nothing that she, having

seen so many die in her own family, should condemn herself; but for

himself he repudiated the idea, and declared to himself that she

should not become an early victim. So thinking, he exercised his mind

constantly during those few days in considering whether there was any

adequate cause for the refusal which Marion had determined to give

this man.

He, in truth, was terribly anxious that this grand stroke of fortune

should be acknowledged and accepted. He wanted nothing from the young

lord himself,--except, perhaps, that he might be the young lord's

father-in-law. But he did want it all, long for it all, pant for it

all, on behalf of his girl. If all these good things came in his

girl's way because of her beauty, her grace, and her merit, why

should they not be accepted? Others not only accepted these things

for their daughters, but hunted for them, cheated for them, did all

mean things in searching for them,--and had their tricks and their

lies regarded by the world quite as a matter of course,--because it

was natural that parents should be anxious for their children. He had

not hunted. He had not cheated. The thing had come in his girl's way.

The man had found her to be the most lovely, the most attractive, the

most loveable among all whom he had seen. And was this glory to be

thrown away because she had filled her mind with false fears? Though

she were to die, must not the man take his chance with her, as do

other husbands in marrying other wives?

He had been thinking of this, and of nothing but this, during the

days which had intervened since Lord Hampstead had been in Paradise

Row. He had not said a word to his daughter,--had indeed not dared

to say a word to her, so abhorrent to him was the idea of discussing

with her the probabilities of her own living or dying. And he was

doubtful, too, whether any words coming from him at the present might

not strengthen her in her resolution. If the man really loved her

he might prevail. His words would be stronger to overcome her than

any that could be spoken by her father. And then, too, if he really

loved her, the one repulse would not send him back for ever. It might,

perhaps, be better that any arguments from her father should be

postponed till she should have heard her lover's arguments. But his

mind was so filled with the whole matter that he could not bring

himself to assure himself certainly that his decision was the best.

Though he was one who rarely needed counsel from others, on this

occasion he did need it, and now it was his purpose to ask counsel of

Mrs. Roden before the moment should have come which might be fatal to

his hopes.

As this was the day immediately following Christmas, there was no

business for him in the City. In order that the weary holiday might

be quicker consumed, they breakfasted at No. 17 an hour later than

was usual. After breakfast he got through the morning as well as he

could with his newspaper, and some record of stocks and prices which

he had brought with him from the City. So he remained, fretful, doing

nothing, pretending to read, but with his mind fixed upon the one

subject, till it was twelve o'clock, at which hour he had determined

to make his visit. At half-past one they were to dine, each of them

having calculated, without, however, a word having been spoken, that

Lord Hampstead would certainly not come till the ceremony of dinner

would be over. Though the matter was so vitally important to both of

them, not a word concerning it was spoken.

At twelve o'clock he took up his hat, and walked out. "You will be

back punctually for dinner, father?" she asked. He made his promise

simply by nodding his head, and then left the room. Five minutes

afterwards he was closeted with Mrs. Roden in her drawing-room.

Having conceived the difficulty of leading up to the subject

gradually, he broke into it at once. "Marion has told thee that this

young man will be here to-day?" She simply assented. "Hast thou

advised her as to what she should say?"

"She has not seemed to want advice."

"How should a girl not want advice in so great a matter?"

"How, indeed? But yet she has needed none."

"Has she told thee," he asked, "what it is in her mind to do?"

"I think so."

"Has she said that she would refuse the man?"

"Yes; that certainly was her purpose."

"And given the reasons?" he said, almost trembling as he asked the

question.

"Yes, she gave her reasons."

"And didst thou agree with her?" Before she could reply to this Mrs.

Roden felt herself compelled to pause. When she thought of that one

strongest reason, fully as she agreed with it, she was unable to

tell the father of the girl that she did so. She sat looking at him,

wanting words with which she might express her full concurrence with

Marion without plunging a dagger into the other's heart. "Then thou

didst agree with her?" There was something terrible in the intensity

and slowness of the words as he repeated the question.

"On the whole I did," she said. "I think that unequal marriages are

rarely happy."

"That was all?" he asked. Then when she was again silent, he made

the demand which was so important to him. "Did she say aught of her

health in discussing all this with thee?"

"She did, Mr. Fay."

"And thou?"

"It was a subject, my friend, on which I could not speak to her. All

that was said came from her. Her mind was so fully made up, as I have

said before, no advice from me could avail anything. With some people

it is easy to see that whether you agree with them or differ from

them it is impossible to turn them."

"But to me thou canst say whether thou hast agreed with her. Yes; I

know well that the subject is one difficult to talk of in a father's

hearing. But there are things which should be talked of, though the

heart should break." After another pause he continued; "Is there,

thinkest thou, sufficient cause in the girl's health to bid her sever

herself from these delights of life and customary habits which the

Lord has intended for His creatures?" At every separate question he

paused, but when she was silent he went on with other questions. "Is

there that in her looks, is there that in her present condition of

life, which make it needful for thee, her friend, or for me, her

father, to treat her as though she were already condemned by the hand

of the Lord to an early grave?" Then, again, looking almost fiercely

into her face, he went on with his examination, "That is what thou

art doing."

"Not I;--not I."

"Yes, thou, my friend; thou, with all thy woman's softness in thy

heart! It is what I shall do, unless I bring myself to tell her that

her fears are vain. To me she has said that that is her reason. It is

not that she cannot love the man. Has she not said as much to thee?"

"Yes; truly."