fancies are not only vain, but wrong? Though thou hast not spoken the
word, has not thy silence assented as fully as words could do? Answer
me at any rate to that."
"It is so," she said.
"Is it then necessary to condemn her? Art thou justified in thine own
thoughts in bidding her regard herself as one doomed?" Again there
was a pause. What was she to say? "Thou art aware that in our poor
household she does all that the strictest economy would demand from
an active mother of a family? She is never idle. If she suffers I
do not see it. She takes her food, if not with strong appetite, yet
regularly. She is upright, and walks with no languor. No doctor comes
near her. If like others she requires change of air and scene, what
can give her such chance as this marriage? Hast thou not heard that
for girls of feeble health marriage itself will strengthen them? Is
she such that thou as her friend must bid her know that she must
perish like a blighted flower? Must I bid her to hem and stitch her
own winding-sheet? It comes to that if no word be said to her to
turn her from this belief. She has seen them all die,--one after
another,--one after another, till the idea of death, of death for
herself as well as for them, has gotten hold of her. And yet it will
be the case that one in a family shall escape. I have asked among
those who know, and I have found that it is so. The Lord does not
strike them all, always. But if she thinks that she is stricken then
she will fall. If she goes forth to meet Death on the path, Death
will come half way to encounter her. Dost thou believe of me that it
is because the man is a noble lord that I desire this marriage?"
"Oh no, Mr. Fay."
"He will take my child away from me. She will then be but little to
me. What want I with lords, who for the few days of active life that
are left to me would not change my City stool for any seat that any
lord can give me? But I shall know that she has had her chance in the
world, and has not been unnecessarily doomed--to an early grave!"
"What would you have me do?"
"Go to her, and tell her that she should look forward, with trust in
God, to such a state of health as He may vouchsafe to give her. Her
thoughts are mostly with her God. Bid her not shorten His mercies.
Bid her not to tell herself that she can examine His purposes. Bid
her do in this as her nature bids her, and, if she can love this man,
give herself into his arms and leave the rest to the Lord."
"But he will be there at once."
"If he be there, what harm? Thou canst go when he comes to the door.
I shall go to her now, and we shall dine together, and then at once I
will leave her. When you see me pass the window then thou canst take
thine occasion." So saying, without waiting for a promise, he left
her and went back to his own house.
And Marion's heart had been full of many thoughts that morning,--some
of them so trifling in their object, that she herself would wonder
at herself because that they should occupy her. How should she be
dressed to receive her lover? In what words first should she speak to
him,--and in what sort? Should she let any sign of love escape from
her? Her resolution as to her great purpose was so fixed that there
was no need for further thought on that matter. It was on the little
things that she was intent. How far might she indulge herself in
allowing some tenderness to escape her? How best might she save him
from any great pain, and yet show him that she was proud that he had
loved her? In what dress she might receive him, in that would she sit
at table with her father. It was Christmas time, and the occasion
would justify whatever of feminine smartness her wardrobe possessed.
As she brought out from its recess the rich silk frock, still all
but new, in which he had first seen her, she told herself that she
would probably have worn it for her father's sake, had no lover been
coming. On the day before, the Christmas Day, she had worn it at
church. And the shoes with the pretty buckles, and the sober but yet
handsome morsel of lace which was made for her throat,--and which she
had not been ashamed to wear at that memorable dinner,--they were
all brought out. It was Christmas, and her father's presence would
surely have justified them all! And would she not wish to leave in
her lover's eyes the memory of whatever prettiness she might have
possessed? They were all produced. But when the moment came for
arraying herself they were all restored to their homes. She would be
the simple Quaker girl as she was to be found there on Monday, on
Tuesday, and on Wednesday. It would be better that he should know how
little there was for him to lose.
Zachary Fay ate his dinner almost without a word. She, though she
smiled on him and tried to look contented, found it almost impossible
to speak. She uttered some little phrases which she intended to be
peculiar to the period of the year; but she felt that her father's
mind was intent on what was coming, and she discontinued her efforts.
She found it hardly possible to guess at the frame of his mind, so
silent had he been since first he had yielded to her when she assured
him of her purpose. But she had assured him, and he could not doubt
her purpose. If he were unhappy for the moment it was needful that
he should be unhappy. There could be no change, and therefore it was
well that he should be silent. He had hardly swallowed his dinner
when he rose from his chair, and, bringing in his hat from the
passage, spoke a word to her before he departed. "I am going into the
City, Marion," he said. "I know it is well that I should be absent
this afternoon. I shall return to tea. God bless thee, my child."
Marion, rising from her chair, kissed his lips and cheeks, and
accompanied him to the door. "It will be all well, my father," she
said; "it will be all well, and your child will be happy."
About half-an-hour afterwards there came a knock at the door, and
Marion for a moment thought that her lover was already there. But it
was Mrs. Roden who came up to her in the drawing-room. "Am I in the
way, Marion?" she asked. "I will be gone in a minute; but perhaps I
can say a word first."
"Why should you be in the way?"
"He is coming."
"Yes, I suppose so. He said that he would come. But what if he come?
You and he are old friends."
"I would not be here to interrupt him. I will escape when we hear the
knock. Oh, Marion!"
"What is it, Mrs. Roden? You are sad, and something troubles you?"
"Yes, indeed. There is something which troubles me sorely. This lover
of yours?"
"It is fixed, dear friend; fixed as fate. It does not trouble me. It
shall not trouble me. Why should it be a trouble? Suppose I had never
seen him!"
"But you have seen him, my child."
"Yes, indeed; and whether that be for good or evil, either to him or
to me, it must be accepted. Nothing now can alter that. But I think,
indeed, that it is a blessing. It will be something to me to remember
that such a one as he has loved me. And for him--"
"I would speak now of you, Marion."
"I am contented."
"It may be, Marion, that in this concerning your health you should be
altogether wrong."
"How wrong?"
"What right have you or I to say that the Lord has determined to
shorten your days."
"Who has said so?"
"It is on that theory that you are acting."
"No;--not on that; not on that alone. Were I as strong as are other
girls,--as the very strongest,--I would do the same. Has my father
been with you?"
"Yes, he has."
"My poor father! But it is of no avail. It would be wrong, and I will
not do it. If I am to die, I must die. If I am to live, let me live.
I shall not die certainly because I have resolved to send this fine
lover away. However weak Marion Fay may be, she is strong enough not
to pine for that."
"If there be no need?"
"No need? What was it you said of unequal marriages? What was the
story that you told me of your own? If I love this man, of whom am
I to think the most? Could it be possible that I should be to him
what a wife ought to be to her husband? Could I stand nobly on his
hearth-rug, and make his great guests welcome? Should I be such a
one that every day he should bless the kind fortune which had given
him such a woman to help him to rule his house? How could I go from
the littleness of these chambers to walk through his halls without
showing that I knew myself to be an intruder? And yet I should be
so proud that I should resent the looks of all who told me by their
faces that I was so. He has done wrong in allowing himself to love
me. He has done wrong in yielding to his passion, and telling me of
his love. I will be wiser and nobler than he. If the Lord will help
me, if my Saviour will be on my side, I will not do wrong. I did not
think that you, Mrs. Roden, would turn against me."
"Turn against thee, Marion? I to turn against thee!"
"You should strengthen me."
"It seems to me that you want no strength from others. It is for your
poor father that I would say a word."
"I would not have father believe that my health has aught to do with
it. You know,--you know what right I have to think that I am fit to
marry and to hope to be the mother of children. It needs not that
he should know. Let it suffice for him to be told that I am not
equal to this greatness. A word escaped me in speaking to him, and
I repent myself that I so spoke to him. But tell him,--and tell him
truly,--that were my days fixed here for the next fifty years, were
I sure of the rudest health, I would not carry my birth, my manners,
my habits into that young lord's house. How long would it be, Mrs.
Roden, before he saw some little trick that would displease him? Some
word would be wrongly spoken, some garment would be ill-folded, some
awkward movement would tell the tale,--and then he would feel that he
had done wrong to marry the Quaker's daughter. All the virtues under
the sun cannot bolster up love so as to stand the battery of one
touch of disgust. Tell my father that, and tell him that I have done
well. Then you can tell him also, that, if God shall so choose it, I
shall live a strong old maid for many years, to think night and day
of his goodness to me,--of his great love."
Mrs. Roden, as she had come across from her own house, had known that
her mission would fail. To persuade another against one's own belief
is difficult in any case, but to persuade Marion Fay on such a matter
as this was a task beyond the eloquence of man or woman. She had made
up her mind that she must fail utterly when the knock came at the
door. She took the girl in her arms and kissed her without further
attempt. She would not even bid her think of it once again, as might
have been so easy at parting. "I will go into your room while he
passes," she said. As she did so Lord Hampstead's voice was heard at
the door.
CHAPTER VI.
MARION'S OBSTINACY.
Lord Hampstead drove himself very fast from Hendon Hall to the
"Duchess of Edinburgh" at Holloway, and then, jumping out of his
trap, left it without saying a word to his servant, and walked
quickly up Paradise Row till he came to No. 17. There, without
pausing a moment, he knocked sharply at the door. Going on such a
business as this, he did not care who saw him. There was an idea
present to him that he would be doing honour to Marion Fay if he made
it known to all the world of Holloway that he had come there to ask
her to be his wife. It was this feeling which had made him declare
his purpose to his sister, and which restrained him from any
concealment as to his going and coming.
Marion was standing alone in the middle of the room, with her two
hands clasped together, but with a smile on her face. She had
considered much as to this moment, determining even the very words
that she would use. The words probably were forgotten, but the
purpose was all there. He had resolved upon nothing, had considered
nothing,--except that she should be made to understand that, because
of his exceeding love, he required her to come to him as his wife.
"Marion," he said, "Marion, you know why I am here!" And he advanced
to her, as though he would at once have taken her in his arms.
"Yes, my lord, I know."
"You know that I love you. I think, surely, that never love was
stronger than mine. If you can love me say but the one word, and you
will make me absolutely happy. To have you for my wife is all that
the world can give me now. Why do you go from me? Is it to tell me
that you cannot love me, Marion? Do not say that, or I think my heart
will break."
She could not say that, but as he paused for her answer it was
necessary that she should say something. And the first word spoken
must tell the whole truth, even though it might be that the word must
be repeated often before he could be got to believe that it was an
earnest word. "My lord," she began.
"Oh, I do hate that form of address. My name is John. Because of
certain conventional arrangements the outside people call me Lord
Hampstead."
"It is because I can be to you no more than one of the outside people
that I call you--my lord."
"Marion!"
"Only one of the outside people;--no more, though my gratitude to
you, my appreciation, my friendship for you may be ever so strong.
My father's daughter must be just one of the outside people to Lord
Hampstead,--and no more."
"Why so? Why do you say it? Why do you torment me? Why do you banish
me at once, and tell me that I must go home a wretched, miserable
man? Why?--why?--why?
"Because, my lord--"
"I can give a reason,--a good reason,--a reason which I cannot
oppose, though it must be fatal to me unless I can remove it; a
reason to which I must succumb if necessary, but to which, Marion,
I will not succumb at once. If you say that you cannot love me that
will be a reason."
If it were necessary that she should tell him a lie, she must do so.
It would have been pleasant if she could have made him understand
that she would be content to love him on condition that he would be
content to leave her. That she should continue to love him, and that
he should cease to love her,--unless, perhaps, just a little,--that
had been a scheme for the future which had recommended itself to her.
There should be a something left which should give a romance to her
life, but which should leave him free in all things. It had been a
dream, in which she had much trusted, but which, while she listened
to the violence of his words, she acknowledged to herself to be
almost impossible. She must tell the lie;--but at the moment it
seemed to her that there might be a middle course. "I dare not love
you," she said.
"Dare not love me, Marion? Who hinders you? Who tells you that you
may not? Is it your father?"
"No, my lord, no."
"It is Mrs. Roden."
"No, my lord. This is a matter in which I could obey no friend, no
father. I have had to ask myself, and I have told myself that I do
not dare to love above my station in life."
"I am to have that bugbear again between me and my happiness?"
"Between that and your immediate wishes;--yes. Is it not so in all
things? If I,--even I,--had set my heart upon some one below me,
would not you, as my friend, have bade me conquer the feeling?"
"I have set my heart on one whom in the things of the world I regard
as my equal,--in all other things as infinitely my superior."
"The compliment is very sweet to me, but I have trained myself to
resist sweetness. It may not be, Lord Hampstead. It may not be. You
do not know as yet how obstinate such a girl as I may become when she
has to think of another's welfare,--and a little, perhaps, of her
own."
"Are you afraid of me?"
"Yes."
"That I should not love you?"
"Even of that. When you should come to see in me that which is not
lovable you would cease to love me. You would be good to me because
your nature is good; kind to me because your nature is kind. You
would not ill-treat me because you are gentle, noble, and forgiving.
But that would not suffice for me. I should see it in your eye,
despite yourself,--and hear it in your voice, even though you tried
to hide it by occasional softness. I should eat my own heart when I
came to see that you despised your Quaker wife."
"All that is nonsense, Marion."
"My lord!"
"Say the word at once if it has to be said,--so that I may know what
it is that I have to contend with. For you my heart is so full of
love that it seems to be impossible that I should live without you.
If there could be any sympathy I should at once be happy. If there be
none, say so."
"There is none."
"No spark of sympathy in you for me,--for one who loves you so
truly?" When the question was put to her in that guise she could not
quite tell so monstrous a lie as would be needed for an answer fit
for her purpose. "This is a matter, Marion, in which a man has a
right to demand an answer,--to demand a true answer."
"Lord Hampstead, it may be that you should perplex me sorely. It
may be that you should drive me away from you, and to beg you never
to trouble me any further. It may be that you should force me to
remain dumb before you, because that I cannot reply to you in proper
words. But you will never alter my purpose. If you think well of
Marion Fay, take her word when she gives it you. I can never become
your lordship's wife."
"Never?"
"Never! Certainly never!"
"Have you told me why;--all the reason why?"
"I have told you enough, Lord Hampstead."
"By heavens, no! You have not answered me the one question that I
have asked you. You have not given me the only reason which I would
take,--even for a while. Can you love me, Marion?"
"If you loved me you would spare me," she said. Then feeling that
such words utterly betrayed her, she recovered herself, and went to
work with what best eloquence was at her command to cheat him out of
the direct answer which he required. "I think," she said, "you do not
understand the workings of a girl's heart in such a matter. She does
not dare to ask herself about her love, when she knows that loving
would avail her nothing. For what purpose should I inquire into
myself when the object of such inquiry has already been obtained? Why
should I trouble myself to know whether this thing would be a gain to
me or not, when I am well aware that I can never have the gain?"
"Marion, I think you love me." She looked at him and tried to
smile,--tried to utter some half-joking word; and then as she felt
that she could no longer repress her tears, she turned her face from
him, and made no attempt at a reply. "Marion," he said again, "I
think that you love me."
"If you loved me, my lord, you would not torture me." She had seated
herself now on the sofa, turning her face away from him over her
shoulder so that she might in some degree hide her tears. He sat
himself at her side, and for a moment or two got possession of her
hand.
"Marion," he said, pleading his case with all the strength of words
which was at his command, "you know, do you not, that no moment of
life can be of more importance to me than this?"
"Is it so, my lord?"
"None can be so important. I am striving to get her for my companion
in life, who to me is the sweetest of all human beings. To touch
you as I do now is a joy to me, even though you have made my heart
so sad." At the moment she struggled to get her hand away from
him, but the struggle was not at first successful. "You answer me
with arguments which are to me of no avail at all. They are, to my
thinking, simply a repetition of prejudices to which I have been all
my life opposed. You will not be angry because I say so?"
"Oh, no, my lord," she said; "not angry. I am not angry, but indeed
you must not hold me." With that she extricated her hand, which he
allowed to pass from his grasp as he continued his address to her.
"As to all that, I have my opinion and you have yours. Can it be
right that you should hold to your own and sacrifice me who have
thought so much of what it is I want myself,--if in truth you love
me? Let your opinion stand against mine, and neutralize it. Let mine
stand against yours, and in that we shall be equal. Then after that
let love be lord of all. If you love me, Marion, I think that I have
a right to demand that you shall be my wife."
There was something in this which she did not know how to
answer;--but she did know, she was quite sure, that no word of his,
no tenderness either on his part or on her own, would induce her to
yield an inch. It was her duty to sacrifice herself for him,--for
reasons which were quite apparent to herself,--and she would do it.
The fortress of her inner purpose was safe, although he had succeeded
in breaking down the bulwark by which it had been her purpose to
guard it. He had claimed her love, and she had not been strong enough
to deny the claim. Let the bulwark go. She was bad at lying. Let her
lie as she might, he had wit enough to see through it. She would not
take the trouble to deny her love should he persist in saying that
it had been accorded to him. But surely she might succeed at last in
making him understand that, whether she loved him or no, she would
not marry him. "I certainly shall never be your wife," she said.
"And that is all?"
"What more, my lord?"
"You can let me go, and never wish me to return?"
"I can, my lord. Your return would only be a trouble to you, and a
pain to me. Another time do not turn your eyes too often on a young
woman because her face may chance to please you. It is well that
you should marry. Go and seek a wife, with judgment, among your own
people. When you have done that, then you may return and tell Marion
Fay that you have done well by following her advice."
"I will come again, and again, and again, and I will tell Marion Fay
that her counsels are unnatural and impossible. I will teach her to
know that the man who loves her can seek no other wife;--that no
other mode of living is possible to him than one in which he and
Marion Fay shall be joined together. I think I shall persuade her at
last that such is the case. I think she will come to know that all
her cold prudence and worldly would-be wisdom can be of no avail to
separate those who love each other. I think that when she finds that
her lover so loves her that he cannot live without her, she will
abandon those fears as to his future fickleness, and trust herself to
one of whose truth she will have assured herself." Then he took her
hand, and kneeling at her knee, he kissed it before she was powerful
enough to withdraw it. And so he left her, without another word, and
mounting on his vehicle, drove himself home without having exchanged
a single word at Holloway with any one save Marion Fay.
She, when she was left alone, threw herself at full length on the
sofa and burst into an ecstacy of tears. Trust herself to him! Yes,
indeed. She would trust herself to him entirely, only in order that
she might have the joy, for one hour, of confessing her love to him
openly, let the consequences to herself afterwards be what they
might! As to that future injury to her pride of which she had spoken
both to her father and also to her friend,--of which she had said so
much to herself in discussing this matter with her own heart--as to
that he had convinced her. It did not become her in any way to think
of herself in this matter. He certainly would be able to twist her
as he would if she could stand upon no surer rock than her fears for
her own happiness. One kiss from him would be payment for it all. But
all his love, all his sweetness, all his truth, all his eloquence
should avail nothing with her towards overcoming that spirit of
self-sacrifice by which she was dominated. Though he should extort
from her all her secret, that would be her strength. Though she
should have to tell him of her failing health,--her certainly failing
health,--though even that should be necessary, she certainly would
not be won from her purpose. It might be sweet, she thought, to make
him in all respects her friend of friends; to tell him everything; to
keep no fear, no doubt, no aspiration a secret from him. "Love you,
oh my dearest, thou very pearl of my heart, love you indeed! Oh, yes.
Do you not know that not even for an instant could I hide my love?
Are you not aware, did you not see at the moment, that when you first
knelt at my feet, my heart had flown to you without an effort on my
part to arrest it? But now, my beloved one, now we understand each
other. Now there need be no reproaches between us. Now there need be
no speaking of distrust. I am all yours,--only it is not fit, as you
know, dearest, that the poor Quaker girl should become your wife. Now
that we both understand that, why should we be sad? Why should we
mourn?" Why should she not succeed in bringing things to such a pass
as this; and if so, why should life be unhappy either to him or to
her?
Thus she was thinking of it till she had almost brought herself to a
state of bliss, when her father returned to her. "Father," she said,
getting up and embracing his arm as he stood, "it is all over."
"What is over?" asked the Quaker.
"He has been here."
"Well, Marion; and what has he said?"
"What he said it is hardly for me to tell you. What I said,--I would
you could know it all without my repeating a word of it."
"Has he gone away contented?"
"Nay, not that, father. I hardly expected that. I hardly hoped for
that. Had he been quite contented perhaps I might not have been so."
"Why should you not have both been made happy?" asked the father.
"It may be that we shall be so. It may be that he shall understand."
"Thou hast not taken his offer then?"
"Oh, no! No, father, no. I can never accept his offer. If that be in
your mind put it forth. You shall never see your Marion the wife of
any man, whether of that young lord or of another more fitted to her.
No one ever shall be allowed to speak to me as he has spoken."
"Why dost thou make thyself different from other girls?" he said,
angrily.
"Oh, father, father!"
"It is romance and false sentiment, than which nothing is more odious
to me. There is no reason why thou shouldst be different from others.
The Lord has not marked thee out as different from other girls,
either in His pleasure or His displeasure. It is wrong for thee to
think it of thyself." She looked up piteously into his face, but said
not a word. "It is thy duty to take thyself from His hands as He has
made thee; and to give way to no vain ecstatic terrors. If, as I
gather from thy words, this young man be dear to thee, and if, as I
gather from this second coming of his, thou art dear to him, then I
as thy father tell thee that thy duty calls thee to him. It is not
that he is a lord."
"Oh, no, father."
"It is not, I say, that he is a lord, or that he is rich, or that he
is comely to the eyes, that I would have thee go to him as his wife.
It is because thou and he love each other, as it is the ordinance
of the Lord Almighty that men and women should do. Marriage is
honourable, and I, thy father, would fain see thee married. I believe
the young man to be good and true. I could give thee to him, lord
though he be, with a trusting heart, and think that in so disposing
of my child I had done well for her. Think of this, Marion, if it be
not already too late." All this he had said standing, so that he was
able to leave the room without the ceremony of rising from his chair.
Without giving her a moment for reply, having his hand on the lock
of the door as he uttered the last words of his counsel to her, he
marched off, leaving her alone.
It may be doubted whether at the moment she could have found words
for reply, so full was her heart with the feelings that were crowded
there. But she was well aware that all her father's words could go
for nothing. Of only one thing was she sure,--that no counsel, no
eloquence, no love would ever induce her to become the wife of Lord
Hampstead.
CHAPTER VII.
MRS. DEMIJOHN'S PARTY.
Mrs. Demijohn presents her compliments to Mr. Crocker, and
begs the honour of his company to tea at nine o'clock on
Wednesday, 31st of December, to see the New Year in.
R.I.V.P. (Do come, C. D.)
10, Paradise Row, Holloway.
29th December, 18--.
This note was delivered to Crocker on his arrival at his office on
the morning of Saturday, the 27th.
It must be explained that Crocker had lately made the acquaintance
of Miss Clara Demijohn without any very formal introduction. Crocker,
with that determination which marked his character, in pursuit of the
one present purport of his mind to effect a friendly reconciliation
with George Roden, had taken himself down to Holloway, and had called
at No. 11, thinking that he might induce his friend's mother to act
on his behalf in a matter appertaining to peace and charity. Mrs.
Roden had unhappily been from home, but he had had the good fortune
to encounter Miss Demijohn. Perhaps it was that she had seen him
going in and out of the house, and had associated him with the
great mystery of the young nobleman; perhaps she had been simply
attracted by the easy air with which he cocked his hat and swung his
gloves;--or, perhaps it was simply chance. But so it was that in the
gloom of the evening she met him just round the corner opposite to
the "Duchess of Edinburgh," and the happy acquaintance was commenced.
No doubt, as in all such cases, it was the gentleman who spoke first.
Let us, at any rate, hope so for the sake of Paradise Row generally.
Be that as it may, before many minutes were over she had explained
to him that Mrs. Roden had gone out in a cab soon after dinner, and
that probably something was up at Wimbledon, as Mrs. Roden never
went anywhere else, and this was not the day of the week on which
her visits to Mrs. Vincent were generally made. Crocker, who was
simplicity itself, soon gave her various details as to his own
character and position in life. He, too, was a clerk in the Post
Office, and was George Roden's particular friend. "Oh, yes; he
knew all about Lord Hampstead, and was, he might say, intimately
acquainted with his lordship. He had been in the habit of meeting his
lordship at Castle Hautboy, the seat of his friend, Lord Persiflage,
and had often ridden with his lordship in the hunting-field. He knew
all about Lady Frances and the engagement, and had had the pleasure
of making the acquaintance of her ladyship. He had been corresponding
lately with Lord Hampstead on the subject. No;--he had not as yet
heard anything of Marion Fay, the Quaker's daughter. Then Clara
had something to say on her side. She quite understood that if she
expected to be communicated with, she also must communicate; and
moreover, young Mr. Crocker was by his age, appearance, and sex,
just such a one as prompted her to be communicative without loss of
self-respect. What was the good of telling things to Mrs. Duffer, who
was only an old widow without any friends, and with very small means
of existence? She had communicated her secrets to Mrs. Duffer simply
from want of a better pair of ears into which she could pour them.
But here was one in telling secrets to whom she could take delight,
and who had secrets of his own to give in return. It is not to be
supposed that the friendship which arose grew from the incidents of
one meeting only. On that first evening Crocker could not leave the
fair one without making arrangements for a further interview, and so
the matter grew. The intimacy between them was already of three days'
standing when the letter of invitation above given reached Crocker's
hands. To tell the very truth, the proposed party was made up chiefly
for Crocker's sake. What is the good of having a young man if you
cannot show him to your friends?
"Crocker!" said Mrs. Demijohn to her niece; "where did you pick up
Crocker?"
"What questions you do ask, aunt! Pick him up, indeed!"
"So you have--; picked him up, as you're always a doing with young
men. Only you never know how to keep 'em when you've got 'em."
"I declare, aunt, your vulgarity is unbearable."
"I'm not going to have any Crocker in my house," said the old woman,
"unless I know where he comes from. Perhaps he's a counter-skipper.
He may be a ticket-of-leave man for all you know."
"Aunt Jemima, you're so provoking that I sometimes think I shall have
to leave you."
"Where will you go to, my dear?"
To this question, which had often been asked before, Clara thought it
unnecessary to make any answer; but returned at once to the inquiries
which were not unnaturally made by the lady who stood to her in the
place of a mother. "Mr. Crocker, Aunt Jemima, is a clerk in the
Post Office, who sits at the same desk with George Roden, and is
intimately acquainted both with Lord Hampstead and with Lady Frances
Trafford. He used to be George Roden's bosom friend; but there has
lately been some little tiff between the young men, which would
be so pleasant if we could make it up. You have got to a speaking
acquaintance with Mrs. Roden, and perhaps if you will ask them
they'll come. I am sure Marion Fay will come, because you always get
your money from Pogson and Littlebird. I wish I had the cheek to ask
Lord Hampstead." Having heard all this, the old lady consented to
receive our sporting friend from the Post Office, and also assented
to the other invitations, which were given.
Crocker, of course, sent his compliments, and expressed the great
pleasure he would have in "seeing the New Year in" in company with
Mrs. Demijohn. As the old lady was much afflicted with rheumatism,
the proposition as coming from her would have been indiscreet had she
not known that her niece on such occasions was well able to act as
her deputy. Mrs. Roden also promised to come, and with difficulty
persuaded her son that it would be gracious on his part to be so far
civil to his neighbours. Had he known that Crocker also would be
there he certainly would not have yielded; but Crocker, when at the
office, kept the secret of his engagement to himself. The Quaker also
and Marion Fay were to be there. Mr. Fay and Mrs. Demijohn had long
known each other in regard to matters of business, and he, for the
sake of Messrs. Pogson and Littlebird's firm, could not refuse to
drink a cup of tea at their client's house. A junior clerk from the
same counting-house, one Daniel Tribbledale by name, with whom Clara
had made acquaintance at King's Court some two years since, was
also to be of the party. Mr. Tribbledale had at one time, among all
Clara's young men, been the favourite. But circumstances had occurred
which had somewhat lessened her goodwill towards him. Mr. Littlebird
had quarrelled with him, and he had been refused promotion. It was
generally supposed at the present time in the neighbourhood of Old
Broad Street that Daniel Tribbledale was languishing for the love of
Clara Demijohn. Mrs. Duffer, of course, was to be there, and so the
list of friends for the festive occasion was completed.
Mrs. Duffer was the first to come. Her aid, indeed, was required for
the cutting up of the cakes and arrangements of the cups and saucers.
The Quaker and his daughter were next, appearing exactly at nine
o'clock,--to do which he protested to be the best sign of good
manners that could be shown. "If they want me at ten, why do they
ask me at nine?" demanded the Quaker. Marion was forced to give way,
though she was by no means anxious to spend a long evening in company
with Mrs. Demijohn. As to that seeing of the New Year in, it was
quite out of the question for the Quaker or for his daughter. The
company altogether came early. The only touch of fashion evinced
on this occasion was shown by Mr. Crocker. The Rodens, with Mr.
Tribbledale at their heels, appeared not long after Mr. Fay, and
then the demolition of the Sally Lunns was commenced. "I declare I
think he means to deceive us," whispered Clara to her friend, Mrs.
Duffer, when all the good tea had been consumed before the young man
appeared. "I don't suppose he cares much for tea," said Mrs. Duffer;
"they don't now-a-days." "It isn't just for the tea that a man
is expected to come," said Clara, indignantly. It was now nearly
ten, and she could not but feel that the evening was going heavily.
Tribbledale had said one tender word to her; but she had snubbed him,
expecting Crocker to be there almost at once, and he had retired
silent into a corner. George Roden had altogether declined to make
himself agreeable--to her; but as he was an engaged man, and engaged
to a lady of rank, much could not be expected of him. Mrs. Roden
and the Quaker and Mrs. Demijohn did manage to keep up something
of conversation. Roden from time to time said a few words to
Marion. Clara, who was repenting herself of her hardness to young
Tribbledale, was forced to put up with Mrs. Duffer. When suddenly
there came a thundering knock at the door, and Mr. Crocker was
announced by the maid, who had been duly instructed beforehand as to
all peculiarities in the names of the guests.
There was a little stir, as there always is when a solitary guest
comes in much after the appointed time. Of course there was
rebuke,--suppressed rebuke from Mrs. Demijohn, mild rebuke from Mrs.
Duffer, a very outburst of rebuke from Clara. But Crocker was up to
the occasion. "Upon my word, ladies, I had no help for it. I was
dining with a few friends in the City, and I couldn't get away
earlier. If my own ideas of happiness had been consulted I should
have been here an hour ago. Ah, Roden, how are you? Though I know you
live in the same street, I didn't think of meeting you." Roden gave
him a nod, but did not vouchsafe him a word. "How's his lordship? I
told you, didn't I, that I had heard from him the other day?" Crocker
had mentioned more than once at his office the fact that he had
received a letter from Lord Hampstead.
"I don't often see him, and very rarely hear from him," said Roden,
without turning away from Marion to whom he was at the moment
speaking.
"If all our young noblemen were like Hampstead," said Crocker, who
had told the truth in declaring that he had been dining, "England
would be a very different sort of place from what it is. The most
affable young lord that ever sat in the House of Peers." Then he
turned himself towards Marion Fay, at whose identity he made a guess.
He was anxious at once to claim her as a mutual friend, as connected
with himself by her connection with the lord in question. But as
he could find no immediate excuse for introducing himself, he only
winked at her.
"Are you acquainted with Mr. Tribbledale, Mr. Crocker?" asked Clara.
"Never had the pleasure as yet," said Crocker. Then the introduction
was effected. "In the Civil Service?" asked Crocker. Tribbledale
blushed, and of necessity repudiated the honour. "I thought, perhaps,
you were in the Customs. You have something of the H.M.S. cut about
you." Tribbledale acknowledged the compliment with a bow. "I think
the Service is the best thing a man can do with himself," continued
Crocker.
"It is genteel," said Mrs. Duffer.
"And the hours so pleasant," said Clara. "Bank clerks have always to
be there by nine."
"Is a young man to be afraid of that?" asked the Quaker, indignantly.
"Ten till four, with one hour for the newspapers and another for
lunch. See the consequence. I never knew a young man yet from a
public office who understood the meaning of a day's work."
"I think that is a little hard," said Roden. "If a man really works,
six hours continuously is as much as he can do with any good to his
employers or himself."
"Well done, Roden," said Crocker. "Stick up for Her Majesty's shop."
Roden turned himself more round than before, and continued to address
himself to Marion.
"Our employers wouldn't think much of us," said the Quaker, "if we
didn't do better for them than that in private offices. I say that
the Civil Service destroys a young man, and teaches him to think that
the bread of idleness is sweet. As far as I can see, nothing is so
destructive of individual energy as what is called public money. If
Daniel Tribbledale would bestir himself he might do very well in the
world without envying any young man his seat either at the Custom
House or the Post Office." Mr. Fay had spoken so seriously that they
all declined to carry that subject further. Mrs. Demijohn and Mrs.
Duffer murmured their agreement, thinking it civil to do so, as the
Quaker was a guest. Tribbledale sat silent in his corner, awestruck
at the idea of having given rise to the conversation. Crocker winked
at Mrs. Demijohn, and thrust his hands into his pockets as much as to
say that he could get the better of the Quaker altogether if he chose
to exercise his powers of wit and argument.
Soon after this Mr. Fay rose to take his daughter away. "But," said
Clara, with affected indignation, "you are to see the Old Year out
and the New Year in."
"I have seen enough of the one," said Mr. Fay, "and shall see enough
of the other if I live to be as near its close as I am to its birth."
"But there are refreshments coming up," said Mrs. Demijohn.
"I have refreshed myself sufficiently with thy tea, madam. I rarely
take anything stronger before retiring to my rest. Come, Marion, thou
requirest to be at no form of welcoming the New Year. Thou, too, wilt
be better in thy bed, as thy duties call upon thee to be early." So
saying, the Quaker bowed formally to each person present, and took
his daughter out with him under his arm. Mrs. Roden and her son
escaped almost at the same moment, and Mrs. Demijohn, having waited
to take what she called just a thimbleful of hot toddy, went also to
her rest.
"Here's a pretty way of seeing the New Year in," said Clara,
laughing.
"We are quite enough of us for the purpose," said Crocker, "unless we
also are expected to go away." But as he spoke he mixed a tumbler of
brandy and water, which he divided among two smaller glasses, handing
them to the two ladies present.
"I declare," said Mrs. Duffer, "I never do anything of the
kind,--almost never."
"On such an occasion as this everybody does it," said Crocker.
"I hope Mr. Tribbledale will join us," said Clara. Then the bashful
clerk came out of his corner, and seating himself at the table
prepared to do as he was bid. He made his toddy very weak, not
because he disliked brandy, but guided by an innate spirit of modesty
which prevented him always from going more than halfway when he was
in company.
Then the evening became very pleasant. "You are quite sure that he is
really engaged to her ladyship?" asked Clara.
"I wish I were as certainly engaged to you," replied the polite
Crocker.
"What nonsense you do talk, Mr. Crocker;--and before other people
too. But you think he is?"
"I am sure of it. Both Hampstead and she have told me so much
themselves out of their own mouths."
"My!" exclaimed Mrs. Duffer.
"And here's her brother engaged to Marion Fay," said Clara. Crocker
declared that as to this he was by no means so well assured. Lord
Hampstead in spite of their intimacy had told him nothing about it.
"But it is so, Mr. Crocker, as sure as ever you are sitting there. He
has been coming here after her over and over again, and was closeted
with her only last Friday for hours. It was a holiday, but that sly
old Quaker went out of the way, so as to leave them together. That
Mrs. Roden, though she's as stiff as buckram, knows all about it. To
the best of my belief she got it all up. Marion Fay is with her every
day. It's my belief there's something we don't understand yet. She's
got a hold of them young people, and means to do just what she likes
with 'em." Crocker, however, could not agree to this. He had heard of
Lord Hampstead's peculiar politics, and was assured that the young
lord was only carrying out his peculiar principles in selecting
Marion Fay for himself and devoting his sister to George Roden.
"Not that I like that kind of thing, if you ask me," said Crocker.
"I'm very fond of Hampstead, and I've always found Lady Frances to be
a pleasant and affable lady. I've no cause to speak other than civil
of both of them. But when a man has been born a lord, and a lady a
lady--. A lady of that kind, Miss Demijohn."
"Oh, exactly;--titled you mean, Mr. Crocker?"
"Quite high among the nobs, you know. Hampstead will be a Marquis
some of these days, which is next to a Duke."
"And do you know him,--yourself?" asked Tribbledale with a voice of
awe.
"Oh, yes," said Crocker.
"To speak to him when you see him?"
"I had a long correspondence with him about a week ago about a matter
which interested both of us very much."
"And how does he address you?" asked Clara,--also with something of
awe.
"'Dear Crocker;'--just that. I always say 'My dear Lord Hampstead,'
in return. I look upon 'Dear Hampstead,' as a little vulgar, you
know, and I always think that one ought to be particular in these
matters. But, as I was saying, when it comes to marriage, people
ought to be true to themselves. Now if I was a Marquis,--I don't know
what I mightn't do if I saw you, you know, Clara." "Clara" pouted,
but did not appear to have been offended either by the compliment or
by the familiarity. "But under any other circumstances less forcible
I would stick to my order."
"So would I," said Mrs. Duffer. "Marquises ought to marry marquises,
and dukes dukes."
"There it is!" said Clara, "and now we must drink its health, and I
hope we may be all married to them we like best before it comes round
again." This had reference to the little clock on the mantelpiece,
the hands of which had just crept round to twelve o'clock.
"I wish we might," said Crocker, "and have a baby in the cradle too."
"Go away," said Clara.
"That would be quick," said Mrs. Duffer. "What do you say, Mr.
Tribbledale?"
"Where my heart's fixed," said Tribbledale, who was just becoming
warm with the brandy-and-water, "there ain't no hope for this year,
nor yet for the one after." Whereupon Crocker remarked that "care
killed a cat."
"You just put on your coat and hat, and take me across to my
lodgings. See if I don't give you a chance," said Mrs. Duffer, who
was also becoming somewhat merry under the influences of the moment.
But she knew that it was her duty to do something for her young
hostess, and, true woman as she was, thought that this was the best
way of doing it. Tribbledale did as he was bid, though he was obliged
thus to leave his lady-love and her new admirer together. "Do you
really mean it?" said Clara, when she and Crocker were alone.
"Of course I do,--honest," said Crocker.
"Then you may," said Clara, turning her face to him.
CHAPTER VIII.
NEW YEAR'S DAY.
Crocker had by no means as yet got through his evening. Having dined
with his friends in the City, and "drank tea" with the lady of his
love, he was disposed to proceed, if not to pleasanter delights, at
any rate to those which might be more hilarious. Every Londoner,
from Holloway up to Gower Street, in which he lived, would be seeing
the New Year in,--and beyond Gower Street down in Holborn, and from
thence all across to the Strand, especially in the neighbourhood of
Covent Garden and the theatres, there would be a whole world of happy
revellers engaged in the same way. On such a night as this there
could certainly be no need of going to bed soon after twelve for
such a one as Samuel Crocker. In Paradise Row he again encountered
Tribbledale, and suggested to that young man that they should first
have a glass of something at the "Duchess" and then proceed to more
exalted realms in a hansom. "I did think of walking there this fine
starlight night," said Tribbledale, mindful of the small stipend at
which his services were at present valued by Pogson and Littlebird.
But Crocker soon got the better of all this. "I'll stand Sammy for
this occasion," said he. "The New Year comes in only once in twelve
months." Then Tribbledale went into "The Duchess," and after that was
as indifferent, while his money lasted him, as was Crocker himself.
"I've loved that girl for three years," said Tribbledale, as soon as
they had left "The Duchess" and were again in the open air.
It was a beautiful night, and Crocker thought that they might as well
walk a little way. It was pleasant under the bright stars to hear of
the love adventures of his new friend, especially as he himself was
now the happy hero. "For three years?" he asked.
"Indeed I have, Crocker." That glass of hot whiskey-and-water, though
it enhanced the melancholy tenderness of the young man, robbed him of
his bashfulness, and loosened the strings of his tongue. "For three
years! And there was a time when she worshipped the very stool on
which I sat at the office. I don't like to boast."
"You have to be short, sharp, and decisive if you mean to get a girl
like that to travel with you."
"I should have taken the ball at the hop, Crocker; that's what I
ought to have done. But I see it all now. She's as fickle as she is
fair;--fickler, perhaps, if anything."
"Come, Tribbledale; I ain't going to let you abuse her, you know."
"I don't want to abuse her. God knows I love her too well in spite of
all. It's your turn now. I can see that. There's a great many of them
have had their turns."
"Were there now?" asked Crocker anxiously.
"There was Pollocky;--him at the Highbury Gas Works. He came after
me. It was because of him she dropped me."
"Was that going on for a marriage?"
"Right ahead, I used to think. Pollocky is a widower with five
children."
"Oh Lord!"
"But he's the head of all the gas, and has four hundred a year.
It wasn't love as carried her on with him. I could see that. She
wouldn't go and meet him anywhere about the City, as she did me. I
suppose Pollocky is fifty, if he's a day."
"And she dropped him also?"
"Or else it was he." On receipt of this information Crocker whistled.
"It was something about money," continued Tribbledale. "The old woman
wouldn't part."
"There is money I suppose?"
"The old woman has a lot."
"And isn't the niece to have it?" asked Crocker.
"No doubt she will; because there never was a pair more loving. But
the old lady will keep it herself as long as she is here." Then there
entered an idea into Crocker's head that if he could manage to make
Clara his own, he might have power enough to manage the aunt as well
as the niece. They had a little more whiskey-and-water at the Angel
at Islington before they got into the cab which was to take them down
to the Paphian Music-Hall, and after that Tribbledale passed from the
realm of partial fact to that of perfect poetry. "He would never," he
said, "abandon Clara Demijohn, though he should live to an age beyond
that of any known patriarch. He quite knew all that there was against
him. Crocker he thought might probably prevail. He rather hoped
that Crocker might prevail;--for why should not so good a fellow be
made happy, seeing how utterly impossible it was that he, Daniel
Tribbledale, should ever reach that perfect bliss in dreaming of
which he passed his miserable existence. But as to one thing he had
quite made up his mind. The day that saw Clara Demijohn a bride would
most undoubtedly be the last of his existence."
"Oh, no, damme; you won't," said Crocker turning round upon him in
the cab.
"I shall!" said Tribbledale with emphasis. "And I've made up my mind
how to do it too. They've caged up the Monument, and you're so looked
after on the Duke of York's, that there isn't a chance. But there's
nothing to prevent you from taking a header at the Whispering Gallery
of Saint Paul's. You'd be more talked of that way, and the vergers
would be sure to show the stains made on the stones below. 'It was
here young Tribbledale fell,--a clerk at Pogson and Littlebird's,
who dashed out his brains for love on the very day as Clara Demijohn
got herself married.' I'm of that disposition, Crocker, as I'd do
anything for love;--anything." Crocker was obliged to reply that he
trusted he might never be the cause of such a fatal attempt at glory;
but he went on to explain that in the pursuit of love a man could not
in any degree give way to friendship. Even though numberless lovers
might fall from the Whispering Gallery in a confused heap of mangled
bodies, he must still tread the path which was open to him. These
were his principles, and he could not abandon them even for the sake
of Tribbledale. "Nor would I have you," shouted Tribbledale, leaning
out over the door of the cab. "I would not delay you not for a
day, not for an hour. Were to-morrow to be your bridal morning it
would find me prepared. My only request to you is that a boy might
be called Daniel after me. You might tell her it was an uncle
or grandfather. She would never think that in her own child was
perpetuated a monument of poor Daniel Tribbledale." Crocker, as he
jumped out of the cab with a light step in front of the Paphian Hall,
promised that in this particular he would attend to the wishes of his
friend.
The performances at the Paphian Hall on that festive occasion need
not be described here with accuracy. The New Year had been seen well
in with music, dancing, and wine. The seeing of it in was continued
yet for an hour, till an indulgent policeman was forced to interfere.
It is believed that on the final ejection of our two friends, the
forlorn lover, kept steady, no doubt, by the weight of his woe, did
find his way home to his own lodgings. The exultant Crocker was less
fortunate, and passed his night without the accommodation of sheets
and blankets somewhere in the neighbourhood of Bow Street. The fact
is important to us, as it threatened to have considerable effect upon
our friend's position at his office. Having been locked up in a cell
during the night, and kept in durance till he was brought on the
following morning before a magistrate, he could not well be in his
room at ten o'clock. Indeed when he did escape from the hands of the
Philistines, at about two in the day, sick, unwashed and unfed, he
thought it better to remain away altogether for that day. The great
sin of total absence would be better than making an appearance before
Mr. Jerningham in his present tell-tale condition. He well knew his
own strength and his own weakness. All power of repartee would be
gone from him for the day. Mr. Jerningham would domineer over him,
and Æolus, should the violent god be pleased to send for him, would
at once annihilate him. So he sneaked home to Gower Street, took a
hair of the dog that bit him, and then got the old woman who looked
after him to make him some tea and to fry a bit of bacon for him.
In this ignominious way he passed New Year's Day,--at least so much
of it as was left to him after the occurrences which have been
described.
But on the next morning the great weight of his troubles fell upon
him heavily. In his very heart of hearts he was afraid of Æolus. In
spite of his "brummagem" courage the wrath of the violent god was
tremendous to him. He knew what it was to stand with his hand on the
lock of the door and tremble before he dared to enter the room. There
was something in the frown of the god which was terrible to him.
There was something worse in the god's smile. He remembered how he
had once been unable to move himself out of the room when the god had
told him that he need not remain at the office, but might go home and
amuse himself just as he pleased. Nothing crushes a young man so much
as an assurance that his presence can be dispensed with without loss
to any one. Though Crocker had often felt the mercies of Æolus, and
had told himself again and again that the god never did in truth lift
up his hand for final irrevocable punishment, still he trembled as he
anticipated the dread encounter.
When the morning came, and while he was yet in his bed, he struggled
to bethink himself of some strategy by which he might evade the evil
hour. Could he have been sent for suddenly into Cumberland? But in
this case he would of course have telegraphed to the Post Office on
the preceding day. Could he have been taken ill with a fit,--so as
to make his absence absolutely necessary, say for an entire week?
He well knew that they had a doctor at the Post Office, a crafty,
far-seeing, obdurate man, who would be with him at once and would
show him no mercy. He had tried these schemes all round, and had
found that there were none left with which Æolus was not better
acquainted than was he himself. There was nothing for it but to go
and bear the brunt.
Exactly at ten o'clock he entered the room, hung his hat up on the
accustomed peg, and took his seat on the accustomed chair before any
one spoke a word to him. Roden on the opposite seat took no notice of
him. "Bedad, he's here anyhow this morning," whispered Geraghty to
Bobbin, very audibly. "Mr. Crocker," said Mr. Jerningham, "you were
absent throughout the entire day yesterday. Have you any account
to give of yourself?" There was certainly falsehood implied in
this question, as Mr. Jerningham knew very well what had become of
Crocker. Crocker's misadventure at the police office had found its
way into the newspapers, and had been discussed by Æolus with Mr.
Jerningham. I am afraid that Mr. Jerningham must have intended to
tempt the culprit into some false excuse.
"I was horribly ill," said Crocker, without stopping the pen with
which he was making entries in the big book before him. This no doubt
was true, and so far the trap had been avoided.
"What made you ill, Mr. Crocker?"
"Headache."
"It seems to me, Mr. Crocker, you're more subject to such attacks as
these than any young man in the office."
"I always was as a baby," said Crocker, resuming something of his
courage. Could it be possible that Æolus should not have heard of the
day's absence?
"There is ill-health of so aggravated a nature," said Mr. Jerningham,
"as to make the sufferer altogether unfit for the Civil Service."
"I'm happy to say I'm growing out of them gradually," said Crocker.
Then Geraghty got up from his chair and whispered the whole truth
into the sufferer's ears. "It was all in the _Pall Mall_ yesterday,
and Æolus knew it before he went away." A sick qualm came upon the
poor fellow as though it were a repetition of yesterday's sufferings.
But still it was necessary that he should say something. "New Year's
Day comes only once a year, I suppose."
"It was only a few weeks since that you remained a day behind your
time when you were on leave. But Sir Boreas has taken the matter up,
and I have nothing to say to it. No doubt Sir Boreas will send for
you." Sir Boreas Bodkin was that great Civil servant in the General
Post Office whom men were wont to call Æolus.
It was a wretched morning for poor Crocker. He was not sent for till
one o'clock, just at the moment when he was going to eat his lunch!
That horrid sickness, the combined result of the dinner in the City,
of Mrs. Demijohn's brandy, and of the many whiskies which followed,
still clung to him. The mutton-chop and porter which he had promised
himself would have relieved him; but now he was obliged to appear
before the god in all his weakness. Without a word he followed a
messenger who had summoned him, with his tail only too visibly
between his legs. Æolus was writing a note when he was ushered into
the room, and did not condescend to arrest himself in the progress
merely because Crocker was present. Æolus well knew the effect on a
sinner of having to stand silent and all alone in the presence of an
offended deity.
"So, Mr. Crocker," said Æolus at last, looking up from his completed
work; "no doubt you saw the Old Year out on Wednesday night." The
jokes of the god were infinitely worse to bear than his most furious
blasts. "Like some other great men," continued Æolus, "you have
contrived to have your festivities chronicled in the newspapers."
Crocker found it impossible to utter a word. "You have probably seen
the _Pall Mall_ of yesterday, and the _Standard_ of this morning?"
"I haven't looked at the newspaper, sir, since--"
"Since the festive occasion," suggested Æolus.
"Oh, Sir Boreas--"
"Well, Mr. Crocker; what is it that you have to say for yourself?"
"I did dine with a few friends."
"And kept it up tolerably late, I should think."
"And then afterwards went to a tea-party," said Crocker.
"A tea-party!"
"It was not all tea," said Crocker, with a whine.
"I should think not. There was a good deal besides tea, I should
say." Then the god left off to smile, and the blasts began to blow.
"Now, Mr. Crocker, I should like to know what you think of yourself.
After having read the accounts of your appearance before the
magistrate in two newspapers, I suppose I may take it for granted
that you were abominably drunk out in the streets on Wednesday
night." It is very hard for a young man to have to admit under
any circumstances that he has been abominably drunk out in the
streets;--so that Crocker stood dumb before his accuser. "I choose to
have an answer, sir. I must either have your own acknowledgment, or
must have an official account from the police magistrate."
"I had taken something, sir."
"Were you drunk? If you will not answer me you had better go, and I
shall know how to deal with you." Crocker thought that he had perhaps
better go and leave the god to deal with him. He remained quite
silent. "Your personal habits would be nothing to me, sir," continued
Æolus, "if you were able to do your work and did not bring disgrace
on the department. But you neglect the office. You are unable to do
your work. And you do bring disgrace on the department. How long is
it since you remained away a day before?"
"I was detained down in Cumberland for one day, after my leave of
absence."
"Detained in Cumberland! I never tell a gentleman, Mr. Crocker, that
I do not believe him,--never. If it comes to that with a gentleman,
he must go." This was hard to bear; but yet Crocker was aware that
he had told a fib on that occasion in reference to the day's hunting.
Then Sir Boreas took up his pen and again had recourse to his paper,
as though the interview was over. Crocker remained standing, not
quite knowing what he was expected to do. "It's of no use your
remaining there," said Sir Boreas. Whereupon Crocker retired, and,
with his tail still between his legs, returned to his own desk.
Soon afterwards Mr. Jerningham was sent for, and came back with an
intimation that Mr. Crocker's services were no longer required, at
any rate for that day. When the matter had been properly represented
to the Postmaster-General, a letter would be written to him. The
impression made on the minds of Bobbin and Geraghty was that poor
Crocker would certainly be dismissed on this occasion. Roden, too,
thought that it was now over with the unfortunate young man, as
far as the Queen's service was concerned, and could not abstain
from shaking hands with the unhappy wretch as he bade them all a
melancholy good-bye. "Good afternoon," said Mr. Jerningham to him
severely, not condescending to shake hands with him at all.
But Mr. Jerningham heard the last words which the god had spoken
on the subject, and was not therefore called upon to be specially
soft-hearted. "I never saw a poor devil look so sick in my life,"
Æolus had said.
"He must have been very bad, Sir Boreas."
Æolus was fond of a good dinner himself, and had a sympathy for
convivial offences. Indeed for all offences he had a sympathy. No
man less prone to punish ever lived. But what is a man to do with
inveterate offenders? Æolus would tear his hair sometimes in dismay
because he knew that he was retaining in the service men whom he
would have been bound to get rid of had he done his duty. "You had
better tell him to go home," said Æolus,--"for to-day, you know."
"And what then, Sir Boreas?"
"I suppose he'll sleep it off by to-morrow. Have a letter written to
him,--to frighten him, you know. After all, New Year's Day only does
come once a year." Mr. Jerningham, having thus received instructions,
went back to his room and dismissed Crocker in the way we have seen.
As soon as Crocker's back was turned Roden was desired to write the
letter.
SIR,
Your conduct in absenting yourself without leave from
the office yesterday is of such a nature as to make
it necessary for me to inform you, that should it be
repeated I shall have no alternative but to bring your
name under the serious consideration of my Lord the
Postmaster-General.
I am, sir,
Your obedient servant,
(Signed) BOREAS BODKIN.
In the same envelope was a short note from one of his brother clerks.
DEAR CROCKER,
You had better be here sharp at ten to-morrow. Mr.
Jerningham bids me tell you.
Yours truly,
BART. BOBBIN.
Thus Crocker got through his troubles on this occasion.
CHAPTER IX.
MISS DEMIJOHN'S INGENUITY.
On the day on which Crocker was going through his purgatory at the
Post Office, a letter reached Lady Kingsbury at Trafford Park, which
added much to the troubles and annoyances felt by different members
of the family there. It was an anonymous letter, and the reader,--who
in regard to such mysteries should never be kept a moment in
ignorance,--may as well be told at once that the letter was written
by that enterprising young lady, Miss Demijohn. The letter was
written on New Year's Day, after the party,--perhaps in consequence
of the party, as the rash doings of some of the younger members of
the Trafford family were made specially obvious to Miss Demijohn by
what was said on that occasion. The letter ran as follows:
MY LADY MARCHIONESS--
I conceive it to be my duty as a well-wisher of the family
to inform you that your stepson, Lord Hampstead, has
become entangled in what I think to be a dangerous way
with a young woman living in a neighbouring street to
this.
The "neighbouring" street was of course a stroke of cunning on the
part of Miss Demijohn.
She lives at No. 17, Paradise Row, Holloway, and her name
is Marion Fay. She is daughter to an old Quaker, who is
clerk to Pogson and Littlebird, King's Court, Great Broad
Street, and isn't of course in any position to entertain
such hopes as these. He may have a little money saved, but
what's that to the likes of your ladyship and his lordship
the Marquis? Some think she is pretty. I don't. Now I
don't like such cunning ways. Of what I tell your ladyship
there isn't any manner of doubt. His lordship was there
for hours the other day, and the girl is going about as
proud as a peacock.
It's what I call a regular Paradise Row conspiracy, and
though the Quaker has lent himself to it, he ain't at
the bottom. Next door but two to the Fays there is a Mrs.
Roden living, who has got a son, a stuck-up fellow and a
clerk in the Post Office. I believe there isn't a bit of
doubt but he has been and got himself engaged to another
of your ladyship's noble family. As to that, all Holloway
is talking of it. I don't believe there is a 'bus driver
up and down the road as doesn't know it. It's my belief
that Mrs. Roden is the doing of it all! She has taken
Marion Fay by the hand just as though she were her own,
and now she has got the young lord and the young lady
right into her mashes. If none of 'em isn't married yet it
won't be long so unless somebody interferes. If you don't
believe me do you send to the 'Duchess of Edinburgh' at
the corner, and you'll find that they know all about it.
Now, my Lady Marchioness, I've thought it my duty to
tell you all this because I don't like to see a noble
family put upon. There isn't nothing for me to get out
of it myself. But I do it just as one of the family's
well-wishers. Therefore I sign myself your very
respectful,
A WELL-WISHER.
The young lady had told her story completely as far as her object was
concerned, which was simply that of making mischief. But the business
of anonymous letter-writing was one not new to her hand. It is easy,
and offers considerable excitement to the minds of those whose time
hangs heavy on their hands.
The Marchioness, though she would probably have declared beforehand
that anonymous letters were of all things the most contemptible,
nevertheless read this more than once with a great deal of care.
And she believed it altogether. As to Lady Frances, of course she
knew the allegations to be true. Seeing that the writer was so well
acquainted with the facts as to Lady Frances, why should she be less
well-informed in reference to Lord Hampstead? Such a marriage as this
with the Quaker girl was exactly the sort of match which Hampstead
would be pleased to make. Then she was especially annoyed by the
publicity of the whole affair. That Holloway and the drivers of the
omnibuses, and the "Duchess of Edinburgh" should know all the secrets
of her husband's family,--should be able to discuss the disgrace to
which "her own darlings" would be subjected, was terrible to her. But
perhaps the sting that went sharpest to her heart was that which came
from the fact that Lord Hampstead was about to be married at all. Let
the wife be a Quaker or what not, let her be as low as any woman that
could be found within the sound of Bow Bells, still, if the marriage
ceremony were once pronounced over them, that woman's son would
become Lord Highgate, and would be heir to all the wealth and all the
titles of the Marquis of Kingsbury,--to the absolute exclusion of the
eldest-born of her own darlings.
She had had her hopes in the impracticability of Lord Hampstead. Such
men as that, she had told herself, were likely to keep themselves
altogether free of marriage. He would not improbably, she thought,
entertain some abominable but not unlucky idea that marriage in
itself was an absurdity. At any rate, there was hope as long as he
could be kept unmarried. Were he to marry and then have a son, even
though he broke his neck out hunting next day, no good would come
of it. In this condition of mind she thought it well to show the
letter to Mr. Greenwood before she read it to her husband. Lord
Kingsbury was still very ill,--so ill as to have given rise to much
apprehension; but still it would be necessary to discuss this letter
with him, ill as he might be. Only it should be first discussed with
Mr. Greenwood.
Mr. Greenwood's face became flatter, and his jaw longer, and his
eyes more like gooseberries as he read the letter. He had gradually
trained himself to say and to hear all manner of evil things
about Lady Frances in the presence of the Marchioness. He had too
accustomed himself to speak of Lord Hampstead as a great obstacle
which it would be well if the Lord would think proper to take out of
the way. He had also so far followed the lead of his patroness as to
be deep if not loud in his denunciations of the folly of the Marquis.
The Marquis had sent him word that he had better look out for a new
home, and without naming an especial day for his dismissal, had given
him to understand that it would not be convenient to receive him
again in the house in Park Lane. But the Marquis had been ill when
he had thus expressed his displeasure,--and was now worse. It might
be that the Marquis himself would never again visit Park Lane. As
no positive limit had been fixed for Mr. Greenwood's departure from
Trafford Park, there he remained,--and there he intended to remain
for the present. As he folded up the letter carefully after reading
it slowly, he only shook his head.
"Is it true, I wonder?" asked the Marchioness.
"There is no reason why it should not be."
"That's just what I say to myself. We know it is true about Fanny. Of
course there's that Mr. Roden, and the Mrs. Roden. When the writer
knows so much, there is reason to believe the rest."
"A great many people do tell a great many lies," said Mr. Greenwood.
"I suppose there is such a person as this Quaker,--and that there is
such a girl?"
"Quite likely."
"If so, why shouldn't Hampstead fall in love with her? Of course he's
always going to the street because of his friend Roden."
"Not a doubt, Lady Kingsbury."
"What ought we to do?" To this question Mr. Greenwood was not
prepared with an immediate answer. If Lord Hampstead chose to get
himself married to a Quaker's daughter, how could it be helped? "His
father would hardly have any influence over him now." Mr. Greenwood
shook his head. "And yet he must be told." Mr. Greenwood nodded his
head. "Perhaps something might be done about the property."
"He wouldn't care two straws about settlements," said Mr. Greenwood.
"He doesn't care about anything he ought to. If I were to write and
ask him, would he tell the truth about this marriage?"
"He wouldn't tell the truth about anything," said Mr. Greenwood.
The Marchioness passed this by, though she knew it at the moment to
be calumny. But she was not unwilling to hear calumny against Lord
Hampstead. "There used to be ways," she said, "in which a marriage of
that kind could be put on one side afterwards."
"You must put it on one side before, now-a-days, if you mean to do it
at all," said the clergyman.
"But how?--how?"
"If he could be got out of the way."
"How out of the way?"
"Well;--that's what I don't know. Suppose he could be made to go out
yachting, and she be married to somebody else when he's at sea!" Lady
Kingsbury felt that her friend was but little good at a stratagem.
But she felt also that she was not very good herself. She could wish;
but wishing in such matters is very vain. She had right on her side.
She was quite confident as to that. There could be no doubt but that
"gods and men" would desire to see her little Lord Frederic succeed
to the Marquisate rather than this infidel Republican. If this
wretched Radical could be kept from marrying there would evidently
be room for hope, because there was the fact,--proved by the
incontestable evidence of Burke's Peerage,--that younger sons did so
often succeed. But if another heir were to be born, then, as far as
she was aware, Burke's Peerage promised her nothing. "It's a pity he
shouldn't break his neck out hunting," said Mr. Greenwood.
"Even that wouldn't be much if he were to be married first," said the
Marchioness.
Every day she went to her husband for half-an-hour before her
lunch, at which time the nurse who attended him during the day was
accustomed to go to her dinner. He had had a physician down from
London since his son had visited him, and the physician had told
the Marchioness that though there was not apparently any immediate
danger, still the symptoms were such as almost to preclude a hope of
ultimate recovery. When this opinion had been pronounced there had
arisen between the Marchioness and the chaplain a discussion as to
whether Lord Hampstead should be once again summoned. The Marquis
himself had expressed no such wish. A bulletin of a certain fashion
had been sent three or four times a week to Hendon Hall purporting
to express the doctor's opinion of the health of their noble patient;
but the bulletin had not been scrupulously true. Neither of the two
conspirators had wished to have Lord Hampstead at Trafford Park. Lady
Kingsbury was anxious to make the separation complete between her own
darlings and their brother, and Mr. Greenwood remembered, down to
every tittle of a word and tone, the insolence of the rebuke which he
had received from the heir. But if Lord Kingsbury were really to be
dying, then they would hardly dare to keep his son in ignorance.
"I've got something I'd better show you," she said, as she seated
herself by her husband's sofa. Then she proceeded to read to him the
letter, without telling him as she did so that it was anonymous. When
he had heard the first paragraph he demanded to know the name of the
writer. "I'd better read it all first," said the Marchioness. And she
did read it all to the end, closing it, however, without mentioning
the final "Well-Wisher." "Of course it's anonymous," she said, as she
held the letter in her hand.
"Then I don't believe a word of it," said the Marquis.
"Very likely not; but yet it sounds true."
"I don't think it sounds true at all. Why should it be true? There is
nothing so wicked as anonymous letters."
"If it isn't true about Hampstead it's true at any rate of Fanny.
That man comes from Holloway, and Paradise Row and the 'Duchess of
Edinburgh.' Where Fanny goes for her lover, Hampstead is likely to
follow. 'Birds of a feather flock together.'"
"I won't have you speak of my children in that way," said the sick
lord.
"What can I do? Is it not true about Fanny? If you wish it, I will
write to Hampstead and ask him all about it." In order to escape from
the misery of the moment he assented to this proposition. The letter
being anonymous had to his thinking been disgraceful and therefore
he had disbelieved it. And having induced himself to disbelieve the
statements made, he had been drawn into expressing,--or at any rate
to acknowledging by his silence,--a conviction that such a marriage
as that proposed with Marion Fay would be very base. Her ladyship
felt therefore that if Lord Hampstead could be got to acknowledge the
engagement, something would have been done towards establishing a
quarrel between the father and the son.
"Has that man gone yet?" he asked as his wife rose to leave the room.
"Has what man gone?"
"Mr. Greenwood."
"Gone? How should he have gone? It has never been expected that he
should go by this time. I don't see why he should go at all. He was
told that you would not again require his services up in London. As
far as I know, that is all that has been said about going." The poor
man turned himself on his sofa angrily, but did not at the moment
give any further instructions as to the chaplain's departure.
"He wants to know why you have not gone," Lady Kingsbury said to the
clergyman that afternoon.
"Where am I to go to?" whined the unfortunate one. "Does he mean to
say that I am to be turned out into the road at a moment's notice
because I can't approve of what Lady Frances is doing? I haven't had
any orders as to going. If I am to go I suppose he will make some
arrangement first." Lady Kingsbury said what she could to comfort
him, and explained that there was no necessity for his immediate
departure. Perhaps the Marquis might not think of it again for
another week or two; and there was no knowing in what condition they
might find themselves.
Her ladyship's letter to her stepson was as follows; and by return of
post her stepson's answer came;--
MY DEAR HAMPSTEAD,--
Tidings have reached your father that you have engaged
yourself to marry a girl, the daughter of a Quaker named
Fay, living at No. 17, Paradise Row. He, the Quaker, is
represented as being a clerk in a counting-house in the
City. Of the girl your father has heard nothing, but can
only imagine that she should be such as her position would
make probable. He desires me to ask you whether there
is any truth in the statement. You will observe that I
express no opinion myself whether it be true or false,
whether proper or improper. After your conduct the other
day I should not think of interfering myself; but your
father wishes me to ask for his information.
Yours truly,
CLARA KINGSBURY.
Hampstead's answer was very short, but quite sufficient for the
purpose;--
MY DEAR LADY KINGSBURY,
I am not engaged to marry Miss Fay,--as yet. I think that
I may be some day soon.
Yours affectionately,
HAMPSTEAD.
By the same post he wrote a letter to his father, and that shall also
be shown to the reader.
MY DEAR FATHER,--
I have received a letter from Lady Kingsbury, asking me as
to a report of an engagement between me and a young lady
named Marion Fay. I am sorry that her writing should be
evidence that you are hardly yet strong enough to write
yourself. I trust that it may not long be so.
Would you wish to see me again at Trafford? I do not like
to go there without the expression of a wish from you;
but I hold myself in readiness to start whenever you may
desire it. I had hoped from the last accounts that you
were becoming stronger.
I do not know how you may have heard anything of Marion
Fay. Had I engaged myself to her, or to any other young
lady, I should have told you at once. I do not know
whether a young man is supposed to declare his own
failures in such matters, when he has failed,--even to his
father. But, as I am ashamed of nothing in the matter, I
will avow that I have asked the young lady to be my wife,
but she has as yet declined. I shall ask her again, and
still hope to succeed.
She is the daughter of a Mr. Fay who, as Lady Kingsbury
says, is a Quaker, and is a clerk in a house in the City.
As he is in all respects a good man, standing high for
probity and honour among those who know him, I cannot
think that there is any drawback. She, I think, has all
the qualities which I would wish to find in the woman
whom I might hope to make my wife. They live at No. 17,
Paradise Row, Holloway. Lady Kingsbury, indeed, is right
in all her details.
Pray let me have a line, if not from yourself, at any rate
dictated by you, to say how you are.
Your affectionate son,
HAMPSTEAD.
It was impossible to keep the letter from Lady Kingsbury. It thus
became a recognized fact by the Marquis, by the Marchioness, and
by Mr. Greenwood, that Hampstead was going to marry the Quaker's
daughter. As to that pretence of a refusal, it went for nothing,
even with the father. Was it probable that a Quaker's daughter, the
daughter of a merchant's clerk out of the City, should refuse to
become a Marchioness? The sick man was obliged to express anger,
having been already made to treat the report as incredible because
of the disgrace which would accompany it, if true. Had he been left
to himself he would have endeavoured to think as little about it as
possible. Not to quarrel with his two eldest children was the wish
that was now strongest at his heart. But his wife recalled the matter
to him at each of the two daily visits which she made. "What can I
do?" he was driven to ask on the third morning.
"Mr. Greenwood suggests--," began his wife, not intending to irritate
him, having really forgotten at the moment that no suggestion coming
from Mr. Greenwood could be welcome to him.
"D---- Mr. Greenwood," he shouted, lifting himself up erect from the
pillows on his sofa. The Marchioness was in truth so startled by the
violence of his movement, and by the rage expressed on his haggard
face, that she jumped from her chair with unexpected surprise. "I
desire," said the Marquis, "that that man shall leave the house by
the end of this month."
CHAPTER X.
KING'S COURT, OLD BROAD STREET.
Hampstead received the letter from Lady Kingsbury, and answered it
on Saturday, the 3rd of January, having at that time taken no active
steps in regard to Marion Fay after the rejection of his suit on the
day following Christmas. Eight days had thus elapsed, and he had done
nothing. He had done nothing, though there was not an hour in the
day in which he was not confirming his own resolve to do something
by which he might make Marion Fay his own. He felt that he could
hardly go to the girl again immediately after the expression of her
resolution. At first he thought that he would write to her, and did
sit down to the table for that purpose; but as he strove to produce
words which might move her, he told himself that the words which he
might speak would be better. Then he rode half way to Holloway, with
the object of asking aid from Mrs. Roden; but he returned without
completing his purpose, telling himself that any such aid, even if it
could be obtained, would avail him nothing. In such a contest, if a
man cannot succeed by his own doing, surely he will not do so by the
assistance of any one else; and thus he was in doubt.
After having written to Lady Kingsbury and his father he reflected
that, in his father's state of health, he ought to go again to
Trafford Park. If it were only for a day or for an hour he ought to
see his father. He knew that he was not wanted by his stepmother. He
knew also that no desire to see him had reached him from the Marquis.
He was afraid that the Marquis himself did not wish to see him. It
was almost impossible for him to take his sister to the house unless
an especial demand for her attendance was made; and he could not
very well leave her alone for any lengthened period. Nevertheless he
determined to make a rapid run into Shropshire, with the intention
of returning the following day, unless he found the state of his
father's health so bad as to make it expedient that he should remain.
He intended to hunt on the Monday and the Tuesday, travelling from
London to Leighton and back. But he would leave London by the night
mail train from Paddington on Wednesday evening so as to reach
Trafford Park House on the following morning between four and five.
It was a journey which he had often made before in the same manner,
and to which the servants at Trafford were well accustomed. Even at
that time in the morning he would walk to the Park from the station,
which was four miles distant, leaving his luggage, if he had any, to
be sent for on the following morning; but he would usually travel
without luggage, having all things necessary for his use in his own
room at Trafford.
It had hitherto been his custom to acquaint his sister with his
manoeuvres on these occasions, having never been free in his
correspondence with his stepmother. He had written or telegraphed
to Lady Frances, and she had quite understood that his instructions,
whatever they might be, were to be obeyed. But Lady Frances was no
longer a resident at Trafford Park, and he therefore telegraphed to
the old butler, who had been a servant in the family from a period
previous to his own birth. This telegram he sent on the Monday, as
follows;--"Shall be at Trafford Thursday morning, 4.30 A.M. Will walk
over. Let Dick be up. Have room ready. Tell my father." He fixed
Wednesday night for his journey, having made up his mind to devote a
portion of the Wednesday morning to the business which he had on hand
in reference to Marion Fay.
It was not the proper thing, he thought, to go to a girl's father
for permission to ask the girl to be his wife, before the girl had
herself assented; but the circumstances in this case were peculiar.
It had seemed to him that Marion's only reason for rejecting him was
based on disparity in their social condition,--which to his thinking
was the worst reason that could be given. It might be that the reason
had sprung from some absurd idea originating with the Quaker father;
or it might be that the Quaker father would altogether disapprove of
any such reason. At any rate he would be glad to know whether the old
man was for him or against him. And with the object of ascertaining
this, he determined that he would pay a visit to the office in King's
Court on the Wednesday morning. He could not endure the thought
of leaving London,--it might be for much more than the one day
intended,--without making some effort in regard to the object which
was nearest his heart.
Early in the day he walked into Messrs. Pogson and Littlebird's
office, and saw Mr. Tribbledale seated on a high stool behind a huge
desk, which nearly filled up the whole place. He was rather struck
by the smallness and meanness of Messrs. Pogson and Littlebird's
premises, which, from a certain nobility belonging to the Quaker's
appearance, he would have thought to be spacious and important.
It is impossible not to connect ideas after this fashion. Pogson
and Littlebird themselves carried in their own names no flavour of
commercial grandeur. Had they been only known to Hampstead by their
name, any small mercantile retreat at the top of the meanest alley in
the City might have sufficed for them. But there was something in the
demeanour of Zachary Fay which seemed to give promise of one of those
palaces of trade which are now being erected in every street and lane
devoted in the City to business. Nothing could be less palatial than
Pogson and Littlebird's counting-house. Hampstead had entered it
from a little court, which it seemed to share with one other equally
unimportant tenement opposite to it, by a narrow low passage. Here he
saw two doors only, through one of which he passed, as it was open,
having noticed that the word "Private" was written on the other. Here
he found himself face to face with Tribbledale and with a little boy
who sat at Tribbledale's right hand on a stool equally high. Of these
two, as far as he could see, consisted the establishment of Messrs.
Pogson and Littlebird. "Could I see Mr. Fay?" asked Hampstead.
"Business?" suggested Tribbledale.
"Not exactly. That is to say, my business is private."
Then there appeared a face looking at him over a screen about five
feet and a-half high, which divided off from the small apartment a
much smaller apartment, having, as Hampstead now regarded it, the
appearance of a cage. In this cage, small as it was, there was a
desk, and there were two chairs; and here Zachary Fay carried on
the business of his life, and transacted most of those affairs
appertaining to Messrs. Pogson and Littlebird which could be
performed in an office. Messrs. Pogson and Littlebird themselves,
though they had a room of their own, to which that door marked
"Private" belonged, were generally supposed to be walking on 'Change
as British merchants should do, or making purchases of whole ships'
cargos in the Docks, or discounting bills, the least of which would
probably represent £10,000. The face which looked over the barrier of
the cage at Lord Hampstead was of course that of Zachary Fay. "Lord
Hampstead!" he said, with surprise.
"Oh, Mr. Fay, how do you do? I have something I want to say to you.
Could you spare me five minutes?"
The Quaker opened the door of the cage and asked Lord Hampstead to
walk in. Tribbledale, who had heard and recognized the name, stared
hard at the young nobleman,--at his friend Crocker's noble friend, at
the lord of whom it had been asserted positively that he was engaged
to marry Mr. Fay's daughter. The boy, too, having heard that the
visitor was a lord, stared also. Hampstead did as he was bid, but
remembering that the inhabitant of the cage had at once heard what
had been said in the office, felt that it would be impossible for him
to carry on his conversation about Marion without other protection
from the ears of the world. "It is a little private what I have to
say," remarked Hampstead.
The Quaker looked towards the private room. "Old Mr. Pogson is
there," whispered Tribbledale. "I heard him come in a quarter of an
hour ago."
"Perhaps thou wouldst not mind walking up and down the yard," said
the Quaker. Hampstead of course walked out, but on looking about
him found that the court was very small for the communication which
he had to make. Space would be required, so that he might not be
troubled by turning when he was in the midst of his eloquence.
Half-a-dozen steps would carry him the whole length of King's Court;
and who could tell his love-story in a walk limited to six steps?
"Perhaps we might go out into the street?" he suggested.
"Certainly, my lord," said the Quaker. "Tribbledale, should any one
call before I return, and be unable to wait for five minutes, I shall
be found outside the court, not above fifty yards either to the right
or to the left." Hampstead, thus limited to a course not exceeding a
hundred yards in one of the most crowded thoroughfares of the City,
began the execution of his difficult task.
"Mr. Fay," he said, "are you aware of what has passed between me and
your daughter Marion?"
"Hardly, my lord."
"Has she told you nothing of it?"
"Yea, my lord; she has in truth told me much. She has told me no
doubt all that it behoves a father to hear from a daughter in such
circumstances. I live on such terms with my Marion that there are not
many secrets kept by either of us from the other."
"Then you do know?"
"I know that your lordship tendered to her your hand,--honestly,
nobly, and truly, as I take it."
"With perfect honesty and perfect truth most certainly."
"And I know also that she declined the honour thus offered her."
"She did."
"Is this you, Zachary? How are you this morning?" This came from a
stout, short, red-faced man, who stopped them, standing in the middle
of the pavement.
"Well, I thank thee, Mr. Gruby. At this moment I am particularly
engaged. That is Jonathan Gruby," said the Quaker to his companion as
soon as the stout man had walked on; "one of the busiest men in the
City. You have heard probably of Gruby and Inderwald."
Hampstead had never heard of Gruby and Inderwald, and wished that the
stout man had been minding his business at that moment. "But as to
Miss Fay," he said, endeavouring to continue to tell his love-story.
"Yes, as to Marion. I hardly do know what passed between you two, not
having heard the reasons she gave thee."
"No reasons at all;--nothing worth speaking of between persons who
know anything of the world."
"Did she tell thee that she did not love thee, my lord?--because that
to my thinking would be reason enough."
"Nothing of the kind. I don't mean to boast, but I don't see why she
should not like me well enough."
"Nor in sooth do I either."
"What, Zachary; you walking about at this busy time of the day?"
"I am walking about, Sir Thomas. It is not customary with me, but
I am walking about." Then he turned on his heel, moved almost to
dudgeon by the interruption, and walked the other way. "Sir Thomas
Bolster, my lord; a very busy sort of gentleman, but one who has done
well in the world.--Nor in sooth do I either; but this is a matter in
which a young maiden must decide for herself. I shall not bid her not
to love thee, but I cannot bid her to do so."
"It isn't that, Mr. Fay. Of course I have no right to pretend to any
regard from her. But as to that there has been no question."
"What did she say to thee?"
"Some trash about rank."
"Nay, my lord, it is not trash. I cannot hear thee speak so of thine
own order without contradiction."
"Am I to be like a king in the old days, who was forced to marry any
ugly old princess that might be found for him, even though she were
odious to him? I will have nothing to do with rank on such terms.
I claim the right to please myself, as do other men, and I come to
you as father to the young lady to ask from you your assistance
in winning her to be my wife." At this moment up came Tribbledale
running from the office.
"There is Cooke there," said Tribbledale, with much emphasis in his
voice, as though Cooke's was a very serious affair; "from Pollock and
Austen's."
"Is not Mr. Pogson within?"
"He went out just after you. Cooke says that it's most important that
he should see some one immediately."
"Tell him that he must wait yet five minutes longer," said Zachary
Fay, frowning. Tribbledale, awestruck as he bethought himself
how great were the affairs of Pollock and Austen, retreated back
hurriedly to the court.
"You know what I mean, Mr. Fay," continued Lord Hampstead.
"I know well what thou meanest, my lord. I think I know what thou
meanest. Thou meanest to offer to my girl not only high rank and
great wealth, but, which should be of infinitely more value to her,
the heart and the hand of an honest man. I believe thee to be an
honest man, my lord."
"In this matter, Mr. Fay, at any rate, I am."
"In all matters as I believe; and how should I, being such a one as I
am, not be willing to give my girl to such a suitor as thee? And what
is it now?" he shrieked in his anger, as the little boy off the high
stool came rushing to him.
"Mr. Pogson has just come back, Mr. Fay, and he says that he can't
find those letters from Pollock and Austen anywhere about the place.
He wants them immediately, because he can't tell the prices named
without seeing them."
"Lord Hampstead," said the Quaker, almost white with rage, "I must
pray thee to excuse me for five minutes." Hampstead promised that he
would confine himself to the same uninteresting plot of ground till
the Quaker should return to him, and then reflected that there were
certain reasons upon which he had not calculated against falling in
love with the daughter of a City clerk.
"We will go a little further afield," said the Quaker, when he
returned, "so that we may not be troubled again by those imbeciles in
the court. It is little, however, that I have to say to thee further.
Thou hast my leave."
"I am glad of that."
"And all my sympathies. But, my lord, I suppose I had better tell the
truth."
"Oh, certainly."
"My girl fears that her health may fail her."
"Her health!"
"It is that as I think. She has not said so to me openly; but I think
it is that. Her mother died early,--and her brothers and her sisters.
It is a sad tale, my lord."
"But need that hinder her?"
"I think not, my lord. But it must be for thee to judge. As far as
I know she is as fit to become a man's wife as are other girls. Her
health has not failed her. She is not robust, but she does her work
in looking after my household, such as it is, well and punctually.
I think that her mind is pervaded with vain terrors. Now I have told
thee all, placing full confidence in thee as in an honest man. There
is my house. Thou art welcome to go there if it seemeth thee good,
and to deal with Marion in this matter as thy love and thy judgment
may direct thee." Having said this he returned hurriedly to King's
Court as though he feared that Tribbledale or the boy might again
find him out.
So far Hampstead had succeeded; but he was much troubled in his mind
by what he had heard as to Marion's health. Not that it occurred
to him for a moment that such a marriage as he contemplated would
be undesirable because his Marion might become ill. He was too
thoroughly in love to entertain such an idea. Nor is it one which
can find ready entrance into the mind of a young man who sees a girl
blooming with the freshness and beauty of youth. It would have seemed
to him, had he thought about it at all, that Marion's health was
perfect. But he was afraid of her obstinacy, and he felt that this
objection might be more binding on her than that which she put
forward in reference to his rank. He went back, therefore, to Hendon
Hall only half-satisfied,--sometimes elated, but sometimes depressed.
He would, however, go and discuss the matter with her at full length
as soon as he should have returned from Shropshire. He would remain
there only for one day,--though it might be necessary for him to
repeat the journey almost immediately,--so that no time might be lost
in using his eloquence upon Marion. After what had passed between him
and the Quaker, he thought that he was almost justified in assuring
himself that the girl did in truth love him.
"Give my father my kindest love," said Lady Frances, as her brother
was about to start for the train.
"Of course I will."
"And tell him that I will start at a moment's notice whenever he may
wish to see me."
"In such case of course I should take you."
"And be courteous to her if you can."
"I doubt whether she will allow me. If she abuses you or insults me I
must answer her."
"I wouldn't."
"You would be more ready than I am. One cannot but answer her because
she expects to hear something said in return. I shall keep out of
her way as much as possible. I shall have my breakfast brought to
me in my own room to-morrow, and shall then remain with my father
as much as possible. If I leave him at all I shall get a walk.
There will only be the dinner. As to one thing I have quite made
up my mind. Nothing shall drive me into having any words with Mr.
Greenwood;--unless, indeed, my father were to ask me to speak to
him."
CHAPTER XI.
MR. GREENWOOD BECOMES AMBITIOUS.
Mr. Greenwood was still anxious as to the health of the Rector
of Appleslocombe. There might be even yet a hope for him;
but his chance, he thought, would be better with the present
Marquis--ill-disposed towards him as the Marquis was--than with
the heir. The Marquis was weary of him, and anxious to get rid of
him,--was acting very meanly to him, as Mr. Greenwood thought, having
offered him £1000 as a final payment for a whole life's attention.
The Marquis, who had ever been a liberal man, had now, perhaps on
his death-bed, become unjust, harsh, and cruel. But he was weak and
forgetful, and might possibly be willing to save his money and get
rid of the nuisance of the whole affair by surrendering the living.
This was Mr. Greenwood's reading of the circumstances as they at
present existed. But the Marquis could not dispose of the living
while the Rector was still alive; nor could he even promise it,
to any good effect, without his son's assent. That Lord Hampstead
would neither himself so bestow his patronage or allow it to be so
bestowed, Mr. Greenwood was very sure. There had been that between
him and Lord Hampstead which convinced him that the young man
was more hostile to him even than the father. The Marquis, as Mr.
Greenwood thought, had insulted him of late;--but Lord Hampstead,
young as he was, had also been insolent; and what was worse, he had
insulted Lord Hampstead. There had been something in the young lord's
eye which had assured him of the young lord's contempt as well as
dislike. If anything could be done about the living it must be done
by the Marquis. The Marquis was very ill; but it was still probable
that the old rector should die first. He had been given to understand
that the old rector could hardly live many weeks.
Mr. Greenwood understood but little of the young lord's character.
The Marquis, no doubt, he knew well, having lived with him for
many years. When he supposed his patron to be fretful and irascible
because of his infirmities, but to be by nature forgiving,
unreasonable, and weak, he drew an easy portrait, which was like the
person portrayed. But in attributing revenge, or harshness, or pride
of power to Lord Hampstead he was altogether wrong. As regarded
Appleslocombe and other parishes, the patronage of which would some
day belong to him, Lord Hampstead had long since made up his mind
that he would have nothing to do with them, feeling himself unfit to
appoint clergymen to ministrations in a Church to which he did not
consider himself to belong. All that he would leave to the Bishop,
thinking that the Bishop must know more about it than himself. Was
his father, however, to make any request to him with reference to
Appleslocombe especially, he would no doubt regard the living as
bestowed before his father's death. But of all this Mr. Greenwood
could understand nothing. He felt, however, that as the Marquis had
given him cause for anger, so had the young lord given him cause for
hatred as well as anger.
Daily, almost hourly, these matters were discussed between Lady
Kingsbury and the chaplain. There had come to be strong sympathy
between them as far as sympathy can exist where the feelings are
much stronger on the one side than on the other. The mother of the
"darlings" had allowed herself to inveigh very bitterly against her
husband's children by his former marriage, and at first had been
received only half way by her confidential friend. But of late
her confidential friend had become more animated and more bitter
than herself, and had almost startled her by the boldness of his
denunciations. She in her passion had allowed herself more than once
to express a wish that her stepson--were dead. She had hardly in
truth meant as much as she implied,--or meaning it had hardly thought
of what she meant. But the chaplain taking the words from her lips,
had repeated them till she was almost terrified by their iniquity and
horror. He had no darlings to justify him! No great injury had been
done to him by an unkind fortune! Great as were the sin of Lord
Hampstead and his sister, they could bring no disgrace upon him!
And yet there was a settled purpose of hatred in his words which
frightened her, though she could not bring herself to oppose them.
She in her rage had declared that it would be well that Lord
Hampstead should break his neck out hunting or go down in his yacht
at sea; and she had been gratified to find that her friend had
sanctioned her ill-wishes. But when Mr. Greenwood spoke as though
something might possibly be done to further those wishes, then she
almost repented herself.
She had been induced to say that if any power should come to her
of bestowing the living of Appleslocombe she would bestow it on Mr.
Greenwood. Were Lord Hampstead to die before the Marquis, and were
the Marquis to die before the old rector, such power would belong
to her during the minority of her eldest son. There had, therefore,
been some meaning in the promise; and the clergyman had referred to
it more than once or twice. "It is most improbable, you know, Mr.
Greenwood," she had said very seriously. He had replied as seriously
that such improbabilities were of frequent occurrence. "If it should
happen I will do so," she had answered. But after that she had never
of her own accord referred to the probability of Lord Hampstead's
death.