"But what is the difference in jumping just over a hedge or two? I

call it downright tyranny. Would you do anything Mr. Roden told you?"

"Anything on earth,--except jump over the hedges. But our temptations

are not likely to be in that way."

"I think it very hard because I almost never see Llwddythlw."

"But you will when you are married."

"I don't believe I shall;--unless I go and look at him from behind

the grating in the House of Commons. You know we have settled upon

August."

"I had not heard it."

"Oh yes. I nailed him at last. But then I had to get David. You don't

know David?"

"No special modern David."

"Our David is not very modern. He is Lord David Powell, and my

brother that is to be. I had to persuade him to do something instead

of his brother, and I had to swear that we couldn't ever be married

unless he would consent. I suppose Mr. Roden could get married any

day he pleased." Nevertheless Lady Amaldina was better than nobody to

make the hours pass when the men are away hunting.

But at last there came a grand day, on which the man of business

was to come out hunting himself. Lord Llwddythlw had come into

the neighbourhood, and was determined to have a day's pleasure.

Gorse Hall was full, and Hautboy, though his sister was very eager

in beseeching him, refused to give way to his future magnificent

brother-in-law. "Do him all the good in the world," said Hautboy, "to

put up at the pot-house. He'll find out all about whiskey and beer

and gin, and know exactly how many beds the landlady makes up." Lord

Llwddythlw, therefore, slept at a neighbouring hotel, and no doubt

did turn his spare moments to some profit.

Lord Llwddythlw was a man who had always horses, though he very

rarely hunted; who had guns, though he never fired them; and

fishing-rods, though nobody knew where they were. He kept up a

great establishment, regretting nothing in regard to it except

the necessity of being sometimes present at the festivities for

which it was used. On the present occasion he had been enticed

into Northamptonshire no doubt with the purpose of laying some

first bricks, or opening some completed institution, or eating some

dinner,--on any one of which occasions he would be able to tell the

neighbours something as to the constitution of their country. Then

the presence of his lady-love seemed to make this a fitting occasion

for, perhaps, the one day's sport of the year. He came to Gorse Hall

to breakfast, and then rode to the meet along with the open carriage

in which the two ladies were sitting. "Llwddythlw," said his

lady-love, "I do hope you mean to ride."

"Being on horseback, Amy, I shall have no other alternative."

Lady Amaldina turned round to her friend, as though to ask whether

she had ever seen such an absurd creature in her life. "You know what

I mean by riding, Llwddythlw," she said.

"I suppose I do. You want me to break my neck."

"Oh, heavens! Indeed I don't."

"Or, perhaps, only to see me in a ditch."

"I can't have that pleasure," she said, "because you won't allow me

to hunt."

"I have taken upon myself no such liberty as even to ask you not to

do so. I have only suggested that tumbling into ditches, however

salutary it may be for middle-aged gentlemen like myself, is not a

becoming amusement for young ladies."

"Llwddythlw," said Hautboy, coming up to his future brother-in-law,

"that's a tidy animal of yours."

"I don't quite know what tidy means as applied to a horse, my boy;

but if it's complimentary, I am much obliged to you."

"It means that I should like to have the riding of him for the rest

of the season."

"But what shall I do for myself if you take my tidy horse?"

"You'll be up in Parliament, or down at Quarter Sessions, or doing

your duty somewhere like a Briton."

"I hope I may do my duty not the less because I intend to keep the

tidy horse myself. When I am quite sure that I shall not want him any

more, then I'll let you know."

There was the usual trotting about from covert to covert, and the

usual absence of foxes. The misery of sportsmen on these days is

sometimes so great that we wonder that any man, having experienced

the bitterness of hunting disappointment, should ever go out again.

On such occasions the huntsman is declared among private friends to

be of no use whatever. The master is an absolute muff. All honour as

to preserving has been banished from the country. The gamekeepers

destroy the foxes. The owners of coverts encourage them. "Things have

come to such a pass," says Walker to Watson, "that I mean to give it

up. There's no good keeping horses for this sort of thing." All this

is very sad, and the only consolation comes from the evident delight

of those who take pleasure in trotting about without having to incur

the labour and peril of riding to hounds.

At two o'clock on this day the ladies went home, having been driven

about as long as the coachmen had thought it good for their horses.

The men of course went on, knowing that they could not in honour

liberate themselves from the toil of the day till the last covert

shall have been drawn at half-past three o'clock. It is certainly

true as to hunting that there are so many hours in which the spirit

is vexed by a sense of failure, that the joy when it does come should

be very great to compensate the evils endured. It is not simply that

foxes will not dwell in every spinney, or break as soon as found,

or always run when they do break. These are the minor pangs. But

when the fox is found, and will break, and does run, when the scent

suffices, and the hounds do their duty, when the best country which

the Shires afford is open to you, when your best horse is under you,

when your nerves are even somewhat above the usual mark,--even then

there is so much of failure! You are on the wrong side of the wood,

and getting a bad start are never with them for a yard; or your

horse, good as he is, won't have that bit of water; or you lose your

stirrup-leather, or your way; or you don't see the hounds turn, and

you go astray with others as blind as yourself; or, perhaps, when

there comes the run of the season, on that very day you have taken a

liberty with your chosen employment, and have lain in bed. Look back

upon your hunting lives, brother sportsmen, and think how few and how

far between the perfect days have been.

In spite of all that was gone this was one of those perfect days to

those who had the pleasure afterwards of remembering it. "Taking it

all in all, I think that Lord Llwddythlw had the best of it from

first to last," said Vivian, when they were again talking of it in

the drawing-room after they had come in from their wine.

"To think that you should be such a hero!" said Lady Amaldina, much

gratified. "I didn't believe you would take so much trouble about

such a thing."

"It was what Hautboy called the tidiness of the horse."

"By George, yes; I wish you'd lend him to me. I got my brute in

between two rails, and it took me half-an-hour to smash a way

through. I never saw anything of it after that." Poor Hautboy almost

cried as he gave this account of his own misfortune.

"You were the only fellow I saw try them after Crasher," said Vivian.

"Crasher came on his head, and I should think he must be there still.

I don't know where Hampstead got through."

"I never know where I've been," said Hampstead, who had, in truth,

led the way over the double rails which had so confounded Crasher and

had so perplexed Hautboy. But when a man is too forward to be seen,

he is always supposed to be somewhere behind.

Then there was an opinion expressed by Walker that Tolleyboy, the

huntsman, had on that special occasion stuck very well to his hounds,

to which Watson gave his cordial assent. Walker and Watson had both

been asked to dinner, and during the day had been heard to express

to each other all that adverse criticism as to the affairs of the

hunt in general which appeared a few lines back. Walker and Watson

were very good fellows, popular in the hunt, and of all men the most

unlikely to give it up.

When that run was talked about afterwards, as it often was, it was

always admitted that Lord Llwddythlw had been the hero of the day.

But no one ever heard him talk of it. Such a trifle was altogether

beneath his notice.

CHAPTER XVIII.

POOR WALKER.

That famous run took place towards the end of February, at which time

Hampstead was counting all the hours till he should again be allowed

to show himself in Paradise Row. He had in the mean time written one

little letter to the Quaker's daughter;--

DEAREST MARION,--I only write because I cannot keep myself

quiet without telling you how well I love you. Pray do not

believe that because I am away I think of you less. I am

to see you, I hope, on Monday, the 2nd of March. If you

would write me but one word to say that you will be glad

to see me!

Always your own,

H.

She showed this to her father, and the sly old Quaker told her that

it would not be courteous in her not to send some word of reply. As

the young lord, he said, had been permitted by him, her father, to

pay his addresses to her, so much was due to him. Why should his girl

lose this grand match? Why should his daughter not become a happy and

a glorious wife, seeing that her beauty and her grace had entirely

won this young lord's heart? "MY LORD," she wrote back to him,--"I

shall be happy to see you when you come, whatever day may suit you.

But, alas! I can only say what I have said.--Yet I am thine, MARION."

She had intended not to be tender, and yet she had thought herself

bound to tell him that all that she had said before was true.

It was after this that Lord Llwddythlw distinguished himself, so much

so that Walker and Watson did nothing but talk about him all the next

day. "It's those quiet fellows that make the best finish after all!"

said Walker, who had managed to get altogether to the bottom of his

horse during the run, and had hardly seen the end of it quite as a

man wishes to see it.

The day but one after this, the last Friday in February, was to be

the last of Hampstead's hunting, at any rate until after his proposed

visit to Holloway. He, and Lady Frances with him, intended to return

to London on the next day, and then, as far as he was concerned,

the future loomed before him as a great doubt. Had Marion been the

highest lady in the land, and had he from his position and rank been

hardly entitled to ask for her love, he could not have been more

anxious, more thoughtful, or occasionally more down-hearted. But this

latter feeling would give way to joy when he remembered the words

with which she had declared her love. No assurance could have been

more perfect, or more devoted. She had coyed him nothing as far as

words are concerned, and he never for a moment doubted but that her

full words had come from a full heart. "But alas! I can only say what

I have said." That of course had been intended to remove all hope.

But if she loved him as she said she did, would he not be able to

teach her that everything should be made to give way to love? It was

thus that his mind was filled, as day after day he prepared himself

for his hunting, and day after day did his best in keeping to the

hounds.

Then came that last day in February as to which all those around

him expressed themselves to be full of hope. Gimberley Green was

certainly the most popular meet in the country, and at Gimberley

Green the hounds were to meet on this occasion. It was known that men

were coming from the Pytchley and the Cottesmore, so that everybody

was supposed to be anxious to do his best. Hautboy was very much

on the alert, and had succeeded in borrowing for the occasion

Hampstead's best horse. Even Vivian, who was not given to much

outward enthusiasm, had had consultations with his groom as to which

of two he had better ride first. Sometimes there does come a day on

which rivalry seems to be especially keen, when a sense of striving

to excel and going ahead of others seems to instigate minds which are

not always ambitious. Watson and Walker were on this occasion very

much exercised, and had in the sweet confidences of close friendship

agreed with themselves that certain heroes who were coming from one

of the neighbouring hunts should not be allowed to carry off the

honours of the day.

On this occasion they both breakfasted at Gorse Hall, which was not

uncommon with them, as the hotel,--or pot-house, as Hautboy called

it,--was hardly more than a hundred yards distant. Walker was

peculiarly exuberant, and had not been long in the house before he

confided to Hautboy in a whisper their joint intention that "those

fellows" were not to be allowed to have it all their own way.

"Suppose you don't find after all, Mr. Walker," said Lady Amaldina,

as the gentlemen got up from breakfast, and loaded themselves with

sandwiches, cigar-cases, and sherry-flasks.

"I won't believe anything so horrible," said Walker.

"I should cut the concern," said Watson, "and take to stagging in

Surrey." This was supposed to be the bitterest piece of satire that

could be uttered in regard to the halcyon country in which their

operations were carried on.

"Tolleyboy will see to that," said Walker. "We haven't had a blank

yet, and I don't think he'll disgrace himself on such a day as this."

Then they all started, in great glee, on their hacks, their hunters

having been already sent on to Gimberley Green.

The main part of the story of that day's sport, as far as we're

concerned with it, got itself told so early in the day that readers

need not be kept long waiting for the details. Tolleyboy soon

relieved these imperious riders from all dangers as to a blank. At

the first covert drawn a fox was found immediately, and without any

of those delays, so perplexing to some and so comforting to others,

made away for some distant home of his own. It is, perhaps, on such

occasions as these that riders are subjected to the worst perils

of the hunting field. There comes a sudden rush, when men have not

cooled themselves down by the process of riding here and there and

going through the usual preliminary prefaces to a run. They are

collected in crowds, and the horses are more impatient even than

their riders. No one on that occasion could have been more impatient

than Walker,--unless it was the steed upon which Walker was mounted.

There was a crowd of men standing in a lane at the corner of the

covert,--of men who had only that moment reached the spot,--when at

about thirty yards from them a fox crossed the lane, and two or three

leading hounds close at his brush. One or two of the strangers from

the enemy's country occupied a position close to, or rather in the

very entrance of, a little hunting gate which led out of the lane

into the field opposite. Between the lane and the field there was

a fence which was not "rideable!" As is the custom with lanes,

the roadway had been so cut down that there was a bank altogether

precipitous about three feet high, and on that a hedge of trees and

stakes and roots which had also been cut almost into the consistency

of a wall. The gate was the only place,--into which these enemies

had thrust themselves, and in the possession of which they did not

choose to hurry themselves, asserting as they kept their places that

it would be well to give the fox a minute. The assertion in the

interests of hunting might have been true. A sportsman who could

at such a moment have kept his blood perfectly cool, might have

remembered his duties well enough to have abstained from pressing

into the field in order that the fox might have his fair chance.

Hampstead, however, who was next to the enemies, was not that cool

hero, and bade the strangers move on, not failing to thrust his horse

against their horses. Next to him, and a little to the left, was the

unfortunate Walker. To his patriotic spirit it was intolerable that

any stranger should be in that field before one of their own hunt.

What he himself attempted, what he wished to do, or whether any

clear intention was formed in his mind, no one ever knew. But to the

astonishment of all who saw it the horse got himself half-turned

round towards the fence, and attempted to take it in a stand. The

eager animal did get himself up amidst the thick wood on the top of

the bank, and then fell headlong over, having entangled his feet

among the boughs. Had his rider sat loosely he would probably have

got clear of his horse. But as it was they came down together, and

unfortunately the horse was uppermost. Just as it happened Lord

Hampstead made his way through the gate, and was the first who

dismounted to give assistance to his friend. In two or three minutes

there was a crowd round, with a doctor in the midst of it, and a

rumour was going about that the man had been killed. In the mean time

the enemies were riding well to the hounds, with Tolleyboy but a few

yards behind them, Tolleyboy having judiciously remembered a spot

at which he could make his way out of the covert into field without

either passing through the gate or over the fence.

The reader may as well know at once that Walker was not killed. He

was not killed, though he was so crushed and mauled with broken ribs

and collar-bone, so knocked out of breath and stunned and mangled and

squeezed, so pummelled and pounded and generally misused, that he did

not come to himself for many hours, and could never after remember

anything of that day's performances after eating his breakfast at

Gorse Hall. It was a week before tidings went through the Shires that

he was likely to live at all, and even then it was asserted that he

had been so altogether smashed that he would never again use any of

his limbs. On the morning after the hunt his widowed mother and only

sister were down with him at the hotel, and there they remained till

they were able to carry him away to his own house. "Won't I?" was

almost the first intelligible word he said when his mother suggested

to him, her only son, that now at least he would promise to abandon

that desperate amusement, and would never go hunting any more. It may

be said in praise of British surgery generally that Walker was out

again on the first of the following November.

But Walker with his misfortunes and his heroism and his recovery

would have been nothing to us had it been known from the first to

all the field that Walker had been the victim. The accident happened

between eleven and twelve,--probably not much before twelve. But

the tidings of it were sent up by telegraph from some neighbouring

station to London in time to be inserted in one of the afternoon

newspapers of that day; and the tidings as sent informed the public

that Lord Hampstead while hunting that morning had fallen with his

horse at the corner of Gimberly Green, that the animal had fallen

on him,--and that he had been crushed to death. Had the false

information been given in regard to Walker it might probably have

excited so little attention that the world would have known nothing

about it till it learned that the poor fellow had not been killed.

But, having been given as to a young nobleman, everybody had heard

of it before dinner-time that evening. Lord Persiflage knew it in

the House of Lords, and Lord Llwddythlw had heard it in the House of

Commons. There was not a club which had not declared poor Hampstead

to be an excellent fellow, although he was a little mad. The

Montressors had already congratulated themselves on the good fortune

of little Lord Frederic; and the speedy death of the Marquis was

prophesied, as men and women were quite sure that he would not

be able in his present condition to bear the loss of his eldest

son. The news was telegraphed down to Trafford Park by the family

lawyer,--with an intimation, however, that, as the accident had been

so recent, no absolute credence should yet be given as to its fatal

result. "Bad fall probably," said the lawyer in his telegram, "but I

don't believe the rest. Will send again when I hear the truth." At

nine o'clock that evening the truth was known in London, and before

midnight the poor Marquis had been relieved from his terrible

affliction. But for three hours it had been supposed at Trafford Park

that Lord Frederic had become the heir to his father's title and his

father's property.

Close inquiry was afterwards made as to the person by whom this false

intelligence had been sent to the newspaper, but nothing certain was

ever asserted respecting it. That a general rumour had prevailed

for a time among many who were out that Lord Hampstead had been the

victim, was found to have been the case. He had been congratulated by

scores of men who had heard that he had fallen. When Tolleyboy was

breaking up the fox, and wondering why so few men had ridden through

the hunt with him, he was told that Lord Hampstead had been killed,

and had dropped his bloody knife out of his hands. But no one would

own as to having sent the telegram. Suspicion attached itself to

an attorney from Kettering who had been seen in the early part of

the day, but it could not be traced home to him. Official inquiry

was made; but as it was not known who sent the message, or to what

address, or from what post town, or even the wording of the message,

official information was not forthcoming. It is probable that Sir

Boreas at the Post Office did not think it proper to tell everybody

all that he knew. It was admitted that a great injury had been done

to the poor Marquis, but it was argued on the other side that the

injury had been quickly removed.

There had, however, been three or four hours at Trafford Park, during

which feelings had been excited which afterwards gave rise to bitter

disappointment. The message had come to Mr. Greenwood, of whose

estrangement from the family the London solicitor had not been as

yet made aware. He had been forced to send the tidings into the sick

man's room by Harris, the butler, but he had himself carried it

up to the Marchioness. "I am obliged to come," he said, as though

apologizing when she looked at him with angry eyes because of his

intrusion. "There has been an accident." He was standing, as he

always stood, with his hands hanging down by his side. But there was

a painful look in his eyes more than she had usually read there.

"What accident--what accident, Mr. Greenwood? Why do you not tell

me?" Her heart ran away at once to the little beds in which her

darlings were already lying in the next room.

"It is a telegram from London."

From London--a telegram! Then her boys were safe. "Why do you not

tell me instead of standing there?"

"Lord Hampstead--"

"Lord Hampstead! What has he done? Is he married?"

"He will never be married." Then she shook in every limb, and

clenched her hands, and stood with open mouth, not daring to question

him. "He has had a fall, Lady Kingsbury."

"A fall!"

"The horse has crushed him."

"Crushed him!"

"I used to say it would be so, you know. And now it has come to

pass."

"Is he--?"

"Dead? Yes, Lady Kingsbury, he is--dead." Then he gave her the

telegram to read. She struggled to read it, but the words were too

vague; or her eyes too dim. "Harris has gone in with the tidings. I

had better read the telegram, I suppose, but I thought you'd like to

see it. I told you how it would be, Lady Kingsbury; and now it has

come to pass." He stood standing a minute or two longer, but as she

sat hiding her face, and unable to speak, he left the room without

absolutely asking her to thank him for his news.

As soon as he was gone she crept slowly into the room in which her

three boys were sleeping. A door from her own chamber opened into

it, and then another into that in which one of the nurses slept. She

leaned over them and kissed them all; but she knelt at that on which

Lord Frederic lay, and woke him with her warm embraces. "Oh, mamma,

don't," said the boy. Then he shook himself, and sat up in his bed.

"Mamma, when is Jack coming?" he said. Let her train them as she

would, they would always ask for Jack. "Go to sleep, my darling,

my darling, my darling!" she said, kissing him again and again.

"Trafford," she said, whispering to herself, as she went back to her

own room, trying the sound of the title he would have to use. It had

been all arranged in her own mind how it was to be, if such a thing

should happen.

"Go down," she said to her maid soon afterwards, "and ask Mrs.

Crawley whether his Lordship would wish to see me." Mrs. Crawley was

the nurse. But the maid brought back word that "My Lord" did not wish

to see "My Lady." For three hours he lay stupefied in his sorrow;

and for three hours she sat alone, almost in the dark. We may doubt

whether it was all triumph. Her darling had got what she believed to

be his due; but the memory that she had longed for it,--almost prayed

for it,--must have dulled her joy.

There was no such regret with Mr. Greenwood. It seemed to him that

Fortune, Fate, Providence, or what not, had only done its duty. He

believed that he had in truth foreseen and foretold the death of the

pernicious young man. But would the young man's death be now of any

service to him? Was it not too late? Had they not all quarrelled with

him? Nevertheless he had been avenged.

So it was at Trafford Park for three hours. Then there came a postboy

galloping on horseback, and the truth was known. Lady Kingsbury went

again to her children, but this time she did not kiss them. A gleam

of glory had come there and had passed away;--but yet there was

something of relief.

Why had he allowed himself to be so cowed on that morning? That was

Mr. Greenwood's thought.

The poor Marquis fell into a slumber almost immediately, and on the

next morning had almost forgotten that the first telegram had come.

CHAPTER XIX.

FALSE TIDINGS.

But there was another household which the false tidings of Lord

Hampstead's death reached that same night. The feelings excited

at Trafford had been very keen,--parental agony, maternal hope,

disappointment, and revenge; but in that other household there was

suffering quite as great. Mr. Fay himself did not devote much time

during the day either to the morning or the evening newspapers. Had

he been alone at Messrs. Pogson and Littlebird's he would have heard

nothing of the false tidings. But sitting in his inner room, Mr.

Pogson read the third edition of the _Evening Advertiser_, and then

saw the statement, given with many details. "We," said the statement,

"have sent over to the office of our contemporary, and have

corroborated the facts." Then the story was repeated. Pushing his way

through a gate at Gimberley Green, Lord Hampstead's horse had tumbled

down, and all the field had ridden over him. He had been picked up

dead, and his body had been carried home to Gorse Hall. Now Lord

Hampstead's name had become familiar in King's Court. Tribbledale

had told how the young lord had become enamoured of Zachary Fay's

daughter, and was ready to marry her at a moment's notice. The tale

had been repeated to old Littlebird by young Littlebird, and at last

even to Mr. Pogson himself. There had been, of course, much doubt

in King's Court as to the very improbable story. But some inquiries

had been made, and there was now a general belief in its truth. When

Mr. Pogson read the account of the sad tragedy he paused a moment to

think what he would do, then opened his door and called for Zachary

Fay. They who had known the Quaker long always called him Zachary, or

Friend Zachary, or Zachary Fay. "My friend," said Mr. Pogson, "have

you read this yet?" and he handed him the paper.

"I never have much time for the newspaper till I get home at night,"

said the clerk, taking the sheet that was offered him.

"You had better read it, perhaps, as I have heard your name

mentioned, I know not how properly, with that of the young lord."

Then the Quaker, bringing his spectacles down from his forehead over

his eyes, slowly read the paragraph. As he did so Mr. Pogson looked

at him carefully. But the Quaker showed very little emotion by his

face. "Does it concern you, Zachary?"

"I know the young man, Mr. Pogson. Though he be much out of my own

rank, circumstances have brought him to my notice. I shall be grieved

if this be true. With thy permission, Mr. Pogson, I will lock up my

desk and return home at once." To this Mr. Pogson of course assented,

recommending the Quaker to put the newspaper into his pocket.

Zachary Fay, as he walked to the spot where he was wont to find the

omnibus, considered much as to what he might best do when he reached

home. Should he tell the sad tidings to his girl, or should he leave

her to hear it when further time should have confirmed the truth.

To Zachary himself it seemed too probable that it should be true.

Hunting to him, in his absolute ignorance of what hunting meant,

seemed to be an occupation so full of danger that the wonder was that

the hunting world had not already been exterminated. And then there

was present to him a feeling, as there is to so many of us, that the

grand thing which Fortune seemed to offer him was too good to be

true. It could hardly be that he should live to see his daughter the

mother of a future British peer! He had tried to school himself not

to wish it, telling himself that such wishes were vain, and such

longings wicked; he had said much to himself as to the dangers of

rank and titles and wealth for those who were not born to them. He

had said something also of that family tragedy which had robbed

his own life of most of its joys, and which seemed to have laid so

heavy a burden on his girl's spirit. Going backwards and forwards

morning and evening to his work, he had endeavoured to make his

own heart acknowledge that the marriage was not desirable; but he

had failed;--and had endeavoured to reconcile the failure to his

conscience by telling himself falsely that he as a father had been

anxious only for the welfare of his child. Now he felt the blow

terribly on her account, feeling sure that his girl's heart had been

given to the young man; but he felt it also on his own. It might be,

nevertheless, that the report would prove untrue. Had the matter

been one in which he was not himself so deeply interested, he would

certainly have believed it to be untrue, he being a man by his nature

not prone to easy belief. It would, however, be wiser, he said to

himself as he left the omnibus at the "Duchess of Edinburgh," to

say nothing as yet to Marion. Then he put the paper carefully into

his breast coat pocket, and considered how he might best hide his

feelings as to the sad news. But all this was in vain. The story had

already found its way down to Paradise Row. Mrs. Demijohn was as

greedy of news as her neighbours, and would generally send round the

corner for a halfpenny evening journal. On this occasion she did so,

and within two minutes of the time in which the paper had been put

into her hands exclaimed to her niece almost with ecstasy, "Clara,

what do you think? That young lord who comes here to see Marion Fay

has gone and got himself killed out hunting."

"Lord Hampstead!" shouted Clara. "Got himself killed! Laws, aunt, I

can't believe it!" In her tone, also, there was something almost of

exultation. The glory that had been supposed to be awaiting Marion

Fay was almost too much for the endurance of any neighbour. Since

it had become an ascertained fact that Lord Hampstead had admired

the girl, Marion's popularity in the Row had certainly decreased.

Mrs. Duffer believed her no longer to be handsome; Clara had always

thought her to be pert; Mrs. Demijohn had expressed her opinion that

the man was an idiot; and the landlady at the "Duchess of Edinburgh"

had wittily asserted that "young marquises were not to be caught with

chaff." There was no doubt a sense of relief in Clara Demijohn's mind

when she heard that this special young marquis had been trampled to

death in the hunting field, and carried home a corpse.

"I must go and tell the poor girl," said Clara, immediately.

"Leave it alone," said the old woman. "There will be plenty to tell

her, let alone you." But such occasions occur so rarely that it does

not do not to take advantage of them. In ordinary life events are so

unfrequent, and when they do arrive they give such a flavour of salt

to hours which are generally tedious, that sudden misfortunes come as

godsends,--almost even when they happen to ourselves. Even a funeral

gives a tasteful break to the monotony of our usual occupations, and

small-pox in the next street is a gratifying excitement. Clara soon

got possession of the newspaper, and with it in her hand ran across

the street to No. 17. Miss Fay was at Home, and in a minute or two

came down to Miss Demijohn in the parlour.

It was only during the minute or two that Clara began to think how

she should break the tidings to her friend, or in any way to realize

the fact that the "tidings" would require breaking. She had rushed

across the street with the important paper in her hand, proud of the

fact that she had something great to tell. But during that minute or

two it did occur to her that a choice of words was needed for such an

occasion. "Oh, Miss Fay," she said, "have you heard?"

"Heard what?" asked Marion.

"I do not know how to tell you, it is so terrible! I have only just

seen it in the newspaper, and have thought it best to run over and

let you know."

"Has anything happened to my father?" asked the girl.

"It isn't your father. This is almost more dreadful, because he is so

young." Then that bright pink hue spread itself over Marion's face;

but she stood speechless with her features almost hardened by the

resolution which she had already formed within her not to betray the

feelings of her heart before this other girl. The news, let it be

what it might, must be of him! There was no one else "so young," of

whom it was probable that this young woman would speak to her after

this fashion. She stood silent, motionless, conveying nothing of her

feelings by her face,--unless one might have read something from the

deep flush of her complexion. "I don't know how to say it," said

Clara Demijohn. "There; you had better take the paper and read for

yourself. It's in the last column but one near the bottom. 'Fatal

Accident in the Field!' You'll see it."

Marion took the paper, and read the words through without faltering

or moving a limb. Why would not the cruel young woman go and leave

her to her sorrow? Why did she stand there looking at her, as though

desirous to probe to the bottom the sad secret of her bosom? She kept

her eyes still fixed upon the paper, not knowing where else to turn

them,--for she would not look into her tormentor's face for pity.

"Ain't it sad?" said Clara Demijohn.

Then there came a deep sigh. "Sad," she said, repeating the word;

"sad! Yes, it's sad. I think, if you don't mind, I'll ask you to

leave me now. Oh, yes; there's the newspaper."

"Perhaps you'd like to keep it for your father." Here Marion shook

her head. "Then I'll take it back to aunt. She's hardly looked at it

yet. When she came to the paragraph, of course, she read it out; and

I wouldn't let her have any peace till she gave it me to bring over."

"I wish you'd leave me," said Marion Fay.

Then with a look of mingled surprise and anger she left the room, and

returned across the street to No. 10. "She doesn't seem to me to care

a straw about it," said the niece to her aunt; "but she got up just

as highty tighty as usual and asked me to go away."

When the Quaker came to the door, and opened it with his latch-key,

Marion was in the passage ready to receive him. Till she had heard

the sound of the lock she had not moved from the room, hardly from

the position, in which the other girl had left her. She had sunk into

a chair which had been ready for her, and there she had remained

thinking over it. "Father," she said, laying her hand upon his arm as

she went to meet him, and looking up into his face;--"father?"

"My child!"

"Have you heard any tidings in the City?"

"Have you heard any, Marion?"

"Is it true then?" she said, seizing both his arms as though to

support her.

"Who knows? Who can say that it be true till further tidings shall

come? Come in, Marion. It is not well that we should discuss it

here."

"Is it true? Oh, father;--oh, father; it will kill me."

"Nay, Marion, not that. After all, the lad was little more than a

stranger to thee."

"A stranger?"

"How many weeks is it since first thou saw'st him? And how often?

But two or three times. I am sorry for him;--if it be true; if it be

true! I liked him well."

"But I have loved him."

"Nay, Marion, nay; thou shouldst moderate thyself."

"I will not moderate myself." Then she disengaged herself from his

arm. "I loved him,--with all my heart, and all my strength; nay, with

my whole soul. If it be so as that paper says, then I must die too.

Oh, father, is it true, think you?"

He paused a while before he answered, examining himself what it might

be best that he should say as to her welfare. As for himself, he

hardly knew what he believed. These papers were always in search of

paragraphs, and would put in the false and true alike,--the false

perhaps the sooner, so as to please the taste of their readers. But

if it were true, then how bad would it be to give her false hopes!

"There need be no ground to despair," he said, "till we shall hear

again in the morning."

"I know he is dead."

"Not so, Marion. Thou canst know nothing. If thou wilt bear thyself

like a strong-hearted girl, as thou art, I will do this for thee.

I will go across to the young lord's house at Hendon at once, and

inquire there as to his safety. They will surely know if aught of ill

has happened to their master."

So it was done. The poor old man, after his long day's labour,

without waiting for his evening meal, taking only a crust with him

in his pocket, got into a cab on that cold November evening, and had

himself driven by suburban streets and lanes to Hendon Hall. Here the

servants were much surprised and startled by the inquiries made. They

had heard nothing. Lord Hampstead and his sister were expected home

on the following day. Dinner was to be prepared for them, and fires

had already been lighted in the rooms. "Dead!" "Killed out hunting!"

"Trodden to death in the field!" Not a word of it had reached Hendon

Hall. Nevertheless the housekeeper, when the paragraph was shown to

her, believed every word of it. And the servants believed it. Thus

the poor Quaker returned home with but very little comfort.

Marion's condition during that night was very sad, though she

struggled to bear up against her sorrow in compliance with her

father's instructions. There was almost nothing said as she sat by

him while he ate his supper. On the next morning, too, she rose to

give him his breakfast, having fallen asleep through weariness a

hundred times during the night, to wake again within a minute or two

to the full sense of her sorrow. "Shall I know soon?" she said as he

left the house.

"Surely some one will know," he said; "and I will send thee word."

But as he left the house the real facts had already been made known

at the "Duchess of Edinburgh." One of the morning papers had a full,

circumstantial, and fairly true account of the whole matter. "It was

not his lordship at all," said the good-natured landlady, coming out

to him as he passed the door.

"Not Lord Hampstead?"

"Not at all."

"He was not killed?"

"It wasn't him as was hurt, Mr. Fay. It was another of them young

men--one Mr. Walker; only son of Watson, Walker, and Warren. And

whether he be dead or alive nobody knows; but they do say there

wasn't a whole bone left in his body. It's all here, and I was

a-going to bring it you. I suppose Miss Fay did take it badly?"

"I knew the young man," said the Quaker, hurrying back to his own

house with the paper,--anxious if possible not to declare to the

neighbourhood that the young lord was in truth a suitor for his

daughter's hand. "And I thank thee, Mrs. Grimley, for thy care. The

suddenness of it all frightened my poor girl."

"That'll comfort her up," said Mrs. Grimley cheerily. "From all we

hear, Mr. Fay, she do have reason to be anxious for this young lord.

I hope he'll be spared to her, Mr. Fay, and show himself a true man."

Then the Quaker returned with his news,--which was accepted by him

and by them all as trustworthy. "Now my girl will be happy again?"

"Yes, father."

"But my child has told the truth to her old father at last."

"Had I told you any untruth?"

"No, indeed, Marion."

"I said that I am not fit to be his wife, and I am not. Nothing is

changed in all that. But when I heard that he was--. But, father, we

will not talk of it now. How good you have been to me, I shall never

forget,--and how tender!"

"Who should be soft-hearted if not a father?"

"They are not all like you. But you have been always good and gentle

to your girl. How good and how gentle we cannot always see;--can we?

But I have seen it now, father."

As he went into the City, about an hour after his proper time, he

allowed his heart to rejoice at the future prospects of his girl. He

did now believe that there would be a marriage between her and her

noble lover. She had declared her love to him,--to him, her father,

and after that she would surely do as they would have her. Something

had reached even his ears of the coyness of girls, and it was not

displeasing to him that his girl had not been at once ready to give

herself with her easy promise to her lover. How strong she had

looked, even in the midst of her sufferings, on the previous evening!

That she should be weaker this morning, less able to restrain her

tears, more prone to tremble as he spoke to her, was but natural. The

shock of the grief will often come after the sorrow is over. He knew

that, and told himself that there need be nothing,--need not at least

be much,--to fear.

But it was not so with Marion as she lay all the morning convulsed

almost with the violence of her emotions. Her own weakness was

palpable to herself, as she struggled to regain her breath, struggled

to repress her sobs, struggled to move about the house, and be as

might be any other girl. "Better just lie thee down till thy father

return, and leave me to bustle through the work," said the old Quaker

woman who had lived with them through all their troubles. Then Marion

yielded, and laid herself on the bed till the hour had come in which

her father might be expected.

CHAPTER XX.

NEVER, NEVER, TO COME AGAIN.

The trouble to Hampstead occasioned by the accident was considerable,

as was also for the first twenty-four hours his anxiety and that of

his sister as to the young man's fate. He got back to Gorse Hall

early in the day, as there was no more hunting after the killing of

that first fox. There had been a consultation as to the young man,

and it had been held to be best to have him taken to the inn at which

he had been living, as there would be room there for any of his

friends who might come to look after him. But during the whole of

that day inquiries were made at Gorse Hall after Lord Hampstead

himself, so general had been the belief that he was the victim.

From all the towns around, from Peterborough, Oundle, Stilton, and

Thrapstone, there came mounted messengers, with expressions of hope

and condolence as to the young lord's broken bones.

And then the condition of their poor neighbour was so critical that

they found it to be impossible to leave Gorse Hall on the next day,

as they had intended. He had become intimate with them, and had

breakfasted at Gorse Hall on that very morning. In one way Hampstead

felt that he was responsible, as, had he not been in the way, poor

Walker's horse would have been next to the gate, and would not have

attempted the impossible jump. They were compelled to put off the

journey till the Monday. "Will go by the 9.30 train," said Hampstead

in his telegram, who, in spite of poor Walker's mangled body, was

still determined to see Marion on that day. On the Saturday morning

it became known to him and his sister that the false report had

been in the London newspapers, and then they had found themselves

compelled to send telegrams to every one who knew them, to the

Marquis, and to the lawyer in London, to Mr. Roberts, and to the

housekeeper at Hendon Hall. Telegrams were also sent by Lady Amaldina

to Lady Persiflage, and especially to Lord Llwddythlw. Vivian sent

others to the Civil Service generally. Hautboy was very eager to let

everybody know the truth at the Pandemonium. Never before had so many

telegrams been sent from the little office at Gimberley. But there

was one for which Hampstead demanded priority, writing it himself,

and himself giving it into the hands of the despatching young lady,

the daughter of the Gimberley grocer, who no doubt understood the

occasion perfectly.

To Marion Fay, 17, Paradise Row, Holloway.

It was not I who was hurt. Shall be at No. 17 by three on

Monday.

"I wonder whether they heard it down at Trafford," said Lady Amaldina

to Lady Frances. On this subject they were informed before the day

was over, as a long message came from Mr. Roberts in compliance

with the instructions from the Marquis. "Because if they did what a

terrible disappointment my aunt will have to bear."

"Do not say anything so horrible," said Lady Frances.

"I always look upon Aunt Clara as though she were not quite in her

right senses about her own children. She thinks a great injury is

done her because her son is not the heir. Now for a moment she will

have believed that it was so." This, however, was a view of the

matter which Lady Frances found herself unable to discuss.

"He's going to get well after all," said Hautboy that evening, just

before dinner. He had been running over to the inn every hour to ask

after the condition of poor Walker. At first the tidings had been

gloomy enough. The doctor had only been able to say that he needn't

die because of his broken bones. Then late in the afternoon there

arrived a surgeon from London who gave something of a stronger hope.

The young man's consciousness had come back to him, and he had

expressed an appreciation for brandy and water. It was this fact

which had seemed so promising to young Lord Hautboy. On the Saturday

there came Mrs. Walker and Miss Walker, and before the Sunday evening

it was told how the patient had signified his intention of hunting

again on the first possible opportunity. "I always knew he was a

brick," said Hautboy, as he repeated the story, "because he always

would ride at everything."

"I don't think he'll ever ride again at the fence just out of

Gimberley Wood," said Lord Hampstead. They were all able to start on

the Monday morning without serious concern, as the accounts from the

injured man's bed-room were still satisfactory. That he had broken

three ribs, a collar-bone, and an arm seemed to be accounted as

nothing. Nor was there much made of the scalp wound on his head,

which had come from a kick the horse gave him in the struggle. As his

brains were still there, that did not much matter. His cheek had been

cut open by a stake on which he fell, but the scar, it was thought,

would only add to his glories. It was the pressure of the horse which

had fallen across his body which the doctors feared. But Hautboy very

rightly argued that there couldn't be much danger, seeing that he had

recovered his taste for brandy and water. "If it wasn't for that,"

said Hautboy, "I don't think I'd have gone away and left him."

Lord Hampstead found, when he reached home on the Monday morning,

that his troubles were not yet over. The housekeeper came out and

wept, almost with her arms round his neck. The groom, and the

footman, and the gardener, even the cowboy himself, flocked about

him, telling stories of the terrible condition in which they had been

left after the coming of the Quaker on the Friday evening. "I didn't

never think I'd ever see my lord again," said the cook solemnly. "I

didn't a'most hope it," said the housemaid, "after hearing the Quaker

gentleman read it all out of the newspaper." Lord Hampstead shook

hands with them all, and laughed at the misfortune of the false

telegram, and endeavoured to be well pleased with everything, but

it occurred to him to think what must have been the condition of Mr.

Fay's house that night, when he had come across from Holloway through

the darkness and rain to find out for his girl what might be the

truth or falsehood of the report which had reached him.

At 3.0 punctually he was in Paradise Row. Perhaps it was not

unnatural that even then his advent should create emotion. As he

turned down from the main road the very potboy from "The Duchess"

rushed up to him, and congratulated him on his escape. "I have had

nothing to escape," said Lord Hampstead trying to pass on. But

Mrs. Grimley saw him, and came out to him. "Oh, my lord, we are so

thankful;--indeed, we are."

"You are very good, ma'am," said the lord.

"And now, Lord 'Ampstead, mind and be true to that dear young lady

who was well-nigh heart-broke when she heard as it were you who was

smashed up."

He was hurrying on finding it impossible to make any reply to this,

when Miss Demijohn, seeing that Mrs. Grimley had been bold enough to

address the noble visitor to their humble street, remembering how

much she had personally done in the matter, having her mind full of

the important fact that she had been the first to give information on

the subject to the Row generally, thinking that no such appropriate

occasion as this would ever again occur for making personal

acquaintance with the lord, rushed out from her own house, and seized

the young man's hand before he was able to defend himself. "My lord,"

she said, "my lord, we were all so depressed when we heard of it."

"Were you, indeed?"

"All the Row was depressed, my lord. But I was the first who knew

it. It was I who communicated the sad tidings to Miss Fay. It was,

indeed, my lord. I saw it in the _Evening Tell-Tale_, and went across

with the paper at once."

"That was very good of you."

"Thank'ee, my lord. And, therefore, seeing you and knowing you,--for

we all know you now in Paradise Row--"

"Do you now?"

"Every one of us, my lord. Therefore I thought I'd just make bold

to come out and introduce myself. Here's Mrs. Duffer. I hope you'll

let me introduce you to Mrs. Duffer of No. 15. Mrs. Duffer, Lord

Hampstead. And oh, my lord, it will be such an honour to the Row if

anything of that kind should happen."

Lord Hampstead, having with his best grace gone through the ceremony

of shaking hands with Mrs. Duffer, who had come up to him and Clara

just at the step of the Quaker's house, was at last allowed to knock

at the door. Miss Fay would be with him in a minute, said the old

woman as she showed him into the sitting-room up-stairs.

Marion, as soon as she heard the knock, ran for a moment to her own

bed-room. Was it not much to her that he was with her again, not only

alive, but uninjured, that she should again hear his voice, and see

the light of his countenance, and become aware once more of a certain

almost heavenly glory which seemed to surround her when she was in

his presence? She was aware that on such occasions she felt herself

to be lifted out of her ordinary prosaic life, and to be for a

time floating, as it were, in some upper air; among the clouds,

indeed;--alas, yes; but among clouds which were silver-lined; in a

heaven which could never be her own, but in which she could dwell,

though it were but for an hour or two, in ecstasy,--if only he would

allow her to do so without troubling her with further prayer. Then

there came across her a thought that if only she could so begin this

interview with him that it might seem to be an occasion of special

joy,--as though it were a thanksgiving because he had come back to

her safe,--she might, at any rate for this day, avoid words from him

which might drive her again to refuse his great request. He already

knew that she loved him, must know of what value to her must be

his life, must understand how this had come at first a terrible,

crushing, killing sorrow, and then a relief which by the excess of

its joy must have been almost too much for her. Could she not let all

that be a thing acknowledged between them, which might be spoken of

as between dearest friends, without any allusion for the present to

that request which could never be granted?

But he, as he waited there a minute or two, was minded to make quite

another use of the interview. He was burning to take her in his arms

as his own, to press his lips to hers and know that she returned his

caress, to have the one word spoken which would alone suffice to

satisfy the dominating spirit of the man within him. Had she acceded

to his request, then his demand would have been that she should at

once become his wife, and he would not have rested at peace till he

had reduced her months to weeks. He desired to have it all his own

way. He had drawn her into his presence as soon almost as he had seen

her. He had forced upon her his love. He had driven her to give him

her heart, and to acknowledge that it was so. Of course he must go on

with his triumph over her. She must be his altogether, from the crown

of her head to the soles of her feet,--and that without delay. His

hunting and his yacht, his politics and his friendships, were nothing

to him without Marion Fay. When she came into the room, his heart was

in sympathy with her, but by no means his mind.

"My lord," she said, letting her hand lie willingly between the

pressure of his two, "you may guess what we suffered when we heard

the report, and how we felt when we learnt the truth."

"You got my telegram? I sent it as soon as I began to understand how

foolish the people had been."

"Oh yes, my lord. It was so good of you!"

"Marion, will you do something for me?"

"What shall I do, my lord?"

"Don't call me, 'my lord.'"

"But it is proper."

"It is most improper, and abominable, and unnatural."

"Lord Hampstead!"

"I hate it. You and I can understand each other, at any rate."

"I hope so."

"I hate it from everybody. I can't tell the servants not to do it.

They wouldn't understand me. But from you! It seems always as though

you were laughing at me."

"Laugh at you!"

"You may if you like it. What is it you may not do with me? If it

were really a joke, if you were quizzing, I shouldn't mind it." He

held her hand the whole time, and she did not attempt to withdraw it.

What did her hand signify? If she could only so manage with him on

that day that he should be satisfied to be happy, and not trouble her

with any request. "Marion," he said, drawing her towards him.

"Sit down, my lord. Well. I won't. You shan't be called my lord

to-day, because I am so happy to see you;--because you have had so

great an escape."

"But I didn't have any escape."

If only she could keep him in this way! If he would only talk to

her about anything but his passion! "It seemed to me so, of course.

Father was broken-hearted about it. He was as bad as I. Think of

father going down without his tea to Hendon Hall, and driving the

poor people there all out of their wits."

"Everybody was out of his wits."

"I was," she said, bobbing her head at him. She was just so far from

him, she thought, as to be safe from any impetuous movement. "And

Hannah was nearly as bad." Hannah was the old woman. "You may imagine

we had a wretched night of it."

"And all about nothing," said he, falling into her mood in the

moment. "But think of poor Walker."

"Yes, indeed! I suppose he has friends, too, who loved him, as--as

some people love you. But he is not going to die?"

"I hope not. Who is that young woman opposite who rushed out to me in

the street? She says she brought you the news first."

"Miss Demijohn."

"Is she a friend of yours?"

"No," said Marion, blushing as she spoke the word very firmly.

"I am rather glad of that, because I didn't fall in love with her.

She introduced me to ever so many of the neighbours. The landlady of

the public-house was one, I think."

"I am afraid they have offended you among them."

"Not in the least. I never take offence except when I think people

mean it. But now, Marion, say one word to me."

"I have said many words. Have I not said nice words?"

"Every word out of your mouth is like music to me. But there is one

word which I am dying to hear."

"What word?" she said. She knew that she should not have asked the

question, but it was so necessary for her to put off the evil if it

were only for a moment.

"It is whatever word you may choose to use when you speak to me as

my wife. My mother used to call me John; the children call me Jack;

my friends call me Hampstead. Invent something sweet for yourself.

I always call you Marion because I love the sound so dearly."

"Every one calls me Marion."

"No! I never did so till I had told myself that, if possible, you

should be my own. Do you remember when you poked the fire for me at

Hendon Hall?"

"I do;--I do. It was wrong of me; was it not;--when I hardly knew

you?"

"It was beyond measure good of you; but I did not dare to call you

Marion then, though I knew your name as well as I do now, Marion! I

have it here, written all round my heart." What could she say to a

man who spoke to her after this fashion? It was as though an angel

from heaven were courting her! If only she could have gone on

listening so that nothing further should come of it! "Find some name

for me, and tell me that it shall be written round your heart."

"Indeed it is. You know it is, Lord Hampstead."

"But what name?"

"Your friend;--your friend of friends."

"It will not do. It is cold."

"Then it is untrue to her from whom it comes. Do you think that my

friendship is cold for you?"

She had turned towards him, and was sitting before him with her face

looking into his, with her hands clasped as though in assurance of

her truth;--when suddenly he had her in his arms and had pressed his

lips to hers. In a moment she was standing in the middle of the room.

Though he was strong, her strength was sufficient for her. "My lord!"

she exclaimed.

"Ah, you are angry with me?"

"My lord, my lord,--I did not think you would treat me like that."

"But, Marion; do you not love me?"

"Have I not told you that I do? Have I not been true and honest to

you? Do you not know it all?" But in truth he did not know it all.

"And now I must bid you never, never to come again."

"But I shall come. I will come. I will come always. You will not

cease to love me?"

"No;--not that--I cannot do that. But you must not come. You have

done that which makes me ashamed of myself." At that moment the door

was opened, and Mrs. Roden came into the room.

CHAPTER XXI.

DI CRINOLA.

The reader must submit to have himself carried back some weeks,--to

those days early in January, when Mrs. Roden called upon her son to

accompany her to Italy. Indeed, he must be carried back a long way

beyond that; but the time during which he need be so detained shall

be short. A few pages will suffice to tell so much of the early life

of this lady as will be necessary to account for her residence in

Paradise Row.

Mary Roden, the lady whom we have known as Mrs. Roden, was left an

orphan at the age of fifteen, her mother having died when she was

little more than an infant. Her father was an Irish clergyman with

no means of his own but what he secured from a small living; but his

wife had inherited money amounting to about eight thousand pounds,

and this had descended to Mary when her father died. The girl was

then taken in charge by a cousin of her own, a lady ten years her

senior who had lately married, and whom we have since met as Mrs.

Vincent, living at Wimbledon. Mr. Vincent had been well connected and

well-to-do in the world, and till he died the household in which Mary

Roden had been brought up had been luxurious as well as comfortable.

Nor did Mr. Vincent die till after his wife's cousin had found a

husband for herself. Soon afterwards he was gathered to his fathers,

leaving to his widow a comfortable, but not more than a comfortable,

income.

The year before his death he and his wife had gone into Italy, rather

on account of his health than for pleasure, and had then settled

themselves at Verona for a winter,--a winter which eventually

stretched itself into nearly a year, at the close of which Mr.

Vincent died. But before that event took place Mary Roden had become

a wife.

At Verona, at first at the house of her own cousin,--which was of

course her own home,--and afterwards in the society of the place

to which the Vincents had been made welcome,--Mary met a young man

who was known to all the world as the Duca di Crinola. No young man

more beautiful to look at, more charming in manners, more ready in

conversation, was then known in those parts of Italy than this young

nobleman. In addition to these good gifts, he was supposed to have

in his veins the very best blood in all Europe. It was declared on

his behalf that he was related to the Bourbons and to the Hapsburgh

family. Indeed there was very little of the best blood which Europe

had produced in the last dozen centuries of which some small

proportion was not running in his veins. He was too the eldest son of

his father, who, though he possessed the most magnificent palace in

Verona, had another equally magnificent in Venice, in which it suited

him to live with his Duchessa. As the old nobleman did not come often

to Verona, and as the young nobleman never went to Venice, the father

and son did not see much of each other, an arrangement which was

supposed to have its own comforts, as the young man was not disturbed

in the possession of his hotel, and as the old man was reported in

Verona generally to be arbitrary, hot-tempered, and tyrannical. It

was therefore said of the young Duke by his friends that he was

nearly as well off as though he had no father at all.

But there were other things in the history of the young Duke which,

as they became known to the Vincents, did not seem to be altogether

so charming. Though of all the palaces in Verona that in which he

lived was by far the most beautiful to look at from the outside,

it was not supposed to be furnished in a manner conformable to its

external appearance. It was, indeed, declared that the rooms were for

the most part bare; and the young Duke never gave the lie to these

assertions by throwing them open to his friends. It was said of him

also that his income was so small and so precarious that it amounted

almost to nothing, that the cross old Duke at Venice never allowed

him a shilling, and that he had done everything in his power to

destroy the hopes of a future inheritance. Nevertheless, he was

beautiful to look at in regard to his outward attire, and could

hardly have been better dressed had he been able to pay his tailor

and shirt-maker quarterly. And he was a man of great accomplishments,

who could talk various languages, who could paint, and model, and

write sonnets, and dance to perfection. And he could talk of virtue,

and in some sort seem to believe in it,--though he would sometimes

confess of himself that Nature had not endowed him with the strength

necessary for the performance of all the good things which he so

thoroughly appreciated.

Such as he was he entirely gained the affection of Mary Roden. It is

unnecessary here to tell the efforts that were made by Mrs. Vincent

to prevent the marriage. Had she been less austere she might,

perhaps, have prevailed with the girl. But as she began by pointing

out to her cousin the horror of giving herself, who had been born and

bred a Protestant, to a Roman Catholic,--and also of bestowing her

English money upon an Italian,--all that she said was without effect.

The state of Mr. Vincent's health made it impossible for them to

move, or Mary might perhaps have been carried back to England. When

she was told that the man was poor, she declared that there was so

much the more reason why her money should be given to relieve the

wants of the man she loved. It ended in their being married, and all

that Mr. Vincent was able to accomplish was to see that the marriage

ceremony should be performed after the fashion both of the Church of

England and of the Church of Rome. Mary at the time was more than

twenty-one, and was thus able, with all the romance of girlhood,

to pour her eight thousand pounds into the open hands of her

thrice-noble and thrice-beautiful lover.

The Duchino with his young Duchessina went their way rejoicing, and

left poor Mr. Vincent to die at Verona. Twelve months afterwards

the widow had settled herself at the house at Wimbledon, from which

she had in latter years paid her weekly visits to Paradise Row,

and tidings had come from the young wife which were not altogether

satisfactory. The news, indeed, which declared that a young little

Duke had been born to her was accompanied by expressions of joy which

the other surrounding incidents of her life were not permitted at

the moment altogether to embitter. Her baby, her well-born beautiful

baby, was for a few months allowed to be a joy to her, even though

things were otherwise very sorrowful. But things were very sorrowful.

The old Duke and the old Duchess would not acknowledge her. Then she

learned that the quarrel between the father and son had been carried

to such a pitch that no hope of reconciliation remained. Whatever

was left of family property was gone as far as any inheritance on

the part of the elder son was concerned. He had himself assisted in

making over to a second brother all right that he possessed in the

property belonging to the family. Then tidings of horror accumulated

itself upon her and her baby. Then came tidings that her husband had

been already married when he first met her,--which tidings did not

reach her till he had left her alone, somewhere up among the Lakes,

for an intended absence of three days. After that day she never saw

him again. The next she heard of him was from Italy, from whence he

wrote to her to tell her that she was an angel, and that he, devil

as he was, was not fit to appear in her presence. Other things had

occurred during the fifteen months in which they had lived together

to make her believe at any rate the truth of this last statement.

It was not that she ceased to love him, but that she knew that he

was not fit to be loved. When a woman is bad a man can generally get

quit of her from his heartstrings;--but a woman has no such remedy.

She can continue to love the dishonoured one without dishonour to

herself,--and does so.

Among other misfortunes was the loss of all her money. There she was,

in the little villa on the side of the lake, with no income,--and

with statements floating about her that she had not, and never had

had, a husband. It might well be that after that she should caution

Marion Fay as to the imprudence of an exalted marriage. But there

came to her assistance, if not friendship and love, in the midst

of her misfortunes. Her brother-in-law,--if she had a husband or

a brother-in-law,--came to her from the old Duke with terms of

surrender; and there came also a man of business, a lawyer, from

Venice, to make good the terms if they should be accepted. Though

money was very scarce with the family, or the power of raising money,

still such was the feeling of the old nobleman in her misfortunes

that the entire sum which had been given up to his eldest son should

be restored to trustees for her use and for the benefit of her baby,

on condition that she should leave Italy, and consent to drop the

title of the Di Crinola family. As to that question of a former

marriage, the old lawyer declared that he was unable to give any

certain information. The reprobate had no doubt gone through some

form of a ceremony with a girl of low birth at Venice. It very

probably was not a marriage. The young Duchino, the brother, declared

his belief that there had been no such marriage. But she, should

she cling to the name, could not make her title good to it without

obtaining proofs which they had not been able to find. No doubt

she could call herself Duchess. Had she means at command she might

probably cause herself to be received as such. But no property would

thus be affected,--nor would it rob him, the younger son, of his

right to call himself also by the title. The offer made to her was

not ungenerous. The family owed her nothing, but were willing to

sacrifice nearly half of all they had with the object of restoring

to her the money of which the profligate had robbed her,--which he

had been enabled to take from her by her own folly and credulity. In

this terrible emergency of her life, Mrs. Vincent sent over to her a

solicitor from London, between whom and the Italian man of business

a bargain was struck. The young wife undertook to drop her husband's

name, and to drop it also on behalf of her boy. Then the eight

thousand pounds was repaid, and Mrs. Roden, as she afterwards called

herself, went back to Wimbledon and to England with her baby.

So far the life of George Roden's mother had been most unfortunate.

After that, for a period of sixteen years time went with her, if not

altogether happily, at least quietly and comfortably. Then there

came a subject of disruption. George Roden took upon himself to have

opinions of his own; and would not hold his peace in the presence

of Mrs. Vincent, to whom those opinions were most unacceptable. And

they were the more unacceptable because the mother's tone of mind

had always taken something of the bent which appeared so strongly

afterwards in her son. George at any rate could not be induced to be

silent; nor,--which was worse,--could he after reaching his twentieth

year be made to go to church with that regularity which was necessary

for the elder lady's peace of mind. He at this time had achieved for

himself a place in the office ruled over by our friend Sir Boreas,

and had in this way become so much of a man as to be entitled to

judge for himself. In this way there had been no quarrel between Mrs.

Vincent and Mrs. Roden, but there had come a condition of things in

which it had been thought expedient that they should live apart. Mrs.

Roden had therefore taken for herself a house in Paradise Row, and

those weekly inter-visitings had been commenced between her and her

cousin.

Such had been the story of Mrs. Roden's life, till tidings were

received in England that her husband was dead. The information had

been sent to Mrs. Vincent by the younger son of the late old Duke,

who was now a nobleman well known in the political life of his own

country. He had stated that, to the best of his belief, his brother's

first union had not been a legal marriage. He thought it right, he

had said, to make this statement, and to say that as far as he was

concerned he was willing to withdraw that compact upon which his

father had insisted. If his sister-in-law wished to call herself by

the name and title of Di Crinola, she might do so. Or if the young

man of whom he spoke as his nephew wished to be known as Duca di

Crinola he would raise no objection. But it must be remembered that

he had nothing to offer to his relative but the barren tender of the

name. He himself had succeeded to but very little, and that which he

possessed had not been taken from his brother.

Then there were sundry meetings between Mrs. Vincent and Mrs. Roden,

at which it was decided that Mrs. Roden should go to Italy with her

son. Her brother-in-law had been courteous to her, and had offered

to receive her if she would come. Should she wish to use the name of

Di Crinola, he had promised that she should be called by it in his

house; so that the world around might know that she was recognized by

him and his wife and children. She determined that she would at any

rate make the journey, and that she would take her son with her.

George Roden had hitherto learnt nothing of his father or his family.

In the many consultations held between his mother and Mrs. Vincent

it had been decided that it would be better to keep him in the dark.

Why fill his young imagination with the glory of a great title in

order that he might learn at last, as might too probably be the case,

that he had no right to the name,--no right to consider himself

even to be his father's son? She, by her folly,--so she herself

acknowledged,--had done all that was possible to annihilate herself

as a woman. There was no name which she could give to her son as

certainly as her own. This, which had been hers before she had been

allured into a mock marriage, would at any rate not be disputed. And

thus he had been kept in ignorance of his mother's story. Of course

he had asked. It was no more than natural that he should ask. But

when told that it was for his mother's comfort that he should ask no

more, he had assented with that reticence which was peculiar to him.

Then chance had thrown him into friendship with the young English

nobleman, and the love of Lady Frances Trafford had followed.

His mother, when he consented to accompany her, had almost promised

him that all mysteries should be cleared up between them before their

return. In the train, before they reached Paris, a question was

asked and an answer given which served to tell much of the truth. As

they came down to breakfast that morning, early in the dark January

morning, he observed that his mother was dressed in deep mourning.

It had always been her custom to wear black raiment. He could not

remember that he had ever seen on her a coloured dress, or even

a bright ribbon. And she was not now dressed quite as is a widow

immediately on the death of her husband. It was now a quarter of a

century since she had seen the man who had so ill-used her. According

to the account which she had received, it was twelve months at least

since he had died in one of the Grecian islands. The full weeds of a

mourning widow would ill have befitted her condition of mind, or her

immediate purpose. But yet there was a speciality of blackness in her

garments which told him that she had dressed herself with a purpose

as of mourning. "Mother," he said to her in the train, "you are in

mourning,--as for a friend?" Then when she paused he asked again,

"May I not be told for whom it is done? Am I not right in saying that

it is so?"

"It is so, George."

"For whom then?"

They two were alone in the carriage, and why should his question not

be answered now? But it had come to pass that there was a horror to

her in mentioning the name of his father to him. "George," she said,

"it is more than twenty-five years since I saw your father."

"Is he dead--only now?"

"It is only now,--only the other day,--that I have heard of his

death."

"Why should not I also be in black?"

"I had not thought of it. But you never saw him since he had you in

his arms as a baby. You cannot mourn for him in heart."

"Do you?"

"It is hard to say for what we mourn sometimes. Of course I loved him

once. There is still present to me a memory of what I loved,--of the

man who won my heart by such gifts as belonged to him; and for that I

mourn. He was beautiful and clever, and he charmed me. It is hard to

say sometimes for what we mourn."

"Was he a foreigner, mother?"

"Yes, George. He was an Italian. You shall know it all soon now. But

do not you mourn. To you no memories are left. Were it not for the

necessity of the present moment, no idea of a father should ever be

presented to you." She vouchsafed to tell him no more at that moment,

and he pressed her with no further questions.

END OF VOL. II.

Bungay: Printed by Clay and Taylor.

* * * * * *

MARION FAY.

A Novel.

by

ANTHONY TROLLOPE,

Author of

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

In Three Volumes.

VOL. III.

London:

Chapman & Hall, Limited, 11, Henrietta St.

1882

[All Rights reserved.]

Bungay:

Clay and Taylor, Printers.

CONTENTS OF VOLUME III.

I. "I WILL COME BACK AS I WENT."

II. TRUE TIDINGS.

III. ALL THE WORLD KNOWS IT.

IV. "IT SHALL BE DONE."

V. MARION WILL CERTAINLY HAVE HER WAY.

VI. "BUT HE IS;--HE IS."

VII. THE GREAT QUESTION.

VIII. "I CANNOT COMPEL HER."

IX. IN PARK LANE.

X. AFTER ALL HE ISN'T.

XI. "OF COURSE THERE WAS A BITTERNESS."

XII. LORD HAMPSTEAD AGAIN WITH MRS. RODEN.

XIII. LORD HAMPSTEAD AGAIN WITH MARION.

XIV. CROCKER'S DISTRESS.

XV. "DISMISSAL. B. B."

XVI. PEGWELL BAY.

XVII. LADY AMALDINA'S WEDDING.

XVIII. CROCKER'S TALE.

XIX. "MY MARION."

XX. MR. GREENWOOD'S LAST BATTLE.

XXI. THE REGISTRAR OF STATE RECORDS.

MARION FAY.

CHAPTER I.

"I WILL COME BACK AS I WENT."

While Lord Hampstead's party were at Gorse Hall, some weeks before

poor Walker's accident, there came a letter from George Roden to Lady

Frances, and she, when she reached Hendon Hall, found a second. Both

these letters, or parts of them, shall be here given, as they will

tell all that need be added to what is already known of the story

of the man, and will explain to the reader the cause and manner of

action which he adopted.

Rome,

January 30th, 18--.

DEAREST FANNY,--

I wonder whether it will seem as odd to you to receive a

letter from me written at Rome as it is to me to write it.

Our letters hitherto have been very few in number, and

have only declared that in spite of obstacles we shall

always love each other. I have never before had anything

in truth to tell you; but now I have so much that I do not

know how to begin or how to go on with it. But it must be

written, as there is much that will interest you as my

dearest friend, and much also that will concern yourself

should you ever become my wife. It may be that a point

will arise as to which you and your friends,--your father,

for instance, and your brother,--will feel yourselves

entitled to have a voice in deciding. It may be quite

possible that your judgment, or, at any rate, that of your

friends, may differ from my own. Should it be so I cannot

say that I shall be prepared to yield; but I will, at

any rate, enable you to submit the case to them with all

fairness.

I have told you more than once how little I have known

of my own family,--that I have known indeed nothing. My

mother has seemed to me to be perversely determined not to

tell me all that which I will acknowledge I have thought

that I ought to know. But with equal perversity I have

refrained from asking questions on a subject of which

I think I should have been told everything without

questioning. And I am a man not curious by nature as to

the past. I am more anxious as to what I may do myself

than as to what others of my family may have done before

me.

When, however, my mother asked me to go with her to Italy,

it was manifest that her journey had reference to her

former life. I knew from circumstances which could not

be hidden from me,--from her knowledge, for instance, of

Italian, and from some relics which remained to her of her

former life,--that she had lived for some period in this

country. As my place of birth had never been mentioned to

me, I could not but guess that I had been born in Italy,

and when I found that I was going there I felt certain

that I must learn some portion of the story of which I had

been kept in ignorance. Now I have learnt it all as far as

my poor mother knows it herself; and as it will concern

you to know it too, I must endeavour to explain to you all

the details. Dearest Fanny, I do trust that when you have

heard them you will think neither worse of me on that

account,--nor better. It is as to the latter that I am

really in fear. I wish to believe that no chance attribute

could make me stand higher in your esteem than I have come

to stand already by my own personal character.

Then he told her,--not, perhaps, quite so fully as the reader has

heard it told in the last chapter,--the story of his mother's

marriage and of his own birth. Before they had reached Rome, where

the Duca di Crinola at present lived, and where he was at present a

member of the Italian Cabinet, the mother had told her son all that

she knew, having throughout the telling of the story unconsciously

manifested to him her own desire to remain in obscurity, and to bear

the name which had been hers for five-and-twenty years; but at the

same time so to manage that he should return to England bearing the

title to which by his birth she believed him to be entitled. When in

discussing this he explained to her that it would be still necessary

for him to earn his bread as a clerk in the Post Office in spite of

his high-sounding nobility, and explained to her the absurdity of

his sitting in Mr. Jerningham's room at the desk with young Crocker,

and calling himself at the same time the Duca di Crinola, she in her

arguments exhibited a weakness which he had hardly expected from her.

She spoke vaguely, but with an assurance of personal hope, of Lady

Frances, of Lord Hampstead, of the Marquis of Kingsbury, and of Lord

Persiflage,--as though by the means of these noble personages the

Duca di Crinola might be able to live in idleness. Of all this Roden

could say nothing in this first letter to Lady Frances. But it was to

this that he alluded when he hoped that she would not think better of

him because of the news which he sent her.

"At present," he wrote, continuing his letter after the telling of

the story,

we are staying with my uncle, as I presume I am entitled

to call him. He is very gracious, as also are his wife and

the young ladies who are my cousins; but I think that he

is as anxious as I am that there should be no acknowledged

branch of the family senior to his own. He is Duca di

Crinola to all Italy, and will remain so whether I assume

the title or not. Were I to take the name, and to remain

in Italy,--which is altogether impossible,--I should be

nobody. He who has made for himself a great position,

and apparently has ample means, would not in truth be

affected. But I am sure that he would not wish it. He is

actuated by a sense of honesty, but he certainly has no

desire to be incommoded by relatives who would, as regards

the family, claim to be superior to himself. My dearest

mother wishes to behave well to him, wishes to sacrifice

herself; but is, I fear, above all things, anxious to

procure for her son the name and title which his father

bore.

As for myself, you will, I think, already have perceived

that it is my desire to remain as I was when last I saw

you, and to be as ever

Yours, most affectionately,

GEORGE RODEN.

Lady Frances was, as may be imagined, much startled at the receipt

of this letter;--startled, and also pleased. Though she had always

declared to herself that she was in every respect satisfied with her

lover from the Post Office, though she had been sure that she had

never wanted him to be other than he was, still, when she heard of

that fine-sounding name, there did for a moment come upon her an

idea that, for his sake, it might be well that he should have the

possession of all that his birth had done for him. But when she came

to understand the meaning of his words, as she did on the second or

third reading of his letter,--when she discovered what he meant by

saying that he hoped she would not think better of him by reason

of what he was telling her, when she understood the purport of the

manner in which he signed his name, she resolved that in every

respect she would think as he thought and act as he wished her to

act. Whatever might be the name which he might be pleased to give

her, with that would she be contented, nor would she be led by any

one belonging to her to ask him to change his purpose.

For two days she kept the letter by her unanswered, and without

speaking of it to anybody. Then she showed it to her brother,

exacting from him a promise that he should not speak of it to any one

without her permission. "It is George's secret," she said, "and I am

sure you will see that I have no right to disclose it. I tell you

because he would do so if he were here." Her brother was willing

enough to make the promise, which would of course be in force only

till he and Roden should see each other; but he could not be brought

to agree with his sister as to his friend's view of the position.

"He may have what fancies he pleases about titles," he said, "as may

I; but I do not think that he would be justified in repudiating his

father's name. I feel it a burden and an absurdity to be born to be

an earl and a marquis, but I have to put up with it; and, though

my reason and political feeling on the matter tell me that it is a

burden and an absurdity, yet the burden is easily borne, and the

absurdity does not annoy me much. There is a gratification in being

honoured by those around you, though your conscience may be twinged

that you yourself have done nothing to deserve it. It will be so with

him if he takes his position here as an Italian nobleman."

"But he would still have to be a clerk in the Post Office."

"Probably not."

"But how would he live?" asked Lady Frances.

"The governor, you would find, would look upon him in a much more

favourable light than he does at present."

"That would be most unreasonable."

"Not at all. It is not unreasonable that a Marquis of Kingsbury

should be unwilling to give his daughter to George Roden, a clerk in

the Post Office,--but that he should be willing to give her to a Duca

di Crinola."

"What has that to do with earning money?"

"The Governor would probably find an income in one case, and not in

the other. I do not quite say that it ought to be so, but it is not

unreasonable that it should be so." Then Lady Frances said a great

deal as to that pride in her lover which would not allow him to

accept such a position as that which was now suggested.

There was a long discussion on the subject. Her brother explained to

her how common it was for noblemen of high birth to live on means

provided by their wives' fortunes, and how uncommon it was that men

born to high titles should consent to serve as clerks in a public

office. But his common sense had no effect upon his sister, who ended

the conversation by exacting from him a renewed assurance of secrecy.

"I won't say a word till he comes," said Hampstead; "but you may be

sure that a story like that will be all over London before he does

come."

Lady Frances of course answered her lover's letter; but of what

she said it is only necessary that the reader should know that she

promised that in all things she would be entirely guided by his

wishes.

Then came his second letter to her, dated on the day on which poor

Walker had nearly been crushed to death. "I am so glad that you agree

with me," he wrote.

Since my last letter to you everything here has been

decided as far as I can decide it,--or, indeed, as far as

any of us can do so. There can, I think, be no doubt as to

the legality of my mother's marriage. My uncle is of the

same opinion, and points out to me that were I to claim my

father's name no one would attempt to dispute it. He alone

could do so,--or rather would be the person to do so if

it were done. He would make no such attempt, and would

himself present me to the King here as the Duca di Crinola

if I chose to remain and to accept the position. But I

certainly will not do so. I should in the first place be

obliged to give up my nationality. I could not live in

England bearing an Italian title, except as an Italian. I

do not know that as an Italian I should be forced to give

up my place in the Post Office. Foreigners, I believe,

are employed in the Civil Service. But there would be an

absurdity in it which to me would be specially annoying. I

could not live under such a weight of ridicule. Nor could

I live in any position in which some meagre income might

be found for me because of my nobility. No such income

would be forthcoming here. I can imagine that your father

might make a provision for a poor son-in-law with a grand

title. He ought not to do so, according to my ideas, but

it might be possible that he should find himself persuaded

to such weakness. But I could not accept it. I should not

be above taking money with my wife, if it happened to come

in my way, provided that I were earning an income myself

to the best of my ability. For her sake I should do what

might be best for her. But not even for your sake,--if you

wished it, as I know you do not,--could I consent to hang

about the world in idleness as an Italian duke without a

shilling of my own. Therefore, my darling, I purpose to

come back as I went,

Your own,

GEORGE RODEN.

Clerk in the Post Office, and entitled to consider myself

as being on "H.M.S." when at work from ten till four.

This letter reached Lady Frances at Hendon Hall on the return of

herself and her brother from Gorse Hall. But before that time the

prophecy uttered by Lord Hampstead as to the story being all over

London had already been in part fulfilled. Vivian during their

hunting weeks at Gorse Hall had been running continually up and down

from London, where his work as private secretary to the Secretary

of State had been, of course, most constant and important. He had,

nevertheless, managed to have three days a week in Northamptonshire,

explaining to his friends in London that he did it by sitting up all

night in the country, to his friends in the country that he sat up

all night in town. There are some achievements which are never done

in the presence of those who hear of them. Catching salmon is one,

and working all night is another. Vivian, however, managed to do what

was required of him, and to enjoy his hunting at the same time.

On his arrival at Gorse Hall the day before the famous accident he

had a budget of news of which he was very full, but of which he at

first spoke only to Hampstead. He could not, at any rate, speak of it

in the presence of Lady Frances. "You have heard this, haven't you,

about George Roden?" he asked, as soon as he could get Lord Hampstead

to himself.

"Heard what about George Roden?" asked the other, who, of course, had

heard it all.

"The Italian title."

"What about an Italian title?"

"But have you heard it?"

"I have heard something. What have you heard?"

"George Roden is in Italy."

"Unless he has left it. He has been there, no doubt."

"And his mother." Hampstead nodded his head. "I suppose you do know

all about it?"

"I want to know what you know. What I have heard has come to me as a

secret. Your story can probably be divulged."

"I don't know that. We are apt to be pretty close as to what we hear

at the Foreign Office. But this didn't come as specially private.

I've had a letter from Muscati, a very good fellow in the Foreign

Office there, who had in some way heard your name as connected with

Roden."

"That is very likely."

"And your sister's," said Vivian in a whisper.

"That is likely too. Men talk about anything now-a-days."

"Lord Persiflage has heard direct from Italy. He is interested, of

course, as being brother-in-law to Lady Kingsbury."

"But what have they heard?"

"It seems that Roden isn't an Englishman at all."

"That will be as he likes, I take it. He has lived here as an

Englishman for five-and-twenty years."

"But of course he'll prefer to be an Italian," said Vivian. "It turns

out that he is heir to one of the oldest titles in Italy. You have

heard of the Ducas di Crinola?"

"I have heard of them now."

"One of them is Minister of Education in the present Cabinet, and is

likely to be the Premier. But he isn't the head of the family, and

he isn't really the Duca di Crinola. He is called so, of course. But

he isn't the head of the family. George Roden is the real Duca di

Crinola. I thought there must be something special about the man when

your sister took such a fancy to him."

"I always thought there was something special about him," said

Hampstead; "otherwise I should hardly have liked him so well."

"So did I. He always seemed to be,--to me,--just one of ourselves,

you know. A fellow doesn't come out like that unless he's somebody.

You Radicals may say what you please, but silk purses don't get made

out of sow's ears. Nobody stands up for blood less than I do; but, by

George, it always shows itself. You wouldn't think Crocker was heir

to a dukedom."

"Upon my word, I don't know. I have a great respect for Crocker."

"And now what's to be done?" asked Vivian.

"How done?"

"About Di Crinola? Lord Persiflage says that he can't remain in the

Post Office."

"Why not?"

"I'm afraid he doesn't come in for much?"

"Not a shilling."

"Lord Persiflage thinks that something should be done for him. But

it is so hard. It should be done in Italy, you know. I should think

that they might make him extra Secretary of Legation, so as to leave

him here. But then they have such a small salary!" As the story of

George Roden's birth was thus known to all the Foreign Office, it was

probable that Hampstead's prophecy would be altogether fulfilled.

CHAPTER II.

TRUE TIDINGS.

The Foreign Office, from top to bottom, was very much moved on the

occasion,--and not without cause. The title of Di Crinola was quite

historic, and had existed for centuries. No Duca di Crinola,--at any

rate, no respectable Duca di Crinola,--could be in England even as

a temporary visitant without being considered as entitled to some

consideration from the Foreign Office. The existing duke of that

name, who had lately been best known, was at present a member of the

Italian Ministry. Had he come he would have been entitled to great

consideration. But he, as now appeared, was not the real Duca di

Crinola. The real duke was an Englishman,--or an Anglicized Italian,

or an Italianized Englishman. No one in the Foreign Office, not even

the most ancient pundit there, quite knew what he was. It was clear

that the Foreign Office must take some notice of the young nobleman.

But in all this was not contained more than half of the real reasons

for peculiar consideration. This Anglicized Italian Duca was known

to be engaged to the daughter of an English Marquis, to a lady who,

if not niece, was next door to being niece to the Secretary of State

for Foreign Affairs himself! Many years must have passed since an

individual had sprung into notice so interesting in many different

ways to all the body of the Foreign Office!

And this personage was a clerk in the Post Office! There had no doubt

been a feeling in the Foreign Office, if not of actual disgrace, at

any rate of mingled shame and regret, that a niece of their Secretary

of State should have engaged herself to one so low. Had he been

in the Foreign Office himself something might have been made of

him;--but a Clerk in the Post Office! The thing had been whispered

about and talked over, till there had come up an idea that Lady

Frances should be sent away on some compulsory foreign mission, so

as to be out of the pernicious young man's reach. But now it turned

out suddenly that the young man was the Duca di Crinola, and it was

evident to all of them that Lady Frances Trafford was justified in

her choice.

But what was to be done with the Duca? Rumours reached the Foreign

Office that the infatuated young nobleman intended to adhere to his

most unaristocratic position. The absurdity of a clerk of the third

class in one of the branches of the Post Office, with a salary of

a hundred and seventy a year, and sitting in the same room with

Crockers and Bobbins while he would have to be called by everybody

the Duca di Crinola, was apparent to the mind of the lowest Foreign

Office official. It couldn't be so, they said to each other.

Something must be done. If Government pay were necessary to him,

could he not be transformed by a leap into the Elysium of their own

department, where he might serve with some especial name invented for

the occasion? Then there arose questions which no man could answer.

Were he to be introduced into this new-fangled office proposed for

him, would he come in as an Englishman or an Italian; and if as an

Englishman, was it in accordance with received rules of etiquette

that he should be called Duca di Crinola? Would it be possible in

so special a case to get special permission from the Crown; or if

not, could he be appointed to the Foreign Office as a foreigner? The

special permission, though it was surrounded by so many difficulties,

yet seemed to be easier and less monstrous than this latter

suggestion. They understood that though he could not well be

dismissed from the office which he already held, it might be

difficult to appoint a foreign nobleman to the performance of duties

which certainly required more than ordinary British tendencies. In

this way the mind of the Foreign Office was moved, and the coming of

the young duke was awaited with considerable anxiety.

The news went beyond the Foreign Office. Whether it was that the

Secretary of State himself told the story to the ladies of his

household, or that it reached them through private secretaries, it

was certainly the case that Lady Persiflage was enabled to write a

very interesting letter to her sister, and that Lady Amaldina took

the occasion of congratulating her cousin and of informing her lover.

Lady Kingsbury, when she received the news, was still engaged in

pointing out to her husband the iniquity of his elder children in

having admitted the visit of Mr. Roden to Hendon Hall. This, she

persisted in saying, had been done in direct opposition to most

solemn promises made by all the parties concerned. The Marquis at

the time had recovered somewhat of his strength, in consequence, as

was said among the household, of the removal of Mr. Greenwood into

Shrewsbury. And the Marchioness took advantage of this improved

condition on the part of her husband to make him sensible of the

abominable iniquity of which the young persons had been guilty.

The visit had occurred two months since, but the iniquity to Lady

Kingsbury's thinking still demanded express condemnation and, if

possible, punishment. "A direct and premeditated falsehood on the

part of them all!" said Lady Kingsbury, standing over her husband,

who was recumbent on the sofa in his own room.

"No; it wasn't," said the Marquis, who found it easier to deny the

whole charge than to attempt in his weakness to divide the guilt.

"My dear! When she was allowed to go to Hendon Hall, was it not done

on a sacred pledge that she should not see that horrid man? Did not

Hampstead repeat the promise to my own ears?"

"How could he help his coming? I wish you wouldn't trouble me about

it any more."

"Then I suppose that she is to have your leave to marry the man

whenever she chooses!"

Then he roused himself with whatever strength he possessed, and

begged her to leave him. With much indignation she stalked out of the

room, and going to her apartments found the following letter, which

had just arrived from her sister;--

MY DEAR CLARA,--

As you are down in the country, I suppose the news about

Fanny's "young man" has not yet reached you.

Fanny's young man! Had Fanny been the housemaid, it was thus that

they might have spoken of her lover. Could it be that "Fanny and her

young man" had already got themselves married? Lady Kingsbury, when

she read this, almost let the letter drop from her hand, so much was

she disgusted by the manner in which her sister spoke of this most

unfortunate affair.

I heard something of it only yesterday, and the rest of

the details to-day. As it has come through the Foreign

Office you may be quite sure that it is true, though it

is so wonderful. The young man is not George Roden at all,

nor is he an Englishman. He is an Italian, and his proper

name and title is Duca di Crinola.

Again Lady Kingsbury allowed the letter almost to drop; but on this

occasion with feelings of a very different nature. What! not George

Roden! Not a miserable clerk in the English Post Office! Duca di

Crinola;--a title of which she thought that she remembered to have

heard as belonging to some peculiarly ancient family! It was not to

be believed. And yet it came from her sister, who was usually correct

in all such matters;--and came also from the Foreign Office, which

she regarded as the one really trustworthy source of information as

to foreign matters of an aristocratic nature. "Duca di Crinola!" she

said to herself, as she went on with the reading of her letter.

There is a long story of the marriage of his mother which

I do not quite understand as yet, but it is not necessary

to the facts of the case. The young man has been

recognized in his own country as entitled to all the

honours of his family, and must be received so by us.

Persiflage says that he will be ready to present him at

Court on his return as Duca di Crinola, and will ask him

at once to dine in Belgrave Square. It is a most romantic

story, but must be regarded by you and me as being very

fortunate, as dear Fanny had certainly set her heart upon

marrying the man. I am told that he inherits nothing but

the bare title. Some foreign noblemen are, you know, very

poor; and in this case the father, who was a "_mauvais

sujet_," contrived to destroy whatever rights of property

he had. Lord Kingsbury probably will be able to do

something for him. Perhaps he may succeed in getting

official employment suited to his rank. At any rate we

must all of us make the best of him for Fanny's sake. It

will be better to have a Duca di Crinola among us, even

though he should not have a shilling, than a Post Office

clerk with two or three hundred a year.

I asked Persiflage to write to Lord Kingsbury; but he

tells me that I must do it all, because he is so busy.

Were my brother-in-law well enough I think he should come

up to town to make inquiry himself and to see the young

man. If he cannot do so, he had better get Hampstead

to take him down to Trafford. Hampstead and this young

Duchino are luckily bosom friends. It tells well for

Hampstead that, after all, he did not go so low for his

associates as you thought he did. Amaldina intends to

write to Fanny to congratulate her.

Your affectionate sister,

GERALDINE PERSIFLAGE.

Duca di Crinola! She could not quite believe it;--and yet she did

believe it. Nor could she be quite sure as to herself whether she was

happy in believing it or the reverse. It had been terrible to her to

think that she should have to endure the name of being stepmother to

a clerk in the Post Office. It would not be at all terrible to her

to be stepmother to a Duca di Crinola, even though the stepson would

have no property of his own. That little misfortune would, as far as

the feelings of society went, be swallowed up amidst the attributes

of rank. Nothing would sound better than Duchessa or Duchessina!

And, moreover, it would be all true! This was no paltry title which

might be false, or might have been picked up, any how, the other

day. All the world would know that the Italian Duke was the lineal

representative of a magnificent family to whom this identical rank

had belonged for many years. There were strong reasons for taking the

young Duke and the young Duchess to her heart at once.

But then there were other reasons why she should not wish it to be

true. In the first place she hated them both. Let the man be Duca di

Crinola as much as he might, he would still have been a Post Office

clerk, and Lady Frances would have admitted his courtship having

believed him at the time to have been no more than a Post Office

clerk. The sin would have been not the less abominable in the choice

of her lover, although it might be expedient that the sin should be

forgiven. And then the girl had insulted her, and there had been that

between them which would prevent the possibility of future love; and

would it not be hard upon her darlings if it should become necessary

to carve out from the family property a permanent income for this

Italian nobleman, and for a generation of Italian noblemen to come;

and then what a triumph would this be for Hampstead, who, of all

human beings, was the most distasteful to her.

But upon the whole she thought it would be best to accept the Duca.

She must, indeed, accept him. Nothing that she could do would restore

the young man to his humble desk and humble name. Nor would the

Marquis be actuated by any prayer of hers in reference to the carving

of the property. It would be better for her to accept the young Duke

and the young Duchess, and make the best of them. If only the story

should at last be shown to be true!

The duty was imposed on her of communicating the story to the

Marquis; but before she did so she was surprised by a visit from

Mr. Greenwood. Mr. Roberts had used no more than the violence of

argument, and Mr. Greenwood had been induced to take himself to

Shrewsbury on the day named for his departure. If he went he would

have £200 a year from the Marquis,--and £100 would be added by Lord

Hampstead, of which the Marquis need not know anything. Unless he

went on the day fixed that £100 would not be added. A good deal was

said on either side, but he went. The Marquis had refused to see him.

The Marchioness had bade him adieu in a most formal manner,--in a

manner quite unbecoming those familiar suggestions which, he thought,

had been made to him as to a specially desirable event. But he had

gone, and as he went he told himself that circumstances might yet

occur in the family which might be of use to him. He, too, had heard

the great family news,--perhaps through some under-satellite of the

Foreign Office, and he came with the idea that he would be the first

to make it known at Trafford Park.

He would have asked for the Marquis, but he knew that the Marquis

would not receive him. Lady Kingsbury consented to see him, and he

was ushered up to the room to which he had so often made his way

without any asking. "I hope you are well, Mr. Greenwood," she said.

"Are you still staying in the neighbourhood?" It was, however, well

known at Trafford that he was at Shrewsbury.

"Yes, Lady Kingsbury. I have not gone from the neighbourhood. I

thought that perhaps you might want to see me again."

"I don't know that we need trouble you, Mr. Greenwood."

"I have come with some news respecting the family." As he said this

he managed to assume the old look, and stood as though he had never

moved from the place since he had last been in the room.

"Do sit down, Mr. Greenwood. What news?"

"Mr. George Roden, the clerk in the Post Office--"

But she was not going to have the tidings repeated to her by him, so

as to give him any claim to gratitude for having brought them. "You

mean the Duca di Crinola!"

"Oh," exclaimed Mr. Greenwood.

"I have heard all that, Mr. Greenwood."

"That the Post Office clerk is an Italian nobleman?"

"It suited the Italian nobleman for a time to be a Post Office clerk.

That is what you mean."

"And Lady Frances is to be allowed--"