From day to day there grew upon her a feeling that she had subjected

herself to domination, almost to tyranny from Mr. Greenwood. The

man whom she had known intimately during her entire married life

now appeared to assume different proportions and almost a different

character. He would still stand before her with his flabby hands

hanging listlessly by his side, and with eyes apparently full of

hesitation, and would seem to tremble as though he feared the effect

of his own words; but still the words that fell from him were felt to

be bonds from which she could not escape. When he looked at her from

his lack-lustre eyes, fixing them upon her for minutes together,

till the minutes seemed to be hours, she became afraid. She did not

confess to herself that she had fallen into his power; nor did she

realize the fact that it was so; but without realizing it she was

dominated, so that she also began to think that it would be well

that the chaplain should be made to leave Trafford Park. He, however,

continued to discuss with her all family matters as though his

services were indispensable to her; and she was unable to answer him

in such a way as to reject his confidences.

The telegram reached the butler as to Hampstead's coming on the

Monday, and was, of course, communicated at once to Lord Kingsbury.

The Marquis, who was now confined to his bed, expressed himself

as greatly gratified, and himself told the news to his wife. She,

however, had already heard it, as had also the chaplain. It quickly

went through the whole household, in which among the servants there

existed an opinion that Lord Hampstead ought to have been again

sent for some days since. The Doctor had hinted as much to the

Marchioness, and had said so plainly to the butler. Mr. Greenwood had

expressed to her ladyship his belief that the Marquis had no desire

to see his son, and that the son certainly had no wish to pay another

visit to Trafford. "He cares more about the Quaker's daughter than

anything else," he had said,--"about her and his hunting. He and his

sister consider themselves as separated from the whole of the family.

I should leave them alone if I were you." Then she had said a faint

word to her husband, and had extracted from him something that

was supposed to be the expression of a wish that Lord Hampstead

should not be disturbed. Now Lord Hampstead was coming without any

invitation.

"Going to walk over, is he, in the middle of the night?" said Mr.

Greenwood, preparing to discuss the matter with the Marchioness.

There was something of scorn in his voice, as though he were taking

upon himself to laugh at Lord Hampstead for having chosen this way of

reaching his father's house.

"He often does that," said the Marchioness.

"It's an odd way of coming into a sick house,--to disturb it in the

middle of the night." Mr. Greenwood, as he spoke, stood looking at

her ladyship severely.

"How am I to help it? I don't suppose anybody will be disturbed at

all. He'll come round to the side door, and one of the servants will

be up to let him in. He always does things differently from anybody

else."

"One would have thought that when his father was dying--"

"Don't say that, Mr. Greenwood. There's nothing to make you say

that. The Marquis is very ill, but nobody has said that he's so bad

as that." Mr. Greenwood shook his head, but did not move from the

position in which he was standing. "I suppose that on this occasion

Hampstead is doing what is right."

"I doubt whether he ever does what is right. I am only thinking that

if anything should happen to the Marquis, how very bad it would be

for you and the young lords."

"Won't you sit down, Mr. Greenwood?" said the Marchioness, to whom

the presence of the standing chaplain had become almost intolerable.

The man sat down,--not comfortably in his chair, but hardly more than

on the edge of it, so as still to have that air of restraint which

had annoyed his companion. "As I was saying, if anything should

happen to my lord it would be very sad for your ladyship and for Lord

Frederick, and Lord Augustus, and Lord Gregory."

"We are all in the hands of God," said her ladyship, piously.

"Yes;--we are all in the hands of God. But it is the Lord's intention

that we should all look out for ourselves, and do the best we can to

avoid injustice, and cruelty, and,--and--robbery."

"I do not think there will be any robbery, Mr. Greenwood."

"Would it not be robbery if you and their little lordships should be

turned at once out of this house?"

"It would be his own;--Lord Hampstead's,--of course. I should have

Slocombe Abbey in Somersetshire. As far as a house goes, I should

like it better than this. Of course it is much smaller;--but what

comfort do I ever have out of a house like this?"

"That's true enough. But why?"

"There is no good in talking about it, Mr. Greenwood."

"I cannot help talking about it. It is because Lady Frances has

broken up the family by allowing herself to be engaged to a young

man beneath her own station in life." Here he shook his head, as he

always did when he spoke of Lady Frances. "As for Lord Hampstead,

I look upon it as a national misfortune that he should outlive his

father."

"What can we do?"

"Well, my lady; it is hard to say. What will my feelings be, should

anything happen to the Marquis, and should I be left to the tender

mercies of his eldest son? I should have no claim upon Lord Hampstead

for a shilling. As he is an infidel, of course he would not want a

chaplain. Indeed I could not reconcile it to my conscience to remain

with him. I should be cast out penniless, having devoted all my life,

as I may say, to his lordship's service."

"He has offered you a thousand pounds."

"A thousand pounds, for the labours of a whole life! And what

assurance shall I have of that? I don't suppose he has ever dreamed

of putting it into his will. And if he has, what will a thousand

pounds do for me? You can go to Slocombe Abbey. But the rectory,

which was as good as promised, will be closed against me." The

Marchioness knew that this was a falsehood, but did not dare to tell

him so. The living had been talked about between them till it was

assumed that he had a right to it. "If the young man were out of the

way," he continued, "there would be some chance for me."

"I cannot put him out of the way," said the Marchioness.

"And some chance for Lord Frederic and his brothers."

"You need not tell me of that, Mr. Greenwood."

"But one has to look the truth in the face. It is for your sake that

I have been anxious,--rather than my own. You must own that." She

would not own anything of the kind. "I suppose there was no doubt

about the first marriage?"

"None at all," said the Marchioness, terrified.

"Though it was thought very odd at the time. It ought to be looked

to, I think. No stone ought to be left unturned."

"There is nothing to be hoped for in that direction, Mr. Greenwood."

"It ought to be looked to;--that's all. Only think what it will be if

he marries, and has a son before anything is--is settled."

To this Lady Kingsbury made no answer; and after a pause Mr.

Greenwood turned to his own grievances. "I shall make bold," he said,

"to see the Marquis once again before Lord Hampstead comes down. He

cannot but acknowledge that I have a great right to be anxious. I do

not suppose that any promise would be sacred in his son's eyes, but

I must do the best I can." To this her ladyship would make no answer,

and they parted, not in the best humour with each other.

That was on the Monday. On the Tuesday Mr. Greenwood, having asked to

be allowed an interview, crept slowly into the sick man's room. "I

hope your lordship find yourself better this morning?" The sick man

turned in his bed, and only made some feeble grunt in reply. "I hear

that Lord Hampstead is coming down to-morrow, my lord."

"Why should he not come?" There must have been something in the tone

of Mr. Greenwood's voice which had grated against the sick man's

ears, or he would not have answered so sulkily.

"Oh, no, my lord. I did not mean to say that there was any reason why

his lordship should not come. Perhaps it might have been better had

he come earlier."

"It wouldn't have been at all better."

"I only just meant to make the remark, my lord; there was nothing in

it."

"Nothing at all," said the sick man. "Was there anything else you

wished to say, Mr. Greenwood?"

The nurse all this time was sitting in the room, which the chaplain

felt to be uncomfortable. "Could we be alone for a few minutes, my

lord?" he asked.

"I don't think we could," said the sick man.

"There are a few points which are of so much importance to me, Lord

Kingsbury."

"I ain't well enough to talk business, and I won't do it. Mr. Roberts

will be here to-morrow, and you can see him."

Mr. Roberts was a man of business, or agent to the property, who

lived at Shrewsbury, and whom Mr. Greenwood especially disliked.

Mr. Greenwood being a clergyman was, of course, supposed to be a

gentleman, and regarded Mr. Roberts as being much beneath himself. It

was not customary for Mr. Roberts to dine at the house, and he was

therefore regarded by the chaplain as being hardly more than an upper

servant. It was therefore very grievous to him to be told that he

must discuss his own private affairs and make his renewed request as

to the living through Mr. Roberts. It was evidently intended that

he should have no opportunity of discussing his private affairs.

Whatever the Marquis might offer him he must take; and that, as far

as he could see, without any power of redress on his side. If Mr.

Roberts were to offer him a thousand pounds, he could only accept the

cheque and depart with it from Trafford Park, shaking off from his

feet the dust which such ingratitude would forbid him to carry with

him.

He was in the habit of walking daily for an hour before sunset,

moving very slowly up and down the driest of the roads near the

house, generally with his hands clasped behind his back, believing

that in doing so he was consulting his health, and maintaining that

bodily vigour which might be necessary to him for the performance

of the parochial duties at Appleslocombe. Now when he had left the

bed-room of the Marquis he went out of the front door, and proceeded

on his walk at a somewhat quicker pace than usual. He was full of

wrath, and his passion gave some alacrity to his movements. He was

of course incensed against the Marquis; but his anger burnt hottest

against Lord Hampstead. In this he was altogether unreasonable, for

Lord Hampstead had said nothing and done nothing that could injure

his position. Lord Hampstead disliked him and, perhaps, despised

him, but had been anxious that the Marquis should be liberal in the

mode of severing a connection which had lasted so long. But to Mr.

Greenwood himself it was manifest that all his troubles came from the

iniquities of his patron's two elder children; and he remembered at

every moment that Lord Hampstead had insulted him when they were both

together. He was certainly not a man to forgive an enemy, or to lose

any opportunity for revenge which might come in his way.

Certainly it would be good if the young man could be got to break

his neck out hunting;--or good if the yacht could be made to founder,

or go to pieces on a rock, or come to any other fatal maritime

misfortune. But these were accidents which he personally could have

no power to produce. Such wishing was infantine, and fit only for

a weak woman, such as the Marchioness. If anything were to be done

it must be done by some great endeavour; and the endeavour must

come from himself. Then he reflected how far the Marchioness would

certainly be in his power, if both the Marquis and his eldest son

were dead. He did believe that he had obtained great influence over

her. That she should rebel against him was of course on the cards.

But he was aware that within the last month, since the date, indeed,

at which the Marquis had threatened to turn him out of the house,

he had made considerable progress in imposing himself upon her as a

master. He gave himself in this respect much more credit than was

in truth due to him. Lady Kingsbury, though she had learnt to fear

him, had not so subjected herself to his influence as not to be able

to throw him off should a time come at which it might be essential

to her comfort to do so. But he had misread the symptoms, and had

misread also the fretfulness of her impatience. He now assured

himself that if anything could be done he might rely entirely on her

support. After all that she had said to him, it would be impossible

that she should throw him over. Thinking of all this, and thinking

also how expedient it was that something should be done, he returned

to the house when he had taken the exact amount of exercise which he

supposed necessary for his health.

CHAPTER XII.

LIKE THE POOR CAT I' THE ADAGE.

Wishing will do nothing. If a man has sufficient cause for action

he should act. "Letting I dare not wait upon I would, Like the poor

cat i' the adage," never can produce results. Cherries will not fall

into your mouth without picking. "If it were done, when 'tis done

then 'twere well it were done quickly." If grapes hang too high

what is the use of thinking of them? Nevertheless,--"Where there's

a will there's a way." But certainly no way will be found amidst

difficulties, unless a man set himself to work seriously to look

for it. With such self-given admonitions, counsels, and tags of old

quotations as these, Mr. Greenwood went to work with himself on

Monday night, and came to a conclusion that if anything were to be

done it must be done at once.

Then came the question--what was the thing to be done, and what at

once meant? When a thing has to be done which requires a special

summoning of resolution, it is too often something which ought not

to be done. To virtuous deeds, if they recommend themselves to us

at all, we can generally make up our minds more easily. It was

pleasanter to Mr. Greenwood to think of the thing as something in the

future, as something which might possibly get itself done for him by

accident, than as an act the doing of which must fall into his own

hands. Then came the "cat i' the adage," and the "when 'tis done then

'twere well," and the rest of it. Thursday morning, between four and

five o' clock, when it would be pitch dark, with neither star nor

moon in the heavens, when Lord Hampstead would certainly be alone in

a certain spot, unattended and easily assailable;--would Thursday

morning be the fittest time for any such deed as that which he had

now in truth began to contemplate?

When the thing presented itself to him in this new form, he recoiled

from it. It cannot be said that Mr. Greenwood was a man of any strong

religious feelings. He had been ordained early in life to a curacy,

having probably followed, in choosing his profession, the bent given

to him by his family connections, and had thus from circumstances

fallen into the household of his present patron's uncle. From that to

this he had never performed a service in a church, and his domestic

services as chaplain had very soon become nothing.

The old Lord Kingsbury had died very soon afterwards, and Mr.

Greenwood's services had been continued rather as private secretary

and librarian than as domestic chaplain. He had been crafty, willing,

and, though anxious, he had been able to conceal his anxiety in that

respect, and ready to obey when he found it necessary. In this manner

he had come to his present condition of life, and had but few of the

manners or feelings of a clergyman about him. He was quite willing

to take a living if it should come in his way,--but to take it with

a purpose that the duties should be chiefly performed by a curate.

He was not a religious man; but when he came to look the matter in

the face, not on that account could he regard himself as a possible

murderer without terrible doubts.

As he thought of it his first and prevailing fear did not come from

the ignominious punishment which is attached to, and which generally

attends, the crime. He has been described as a man flabby in

appearance, as one who seemed to tremble in his shoes when called

upon for any special words, as one who might be supposed to be devoid

of strong physical daring. But the true character of the man was

opposed to his outward bearing. Courage is a virtue of too high a

nature to be included among his gifts; but he had that command of his

own nerves, that free action of blood round his heart, that personal

audacity coming from self-confidence, which is often taken to

represent courage. Given the fact that he wanted an enemy out of

the way, he could go to work to prepare to put him out of the way

without exaggerated dread of the consequences as far as this world is

concerned. He trusted much in himself, and thought it possible that

he could so look through all the concomitant incidents of such an

act as that he contemplated without allowing one to escape him which

might lead to detection. He could so look at the matter, he thought,

as to be sure whether this or the other plot might or might not be

safe. It might be that no safe plot were possible, and that the

attempt must therefore be abandoned. These, at any rate, were not the

dangers which made him creep about in dismay at his own intentions.

There were other dangers of which he could not shake off the dread.

Whether he had any clear hope as to eternal bliss in another life,

it may be doubted. He probably drove from his mind thoughts on the

subject, not caring to investigate his own belief. It is the practice

of many to have their minds utterly callous in that respect. To

suppose that such men think this or think the other as to future

rewards and punishments is to give them credit for a condition of

mind to which they have never risen. Such a one was probably Mr.

Greenwood; but nevertheless he feared something when this idea

respecting Lord Hampstead presented itself to him. It was as is some

boggy-bo to a child, some half-belief in a spectre to a nervous

woman, some dread of undefined evil to an imaginative but melancholy

man. He did not think that by meditating such a deed, by hardening

his heart to the necessary resolution, by steeling himself up to its

perpetration, he would bring himself into a condition unfitted for

a life of bliss. His thoughts did not take any such direction. But

though there might be no punishment in this world,--even though there

were to be no other world in which punishment could come,--still

something of evil would surely fall upon him. The convictions of the

world since the days of Cain have all gone in that direction. It was

thus that he allowed himself to be cowed, and to be made to declare

to himself again and again that the project must be abandoned.

But "the cat i' the adage" succeeded so far on the Tuesday in getting

the better of his scruples, that he absolutely did form a plot.

He did not as yet quite see his way to that security which would

be indispensable;--but he did form a plot. Then came the bitter

reflection that what he would do would be done for the benefit of

others rather than his own. What would Lord Frederic know of his

benefactor when he should come to the throne--as in such case he

would do--as Marquis of Kingsbury? Lord Frederic would give him no

thanks, even were he to know it,--which of course could never be

the case. And why had not that woman assisted him,--she who had

instigated him to the doing of the deed? "For Banquo's issue have I

filed my mind," he said to himself over and over again, not, however,

in truth thinking of the deed with any of the true remorse to which

Macbeth was a prey. The "filing of his mind" only occurred to him

because the words were otherwise apt. Would she even be grateful when

she should tell herself,--as she surely would do,--that the deed had

been done by the partner of her confidences?

When he thought of the reward which was to come to him in payment of

the intended deed something like a feeling of true conscience did

arise within him. Might it not be the case that even he, callous

as he was to most things, should find himself unable to go down to

Appleslocombe and read himself in, as the phrase goes, as rector

and pastor of the parish? He thought of this as he lay in his bed,

and acknowledged to himself that his own audacity would probably be

insufficient to carry him through such a struggle. But still on the

morning when he rose he had not altogether rejected the idea. The

young man had scorned him and had insulted him, and was hateful to

him. But still why should he be the Macbeth, seeing that the Lady

Macbeth of the occasion was untrue to him? In all this he was unaware

how very little his Lady Macbeth had really meant when she had

allowed herself in his presence to express wishes as to her stepson's

death.

He thought he saw his plan. The weapon was there ready to his

hand;--a weapon which he had not bought, which could not be traced

to him, which would certainly be fatal if used with the assurance of

which he was confident. And there would be ample time for retreat.

But still as he arranged it all in his mind he regarded it all not as

a thing fixed, but as a thing which was barely possible. It was thus

that it might be done, had the Lady Macbeth of the occasion really

shown herself competent to such a task. Why should he trouble himself

on such a matter? Why should he file his mind for Banquo's issue?

Yet he looked at the pistol and at the window as he prepared to go

up to her ladyship's room before lunch on the Wednesday morning. It

certainly could be done, he said to himself, telling himself at the

same time that all that had been passing in his own mind was no more

than a vague speculation. A man is apt to speculate on things which

have no reality to him, till they become real.

He had assumed the practice of going to her ladyship's sitting-room

up-stairs without a special summons, latterly to her ladyship's great

disgust. When her quarrel had first become strong with Lady Frances

she had no doubt received comfort from his support. But now she had

become weary of him, and had sometimes been almost dismayed by the

words he spoke to her. At half-past twelve punctually she went down

to her husband's room, and it was now customary with the chaplain to

visit her before she did so. She had more than once almost resolved

to tell him that she preferred to be left alone during the morning.

But she had not as yet assumed the courage to do this. She was

aware that words had fallen from her in her anger which it was

possible he might use against her, were she to subject herself to his

displeasure. "Lord Hampstead will be here at half-past four--what you

may call the middle of the night--to-morrow morning, Lady Kingsbury,"

said he, repeating an assertion which he had already made to her

two or three times. As he did so he stood in the middle of the room,

looking down upon her with a gaze under which she had often suffered,

but which she did not in the least understand.

"Of course I know he's coming."

"Don't you think it a very improper time, with a sick man in the

house?"

"He won't disturb his father."

"I don't know. There will be the opening and the shutting of the

door, and the servant will be going about the passages, and there

will be the bringing in of the luggage."

"He won't have any luggage." Mr. Greenwood had been aware of this;

but it might be well that he should affect ignorance.

"It is like everything else that he does," he said, being anxious to

induce the stepmother to speak ill of her stepson. But the bent of

her mind had been turned. She was not conscious of the cause which

had produced the change, but she was determined to speak no further

evil of her stepchildren before Mr. Greenwood. "I suppose there is

nothing to be done?" said Mr. Greenwood.

"What should there be to be done? If you do remain here I wish you

would sit down, Mr. Greenwood. You oppress me by standing up in that

way in the middle of the room."

"I do not wonder that you should be oppressed," he said, seating

himself, as was his wont, on the edge of a chair. "I am oppressed,

I know. No one ever says a word to comfort me. What am I to do if

anything should happen?"

"Mr. Greenwood, what is the use of all this?"

"What would you think, Lady Kingsbury, if you had to live all the

rest of your life on an income arising from a thousand pounds?"

"It isn't my fault. What's the good of your coming to me with all

that? I have had nothing to do with the arrangement which Lord

Kingsbury has made with you. You know very well that I do not dare

even to mention your name to him, lest he should order that you

should be turned out of the house."

"Turned out of the house!" he said, jumping off his chair on to his

legs with an alacrity which was quite unusual to him. "Turned out

of the house?--as if I were a dog! No man alive would stand such

language."

"You know very well that I've always stood your friend," said the

Marchioness, alarmed by the man's impetuosity.

"And you tell me that I'm to be turned out of the house."

"I only say that it would be better not to mention your name to him.

I must go now, because he will be waiting for me."

"He doesn't care a straw for you; not a straw."

"Mr. Greenwood!"

"He cares only for his son and daughter;--for the son and daughter of

his first wife; for those two ignoble young persons who, as you have

said so often, are altogether unworthy of their name."

"Mr. Greenwood, I cannot admit this."

"Have you not said it over and over again? Have you not declared how

good a thing it would be that Lord Hampstead should die? You cannot

go back from all that, Lady Kingsbury."

"I must go now, Mr. Greenwood," she said, shuffling out of the room.

He had altogether frightened her, and, as she went down-stairs, she

determined that at whatever cost she must save herself from further

private conversation with the chaplain.

Mr. Greenwood, when he was thus left alone, did not at once leave the

room. He had reseated himself, and there he remained still gazing as

though there had been some one for him to gaze at, and still seated

on the edge of his chair as though there were some one to see the

affected humility of his position. But in truth the gazing and the

manner of sitting had become so customary to him that they were

assumed without thought. His mind was now full of the injury done

to him by the Marchioness. She had made him her confidant; she had

poured her secret thoughts into his ears; she had done her best to

inspire him with her hatred and her desires;--and now, when she had

almost taught him to be the minister of her wishes, she turned upon

him, and upbraided him and deserted him! Of course when he had

sympathized with her as to her ill-used darlings he had expected her

to sympathize with him as to the hardships inflicted upon him. But

she cared nothing for his hardships, and was anxious to repudiate the

memory of all the hard words which she had spoken as to her husband's

children. It should not be so! She should not escape from him in this

manner! When confidences have been made, the persons making them must

abide the consequences. When a partnership has been formed, neither

partner has a right to retreat at once, leaving the burden of all

debts upon the other. Had not all these thoughts, and plottings,

which had been so heavy on his mind since that telegram had come,

which had been so heavy on his soul, been her doing? Had not the idea

come from her? Had there not been an unspoken understanding between

them that in consequence of certain mutual troubles and mutual

aspirations there should be a plan of action arranged between them?

Now she was deserting him! Well;--he thought that he could so

contrive things that she should not do so with impunity. Having

considered all this he got up from his chair and slowly walked down

to his own room.

He lunched by himself, and then sat himself down with a novel, as was

his wont at that hour of the day. There could be no man more punctual

in all his daily avocations than Mr. Greenwood. After lunch there

always came the novel; but there was seldom much of it read. He

would generally go to sleep, and would remain so, enjoying perfect

tranquillity for the best part of an hour. Then he would go out for

his constitutional walk, after which he would again take up the

novel till the time came for her ladyship's tea. On this occasion

he did not read at all, but neither did he at once sleep. There had

been that on his mind which, even though it had not been perfected,

banished sleep from him for some minutes. There was no need of any

further conversation as to safety or danger. The deed, whether it

would or could not have been done in the manner he had premeditated,

certainly would not be done now. Certainly not now would he file his

mind for Banquo's issue. But after half-an-hour of silent meditation

he did sleep.

When he arose and went out for a walk he felt that his heart was

light within him. He had done nothing by which he had compromised

himself. He had bound himself to no deed. As he walked up and down

the road he assured himself that he had never really thought of

doing it. He had only speculated as to the probability,--which is so

common for men to do as to performances which they had no thought of

attempting. There was a great burden gone from him. Had he desired

to get rid of Lord Hampstead, it was in that way that he would have

done it;--and he would so have done it that he would never have been

suspected of the deed. He had never intended more than that. As he

returned to the house he assured himself that he had never intended

anything more. And yet there was a great burden gone from him.

At five o'clock a message was brought to him that her ladyship,

finding herself to be rather unwell, begged to be excused from asking

him up to tea. The message was brought by the butler himself, with a

suggestion that he should have tea in his own room. "I think I will,

Harris," he said, "just take a cup. By-the-bye, Harris, have you seen

my lord to-day?" Harris declared that he had seen his lordship, in a

tone of voice which implied that he at any rate had not been banished

from my lord's presence. "And how do you find him?" Harris thought

that the Marquis was a little more like himself to-day than he had

been for the last three days. "That's right. I am very glad to hear

that. Lord Hampstead's coming to-morrow will be a great comfort to

him."

"Yes, indeed," said Harris, who was quite on Lord Hampstead's side

in the family quarrels. He had not been pleased with the idea of the

Roden marriage, which certainly was unfortunate for the daughter of

a Marquis; but he was by no means inclined to take part against the

heir to the family honours.

"I wish he were coming at a little more reasonable hour in the day,"

said Mr. Greenwood with a smile. But Harris thought that the time

of the day would do very well. It was the kind of thing which his

lordship very often did, and Harris did not see any harm in it. This

Harris said with his hand on the lock of the door, showing that he

was not anxious for a prolonged conversation with the chaplain.

CHAPTER XIII.

LADY FRANCES SEES HER LOVER.

On the Monday in that week,--Monday, the 5th of January, on which

day Hampstead had been hunting and meditating the attack which he

subsequently made on Zachary Fay, in King's Court,--Mrs. Vincent had

paid a somewhat unusually long visit in Paradise Row. As the visit

was always made on Monday, neither had Clara Demijohn or Mrs. Duffer

been very much surprised; but still it had been observed that the

brougham had been left at the "Duchess of Edinburgh" for an hour

beyond the usual time, and a few remarks were made. "She is so

punctual about her time generally," Clara had said. But Mrs. Duffer

remarked that as she had exceeded the hour usually devoted to her

friend's company she had probably found it quite as well to stay

another. "They don't make half-hours in any of those yards, you

know," said Mrs. Duffer. And so the matter had been allowed to pass

as having been sufficiently explained.

But there had in truth been more than that in Mrs. Vincent's

prolonged visit to her cousin. There had been much to be discussed,

and the discussion led to a proposition made that evening by Mrs.

Roden to her son by which the latter was much surprised. She was

desirous of starting almost immediately for Italy, and was anxious

that he should accompany her. If it were to be so he was quite alive

to the expediency of going with her. "But what is it, mother?" he

asked, when she had requested his attendance without giving the cause

which rendered the journey necessary. Then she paused as though

considering whether she would comply with his request, and tell him

that whole secret of his life which she had hitherto concealed from

him. "Of course, I will not press you," he said, "if you think that

you cannot trust me."

"Oh, George, that is unkind."

"What else am I to say? Is it possible that I should start suddenly

upon such a journey, or that I should see you doing so, without

asking the reason why? Or can I suppose if you do not tell me, but

that there is some reason why you should not trust me?"

"You know I trust you. No mother ever trusted a son more implicitly.

You ought to know that. It is not a matter of trusting. There may be

secrets to which a person shall be so pledged that she cannot tell

them to her dearest friend. If I had made a promise would you not

have me keep it?"

"Promises such as that should not be exacted, and should not be

made."

"But if they have been exacted and have been made? Do as I ask you

now, and it is probable that everything will be clear to you before

we return, or at any rate as clear to you as it is to me." After

this, with a certain spirit of reticence which was peculiar with

him, he made up his mind to do as his mother would have him without

asking further questions. He set himself to work immediately to make

the necessary arrangements for his journey with as much apparent

satisfaction as though it were to be done on his own behalf. It was

decided that they would start on the next Friday, travel through

France and by the tunnel of the Mont Cenis to Turin, and thence on to

Milan. Of what further there was to befall them he knew nothing at

this period.

It was necessary in the first place that he should get leave of

absence from Sir Boreas, as to which he professed himself to be in

much doubt, because he had already enjoyed the usual leave of absence

allowed by the rules of the office. But on this matter he found

Æolus to be very complaisant. "What, Italy?" said Sir Boreas. "Very

nice when you get there, I should say, but a bad time of year for

travelling. Sudden business, eh?--To go with your mother! It is bad

for a lady to go alone. How long? You don't know? Well! come back

as soon as you can; that's all. You couldn't take Crocker with

you, could you?" For at this time Crocker had already got into

further trouble in regard to imperfections of handwriting. He had

been promised absolution as to some complaint made against him on

condition that he could read a page of his own manuscript. But he had

altogether failed in the attempt. Roden didn't think that he could

carry Crocker to Italy, but arranged his own affair without that

impediment.

But there was another matter which must be arranged also. It was now

six weeks since he had walked with Lord Hampstead half-way back from

Holloway to Hendon, and had been desired by his friend not to visit

Lady Frances while she was staying at Hendon Hall. The reader may

remember that he had absolutely refused to make any promise, and that

there had consequently been some sharp words spoken between the two

friends. There might, he had then said, arise an occasion on which he

should find it impossible not to endeavour to see the girl he loved.

But hitherto, though he had refused to submit himself to the demand

made upon him, he had complied with its spirit. At this moment, as

it seemed to him, a period had come in which it was essential to him

that he should visit her. There had been no correspondence between

them since those Königsgraaf days in consequence of the resolutions

which she herself had made. Now, as he often told himself, they were

as completely separated as though each had determined never again

to communicate with the other. Months had gone by since a word had

passed between them. He was a man, patient, retentive, and by nature

capable of enduring such a trouble without loud complaint; but he did

remember from day to day how near they were to each other, and he

did not fail to remind himself that he could hardly expect to find

constancy in her unless he took some means of proving to her that he

was constant himself. Thinking of all this, he determined that he

would do his best to see her before he started for Italy. Should he

fail to be received at Hendon Hall then he would write. But he would

go to the house and make his attempt.

On Thursday morning, the day on which Hampstead arrived at Trafford

Park, he went down from London, and knocking at the door asked at

once for Lady Frances. Lady Frances was at home and alone;--alone

altogether, having no companion with her in the house during her

brother's absence. The servant who opened the door, the same who had

admitted poor Crocker and had understood how much his young mistress

had been dismayed when the Post Office clerk had been announced,

was unwilling at once to show this other Post Office clerk into the

house, although he probably understood well the difference between

the two comers. "I'll go and see," he said, leaving George Roden

to sit or stand in the hall as he liked best. Then the man, with a

sagacity which certainly did him credit, made a roundabout journey

through the house, so that the lover stationed in the hall might not

know that his mistress was to be reached merely by the opening of a

single door. "A gentleman in the hall?" said Lady Frances.

"Mr. Roden, my lady," said the man.

"Show him in," said Lady Frances, allowing herself just a moment for

consideration,--a moment so short that she trusted that no hesitation

had been visible. And yet she had doubted much. She had been very

clear in explaining to her brother that she had made no promise. She

had never pledged herself to any one that she would deny herself to

her lover should he come to see her. She would not admit to herself

that even her brother, even her father, had a right to demand from

her such a pledge. But she knew what were her brother's wishes on

this matter, and what were the reasons for them. She knew also

how much she owed to him. But she too had suffered from that long

silence. She had considered that a lover whom she never saw, and

from whom she never heard, was almost as bad as no lover at all. She

had beaten her feathers against her cage, as she thought of this

cruel separation. She had told herself of the short distance which

separated Hendon from Holloway. She perhaps had reflected that had

the man been as true to her as was she to him, he would not have

allowed himself to be deterred by the injunctions either of father or

brother. Now, at any rate, when her lover was at the door, she could

not turn him away. It had all to be thought of, but it was thought of

so quickly that the order for her lover's admittance was given almost

without a pause which could have been felt. Then, in half a minute,

her lover was in the room with her.

Need the chronicler of such scenes declare that they were in each

other's arms before a word was spoken between them? The first word

that was spoken came from her. "Oh, George, how long it has been!"

"It has been long to me."

"But at last you have come?"

"Did you expect me sooner? Had you not agreed with Hampstead and your

father that I was not to come?"

"Never mind. You are here now. Poor papa, you know, is very ill.

Perhaps I may have to go down there. John is there now."

"Is he so ill as that?"

"John went last night. We do not quite know how ill he is. He does

not write, and we doubt whether we get at the truth. I was very

nearly going with him; and then, sir, you would not have seen me--at

all."

"Another month, another six months, another year, would have made no

difference in my assurance of your truth to me."

"That is a very pretty speech for you to make."

"Nor I think in yours for me."

"I am bound, of course, to be just as pretty as you are. But why

have you come now? You shouldn't have come when John had left me all

alone."

"I did not know that you were here alone."

"Or you would not have come, perhaps? But you should not have come.

Why did you not ask before you came?"

"Because I should have been refused. It would have been refused;

would it not?"

"Certainly it would."

"But as I wish to see you specially--"

"Why specially? I have wanted to see you always. Every day has been

a special want. It should have been so with you also had you been as

true as I am. There should have been no special times."

"But I am going--"

"Going! Where are you going? Not for always! You are leaving

Holloway, you mean, or the Post Office." Then he explained to her

that as far as he knew the journey would not be for long. He was not

leaving his office, but had permission to absent himself for a time,

so that he might travel with his mother as far as Milan. "Nay," said

he, laughing, "why I am to do so I do not in the least know. My

mother has some great Italian mystery of which she has never yet

revealed to me any of the circumstances. All I know is that I was

born in Italy."

"You an Italian?"

"I did not say that. There is an old saying that you need not be a

horse because you were born in a stable. Nor do I quite know that

I was born in Italy, though I feel sure of it. Of my father I have

never known anything,--except that he was certainly a bad husband to

my mother. There are circumstances which do make me almost sure that

I was born in Italy; but as my mother has been unwilling to talk to

me of my earliest days, I have never chosen to ask her. Now I shall

perhaps know it all."

Of what else passed between them the reader need learn no details.

To her the day was one of exceeding joy. A lover in China, or waging

wars in Zululand or elsewhere among the distant regions, is a

misfortune. A lover ought to be at hand, ready at the moment, to be

kissed or scolded, to wait upon you, or, so much sweeter still, to be

waited upon, just as the occasion may serve. But the lover in China

is better than one in the next street or the next parish,--or only a

few miles off by railway,--whom you may not see. The heart recognizes

the necessity occasioned by distance with a sweet softness of

tender regrets, but is hardened by mutiny, or crushed by despair in

reference to stern parents or unsuitable pecuniary circumstances.

Lady Frances had been enduring the sternness of parents, and had been

unhappy. Now there had come a break. She had seen what he was like,

and had heard his voice, and been reassured by his vows, and had

enjoyed the longed-for opportunity of repeating her own. "Nothing,

nothing, nothing can change me!" How was he to be sure of that

while she had no opportunity of telling him that it was so? "No

time;--nothing that papa can say, nothing that John can do, will have

any effect. As to Lady Kingsbury, of course you know that she has

thrown me off altogether." It was nothing to him, he said, who might

have thrown her off. Having her promise, he could bide his time. Not

but that he was impatient; but that he knew that when so much was to

be given to him at last, it behoved him to endure all things rather

than to be faint of heart. And so they parted.

She, however, in spite of her joy, had a troubled spirit when he

was gone. She had declared to her brother that she was bound by no

promise as to seeing or not seeing her lover, but yet she was aware

how much she owed to him, and that, though she had not promised, he

had made a promise on her behalf, to her father. But for that promise

she would never have been allowed to be at Hendon Hall. His brother

had made all his arrangements so as to provide for her a home in

which she might be free from the annoyances inflicted upon her by her

stepmother; but had done so almost with a provision that she should

not see George Roden. She certainly had done nothing herself to

infringe that stipulation; but George Roden had come, and she had

seen him. She might have refused him admittance, no doubt; but

then again she thought that it would have been impossible to do so.

How could she have told the man to deny her, thus professing her

indifference for him in regard to whom she had so often declared that

she was anxious that all the world should know that they were engaged

to marry each other? It would have been impossible for her not to see

him; and yet she felt that she had been treacherous to her brother,

to whom she owed so much!

One thing seemed to her to be absolutely necessary. She must write at

once and tell him what had occurred. Thinking of this she sat down

and wrote so that she might despatch her letter by that post;--and

what she wrote is here given.

MY DEAR JOHN--

I shall be so anxious to get news from Trafford, and to

hear how you found papa. I cannot but think that were he

very ill somebody would have let us know the truth. Though

Mr. Greenwood is cross-grained and impertinent, he would

hardly have kept us in the dark.

Now I have a piece of news to tell you which I hope will

not make you very angry. It was not my doing, and I do

not know how I could have helped it. Your friend, George

Roden, called to-day and asked to see me. Of course

I could have refused. He was in the hall when Richard

announced him, and I suppose I could have sent out word to

say that I was not at home. But I think you will feel that

that was in truth impossible. How is one to tell a lie to

a man when one feels towards him as I do about George? Or

how could I even let the servants think that I would treat

him so badly? Of course every one knows about it. I want

every one to know about it, so that it may be understood

that I am not in the least ashamed of what I mean to do.

And when you hear why he came I do not think that you can

be angry even with him. He has been called upon, for some

reason, to go at once with his mother to Italy. They start

for Milan to-morrow, and he does not at all know when he

may return. He had to get leave at the Post Office, but

that Sir Boreas whom he talks about seems to have been

very good-natured about giving it. He asked him whether he

would not take Mr. Crocker with him to Italy; but that of

course was a joke. I suppose they do not like Mr. Crocker

at the Post Office any better than you do. Why Mrs. Roden

should have to go he does not understand. All he knows is

that there is some Italian secret which he will hear all

about before he comes home.

Now I really do think that you cannot be surprised that he

should have come to see me when he is going to take such a

journey as that. What should I have thought if I had heard

that he had gone without saying a word to me about it?

Don't you think that that would have been most unnatural?

I should have almost broken my heart when I heard that he

had started.

I do hope, therefore, that you will not be angry with

either of us. But yet I feel that I may have brought you

into trouble with papa. I do not care in the least for

Lady Kingsbury, who has no right to interfere in the

matter at all. After her conduct everything I think is

over between us. But I shall be indeed sorry if papa is

vexed; and shall feel it very much if he says anything to

you after all your great kindness to me.

Your affectionate sister,

FANNY.

"I have done one other thing to-day," said George Roden, when he was

explaining to his mother on Thursday evening all the preparations he

had made for their journey.

"What other thing?" she asked, guessing accurately, however, the

nature of the thing of which he was about to speak.

"I have seen Lady Frances Trafford."

"I thought it probable that you might endeavour to do so."

"I have done more than endeavour on this occasion. I went down to

Hendon Hall, and was shown into the drawing-room. I am sorry for

Hampstead's sake, but it was impossible for me not to do so."

"Why sorry for his sake?" she asked.

"Because he had pledged himself to his father that I should not do

so. He clearly had no right to make such a pledge. I could not bind

myself to an assurance by keeping which I might seem to show myself

to be indifferent. A girl may bind herself by such a promise, but

hardly a man. Had I made the promise I almost think I must have

broken it. I did not make it, and therefore I have no sin to confess.

But I fear I shall have done him a mischief with his father."

"And what did she say, George?"

"Oh; just the old story, mother, I suppose. What she said was what I

knew just as well before I went there. But yet it was necessary that

I should hear what she had to say;--and as necessary I think that she

should hear me."

"Quite as necessary, I am sure," said his mother kissing his

forehead.

CHAPTER XIV.

MR. GREENWOOD'S FEELINGS.

On that Wednesday night Mr. Greenwood did not sleep much. It may be

doubted whether he once closed his eyes in slumber. He had indeed

been saved from the performance of an act which now seemed to him

to be so terrible that he could hardly believe that he had in truth

contemplated it; but yet he knew,--he knew that it for some hours had

been the purpose of his mind to do it! He struggled to make himself

believe that it had in truth been no more than a speculation, that

there had been no formed purpose, that he had only amused himself by

considering how he could do such a deed without detection, if the

deed were to be done. He had simply been thinking over the blunders

of others, the blindness of men who had so bungled in their business

as to have left easy traces for the eyes and intelligence of the

world outside, and had been assuring himself how much better he could

manage if the necessity of such an operation were to come upon him.

That was all. No doubt he hated Lord Hampstead,--and had cause to

do so. It was thus that he argued with himself. But his hatred had

surely not carried him to the intention of murder!

There could have been no question of real murder; for why should he

have troubled himself either with the danger or with the load which

it would certainly have imposed on his conscience? Much as he hated

Lord Hampstead, it was no business of his. It was that Lady Macbeth

up-stairs, the mother of the darlings, who had really thought of

murder. It was she who had spoken openly of her great desire that

Lord Hampstead should cease to live. Had there been any real question

of murder it would have been for her to meditate, for her to think,

for her to plot;--surely not for him! Certainly, certainly he had

contemplated no such deed as that, with the object of obtaining

for the comfort of his old age the enjoyment of the living of

Appleslocombe! He told himself now that had he in truth committed

such a crime, had he carried out the plot which had formed itself in

his brain only as a matter of speculation, though he might not have

been detected, yet he would have been suspected; and suspicion would

have been as destructive to his hopes as detection. Of course all

that had been clear enough to him throughout his machinations; and

therefore how could he really have intended it? He had not intended

it. It had only been one of those castles in the air which the

old build as well as the young,--which are no more than the "airy

fabrics" of the brain!

It was thus he struggled to drive from his mind and from his eyes

the phantom of the terrible deed. But that he did not succeed was

made evident to himself by the hot clammy drops of sweat which came

out upon his brow, by his wakefulness throughout the livelong night,

by the carefulness with which his ears watched for the sound of the

young man's coming, as though it were necessary that he should be

made assured that the murder had in truth not been done. Before that

hour had come he found himself to be shaking even in his bed; to be

drawing the clothes around him to dispel the icy cold, though the

sweat still stood upon his brow; to be hiding his eyes under the

bed-clothes in order that he might not see something which seemed to

be visible to him through the utmost darkness of the chamber. At any

rate he had done nothing! Let his thoughts have been what they might,

he had soiled neither his hands nor his conscience. Though everything

that he had ever done or ever thought were known, he was free from

all actual crime. She had talked of death and thought of murder. He

had only echoed her words and her thoughts, meaning nothing,--as

a man is bound to do to a woman. Why then could he not sleep? Why

should he be hot and shiver with cold by turns? Why should horrid

phantoms perplex him in the dark? He was sure he had never meant it.

What must be the agony of those who do mean, of those who do execute,

if such punishment as this were awarded to one who had done no

more than build a horrid castle in the air? Did she sleep;--he

wondered,--she who had certainly done more than build a castle in the

air; she who had wished and longed, and had a reason for her wishing

and her longing?

At last he heard a footfall on the road, which passed but some few

yards distant from his window, a quick, cheery, almost running

footfall, a step full of youth and life, sounding crisp on the hard

frozen ground; and he knew that the young man whom he hated had

come. Though he had never thought of murdering him,--as he told

himself,--yet he hated him. And then his thoughts, although in

opposition to his own wishes,--which were intent upon sleep, if sleep

would only come to him,--ran away to the building of other castles.

How would it have been now, now at this moment, if that plan, which

he had never really intended to carry out, which had only been a

speculation, had been a true plan and been truly executed? How would

it have been with them all now at Trafford Park? The Marchioness

would have been at any rate altogether satisfied;--but what comfort

would there have been in that to him? Lord Frederic would have been

the heir to a grand title and to vast estates;--but how would he have

been the better for that? The old lord who was lying there so sick in

the next room might probably have sunk into his grave with a broken

heart. The Marquis had of late been harsh to him; but there did come

to him an idea at the present moment that he had for thirty years

eaten the sick man's bread. And the young man would have been sent

without a moment's notice to meet his final doom! Of what nature

that might have been, the wretched man lying there did not dare even

to make a picture in his imagination. It was a matter which he had

sedulously and successfully dismissed from all his thoughts. It was

of the body lying out there in the cold, not of the journey which

the winged soul might make, that he unwillingly drew a picture to

himself. He conceived how he himself, in the prosecution of the plan

which he had formed, would have been forced to have awakened the

house, and to tell of the deed, and to assist in carrying the body to

what resting-place might have been found for it. There he would have

had to enact a part of which he had, a few hours since, told himself

that he would be capable, but in attempting which he was now sure

that he would have succumbed to the difficulties of the struggle. Who

would have broken the news to the father? Who would have attempted

to speak the first word of vain consolation? Who would have flown to

the lady's door up-stairs and have informed her that death was in

the house--and have given her to understand that the eldest of her

darlings was the heir? It would have been for him to do it all; for

him with a spirit weighed down to the ground by that terrible burden

with which the doing of such a deed would have loaded it. He would

certainly have revealed himself in the struggle!

But why should he allow his mind to be perplexed with such thoughts?

No such deed had been done. There had been no murder. The young man

was there now in the house, light-hearted after his walk; full of

life and youthful energy. Why should he be troubled with such waking

dreams as these? Must it be so with him always, for the rest of his

life, only because he had considered how a thing might best be done?

He heard a footstep in a distant passage, and a door closed, and then

again all was silent. Was there not cause to him for joy in the young

man's presence? If his speculations had been wicked, was there not

time to turn for repentance,--for repentance, though there was so

little for which repentance were needed? Nevertheless the night was

to him so long, and the misery connected with the Trafford name so

great, that he told himself that he would quit the place as soon as

possible. He would take whatever money were offered to him and go.

How would it have been with him had he really done the deed, when

he found himself unable to sleep in the house in which he would not

quite admit to himself that he had even contemplated it?

On the next morning his breakfast was brought to him in his own

room, and he inquired from the servant after Lord Hampstead and his

purposes. The servant thought that his lordship meant to remain on

that day and the next. So he had heard Harris, the butler, say. His

lordship was to see his father at eleven o'clock that morning. The

household bulletin respecting the Marquis had that morning been

rather more favourable than usual. The Marchioness had not yet been

seen. The doctor would probably be there by twelve. This was the news

which Mr. Greenwood got from the servant who waited upon him. Could

he not escape from the house during the period that the young lord

would be there, without seeing the young lord? The young lord was

hateful to him--more hateful than ever. He would, if possible, get

himself carried into Shrewsbury, and remain there on some excuse of

visiting a friend till the young lord should have returned to London.

He could not tell himself why, but he felt that the sight of the

young lord would be oppressive to him.

But in this he was prevented by an intimation that was given to him

early in the day, before he had made preparations for his going, that

Lord Hampstead wished to see him, and would wait upon him in his

own room. The Marquis had expressed himself grateful to his son for

coming, but did not wish to detain him at Trafford. "Of course it is

very dull for you, and I think I am better."

"I am so glad of that;--but if you think that I am of any comfort to

you I shall be delighted to stay. I suppose Fanny would come down if

I remain here."

Then the Marquis shook his head. Fanny, he thought, had better

be away. "The Marchioness and Fanny would not be happy in the

house together,--unless, indeed, she has given up that young man."

Hampstead could not say that she had given up the young man. "I do

hope she never sees him," said the Marquis. Then his son assured him

that the two had never met since Fanny had gone to Hendon Hall. And

he was rash enough to assure his father that there would be no such

meeting while his sister was his guest. At that moment George Roden

was standing in the drawing-room at Hendon Hall with Lady Frances in

his arms.

After that there arose a conversation between the father and son as

to Mr. Greenwood. The Marquis was very desirous that the man who had

become so objectionable to him should quit the house. "The truth is,"

said the Marquis, "that it is he who makes all the mischief between

me and your stepmother. It is he that makes me ill. I have no comfort

while he is here, making plots against me." If they two had only

known the plot which had been made! Hampstead thought it reasonable

that the man should be sent away, if only because his presence was

disagreeable. Why should a man be kept in the house simply to produce

annoyance? But there must be the question of compensation. He did

not think that £1000 was sufficient. Then the Marquis was unusually

difficult of persuasion in regard to money. Hampstead thought that

an annuity of £300 a year should be settled on the poor clergyman.

The Marquis would not hear of it. The man had not performed even the

slight duties which had been required of him. The books had not even

been catalogued. To bribe a man, such as that, by £300 a year for

making himself disagreeable would be intolerable. The Marquis had

never promised him anything. He ought to have saved his money. At

last the father and son came to terms, and Hampstead sent to prepare

a meeting with the chaplain.

Mr. Greenwood was standing in the middle of the room when Lord

Hampstead entered it, rubbing his fat hands together. Hampstead saw

no difference in the man since their last meeting, but there was a

difference. Mr. Greenwood's manner was at first more submissive, as

though he were afraid of his visitor; but before the interview was

over he had recovered his audacity. "My father has wished me to see

you," said Hampstead. Mr. Greenwood went on rubbing his hands, still

standing in the middle of the room. "He seems to think it better that

you should leave him."

"I don't know why he should think it better;--but, of course, I will

go if he bids me." Mr. Greenwood had quite made up his mind that it

would be better for him also that he should go.

"There will be no good in going into that. I think we might as well

sit down, Mr. Greenwood." They did sit down, the chaplain as usual

perching himself on the edge of a chair. "You have been here a great

many years."

"A great many, Lord Hampstead;--nearly all my life;--before you were

born, Lord Hampstead." Then, as he sat gazing, there came before his

eyes the phantom of Lord Hampstead being carried into the house as

a corpse while he himself was struggling beneath a portion of the

weight.

"Just so; and though the Marquis cannot admit that there is any claim

upon him--"

"No claim, Lord Hampstead!"

"Certainly no claim. Yet he is quite willing to do something in

acknowledgment of the long connection. His lordship thinks that an

annuity of £200 a year--." Mr. Greenwood shook his head, as though he

would say that that certainly would not satisfy him. Hampstead had

been eager to secure the full £300 for the wretched, useless man,

but the Marquis had declared that he would not burden the estate

with a charge so unnecessarily large. "I say," continued Hampstead,

frowning, "that his lordship has desired me to say that you shall

receive during your life an annuity of £200." It certainly was the

fact that Lord Hampstead could frown when he was displeased, and that

at such moments he would assume a look of aristocratic impatience

which was at variance with his professed political theories. Mr.

Greenwood again shook his head. "I do not think that I need say

anything farther," continued the young lord. "That is my father's

decision. He presumes that you would prefer the annuity to the

immediate payment of a thousand pounds." Here the shaking of the

head became more violent. "I have only in addition to ask you when

it will suit you to leave Trafford Park." Lord Hampstead, when he

had left his father, had determined to use his blandest manner in

communicating these tidings to the chaplain. But Mr. Greenwood was

odious to him. The way in which the man stood on the floor and rubbed

his hands together, and sat on the edge of his chair, and shook his

head without speaking a word, were disgusting to him. If the man had

declared boldly his own view of what was due to him, Hampstead would

have endeavoured to be gracious to him. As it was he was anything but

gracious, as he asked the chaplain to name the day on which he would

be prepared to leave the house.

"You mean to say that I am to be--turned out."

"It is some months since you were told that my father no longer

required your services."

"I am to be turned out,--like a dog,--after thirty years!"

"I cannot contradict you when you say so, but I must ask you to name

a day. It is not as though the suggestion were now made to you for

the first time." Mr. Greenwood got up from the edge of the chair, and

again stood in the middle of the room. Lord Hampstead felt himself

constrained also to stand. "Have you any answer to make to me?"

"No; I have not," said the chaplain.

"You mean that you have not fixed upon a day?"

"I shan't go with £200 a year," said the chaplain. "It's

unreasonable; it's brutal!"

"Brutal!" shouted Lord Hampstead.

"I shan't stir till I've seen the Marquis himself. It's out of

the question that he should turn me out in this way. How am I to

live upon £200 a year? I always understood that I was to have

Appleslocombe."

"No such promise was ever made to you," said Lord Hampstead, very

angrily. "No hint of such a thing has ever been made except by

yourself."

"I always understood it," said Mr. Greenwood. "And I shall not leave

this till I've had an opportunity of discussing the matter with the

Marquis himself. I don't think the Marquis would ever have treated me

in this way,--only for you, Lord Hampstead."

This was intolerable. What was he to do with the abominable man?

It would be very disagreeable, the task of turning him out while

the Marquis was still so ill, and yet it was not to be endured that

such a man should be allowed to hold his position in the house in

opposition to the will of the owner. It was, he felt, beneath him to

defend himself against the charge made--or even to defend his father.

"If you will not name a day, I must," said the young lord. The man

remained immovable on his seat except that he continued to rub his

hands. "As I can get no answer I shall have to instruct Mr. Roberts

that you cannot be allowed to remain here after the last day of the

month. If you have any feeling left to you you will not impose upon

us so unpleasant a duty while my father is ill." With this he left

the room, while Mr. Greenwood was still standing and rubbing his

hands.

Two hundred pounds a year! He had better go and take it. He was quite

aware of that. But how was he to live upon £200,--he who had been

bedded and boarded all his life at the expense of another man, and

had also spent £300? But at the moment this was not the thought

uppermost in his mind. Would it not have been better that he should

have carried out that project of his? Only that he had been merciful,

this young lord would not have been able to scorn him and ill-treat

him as he had done. There were no phantoms now. Now he thought that

he could have carried his share of the corpse into the house without

flinching.

CHAPTER XV.

"THAT WOULD BE DISAGREEABLE."

Things at Trafford on that day and on the next were very

uncomfortable. No house could possibly be more so. There were four

persons who, in the natural course of things, would have lived

together, not one of whom would sit down to table with any other.

The condition of the Marquis, of course, made it impossible that he

should do so. He was confined to his room, in which he would not

admit Mr. Greenwood to come near him, and where his wife's short

visits did not seem to give him much satisfaction. Even with his

son he was hardly at his ease, seeming to prefer the society of the

nurse, with occasional visits from the doctor and Mr. Roberts. The

Marchioness confined herself to her own room, in which it was her

intention to prevent the inroads of Mr. Greenwood as far as it might

be possible. That she should be able to exclude him altogether was

more than she could hope, but much, she thought, could be done by

the dint of headaches, and by a resolution never to take her food

down-stairs. Lord Hampstead had declared his purpose to Harris, as

well as to his father, never again to sit down to table with Mr.

Greenwood. "Where does he dine?" he asked the butler. "Generally

in the family dining-room, my lord," said Harris. "Then give me my

dinner in the breakfast parlour." "Yes, my lord," said the butler,

who at once resolved to regard Mr. Greenwood as an enemy of the

family. In this manner Mr. Greenwood gave no trouble, as he had his

meat sent to him in his own sitting-room. But all this made the house

very uncomfortable.

In the afternoon Mr. Roberts came over from Shrewsbury, and saw Lord

Hampstead. "I knew he would make himself disagreeable, my lord," said

Mr. Roberts.

"How did you know it?"

"Things creep out. He had made himself disagreeable to his lordship

for some months past; and then we heard that he was talking of

Appleslocombe as though he were certain to be sent there."

"My father never thought of it."

"I didn't think he did. Mr. Greenwood is the idlest human being that

ever lived, and how could he have performed the duties of a parish?"

"He asked my father once, and my father flatly refused him."

"Perhaps her ladyship--," suggested Mr. Roberts, with some

hesitation.

"At any rate he is not to have Appleslocombe, and he must be made

to go. How is it to be done?" Mr. Roberts raised his eyebrows. "I

suppose there must be some means of turning an objectionable resident

out of a house."

"The police, of course, could carry him out--with a magistrate's

order. He would have to be treated like any other vagrant."

"That would be disagreeable."

"Very disagreeable, my lord," said Mr. Roberts. "My lord should be

saved from that if possible."

"How if we gave him nothing to eat?" said Lord Hampstead.

"That would be possible; but it would be troublesome. What if he

resolved to remain and be starved? It would be seeing which would

hold out the longer. I don't think my lord would have the heart to

keep him twenty-four hours without food. We must try and save my lord

from what is disagreeable as much as we can." Lord Hampstead was in

accord as to this, but did not quite see his way how to effect it.

There were still, however, more than three weeks to run before the

day fixed for the chaplain's exit, and Mr. Roberts suggested that it

might in that time be fully brought home to the man that his £200 a

year would depend on his going. "Perhaps you'd better leave him to

me, my lord," said Mr. Roberts; "and I shall deal with him better

when you're not here."

When the time came for afternoon tea Mr. Greenwood, perceiving that

no invitation came to him from the Marchioness, sent a note up to her

asking for the favour of an interview. "He had a few words to say,

and would be much obliged to her if she would allow him to come to

her." On receiving this she pondered for some time before she could

make up her mind as to what answer she should give. She would have

been most anxious to do as she had already heard that Lord Hampstead

had done, and decline to meet him at all. She could not analyze her

own feelings about the man, but had come during the last few days to

hold him in horror. It was as though something of the spirit of the

murderer had shown itself to her in her eyes. She had talked glibly,

wickedly, horribly of the death of the man who had seemed to stand

in her way. She had certainly wished for it. She had taught herself

to think, by some ultra-feminine lack of logic, that she had really

been injured in that her own eldest boy had not been born heir to his

father's titles. She had found it necessary to have some recipient

for her griefs. Her own sister, Lady Persiflage, had given her no

comfort, and then she had sought for and had received encouragement

from her husband's chaplain. But in talking of Lord Hampstead's death

she had formed no plan. She had only declared in strong language that

if, by the hand of Providence, such a thing should be done, it would

be to her a happy chance. She had spoken out where another more

prudent than she would perhaps only have wished. But this man had

taken up her words with an apparently serious purpose which had

frightened her; and then, as though he had been the recipient of some

guilty secret, he had laid aside the respect which had been usual

to him, and had assumed a familiarity of co-partnership which had

annoyed and perplexed her. She did not quite understand it all, but

was conscious of a strong desire to be rid of him. But she did not

dare quite as yet to let him know that such was her purpose, and she

therefore sent her maid down to him with a message. "Mr. Greenwood

wants to see me," she said to the woman. "Will you tell him with my

compliments that I am not very well, and that I must beg him not to

stay long."

"Lord Hampstead has been a' quarrelling with Mr. Greenwood, my

lady,--this very morning," said the maid.

"Quarrelling, Walker?"

"Yes, my lady. There has been ever so much about it. My lord says as

he won't sit down to dinner with Mr. Greenwood on no account, and Mr.

Roberts has been here, all about it. He's to be turned away."

"Who is to be turned away?"

"Mr. Greenwood, my lady. Lord Hampstead has been about it all the

morning. It's for that my lord the Marquis has sent for him, and

nobody's to speak to him till he's packed up everything, and taken

himself right away out of the house."

"Who has told you all that, Walker?" Walker, however, would not

betray her informant. She answered that it was being talked of by

everybody down-stairs, and she repeated it now only because she

thought it proper that "my lady" should be informed of what was going

on. "My lady" was not sorry to have received the information even

from her maid, as it might assist her in her conversation with the

chaplain.

On this occasion Mr. Greenwood sat down without being asked. "I am

sorry to hear that you are so unwell, Lady Kingsbury."

"I have got one of my usual headaches;--only it's rather worse than

usual."

"I have something to say which I am sure you will not be surprised

that I should wish to tell you. I have been grossly insulted by Lord

Hampstead."

"What can I do?"

"Well;--something ought to be done."

"I cannot make myself answerable for Lord Hampstead, Mr. Greenwood."

"No; of course not. He is a young man for whom no one would make

himself answerable. He is head-strong, violent, and most uncourteous.

He has told me very rudely that I must leave the house by the end of

the month."

"I suppose the Marquis had told him."

"I don't believe it. Of course the Marquis is ill, and I could bear

much from him. But I won't put up with it from Lord Hampstead."

"What can I do?"

"Well;--after what has passed between us, Lady Kingsbury,--" He

paused, and looked at her as he made this appeal. She compressed her

lips and collected herself, and prepared for the fight which she felt

was coming. He saw it all, and prepared himself also. "After what has

passed between us, Lady Kingsbury," he said, repeating his words, "I

think you ought to be on my side."

"I don't think anything of the kind. I don't know what you mean about

sides. If the Marquis says you're to go, I can't keep you."

"I'll tell you what I've done, Lady Kingsbury. I have refused to stir

out of this house till I've been allowed to discuss the matter with

his lordship; and I think you ought to give me your countenance. I'm

sure I've always been true to you. When you have unburdened your

troubles to my ears I have always been sympathetic. When you have

told me what a trouble this young man has been to you, have not I

always,--always,--always taken your part against him?" He almost

longed to tell her that he had formed a plan for ridding her

altogether of the obnoxious young man; but he could not find the

words in which to do this. "Of course I have felt that I might depend

upon you for assistance and countenance in this house."

"Mr. Greenwood," she said, "I really cannot talk to you about these

things. My head is aching very badly, and I must ask you to go."

"And that is to be all?"

"Don't you hear me tell you that I cannot interfere?" Still he kept

that horrid position of his upon the chair, staring at her with his

large, open, lustreless eyes. "Mr. Greenwood, I must ask you to leave

me. As a gentleman you must comply with my request."

"Oh," he said; "very well! Then I am to know that after thirty years'

faithful service all the family has turned against me. I shall take

care--" But he paused, remembering that were he to speak a word too

much, he might put in jeopardy the annuity which had been promised

him; and at last he left the room.

Of Mr. Greenwood no one saw anything more that day, nor did Lord

Hampstead encounter him again before he returned to London. Hampstead

had arranged to stay at Trafford during the following day, and then

to return to London, again using the night mail train. But on the

next morning a new trouble fell upon him. He received his sister's

letter, and learned that George Roden had been with her at Hendon

Hall. He had certainly pledged himself that there should be no such

meeting, and had foolishly renewed this pledge only yesterday. When

he read the letter he was vexed, chiefly with himself. The arguments

which she had used as to Roden's coming, and also those by which

she had excused herself for receiving him, did seem to him to be

reasonable. When the man was going on such a journey it was natural

that he should wish to see the girl he loved; and natural that she

should wish to see him. And he was well aware that neither of them

had pledged themselves. It was he only who had given a pledge, and

that as to the conduct of others who had refused to support him in

it. Now his pledge had been broken, and he felt himself called upon

to tell his father of what had occurred. "After all that I told you

yesterday," he said, "George Roden and Fanny have met each other."

Then he attempted to make the best excuse he could for this breach of

the promise which he had made.

"What's the good?" said the Marquis. "They can't marry each other. I

wouldn't give her a shilling if she were to do such a thing without

my sanction." Hampstead knew very well that, in spite of this, his

father had made by his will ample provision for his sister, and that

it was very improbable that any alteration in this respect would be

made, let his sister's disobedience be what it might. But the Marquis

seemed hardly to be so much affected as he had expected by these

tidings. "Whatever you do," said the Marquis, "don't let her ladyship

know it. She would be sure to come down to me and say it was all my

fault; and then she would tell me what Mr. Greenwood thought about

it." The poor man did not know how little likely it was that she

would ever again throw Mr. Greenwood in his teeth.

Lord Hampstead had not as yet even seen his stepmother, but had

thought it no more than decent to send her word that he would wait

upon her before he left the house. All domestic troubles he knew to

be bad. For his stepmother's sake, and for that of his sister and

little brothers, he would avoid as far as might be possible any open

rupture. He therefore went to the Marchioness before he ate his

dinner. "My father is much better," he said; but his stepmother only

shook her head, so that there was before him the task of recommencing

the conversation. "Dr. Spicer says so."

"I am not sure that Mr. Spicer knows much about it."

"He thinks so himself."

"He never tells me what he thinks. He hardly tells me anything."

"He is not strong enough for much talking."

"He will talk to Mr. Roberts by the hour together. So I hear that I

am to congratulate you." This she said in a tone which was clearly

intended to signify both condemnation and ridicule.

"I am not aware of it," said Hampstead with a smile.

"I suppose it is true about the Quaker lady?"

"I can hardly tell you, not knowing what you may have heard. There

can be no room for congratulation, as the lady has not accepted the

offer I have made her." The Marchioness laughed incredulously,--with

a little affected laugh in which the incredulity was sincere.--"I can

only tell you that it is so."

"No doubt you will try again?"

"No doubt."

"Young ladies in such circumstances are not apt to persevere in their

severity. Perhaps it may be supposed that she will give way at last."

"I cannot take upon myself to answer that, Lady Kingsbury. The matter

is one on which I am not particularly anxious to talk. Only as you

asked me I thought it best just to tell you the facts."

"I am sure I am ever so much obliged to you. The young lady's father

is--"

"The young lady's father is a clerk in a merchant's office in the

City."

"So I understand,--and a Quaker?"

"And a Quaker."

"And I believe he lives at Holloway."

"Just so."

"In the same street with that young man whom Fanny has--has chosen to

pick up."

"Marion Fay and her father live at No. 17, Paradise Row, Holloway;

and Mrs. Roden and George Roden live at No. 11."

"Exactly. We may understand, therefore, how you became acquainted

with Miss Fay."

"I don't think you can. But if you wish to know I will tell you that

I first saw Miss Fay at Mrs. Roden's house."

"I suppose so."

Hampstead had begun this interview with perfect good humour; but

there had gradually been growing upon him that tone of defiance which

her little speeches to him had naturally produced. Scorn would always

produce scorn in him, as would ridicule and satire produce the same

in return. "I do not know why you should have supposed so, but such

was the fact. Neither had George Roden or my sister anything to

do with it. Miss Fay is a friend of Mrs. Roden, and Mrs. Roden

introduced me to the young lady."

"I am sure we are all very much obliged to her."

"I am, at any rate,--or shall be if I succeed at last."

"Poor fellow! It will be very piteous if you too are thwarted in

love."

"I'll say good-bye, my lady," said he, getting up to leave her.

"You have told me nothing of Fanny."

"I do not know that I have anything to tell."

"Perhaps she also will be jilted."

"I should hardly think so."

"Because, as you tell me, she is not allowed to see him." There was

a thorough disbelief expressed in this which annoyed him. It was as

though she had expressed her opinion that the lovers were encouraged

to meet daily in spite of the pledge which had been given. And then

the pledge had been broken; and there would be a positive lie on his

part if he were now to leave her with the idea that they had not met.

"You must find it hard to keep them apart, as they are so near."

"I have found it too hard, at any rate."

"Oh, you have?"

"They did meet yesterday."

"Oh, they did. Directly your back was turned?"

"He was going abroad, and he came; and she has written to tell me of

it. I say nothing of myself, Lady Kingsbury; but I do not think you

can understand how true she can be,--and he also."

"That is your idea of truth."

"That is my idea of truth, Lady Kingsbury; which, as I said before, I

am afraid I cannot explain to you. I have never meant to deceive you;

nor have they."

"I thought a promise was a promise," she said. Then he left her,

condescending to make no further reply. On that night he went back

to London, with a sad feeling at his heart that his journey down to

Trafford had done no good to any one. He had, however, escaped a

danger of which he had known nothing.

CHAPTER XVI.

"I DO."

Lord Hampstead did not reach his house till nearly six on the

following morning, and, having been travelling two nights out of

three, allowed himself the indulgence of having his breakfast in bed.

While he was so engaged his sister came to him, very penitent for her

fault, but ready to defend herself should he be too severe to her.

"Of course I am very sorry because of what you had said. But I don't

know how I am to help myself. It would have looked so very strange."

"It was unfortunate--that's all."

"Was it so very unfortunate, John?"

"Of course I had to tell them down there."

"Was papa angry?"

"He only said that if you chose to make such a fool of yourself, he

would do nothing for you--in the way of money."

"George does not think of that in the least."

"People must eat, you know."

"Ah; that would make no difference either to him or to me. We must

wait, that's all. I do not think it would make me unhappy to wait

till I died, if he only were content to wait also. But was papa so

very angry?"

"He wasn't so very angry,--only angry. I was obliged to tell him; but

I said as little to him as possible because he is ill. Somebody else

made herself disagreeable."

"Did you tell her?"

"I was determined to tell her;--so that she should not turn round

upon me afterwards and say that I had deceived her. I had made a

promise to my father."

"Oh, John, I am so sorry."

"There is no use in crying after spilt milk. A promise to my father

she would of course take as a promise to her, and it would have been

flung in my face."

"She will do so now."

"Oh, yes;--but I can fight the battle better, having told her

everything."

"Was she disagreeable?"

"Abominable! She mixed you up with Marion Fay, and really showed more

readiness than I gave her credit for in what she said. Of course she

got the better of me. She could call me a liar and a fool to my face,

and I could not retaliate. But there's a row in the house which makes

everything wretched there."

"Another row?"

"You are forgotten in this new row,--and so am I. George Roden and

Marion Fay are nothing in comparison with poor Mr. Greenwood. He

has been committing horrible offences, and is to be turned out. He

swears he won't go, and my father is determined he shall. Mr. Roberts

has been called in, and there is a question whether Harris shall

not put him on gradually diminished rations till he be starved into

surrender. He's to have £200 a year if he goes, but he says that it

is not enough for him."

"Would it be much?"

"Considering that he likes to have everything of the very best I do

not think it would. He would probably have to go to prison or else

hang himself."

"Won't it be rather hard upon him?"

"I think it will. I don't know what it is that makes the governor so

hard to him. I begged and prayed for another hundred a year as though

he were the dearest friend I had in the world; but I couldn't turn

the governor an inch. I don't think I ever disliked any one so much

in the world as I do Mr. Greenwood."

"Not Mr. Crocker?" she asked.

"Poor Crocker! I love Crocker, in comparison. There is a delightful

pachydermatousness about Crocker which is almost heroic. But I hate

Mr. Greenwood, if it be in my nature to hate any one. It is not only

that he insults me, but he looks at me as though he would take me

by the throat and strangle me if he could. But still I will add the

other hundred a year out of my own pocket, because I think he is

being treated hardly. Only I must do it on the sly."

"But Lady Kingsbury is still fond of him?"

"I rather think not. I fancy he has made himself too free with her,

and has offended her. However, there he is shut up all alone, and

swearing that he won't stir out of the house till something better is

done for him."

There were two matters now on Lord Hampstead's mind to which he

gave his attention, the latter of which, however, was much the more

prominent in his thoughts. He was anxious to take his sister down

to Gorse Hall, and there remain for the rest of the hunting season,

making such short runs up to Holloway as he might from time to time

find to be necessary. No man can have a string of hunters idle

through the winter without feeling himself to be guilty of an

unpardonable waste of property. A customer at an eating-house will

sometimes be seen to devour the last fragments of what has been

brought to him, because he does not like to abandon that for which

he must pay. So it is with the man who hunts. It is not perhaps that

he wants to hunt. There are other employments in life which would at

the moment be more to his taste. It is his conscience which prompts

him,--the feeling that he cannot forgive himself for intolerable

extravagance if he does not use the articles with which he has

provided himself. You can neglect your billiard-table, your books,

or even your wine-cellar,--because they eat nothing. But your horses

soon eat their heads off their own shoulders if you pass weeks

without getting on their backs. Hampstead had endeavoured to mitigate

for himself this feeling of improvidence by running up and down

to Aylesbury; but the saving in this respect was not sufficient

for his conscience, and he was therefore determined to balance the

expenditure of the year by a regular performance of his duties at

Gorse Hall. But the other matter was still more important to him. He

must see Marion Fay before he went into Northamptonshire, and then he

would learn how soon he might run up with the prospect of seeing her

again. The distance of Gorse Hall and the duty of hunting would admit

of certain visits to Holloway. "I think I shall go to Gorse Hall

to-morrow," he said to his sister as soon as he had come down from

his room.

"All right; I shall be ready. Hendon Hall or Gorse Hall,--or any

other Hall, will be the same to me now." Whereby she probably

intended to signify that as George Roden was on his way to Italy all

parts of England were indifferent to her.

"But I am not quite certain," said he.

"What makes the doubt?"

"Holloway, you know, has not been altogether deserted. The sun no

doubt has set in Paradise Row, but the moon remains." At this she

could only laugh, while he prepared himself for his excursion to

Holloway.

He had received the Quaker's permission to push his suit with Marion,

but he did not flatter himself that this would avail him much. He

felt that there was a strength in Marion which, as it would have made

her strong against her father had she given away her heart without

his sanction, so would it be but little moved by any permission

coming from him. And there was present to the lover's mind a feeling

of fear which had been generated by the Quaker's words as to Marion's

health. Till he had heard something of that story of the mother and

her little ones, it had not occurred to him that the girl herself was

wanting in any gift of physical well-being. She was beautiful in his

eyes, and he had thought of nothing further. Now an idea had been

put into his head which, though he could hardly realize it, was most

painful to him. He had puzzled himself before. Her manner to him had

been so soft, so tender, so almost loving, that he could not but

hope, could hardly not think, that she loved him. That, loving him,

she should persist in refusing him because of her condition of life,

seemed to him to be unnatural. He had, at any rate, been confident

that, were there nothing else, he could overcome that objection. Her

heart, if it were really given to him, would not be able to support

itself in its opposition to him upon such a ground of severance as

that. He thought that he could talk her out of so absurd an argument.

But in that other argument there might be something that she would

cling to with persistency.

But the Quaker himself had declared that there was nothing in it. "As

far as I know," the Quaker had said, "she is as fit to become a man's

wife as any other girl." He surely must have known had there been any

real cause. Girls are so apt to take fancies into their heads, and

then will sometimes become so obstinate in their fancies! In this way

Hampstead discussed the matter with himself, and had been discussing

it ever since he had walked up and down Broad Street with the Quaker.

But if she pleaded her health, he had what her own father had said

to use as an argument with which to convince her. If she spoke again

of his rank, he thought that on that matter his love might be strong

enough as an argument against her,--or perhaps her own.

He found no trouble in making his way into her presence. She had

heard of his visit to King's Court, and knew that he would come. She

had three things which she had to tell him, and she would tell them

all very plainly if all should be necessary. The first was that love

must have nothing to do in this matter,--but only duty. The second,

which she feared to be somewhat weak,--which she almost thought would

not of itself have been strong enough,--was that objection as to her

condition in life which she had urged to him before. She declared to

herself that it would be strong enough both for him, and for her, if

they would only guide themselves by prudence. But the third,--that

should be a rock to her if it were necessary; a cruel rock on which

she must be shipwrecked, but against which his bark should surely not

be dashed to atoms. If he would not leave her in peace without it she

would tell him that she was fit to be no man's wife.

If it came to that, then she must confess her own love. She

acknowledged to herself that it must be so. There could not be

between them the tenderness necessary for the telling of such a

tale without love, without acknowledged love. It would be better

that it should not be so. If he would go and leave her to dream of

him,--there might be a satisfaction even in that to sustain her

during what was left to her of life. She would struggle that it

should be so. But if his love were too strong, then must he know it

all. She had learned from her father something of what had passed at

that interview in the City, and was therefore ready to receive her

lover when he came. "Marion," he said, "you expected me to come to

you again?"

"Certainly I did."

"Of course I have come. I have had to go to my father, or I should

have been here sooner. You know that I shall come again and again

till you will say a word to me that shall comfort me."

"I knew that you would come again, because you were with father in

the City."

"I went to ask his leave,--and I got it."

"It was hardly necessary for you, my lord, to take that trouble."

"But I thought it was. When a man wishes to take a girl away from her

own home, and make her the mistress of his, it is customary that he

shall ask for her father's permission."

"It would have been so, had you looked higher,--as you should have

done."

"It was so in regard to any girl that I should wish to make my wife.

Whatever respect a man can pay to any woman, that is due to my

Marion." She looked at him, and with the glance of her eye went all

the love of her heart. How could she say those words to him, full of

reason and prudence and wisdom, if he spoke to her like this? "Answer

me honestly. Do you not know that if you were the daughter of the

proudest lord living in England you would not be held by me as

deserving other usage than that which I think to be your privilege

now?"

"I only meant that father could not but feel that you were honouring

him."

"I will not speak of honour as between him and me or between me and

you. With me and your father honesty was concerned. He has believed

me, and has accepted me as his son-in-law. With us, Marion, with us

two, all alone as we are here together, all in all to each other as

I hope we are to be, only love can be brought in question. Marion,

Marion!" Then he threw himself on his knees before her, and embraced

her as she was sitting.

"No, my lord; no; it must not be." But now he had both her hands in

his, and was looking into her face. Now was the time to speak of

duty,--and to speak with some strength, if what she might say was to

have any avail.

"It shall not be so, my lord." Then she did regain her hands, and

struggled up from the sofa on to her feet. "I, too, believe in

your honesty. I am sure of it, as I am of my own. But you do not

understand me. Think of me as though I were your sister."

"As my sister?"

"What would you have your sister do if a man came to her then, whom

she knew that she could never marry? Would you have her submit to his

embrace because she knew him to be honest?"

"Not unless she loved him."

"It would have nothing to do with it, Lord Hampstead."

"Nothing, Marion!"

"Nothing, my lord. You will think that I am giving myself airs if I

speak of my duty."

"Your father has allowed me to come."

"I owe him duty, no doubt. Had he bade me never to see you, I hope

that that would have sufficed. But there are other duties than

that,--a duty even higher than that."

"What duty, Marion?"

"That which I owe to you. If I had promised to be your wife--"

"Do promise it."

"Had I so promised, should I not then have been bound to think first

of your happiness?"

"You would have accomplished it, at any rate."

"Though I cannot be your wife I do not owe it you the less to think

of it,--seeing all that you are willing to do for me,--and I will

think of it. I am grateful to you."

"Do you love me?"

"Let me speak, Lord Hampstead. It is not civil in you to interrupt

me in that way. I am thoroughly grateful, and I will not show my

gratitude by doing that which I know would ruin you."

"Do you love me?"

"Not if I loved you with all my heart,--" and she spread out her arms

as though to assure herself how she did love him with all her very

soul,--"would I for that be brought even to think of doing the thing

that you ask me."

"Marion!"

"No,--no. We are utterly unfit for each other." She had made her

first declaration as to duty, and now she was going on as to that

second profession which she intended should be, if possible, the

last. "You are as high as blood and wealth and great friends can make

you. I am nothing. You have called me a lady."

"If God ever made one, you are she."

"He has made me better. He has made me a woman. But others would not

call me a lady. I cannot talk as they do, sit as they do, act as they

do,--even think as they do. I know myself, and I will not presume to

make myself the wife of such a man as you." As she said this there

came a flush across her face, and a fire in her eye, and, as though

conquered by her own emotion, she sank again upon the sofa.

"Do you love me, Marion?"

"I do," she said, standing once more erect upon her feet. "There

shall be no shadow of a lie between us. I do love you, Lord

Hampstead. I will have nothing to make me blush in my own esteem when

I think of you. How should it be other than that a girl such as I

should love such a one as you when you ask me with words so sweet!"

"Then, Marion, you shall be my own."

"Oh, yes, I must now be yours,--while I am alive. You have so far

conquered me." As he attempted to take her in his arms she retreated

from him; but so gently that her very gentleness repressed him. "If

never loving another is to be yours,--if to pray for you night and

day as the dearest one of all, is to be yours,--if to remind myself

every hour that all my thoughts are due to you, if to think of you so

that I may console myself with knowing that one so high and so good

has condescended to regard me,--if that is to be yours,--then I am

yours; then shall I surely be yours while I live. But it must be only

with my thoughts, only with my prayers, only with all my heart."

"Marion, Marion!" Now again he was on his knees before her, but

hardly touching her.

"It is your fault, Lord Hampstead," she said, trying to smile. "All

this is your doing, because you would not let a poor girl say simply

what she had to say."

"Nothing of it shall be true,--except that you love me. That is all

that I can remember. That I will repeat to you daily till you have

put your hand in mine, and call yourself my wife."

"That I will never do," she exclaimed, once again standing. "As God

hears me now I will never say it. It would be wrong,--and I will

never say it." In thus protesting she put forth her little hands

clenched fast, and then came again the flush across her brow, and her

eyes for a moment seemed to wander, and then, failing in strength to

carry her through it all, she fell back senseless on the sofa.

Lord Hampstead, finding that he alone could do nothing to aid her,

was forced to ring the bell, and to give her over to the care of the

woman, who did not cease to pray him to depart. "I can't do nothing,

my lord, while you stand over her that way."

CHAPTER XVII.

AT GORSE HALL.

Hampstead, when he was turned out into Paradise Row, walked once or

twice up the street, thinking what he might best do next, regardless

of the eyes at No. 10 and No. 15;--knowing that No. 11 was absent,

where alone he could have found assistance had the inhabitant been

there. As far as he could remember he had never seen a woman faint

before. The way in which she had fallen through from his arms on

to the sofa when he had tried to sustain her, had been dreadful to

him; and almost more dreadful the idea that the stout old woman with

whom he had left her should be more powerful than he to help her.

He walked once or twice up and down, thinking what he had best now

do, while Clara Demijohn was lost in wonder as to what could have

happened at No. 17. It was quite intelligible to her that the lover

should come in the father's absence and be entertained,--for a whole

afternoon if it might be so; though she was scandalized by the

audacity of the girl who had required no screen of darkness under

the protection of which her lover's presence might be hidden from

the inquiries of neighbours. All that, however, would have been

intelligible. There is so much honour in having a lord to court

one that perhaps it is well to have him seen. But why was the lord

walking up and down the street with that demented air?

It was now four o'clock, and Hampstead had heard the Quaker say that

he never left his office till five. It would take him nearly an hour

to come down in an omnibus from the City. Nevertheless Hampstead

could not go till he had spoken to Marion's father. There was the

"Duchess of Edinburgh," and he could no doubt find shelter there.

But to get through two hours at the "Duchess of Edinburgh" would, he

thought, be beyond his powers. To consume the time with walking might

be better. He started off, therefore, and tramped along the road

till he came nearly to Finchley, and then back again. It was dark as

he returned, and he fancied that he could wait about without being

perceived. "There he is again," said Clara, who had in the mean time

gone over to Mrs. Duffer. "What can it all mean?"

"It's my belief he's quarrelled with her," said Mrs. Duffer.

"Then he'd never wander about the place in that way. There's old

Zachary just come round the corner. Now we shall see what he does."

"Fainted, has she?" said Zachary, as they walked together up to the

house. "I never knew my girl do that before. Some of them can faint

just as they please; but that's not the way with Marion." Hampstead

protested that there had been no affectation on this occasion; that

Marion had been so ill as to frighten him, and that, though he

had gone out of the house at the woman's bidding, he had found it

impossible to leave the neighbourhood till he should have learnt

something as to her condition. "Thou shalt hear all I can tell thee,

my friend," said the Quaker, as they entered the house together.

Hampstead was shown into the little parlour, while the Quaker went up

to inquire after the state of his daughter. "No; thou canst not well

see her," said he, returning, "as she has taken herself to her bed.

That she should have been excited by what passed between you is no

more than natural. I cannot tell thee now when thou mayst come again;

but I will write thee word from my office to-morrow." Upon this Lord

Hampstead would have promised to call himself at King's Court on the

next day, had not the Quaker declared himself in favour of writing

rather than of speaking. The post, he said, was very punctual; and on

the next evening his lordship would certainly receive tidings as to

Marion.

"Of course I cannot say what we can do about Gorse Hall till I hear

from Mr. Fay," said Hampstead to his sister when he reached home.

"Everything must depend on Marion Fay." That his sister should have

packed all her things in vain seemed to him to be nothing while

Marion's health was in question; but when the Quaker's letter arrived

the matter was at once settled. They would start for Gorse Hall on

the following day, the Quaker's letter having been as follows;--

MY LORD,--

I trust I may be justified in telling thee that there is

not much to ail my girl. She was up to-day, and about

the house before I left her, and assured me with many

protestations that I need not take any special steps for

her comfort or recovery. Nor indeed could I see in her

face anything which could cause me to do so. Of course I

mentioned thy name to her, and it was natural that the

colour should come and go over her cheeks as I did so. I

think she partly told me what had passed between you two,

but only in part. As to the future, when I spoke of it,

she told me that there was no need of any arrangement, as

everything had been said that needed speech. But I guess

that such is not thy reading of the matter; and that after

what has passed between thee and me I am bound to offer to

thee an opportunity of seeing her again shouldst thou wish

to do so. But this must not be at once. It will certainly

be better for her and, may be, for thee also that she

should rest awhile before she be again asked to see thee.

I would suggest, therefore, that thou shouldst leave

her to her own thoughts for some weeks to come. If thou

will'st write to me and name a day some time early in

March I will endeavour to bring her round so far as to see

thee when thou comest.

I am, my lord,

Thy very faithful friend,

ZACHARY FAY.

It cannot be said that Lord Hampstead was by any means satisfied with

the arrangement which had been made for him, but he was forced to

acknowledge to himself that he could not do better than accede to it.

He could of course write to the Quaker, and write also to Marion; but

he could not well show himself in Paradise Row before the time fixed,

unless unexpected circumstances should arise. He did send three

loving words to Marion--"his own, own, dearest Marion," and sent them

under cover to her father, to whom he wrote, saying that he would be

guided by the Quaker's counsels. "I will write to you on the first of

March," he said, "but I do trust that if in the mean time anything

should happen,--if, for instance, Marion should be ill,--you will

tell me at once as being one as much concerned in her health as you

are yourself."

He was nervous and ill-at-ease, but not thoroughly unhappy. She had

told him how dear he was to her, and he would not have been a man had

he not been gratified. And there had been no word of objection raised

on any matter beyond that one absurd objection as to which he thought

himself entitled to demand that his wishes should be allowed to

prevail. She had been very determined; how absolutely determined he

was not probably himself aware. She had, however, made him understand

that her conviction was very strong. But this had been as to a point

on which he did not doubt that he was right, and as to which her

own father was altogether on his side. After hearing the strong

protestation of her affection he could not think that she would be

finally obdurate when the reasons for her obduracy were so utterly

valueless. But still there were vague fears about her health. Why

had she fainted and fallen through his arms? Whence had come that

peculiar brightness of complexion which would have charmed him

had it not frightened him? A dim dread of something that was not

intelligible to him pervaded him, and robbed him of a portion of the

triumph which had come to him from her avowal.

* * * * * *

As the days went on at Gorse Hall his triumph became stronger

than his fears, and the time did not pass unpleasantly with him.

Young Lord Hautboy came to hunt with him, bringing his sister Lady

Amaldina, and after a few days Vivian found them. The conduct of

Lady Frances in reference to George Roden was no doubt very much

blamed, but the disgrace did not loom so large in the eyes of Lady

Persiflage as in those of her sister the Marchioness. Amaldina was,

therefore, suffered to amuse herself, even as the guest of her wicked

friend;--even though the host were himself nearly equally wicked.

It suited young Hautboy very well to have free stables for his

horses, and occasionally an extra mount when his own two steeds were

insufficient for the necessary amount of hunting to be performed.

Vivian, who had the liberal allowance of a private secretary to a

Cabinet Minister to fall back upon, had three horses of his own. So

that among them they got a great deal of hunting,--in which Lady

Amaldina would have taken a conspicuous part had not Lord Llwddythlw

entertained strong opinions as to the expediency of ladies riding

to hounds. "He is so absurdly strict, you know," she said to Lady

Frances.

"I think he is quite right," said the other. "I don't believe in

girls trying to do all the things that men do."