"Oh! Not to discuss her ladyship!"
"Surely you must be aware how angry the Marquis has been about it."
"Oh!" He had not seated himself, nor divested himself of that
inquisitorial appearance which was so distasteful to her. "We used to
discuss Lady Frances sometimes, Lady Kingsbury."
"I will not discuss her now. Let that be enough, Mr. Greenwood."
"Nor yet Lord Hampstead."
"Nor yet Lord Hampstead. I think it very wrong of you to come after
all that took place. If the Marquis knew it--"
Oh! If the Marquis knew it! If the Marquis knew all, and if other
people knew all! If it were known how often her ladyship had spoken,
and how loud, as to the wished-for removal to a better world of his
lordship's eldest son! But he could not dare to speak it out. And yet
it was cruel on him! He had for some days felt her ladyship to be
under his thumb, and now it seemed that she had escaped from him.
"Oh! very well, Lady Kingsbury. Perhaps I had better go,--just for
the present." And he went.
This served, at least, for corroboration. She did not dare to keep
the secret long from her husband, and therefore, in the course of
the evening, went down with her sister's letter in her hand. "What!"
said the Marquis, when the story had been read to him. "What! Duca di
Crinola."
"There can't be a doubt about it, my dear."
"And he a clerk in the Post Office?"
"He isn't a clerk in the Post Office now."
"I don't quite see what he will be then. It appears that he has
inherited nothing."
"My sister says nothing."
"Then what's the good of his title. There is nothing so pernicious
in the world as a pauper aristocracy. A clerk in the Post Office is
entitled to have a wife, but a poor nobleman should at any rate let
his poverty die with himself."
This was a view of the case which had not hitherto presented itself
to Lady Kingsbury. When she suggested to him that the young nobleman
should be asked down to Trafford, he did not seem to see that it
was at all necessary. It would be much better that Fanny should
come back. The young nobleman would, he supposed, live in his own
country;--unless, indeed, the whole tale was a cock-and-bull story
made up by Persiflage at the Foreign Office. It was just the sort of
thing, he said, that Persiflage would do. He had said not a word as
to carving an income out of the property for the young noble couple
when she left him.
CHAPTER III.
ALL THE WORLD KNOWS IT.
The story was in truth all over London and half over England by
the time that Lady Frances had returned to Hendon Hall. Though
Vivian had made a Foreign Office secret of the affair at Gorse Hall,
nevertheless it had been so commonly talked about during the last
Sunday there, that Hautboy had told it all to poor Walker and to the
Walker ladies. "By Jove, fancy!" Hautboy had said, "to go at once
from a Post Office clerk to a duke! It's like some of those stories
where a man goes to bed as a beggar and gets up as a prince. I wonder
whether he likes it." Hampstead had of course discussed the matter
very freely with his sister, still expressing an opinion that a man
could not do other than take his father's name and his father's
title. Lady Frances having thus become used to the subject was not
surprised to find the following letter from her friend Lady Amaldina
when she reached her home:--
MY DEAREST FANNY,--
I am indeed _delighted_ to be able to congratulate you on
the wonderful and _most romantic_ story which has just
been made known to us. I was never one of those who blamed
you _very much_ because you had given your affections to
a man _so much below_ you in rank. Nevertheless, we all
could not but feel that it was a pity that he should be
_a Post Office clerk!_ Now, indeed, you have reason to be
proud! I have already read up the subject, and I find that
the Ducas di Crinola are supposed to have _the very best
blood_ in Europe. There can be no doubt that one of the
family married a _Bourbon_ before they came to the French
throne. I could send you all the details, only I do not
doubt that you have found it out for yourself already.
Another married _a second cousin of that Maximilian who
married Mary of Burgundy_. One of the ladies of the family
is supposed to have been the wife of the younger brother
of one of the Guises, though it isn't _quite_ certain
whether they were ever married. But that little blot,
my dear, will hardly affect _you_ now. Taking the name
altogether, I don't think there is anything higher in
all Europe. Papa says that the Di Crinolas have always
been doing something in Italy in the way of politics, or
rebellion, or fighting. So it isn't as though they were
all washed out and no longer of any account, like some of
those we read of in history. Therefore I _do_ think that
you must be a _very happy girl_.
I do feel _so completely snuffed out_, because, after all,
the title of Merioneth was only conferred in the time
of _Charles the Second_. And though there _was_ a Lord
Llwddythlw before that, even he was only created by
_James the First_. The Powells no doubt are a very old
Welsh family, and it is supposed that there was some
relationship between them and the Tudors. But what is that
to be compared to the _mediæval honours_ of the _great
House of Di Crinola?_
Papa seems to think that he will not have _much_ fortune.
I am one of those who do not think that a large income is
at all to be compared to good birth in the way of giving
_real position_ in the world. Of course the Duke's estates
are supposed to be _enormous_, and Llwddythlw, _even as an
eldest son_, is a rich man; but as far as I can see there
is nothing but trouble comes from it. If he has anything
to do with a provincial town in the way of _rents_ he is
expected to lay the _first brick_ of every church and
institute about the place. If anything has to be _opened_
he has to _open_ it; and he is never allowed to eat his
dinner without having to make _two or three speeches
before and afterwards_. That's what I call a _great bore_.
As far as I can see you will be always able to have your
duke with you, because he will have no abominable public
duties to look after.
I suppose something will have to be _done_ as to an
_income_. Llwddythlw seems to think that he ought to get
into Parliament. At least that is what he said to papa
the other day; for I have not seen him myself for ever so
long. He calls in the Square every Sunday just as we have
done lunch, and never remains _above two minutes_. Last
Sunday we had not heard of this _glorious_ news; but papa
did see him one day at the House, and that was what he
said. I don't see how he is to get into the House _if he
is an Italian Duke_, and I don't know _what_ he'd get by
going there. Papa says that he might be employed in some
_diplomatic_ position by his own Government; but I should
think that the Marquis could do _something for him_ as he
has _so much_ at his own disposition. Every acre of the
Merioneth property is settled upon,--well,--whoever may
happen to be the next heir. There will sure to be an
income. There always is. Papa says that the young dukes
are always as well off, at any rate, as the young ravens.
But, as I said before, what does all this signify in
comparison with BLOOD. It does make your position, my
dear, _quite another thing_ from what we had expected.
You would have kept your title no doubt; but _where_
would _he_ have been?
I wonder whether you will be married now before August. I
suppose not, because it doesn't seem to be quite certain
when that _wicked papa_ of his died; but I do hope that
you won't. A day at last has been fixed for us;--the 20th
of August, when, as I told you before, Lord David is to
run away _instantly_ after the ceremony so as to travel
all night and _open something_ the next morning at
_Aberdeen_. I mention it now, because you will be _by far_
the most _remarkable_ of all my bevy of twenty. Of course
your name will have been in the papers before that as
_the_ future Italian _Duchess_. That I own will be to me
a just cause of pride. I think I have got my bevy all
fixed at last, and I do _hope_ that none of them will get
married before _my_ day. That has happened _so often_ as
to be quite _heart-breaking_. I shall cry if I find that
_you_ are to be married _first_.
Believe me to be
Your most affectionate friend and cousin,
AMALDINA.
She wrote also to her future husband on the same subject;--
DEAREST LLWDDYTHLW,--
It was very _good_ of you to come last Sunday, but I wish
you hadn't gone away just because the Graiseburys were
there. They would not have _eaten_ you, though he is a
Liberal.
I have written to Fanny Trafford to congratulate her;
because you know it is after all better than being a mere
_Post Office clerk_. That was terrible;--so bad that one
hardly knew how to mention her name in society! When
people talked about it, I really _did feel_ that I blushed
all over. One can mention her name now because people
are not _supposed_ to know that he has got nothing.
Nevertheless, it is very dreadful. _What on earth are
they to live on?_ I have told her about the young ravens.
It was papa who said that when he first heard of this
Di Crinola affair. I suppose a girl _ought to trust in
Providence_ when she marries a man without a shilling.
That was what papa meant.
Papa says that you said that he ought to go into
Parliament. But what would he _get_ by that? Perhaps
as he is in the Post Office they might make him
_Postmaster-General_. Only papa says that if he were to go
into Parliament, then he could not call himself Duca di
Crinola. Altogether it seems to be _very sad_,--though not
_quite_ so sad as before. It is true that one of the Di
Crinolas married a _Bourbon_, and that others of them have
married ever so many _royalties_. I think there ought to
be a law for giving such people something to live upon
_out of the taxes_. How are they to be _expected_ to live
upon nothing? I asked papa whether he couldn't get it
done; but he said it would be a _money bill_, and that
_you_ ought to take it up. Pray don't, for fear it should
take you _all August_. I know you wouldn't have a scruple
about putting off your own little affair, if anything of
that kind _were_ to come in the way. _I believe you'd like
it._
_Do_ stop a little longer when you come on Sunday. I have
_ever so many_ things to say to you. And if you can think
of anything to be done for those _poor_ Di Crinolas,
anything that won't take up _all_ August,--pray do it.
Your own,
AMY.
One more letter shall be given; the answer, namely, to the above from
the lover to his future bride;--
DEAR AMY,--
I'll be at the Square on Sunday by three. I will walk out
if you like, but it is always raining. I have to meet five
or six conservative members later on in the afternoon as
to the best thing to be done as to Mr. Green's Bill for
lighting London by electricity. It would suit everybody;
but some of our party, I am afraid, would go with them,
and the Government is very shilly-shally. I have been
going into the figures, and it has taken me all the week.
Otherwise I would have been to see you.
This Di Crinola affair is quite a romance. I did not mean
that he ought to go into the House by way of getting an
income. If he takes up the title of course he could not do
so. If he takes it, he must regard himself as an Italian.
I should think him quite as respectable, earning his
bread as a clerk in a public office. They tell me he's a
high-spirited fellow. If he is, that is what he will do.
Yours affectionately,
LLWDDYTHLW.
When Lord Persiflage spoke of the matter to Baron d'Ossi, the Italian
Minister in London, the Baron quite acknowledged the position of the
young Duca, and seemed to think that very little could be wanting to
the making of the young man's fortune. "Ah, yes, your Excellency,"
said the Baron. "He has no great estates. Here in England you all
have great estates. It is very nice to have great estates. But he has
an uncle who is a great man in Rome. And he will have a wife whose
uncle is a very great man in London. What more should he want?" Then
the Baron bowed to the Minister of State, and the Minister of State
bowed to the Baron.
But the surprise expressed and the consternation felt at the Post
Office almost exceeded the feelings excited at the Foreign Office or
among Lady Fanny's family and friends. Dukes and Ministers, Barons
and Princes, are terms familiar to the frequenters of the Foreign
Office. Ambassadors, Secretaries, and diplomatic noblemen generally,
are necessarily common in the mouths of all the officials. But at
the Post Office such titles still carried with them something of awe.
The very fact that a man whom they had seen should be a Duke was
tremendous to the minds of Bobbin and Geraghty; and when it became
known to them that a fellow workman in their own room, one who had
in truth been no more than themselves, would henceforth be called by
so august a title, it was as though the heavens and the earth were
coming together. It affected Crocker in such a way that there was
for a time a doubt whether his senses were not temporarily leaving
him,--so that confinement would become necessary. Of course the
matter had found its way into the newspapers. It became known at the
office on the last day of February,--two days before the return of
the Rodens to London.
"Have you heard it, Mr. Jerningham?" said Crocker, rushing into the
room that morning. He was only ten minutes after the proper time,
having put himself to the expense of a cab in his impetuous desire to
be the first to convey the great news to his fellow clerks. But he
had been forestalled in his own room by the energy of Geraghty. The
condition of mind created in Mr. Jerningham's bosom by the story
told by Geraghty was of such a nature that he was unable to notice
Crocker's sin in reference to the ten minutes.
"Dchuca di Crinola!" shouted Geraghty in his broadest brogue as
Crocker came in; determined not to be done out of the honour fairly
achieved by him.
"By Jove, yes! A Duke," said Crocker. "A Duke! My own especial
friend! Hampstead will be nowhere; nowhere; nowhere! Duca di Crinola!
Isn't it beautiful? By George, I can't believe it. Can you, Mr.
Jerningham?"
"I don't know what to believe," said Mr. Jerningham. "Only he was
always a most steady, well-behaved young man, and the office will
have a great loss of him."
"I suppose the Duke won't come and see us ever," said Bobbin. "I
should like to shake hands with him once again."
"Shake hands with him," said Crocker. "I'm sure he won't drop out
like that;--my own peculiar friend! I don't think I ever was so fond
of anybody as George Ro--, the Duca di Crinola of course I mean. By
George! haven't I sat at the same table with him for the last two
years! Why, it was only a night or two before he started on this
remarkable tour that I spent an evening with him in private society
at Holloway!" Then he got up and walked about the room impetuously,
clapping his hands, altogether carried away by the warmth of his
feelings.
"I think you might as well sit down to your desk, Mr. Crocker," said
Mr. Jerningham.
"Oh, come, bother, Mr. Jerningham!"
"I will not be spoken to in that way, Mr. Crocker."
"Upon my word, I didn't mean anything, sir. But when one has heard
such news as this, how is it possible that one should compose
oneself? It's a sort of thing that never happened before,--that one's
own particular friend should turn out to be the Duca di Crinola. Did
anybody ever read anything like it in a novel? Wouldn't it act well?
Can't I see the first meeting between myself and the Duke at the
Haymarket! 'Duke,' I should say--'Duke, I congratulate you on having
come to your august family title, to which no one living could do so
much honour as yourself.' Bancroft should do me. Bancroft would do me
to the life, and the piece should be called the _Duke's Friend_. I
suppose we shall call him Duke here in England, and Duca if we happen
to be in Italy together; eh, Mr. Jerningham?"
"You had better sit down, Mr. Crocker, and try to do your work."
"I can't;--upon my word I can't. The emotion is too much for me.
I couldn't do it if Æolus were here himself. By the way, I wonder
whether Sir Boreas has heard the news." Then he rushed off, and
absolutely made his way into the room of the great potentate.
"Yes, Mr. Crocker," said Sir Boreas, "I have heard it. I read the
newspapers, no doubt, as well as you do."
"But it's true, Sir Boreas?"
"I heard it spoken of two or three days ago, Mr. Crocker, and I
believe it to be true."
"He was my friend, Sir Boreas; my particular friend. Isn't it a
wonderful thing,--that one's particular friend should turn out to
be Duca di Crinola! And he didn't know a word of it himself. I feel
quite sure that he didn't know a word of it."
"I really can't say, Mr. Crocker; but as you have now expressed your
wonder, perhaps you had better go back to your room and do your
work."
"He pretends he knew it three days ago!" said Crocker, as he returned
to his room. "I don't believe a word of it. He'd have written to me
had it been known so long ago as that. I suppose he had too many
things to think of, or he would have written to me."
"Go aisy, Crocker," said Geraghty.
"What do you mean by that? It's just the thing he would have done."
"I don't believe he ever wrote to you in his life," said Bobbin.
"You don't know anything about it. We were here together two years
before you came into the office. Mr. Jerningham knows that we were
always friends. Good heavens! Duca di Crinola! I tell you what it is,
Mr. Jerningham. If it were ever so, I couldn't do anything to-day.
You must let me go. There are mutual friends of ours to whom it is
quite essential that I should talk it over." Then he took his hat and
marched off to Holloway, and would have told the news to Miss Clara
Demijohn had he succeeded in finding that young lady at home. Clara
was at that moment discussing with Mrs. Duffer the wonderful fact
that Mr. Walker and not Lord Hampstead had been kicked and trodden to
pieces at Gimberley Green.
But even Æolus, great as he was, expressed himself with some surprise
that afternoon to Mr. Jerningham as to the singular fortune which
had befallen George Roden. "I believe it to be quite true, Mr.
Jerningham. These wonderful things do happen sometimes."
"He won't stay with us, Sir Boreas, I suppose?"
"Not if he is Duca di Crinola. I don't think we could get on with a
real duke. I don't know how it will turn out. If he chooses to remain
an Englishman he can't take the title. If he chooses to take the
title he must be an Italian, then he'll have nothing to live on. My
belief is we shan't see him any more. I wish it had been Crocker with
all my heart."
CHAPTER IV.
"IT SHALL BE DONE."
Lord Hampstead has been left standing for a long time in Marion
Fay's sitting-room after the perpetration of his great offence, and
Mrs. Roden has been standing there also, having come to the house
almost immediately after her return home from her Italian journey.
Hampstead, of course, knew most of the details of the Di Crinola
romance, but Marion had as yet heard nothing of it. There had been
so much for him to say to her during the interview which had been so
wretchedly interrupted by his violence that he had found no time to
mention to her the name either of Roden or of Di Crinola.
"You have done that which makes me ashamed of myself." These had been
Marion's last words as Mrs. Roden entered the room. "I didn't know
Lord Hampstead was here," said Mrs. Roden.
"Oh, Mrs. Roden, I'm so glad you are come," exclaimed Marion. This
of course was taken by the lady as a kindly expression of joy that
she should have returned from her journey; whereas to Hampstead
it conveyed an idea that Marion was congratulating herself that
protection had come to her from further violence on his part. Poor
Marion herself hardly knew her own meaning,--hardly had any. She
could not even tell herself that she was angry with her lover. It was
probable that the very ecstacy of his love added fuel to hers. If
a lover so placed as were this lover,--a lover who had come to her
asking her to be his wife, and who had been received with the warmest
assurance of her own affection for him,--if he were not justified in
taking her in his arms and kissing her, when might a lover do so?
The ways of the world were known to her well enough to make her feel
that it was so, even in that moment of her perturbation. Angry with
him! How could she be angry with him? He had asked her, and she had
declared to him that she was not angry. Nevertheless she had been
quite in earnest when she had said that now,--after the thing that he
had done,--he must "never, never come to her again."
She was not angry with him, but with herself she was angry. At
the moment, when she was in his arms, she bethought herself how
impossible had been the conditions she had imposed upon him. That he
should be assured of her love, and yet not allowed to approach her
as a lover! That he should be allowed to come there in order that
she might be delighted in looking at him, in hearing his voice, in
knowing and feeling that she was dear to him; but that he should be
kept at arm's length because she had determined that she should not
become his wife! That they should love each other dearly; but each
with a different idea of love! It was her fault that he should be
there in her presence at all. She had told herself that it was her
duty to sacrifice herself, but she had only half carried out her
duty. Should she not have kept her love to herself,--so that he might
have left her, as he certainly would have done had she behaved to
him coldly, and as her duty had required of her. She had longed
for some sweetness which would be sweet to her though only a vain
encouragement to him. She had painted for her own eyes a foolish
picture, had dreamed a silly dream. She had fancied that for the
little of life that was left to her she might have been allowed the
delight of loving, and had been vain enough to think that her lover
might be true to her and yet not suffer himself! Her sacrifice had
been altogether imperfect. With herself she was angry,--not with him.
Angry with him, whose very footfall was music to her ears! Angry with
him, whose smile to her was as a light specially sent from heaven for
her behoof! Angry with him, the very energy of whose passion thrilled
her with a sense of intoxicating joy! Angry with him because she had
been enabled for once,--only for once,--to feel the glory of her
life, to be encircled in the warmth of his arms, to become conscious
of the majesty of his strength! No,--she was not angry. But he must
be made to understand,--he must be taught to acknowledge,--that he
must never, never come to her again. The mind can conceive a joy so
exquisite that for the enjoyment of it, though it may last but for a
moment, the tranquillity, even the happiness, of years may be given
in exchange. It must be so with her. It had been her own doing, and
if the exchange were a bad one, she must put up with the bargain. He
must never come again. Then Mrs. Roden had entered the room, and she
was forced to utter whatever word of welcome might first come to her
tongue.
"Yes," said Hampstead, trying to smile, as though nothing had
happened which called for special seriousness of manner, "I am here.
I am here, and hope to be here often and often till I shall have
succeeded in taking our Marion to another home."
"No," said Marion faintly, uttering her little protest ever so
gently.
"You are very constant, my lord," said Mrs. Roden.
"I suppose a man is constant to what he really loves best. But what
a history you have brought back with you, Mrs. Roden! I do not know
whether I am to call you Mrs. Roden."
"Certainly, my lord, you are to call me so."
"What does it mean?" asked Marion.
"You have not heard," he said. "I have not been here time enough to
tell her all this, Mrs. Roden."
"You know it then, Lord Hampstead?"
"Yes, I know it;--though Roden has not condescended to write me a
line. What are we to call him?" To this Mrs. Roden made no answer
on the spur of the moment. "Of course he has written to Fanny, and
all the world knows it. It seems to have reached the Foreign Office
first, and to have been sent down from thence to my people at
Trafford. I suppose there isn't a club in London at which it has not
been repeated a hundred times that George Roden is not George Roden."
"Not George Roden?" asked Marion.
"No, dearest. You will show yourself terribly ignorant if you call
him so."
"What is he then, my lord?"
"Marion!"
"I beg your pardon. I will not do it again this time. But what is
he?"
"He is the Duca di Crinola."
"Duke!" said Marion.
"That's what he is, Marion."
"Have they made him that over there?"
"Somebody made one of his ancestors that ever so many hundred years
ago, when the Traffords were--; well, I don't know what the Traffords
were doing then;--fighting somewhere, I suppose, for whatever they
could get. He means to take the title, I suppose?"
"He says not, my lord."
"He should do so."
"I think so too, Lord Hampstead. He is obstinate, you know; but,
perhaps, he may consent to listen to some friend here. You will tell
him."
"He had better ask others better able than I am to explain all the
ins and outs of his position. He had better go to the Foreign Office
and see my uncle. Where is he now?"
"He has gone to the Post Office. We reached home about noon, and he
went at once. It was late yesterday when we reached Folkestone, and
he let me stay there for the night."
"Has he always signed the old name?" asked Hampstead.
"Oh yes. I think he will not give it up."
"Nor his office?"
"Nor his office. As he says himself, what else will he have to live
on?"
"My father might do something." Mrs. Roden shook her head. "My sister
will have money, though it may probably be insufficient to furnish
such an income as they will want."
"He would never live in idleness upon her money, my lord. Indeed I
think I may say that he has quite resolved to drop the title as idle
lumber. You perhaps know that he is not easily persuaded."
"The most obstinate fellow I ever knew in my life," said Hampstead,
laughing. "And he has talked my sister over to his own views." Then
he turned suddenly round to Marion, and asked her a question. "Shall
I go now, dearest?" he said.
She had already told him to go,--to go, and never to return to her.
But the question was put to her in such a manner that were she simply
to assent to his going, she would, by doing so, assent also to his
returning. For the sake of her duty to him, in order that she might
carry out that self-sacrifice in the performance of which she would
now be so resolute, it was necessary that he should in truth be made
to understand that he was not to come back to her. But how was this
to be done while Mrs. Roden was present with them? Had he not been
there then she could have asked her friend to help her in her great
resolution. But before the two she could say nothing of that which
it was in her heart to say to both of them. "If it pleases you, my
lord," she said.
"I will not be 'my lord.' Here is Roden, who is a real duke, and
whose ancestors have been dukes since long before Noah, and he is
allowed to be called just what he pleases, and I am to have no voice
in it with my own particular and dearest friends! Nevertheless I will
go, and if I don't come to-day, or the day after, I will write you
the prettiest little love-letter I can invent."
"Don't," she said;--oh so weakly, so vainly;--in a manner so utterly
void of that intense meaning which she was anxious to throw into her
words. She was conscious of her own weakness, and acknowledged to
herself that there must be another interview, or at any rate a letter
written on each side, before he could be made to understand her own
purpose. If it must be done by a letter, how great would be the
struggle to her in explaining herself. But perhaps even that might
be easier than the task of telling him all that she would have to
tell, while he was standing by, impetuous, impatient, perhaps almost
violent, assuring her of his love, and attempting to retain her by
the pressure of his hand.
"But I shall," he said, as he held her now for a moment. "I am not
quite sure whether I may not have to go to Trafford; and if so there
shall be the love-letter. I feel conscious, Mrs. Roden, of being
incapable of writing a proper love-letter. 'Dearest Marion, I am
yours, and you are mine. Always believe me ever thine.' I don't know
how to go beyond that. When a man is married, and can write about
the children, or the leg of mutton, or what's to be done with his
hunters, then I dare say it becomes easy. Good-bye dearest. Good-bye,
Mrs. Roden. I wish I could keep on calling you Duchess in revenge for
all the 'my lordings.'" Then he left them.
There was a feeling in the mind of both of them that he had conducted
himself just as a man would do who was in a high good-humour at
having been permanently accepted by the girl to whom he had offered
his hand. Marion Fay knew that it was not so;--knew that it never
could be so. Mrs. Roden knew that it had not been so when she had
left home, now nearly two months since; and knew also that Marion had
pledged herself that it should not be so. The young lord then had
been too strong with his love. A feeling of regret came over her as
she remembered that the reasons against such a marriage were still
as strong as ever. But yet how natural that it should be so! Was
it possible that such a lover as Lord Hampstead should not succeed
in his love if he were constant to it himself? Sorrow must come of
it,--perhaps a tragedy so bitter that she could hardly bring herself
to think of it. And Marion had been so firm in her resolve that it
should not be so. But yet it was natural, and she could not bring
herself to express to the girl either anger or disappointment. "Is it
to be?" she said, putting on her sweetest smile.
"No!" said Marion, standing up suddenly,--by no means smiling as she
spoke! "It is not to be. Why do you look at me like that, Mrs. Roden?
Did I not tell you before you went that it should never be so?"
"But he treats you as though he were engaged to you?"
"How can I help it? What can I do to prevent it? When I bid him go,
he still comes back again, and when I tell him that I can never be
his wife he will not believe me. He knows that I love him."
"You have told him that?"
"Told him! He wanted no telling. Of course he knew it. Love him! Oh,
Mrs. Roden, if I could die for him, and so have done with it! And
yet I would not wish to leave my dear father. What am I to do, Mrs.
Roden?"
"But it seemed to me just now that you were so happy with him."
"I am never happy with him;--but yet I am as though I were in
heaven."
"Marion!"
"I am never happy. I know that it cannot be, that it will not be, as
he would have it. I know that I am letting him waste his sweetness
all in vain. There should be some one else, oh, so different from me!
There should be one like himself, beautiful, strong in health, with
hot eager blood in her veins, with a grand name, with grand eyes and
a broad brow and a noble figure, one who, in taking his name, will
give him as much as she takes--one, above all, who will not pine and
fade before his eyes, and trouble him during her short life with
sickness and doctors and all the fading hopes of a hopeless invalid.
And yet I let him come, and I have told him how dearly I love him. He
comes and he sees it in my eyes. And then it is so glorious, to be
loved as he loves. Oh, Mrs. Roden, he kissed me." That to Mrs. Roden
did not seem to be extraordinary; but, not knowing what to say to it
at the moment, she also kissed the girl. "Then I told him that he
must go, and never come back to me again."
"Were you angry with him?"
"Angry with him! With myself I was angry. I had given him the
right to do it. How could I be angry with him? And what does it
matter;--except for his sake? If he could only understand! If he
would only know that I am in earnest when I speak to him! But I am
weak in everything except one thing. He will never make me say that
I will be his wife."
"My Marion! Dear Marion!"
"But father wishes it."
"Wishes you to become his wife?"
"He wishes it. Why should I not be like any other girl, he says.
How can I tell him? How can I say that I am not like to other girls
because of my darling, my own dearest mother? And yet he does not
know it. He does not see it, though he has seen so much. He will not
see it till I am there, on my bed, unable to come to him when he
wants me."
"There is nothing now to show him or me that you may not live to be
old as he is."
"I shall not live to be old. You know that I shall not live to be
more than young. Have any of them lived? For my father,--for my dear
father,--he must find it out for himself. I have sometimes thought
that even yet I might last his time--that I might be with him to the
end. It might be so,--only that all this tortures me."
"Shall I tell him;--shall I tell Lord Hampstead?"
"He must at any rate be told. He is not bound to me as my father is.
For him there need be no great sorrow." At this Mrs. Roden shook her
head. "Must it be so?"
"If he is banished from your presence he will not bear it lightly."
"Will a young man love me like that;--a young man who has so much in
the world to occupy him? He has his ship, and his hounds, and his
friends, and his great wealth. It is only girls, I think, who love
like that."
"He must bear his sorrow as others do."
"But it shall be made as light as I can make it,--shall it not? I
should have done this before. I should have done it sooner. Had he
been made to go away at once, then he would not have suffered. Why
would he not go when I told him? Why would he not believe me when
I spoke to him? I should have heard all his words and never have
answered him even with a smile. I should not have trembled when he
told me that I was there, at his hearth, as a friend. But who thought
then, Mrs. Roden, that this young nobleman would have really cared
for the Quaker girl?"
"I saw it, Marion."
"Could you see just by looking at him that he was so different from
others? Are his truth, and his loving heart, and his high honour, and
his pure honesty, all written in his eyes,--to you as they are to
me? But, Mrs. Roden, there shall be an end of it! Though it may kill
me,--though it may for a little time half-break his heart,--it shall
be done! Oh, that his dear heart should be half-broken for me! I will
think of it, Mrs. Roden, to-night. If writing may do it, perhaps
I may write. Or, perhaps, I may say a word that he will at least
understand. If not you shall tell him. But, Mrs. Roden, it shall be
done!"
CHAPTER V.
MARION WILL CERTAINLY HAVE HER WAY.
On the day but one following there came a letter to Marion from
Hampstead,--the love-letter which he had promised her;--
DEAR MARION--
It is as I supposed. This affair about Roden has stirred
them up down at Trafford amazingly. My father wants me to
go to him. You know all about my sister. I suppose she
will have her way now. I think the girls always do have
their way. She will be left alone, and I have told her to
go and see you as soon as I have gone. You should tell her
that she ought to make him call himself by his father's
proper name.
In my case, dearest, it is not the girl that is to have
her own way. It's the young man that is to do just as he
pleases. My girl, my own one, my love, my treasure, think
of it all, and ask yourself whether it is in your heart to
refuse to bid me be happy. Were it not for all that you
have said yourself I should not be vain enough to be happy
at this moment, as I am. But you have told me that you
love me. Ask your father, and he will tell you that, as it
is so, it is your duty to promise to be my wife.
I may be away for a day or two,--perhaps for a week. Write
to me at Trafford,--Trafford Park, Shrewsbury,--and say
that it shall be so. I sometimes think that you do not
understand how absolutely my heart is set upon you,--so
that no pleasures are pleasant to me, no employments
useful, except in so far as I can make them so by thinking
of your love.
Dearest, dearest Marion,
Your own,
HAMPSTEAD.
Remember there must not be a word about a lord inside the
envelope. It is very bad to me when it comes from Mrs.
Roden, or from a friend such as she is; but it simply
excruciates me from you. It seems to imply that you are
determined to regard me as a stranger.
She read the letter a dozen times, pressing it to her lips and to
her bosom. She might do that at least. He would never know how she
treated this only letter that she ever had received from him, the
only letter that she would receive. These caresses were only such as
those which came from her heart, to relieve her solitude. It might be
absurd in her to think of the words he had spoken, and to kiss the
lines which he had written. Were she now on her deathbed that would
be permitted to her. Wherever she might lay her head till the last
day should come that letter should be always within her reach. "My
girl, my own one, my love, my treasure!" How long would it last with
him? Was it not her duty to hope that the words were silly words,
written as young men do write, having no eagerness of purpose,--just
playing with the toy of the moment? Could it be that she should wish
them to be true, knowing, as she did, that his girl, his love, his
treasure, as he called her, could never be given up to him? And yet
she did believe them to be true, knew them to be true, and took
an exceeding joy in the assurance. It was as though the beauty
and excellence of their truth atoned to her for all else that was
troublous to her in the condition of her life. She had not lived in
vain. Her life now could never be a vain and empty space of time,
as it had been consecrated and ennobled and blessed by such a love
as this. And yet she must make the suffering to him as light as
possible. Though there might be an ecstasy of joy to her in knowing
that she was loved, there could be nothing akin to that in him. He
wanted his treasure, and she could only tell him that he might never
have it. "Think of it all, and ask yourself whether it is in your
heart to refuse to bid me be happy." It was in her heart to do it.
Though it might break her heart she would do it. It was the one thing
to do which was her paramount duty. "You have told me that you love
me." Truly she had told him so, and certainly she would never recall
her words. If he ever thought of her in future years when she should
long have been at her rest,--and she thought that now and again he
would think of her, even when that noble bride should be sitting at
his table,--he should always remember that she had given him her
whole heart. He had bade her write to him at Trafford. She would obey
him at once in that; but she would tell him that she could not obey
him in aught else. "Tell me that it shall be so," he had said to her
with his sweet, imperious, manly words. There had been something of
command about him always, which had helped to make him so perfect in
her eyes. "You do not understand," he said, "how absolutely my heart
is set upon you." Did he understand, she wondered, how absolutely
her heart had been set upon him? "No pleasures are pleasant to me,
no employment useful, unless I can make them so by thinking of your
love!" It was right that he as a man,--and such a man,--should have
pleasures and employments, and it was sweet to her to be told that
they could be gilded by the remembrance of her smiles. But for
her, from the moment in which she had known him, there could be no
pleasure but to think of him, no serious employment but to resolve
how best she might do her duty to him.
It was not till the next morning that she took up her pen to begin
her all-important letter. Though her resolution had been so firmly
made, yet there had been much need for thinking before she could sit
down to form the sentences. For a while she had told herself that it
would be well first to consult her father; but before her father had
returned to her she had remembered that nothing which he could say
would induce her in the least to alter her purpose. His wishes had
been made known to her; but he had failed altogether to understand
the nature of the duty she had imposed upon herself. Thus she let
that day pass by, although she knew that the writing of the letter
would be an affair of much time to her. She could not take her sheet
of paper, and scribble off warm words of love as he had done. To
ask, or to give, in a matter of love must surely, she thought, be
easy enough. But to have given and then to refuse--that was the
difficulty. There was so much to say of moment both to herself
and to him, or rather so much to signify, that it was not at one
sitting, or with a single copy, that this letter could be written.
He must be assured, no doubt, of her love; but he must be made to
understand,--quite to understand, that her love could be of no avail
to him. And how was she to obey him as to her mode of addressing him?
"It simply excruciates me from you," he had said, thus debarring her
from that only appellation which would certainly be the easiest, and
which seemed to her the only one becoming. At last the letter, when
written, ran as follows;--
How I am to begin my letter I do not know, as you have
forbidden me to use the only words which would come
naturally. But I love you too well to displease you in so
small a matter. My poor letter must therefore go to you
without any such beginning as is usual. Indeed, I love you
with all my heart. I told you that before, and I will not
shame myself by saying that it was untrue. But I told you
also before that I could not be your wife. Dearest love,
I can only say again what I said before. Dearly as I love
you I cannot become your wife. You bid me to think of it
all, and to ask myself whether it is in my heart to refuse
to bid you to be happy. It is not in my heart to let you
do that which certainly would make you unhappy.
There are two reasons for this. Of the first, though it is
quite sufficient, I know that you will make nothing. When
I tell you that you ought not to choose such a one as me
for your wife because my manners of life have not fitted
me for such a position, then you sometimes laugh at me,
and sometimes are half angry,--with that fine way you have
of commanding those that are about you. But not the less
am I sure that I am right. I do believe that of all human
beings poor Marion Fay is the dearest to you. When you
tell me of your love and your treasure I do not for a
moment doubt that it is all true. And were I to be your
wife, your honour and your honesty would force you to be
good to me. But when you found that I was not as are other
grand ladies, then I think you would be disappointed. I
should know it by every line of your dear face, and when I
saw it there I should be broken-hearted.
But this is not all. If there were nothing further, I
think I should give way because I am only a weak girl; and
your words, my own, own love, would get the better of me.
But there is another thing. It is hard for me to tell,
and why should you be troubled with it? But I think if I
tell it you out and out, so as to make you understand the
truth, then you will be convinced. Mrs. Roden could tell
you the same. My dear, dear father could tell you also;
only that he will not allow himself to believe, because of
his love for the only child that remains to him. My mother
died; and all my brothers and sisters have died. And I
also shall die young.
Is not that enough? I know that it will be enough. Knowing
that it will be enough, may I not speak out to you, and
tell you all my heart? Will you not let me do so, as
though it had been understood between us, that though we
can never be more to each other than we are, yet we may
be allowed to love each other? Oh, my dearest, my only
dearest, just for this once I have found the words in
which I may address you. I cannot comfort you as I can
myself, because you are a man, and cannot find comfort in
sadness and disappointment, as a girl may do. A man thinks
that he should win for himself all that he wants. For a
girl, I think it is sufficient for her to feel that, as
far as she herself is concerned, that would have been
given to her which she most desires, had not Fortune been
unkind. You, dearest, cannot have what you want, because
you have come to poor Marion Fay with all the glory and
sweetness of your love. You must suffer for a while. I,
who would so willingly give my life to serve you, must
tell you that it will be so. But as you are a man, pluck
up your heart, and tell yourself that it shall only be for
a time. The shorter the better, and the stronger you will
show yourself in overcoming the evil that oppresses you.
And remember this. Should Marion Fay live to know that you
had brought a bride home to your house, as it will be your
duty to do, it will be a comfort to her to feel that the
evil she has done has been cured.
MARION.
I cannot tell you how proud I should be to see your sister
if she will condescend to come and see me. Or would it not
be better that I should go over to Hendon Hall? I could
manage it without trouble. Do not you write about it, but
ask her to send me one word.
Such was the letter when it was at last finished and despatched.
As soon as it was gone,--dropped irrevocably by her own hand into
the pillar letter-box which stood at the corner opposite to the
public-house,--she told her father what she had done. "And why?" he
said crossly. "I do not understand thee. Thou art flighty and fickle,
and knowest not thy own mind."
"Yes, father; I have known my own mind always in this matter. It was
not fitting."
"If he thinks it fitting, why shouldst thou object?"
"I am not fit, father, to be the wife of a great nobleman. Nor can I
trust my own health." This she said with a courage and firmness which
seemed to silence him,--looking at him as though by her looks she
forbade him to urge the matter further. Then she put her arms round
him and kissed him. "Will it not be better, father, that you and I
shall remain together till the last?"
"Nothing can be better for me that will not also be best for thee."
"For me it will be best. Father, let it be so, and let this young man
be no more thought of between us." In that she asked more than could
be granted to her; but for some days Lord Hampstead's name was not
mentioned between them.
Two days afterwards Lady Frances came to her. "Let me look at you,"
said Marion, when the other girl had taken her in her arms and kissed
her. "I like to look at you, to see whether you are like him. To my
eyes he is so beautiful."
"More so than I am."
"You are a--lady, and he is a man. But you are like him, and very
beautiful. You, too, have a lover, living close to us?"
"Well, yes. I suppose I must own it."
"Why should you not own it? It is good to be loved and to love. And
he has become a great nobleman,--like your brother."
"No, Marion; he is not that.--May I call you Marion?"
"Why not? He called me Marion almost at once."
"Did he so?"
"Just as though it were a thing of course. But I noticed it. It was
not when he bade me poke the fire, but the next time. Did he tell you
about the fire?"
"No, indeed."
"A man does not tell of such things, I think; but a girl remembers
them. It is so good of you to come. You know--do you not?"
"Know what?"
"That I,--and your brother,--have settled everything at last?" The
smile of pleasant good humour passed away from the face of Lady
Frances, but at the moment she made no reply. "It is well that you
should know. He knows now, I am sure. After what I said in my letter
he will not contradict me again." Lady Frances shook her head. "I
have told him that while I live he of all the world must be dearest
to me. But that will be all."
"Why should you--not live?"
"Lady Frances--"
"Nay, call me Fanny."
"You shall be Fanny if you will let me tell you. Oh! I do so wish
that you would understand it all, and make me tell you nothing
further. But you must know,--you must know that it cannot be as your
brother has wished. If it were only less known,--if he would consent
and you would consent,--then I think that I could be happy. What is
it after all,--the few years that we may have to live here? Shall we
not meet again, and shall we not love each other then?"
"I hope so."
"If you can really hope it, then why should we not be happy? But
how could I hope it if, with my eyes open, I were to bring a great
misfortune upon him? If I did him an evil here, could I hope that
he would love me in Heaven, when he would know all the secrets of
my heart? But if he shall say to himself that I denied myself,--for
his sake; that I refused to be taken into his arms because it would
be bad for him, then, though there may be some one dearer, then
shall not I also be dear to him?" The other girl could only cling
to her and embrace her. "When he shall have strong boys round his
hearth,--the hearth he spoke of as though it were almost mine,--and
little girls with pink cheeks and bonny brows, and shall know, as he
will then, what I might have done for him, will he not pray for me,
and tell me in his prayers that when we shall meet hereafter I shall
still be dear to him? And when she knows it all, she who shall lie on
his breast, shall I not be dear also to her?"
"Oh, my sister!"
"He will tell her. I think he will tell her,--because of his truth,
his honour, and his manliness."
Lady Frances, before she left the house, had been made to understand
that her brother could not have his way in the matter which was so
near his heart, and that the Quaker's daughter would certainly have
hers.
CHAPTER VI.
"BUT HE IS;--HE IS."
George Roden had come to a decision as to his title, and had
told every one concerned that he meant to be as he always had
been,--George Roden, a clerk in the Post Office. When spoken
to, on this side and the other, as to the propriety,--or rather
impropriety,--of his decision, he had smiled for the most part, and
had said but little, but had been very confident in himself. To none
of the arguments used against him would he yield in the least. As
to his mother's name, he said, no one had doubted, and no one would
doubt it for a moment. His mother's name had been settled by herself,
and she had borne it for a quarter of a century. She had not herself
thought of changing it. For her to blaze out into the world as a
Duchess,--it would be contrary to her feelings, to her taste, and to
her comfort! She would have no means of maintaining the title,--and
would be reduced to the necessity of still living in Paradise Row,
with the simple addition of an absurd nickname. As to that, no
question had been raised. It was only for him that she required the
new appellation.
As for herself, the whole thing had been settled at once by her own
good judgment.
As for himself, he said, the arguments were still stronger against
the absurd use of the grand title. It was imperative on him to earn
his bread, and his only means of doing so was by doing his work as a
clerk in the Post Office. Everybody admitted that it would not be
becoming that a Duke should be a clerk in the Post Office. It would
be so unbecoming, he declared, that he doubted whether any man could
be found brave enough to go through the world with such a fool's
cap on his head. At any rate he had no such courage. Moreover, no
Englishman, as he had been told, could at his own will and pleasure
call himself by a foreign title. It was his pleasure to be an
Englishman. He had always been an Englishman. As an inhabitant of
Holloway he had voted for two Radical members for the Borough of
Islington. He would not stultify his own proceedings, and declare
that everything which he had done was wrong. It was thus that he
argued the matter; and, as it seemed, no one could take upon himself
to prove that he was an Italian, or to prove that he was a Duke.
But, though he seemed to be, if not logical, at any rate rational,
the world generally did not agree with him. Wherever he was
encountered there seemed to be an opinion that he ought to assume
whatever name and whatever rights belonged to his father. Even at the
Post Office the world was against him.
"I don't quite know why you couldn't do it," said Sir Boreas, when
Roden put it to him whether it would be practicable that a young man
calling himself Duca di Crinola should take his place as a clerk
in Mr. Jerningham's room. It may be remembered that Sir Boreas had
himself expressed some difficulty in the matter. He had told Mr.
Jerningham that he did not think that they could get on very well
with a real Duke among them. It was thus that the matter had at first
struck him. But he was a brave man, and, when he came to look at it
all round, he did not see that there would be any impossibility. It
would be a nine days' wonder, no doubt. But the man would be there
just the same,--the Post Office clerk inside the Duke. The work
would be done, and after a little time even he would become used to
having a Duke among his subordinates. As to whether the Duke were a
foreigner or an Englishman,--that, he declared, would not matter in
the least, as far as the Post Office was concerned. "I really don't
see why you shouldn't try it," said Sir Boreas.
"The absurdity would be so great that it would crush me, sir. I
shouldn't be worth my salt," said Roden.
"That's a kind of thing that wears itself out very quickly. You would
feel odd at first,--and so would the other men, and the messengers.
I should feel a little odd when I asked some one to send the Duca di
Crinola to me, for we are not in the habit of sending for Dukes. But
there is nothing that you can't get used to. If your father had been
a Prince I don't think I should break down under it after the first
month."
"What good would it do me, Sir Boreas?"
"I think it would do you good. It is difficult to explain the
good,--particularly to a man who is so violently opposed as you to
all ideas of rank. But--."
"You mean that I should get promoted quicker because of my title?"
"I think it probable that the Civil Service generally would find
itself able to do something more for a good officer with a high name
than for a good officer without one."
"Then, Sir Boreas, the Civil Service ought to be ashamed of itself."
"Perhaps so;--but such would be the fact. Somebody would interfere to
prevent the anomaly of the Duca di Crinola sitting at the same table
with Mr. Crocker. I will not dispute it with you,--whether it ought
to be so;--but, if it be probable, there is no reason why you should
not take advantage of your good fortune, if you have capacity and
courage enough to act up to it. Of course what we all want in life
is success. If a chance comes in your way I don't see why you should
fling it away." This was the wisdom of Sir Boreas; but Roden would
not take advantage of it. He thanked the great man for his kindness
and sympathy, but declined to reconsider his decision.
In the outer office,--in the room, for instance, in which Mr.
Jerningham sat with Crocker and Bobbin and Geraghty, the feeling
was very much stronger in favour of the title, and was expressed in
stronger language. Crocker could not contain himself when he heard
that there was a doubt upon the subject. On Roden's first arrival at
the office Crocker almost flung himself into his friend's arms, with
just a single exclamation. "Duca, Duca, Duca!" he had said, and had
then fallen back into his own seat overcome by his emotions. Roden
had passed this by without remark. It was very distasteful to him,
and disgusting. He would fain have been able to sit down at his own
desk, and go on with his own work, without any special notice of the
occasion, other than the ordinary greeting occasioned by his return.
It was distressing to him that anything should have been known about
his father and his father's title. But that it should be known
was natural. The world had heard of it. The world had put it into
the newspapers, and the world had talked about it. Of course Mr.
Jerningham also would talk of it, and the two younger clerks,--and
Crocker. Crocker would of course talk of it louder than any one else.
That was to be expected. A certain amount of misconduct was to be
expected from Crocker, and must be forgiven. Therefore he passed over
the ecstatic and almost hysterical repetition of the title which
his father had borne, hoping that Crocker might be overcome by the
effort, and be tranquil. But Crocker was not so easily overcome. He
did sit for a moment or two on his seat with his mouth open; but he
was only preparing himself for his great demonstration.
"We are very glad to see you again,--sir," said Mr. Jerningham;
not at first quite knowing how it would become him to address his
fellow-clerk.
"Thank you, Mr. Jerningham. I have got back again safe."
"I am sure we are all delighted to hear--what we have heard," said
Mr. Jerningham cautiously.
"By George, yes," said Bobbin. "I suppose it's true; isn't it? Such a
beautiful name!"
"There are so many things are true, and so many are false, that I
don't quite know how to answer you," said Roden.
"But you are--?" asked Geraghty; and then he stopped, not quite
daring to trust himself with the grand title.
"No;--that's just what I'm not," replied the other.
"But he is," shouted Crocker, jumping from his seat. "He is! He is!
It's quite true. He is Duca di Crinola. Of course we'll call him so,
Mr. Jerningham;--eh?"
"I am sure I don't know," said Mr. Jerningham with great caution.
"You'll allow me to know my own name," said Roden.
"No! no!" continued Crocker. "It's all very well for your modesty,
but it's a kind of thing which your friends can't stand. We are
quite sure that you're the Duca." There was something in the Italian
title which was peculiarly soothing to Crocker's ears. "A man
has to be called by what he is, not by what he chooses. If the
Duke of Middlesex called himself Mr. Smith, he'd be Duke all the
same;--wouldn't he, Mr. Jerningham? All the world would call him
Duke. So it must be with you. I wouldn't call your Grace Mr. ----;
you know what I mean, but I won't pronounce it ever again;--not for
ever so much." Roden's brow became very black as he found himself
subjected to the effects of the man's folly. "I call upon the whole
office," continued Crocker, "for the sake of its own honour, to give
our dear and highly-esteemed friend his proper name on all occasions.
Here's to the health of the Duca di Crinola!" Just at that moment
Crocker's lunch had been brought in, consisting of bread and cheese
and a pint of stout. The pewter pot was put to his mouth and the
toast was drank to the honour and glory of the drinker's noble friend
with no feeling of intended ridicule. It was a grand thing to Crocker
to have been brought into contact with a man possessed of so noble
a title. In his heart of hearts he reverenced "The Duca." He would
willingly have stayed there till six or seven o'clock and have done
all the Duca's work for him,--because the Duca was a Duca. He would
not have done it satisfactorily, because it was not in his nature to
do any work well, but he would have done it as well as he did his
own. He hated work; but he would have sooner worked all night than
see a Duca do it,--so great was his reverence for the aristocracy
generally.
"Mr. Crocker," said Mr. Jerningham severely, "you are making yourself
a nuisance. You generally do."
"A nuisance!"
"Yes; a nuisance. When you see that a gentleman doesn't wish a thing,
you oughtn't to do it."
"But when a man's name is his name!"
"Never mind. When he doesn't wish it, you oughtn't to do it!"
"If it's a man's own real name!"
"Never mind," said Mr. Jerningham.
"If it shoots a gintleman to be incognito, why isn't he to do as he
plaises?" asked Geraghty.
"If the Duke of Middlesex did call himself Mr. Smith," said Bobbin,
"any gentleman that was a gentleman would fall in with his views."
Crocker, not conquered, but for the moment silenced, seated himself
in a dudgeon at his desk. It might do very well for poor fellows,
weak creatures like Jerningham, Bobbin, and Geraghty, thus to be done
out of their prey;--but he would not be cheated in that way. The Duca
di Crinola should be Duca di Crinola as far as he, Crocker, could
make his voice heard; and all that heard him should know that the
Duca was his own old peculiar friend.
In Paradise Row the world was decidedly against Roden; and not only
were the Demijohns and Duffers against him, but also his own mother
and her friend Mrs. Vincent. On the first Monday after Mrs. Roden's
return Mrs. Vincent came to the Row as usual,--on this occasion to
welcome her cousin, and to hear all the news of the family as it
had been at last brought back from Italy. There was a great deal to
be told. Many things had been brought to light which had had their
commencement in Mrs. Vincent's days. There was something of the
continuation of a mild triumph for her in every word that was spoken.
She had been against the Di Crinola marriage, when it had been
first discussed more than a quarter of a century ago. She had never
believed in the Duca di Crinola, and her want of faith had been
altogether justified. She did not, after all those years, bear hardly
on her friend,--but there was still that well-known tone of gentle
censure and of gentle self-applause. "I told you so," said the elder
crow to the younger crow. When does the old crow cease to remind the
younger crow that it was so? "A sad, sad story," said Mrs. Vincent,
shaking her head.
"All our stories I suppose have much in them that is sad. I have got
my son, and no mother can have more reason to be proud of a son."
Mrs. Vincent shook her head. "I say it is so," repeated the mother;
"and having such a son, I will not admit that it has all been sad."
"I wish he were more ready to perform his religious duties," said
Mrs. Vincent.
"We cannot all agree about everything. I do not know that that need
be brought up now."
"It is a matter that should be brought up every hour and every day,
Mary,--if the bringing of it up is to do any good."
But it was not on this matter that Mrs. Roden now wished to get
assistance from her cousin;--certainly not with any present view
towards the amelioration of her son's religious faith. That might
come afterwards perhaps. But it was her present object to induce
her cousin to agree with her, that her son should permit himself to
be called by his father's title. "But you think he should take his
father's name?" she asked. Mrs. Vincent shook her head and tried to
look wise. The question was one on which her feelings were very much
divided. It was of course proper that the son should be called by
his father's name. All the proprieties of the world, as known to Mrs.
Vincent, declared that it should be so. She was a woman, too, who by
no means despised rank, and who considered that much reverence was
due to those who were privileged to carry titles. Dukes and lords
were certainly very great in her estimation, and even the humblest
knight was respected by her, as having been in some degree lifted
above the community by the will of his Sovereign. And though she
was always in some degree hostile to George Roden, because of the
liberties he took in regard to certain religious matters, yet she was
good enough and kind enough to wish well to her own cousin. Had there
been a question in regard to an English title she certainly would not
have shaken her head. But as to this outlandish Italian title, she
had her doubts. It did not seem to her to be right that an Englishman
should be called a Duca. If it had been Baron, or even Count, the
name would have been less offensive. And then to her mind hereditary
titles, as she had known them, had been recommended by hereditary
possessions. There was something to her almost irreligious in the
idea of a Duke without an acre. She could therefore only again shake
her head. "He has as much right to it," continued Mrs. Roden, "as has
the eldest son of the greatest peer in England."
"I dare say he has, my dear, but--."
"But what?"
"I dare say you're right, only--; only it's not just like an English
peer, you know."
"The privilege of succession is the same."
"He never could sit in the House of Lords, my dear."
"Of course not. He would assume only what is his own. Why should he
be ashamed to take an Italian title any more than his friend Lord
Hampstead is to take an English one? It is not as though it would
prevent his living here. Many foreign noblemen live in England."
"I suppose he could live here," said Mrs. Vincent as though she were
making a great admission. "I don't think that there would be any law
to turn him out of the country."
"Nor out of the Post Office, if he chooses to remain there," said
Mrs. Roden.
"I don't know how that may be."
"Even if they did, I should prefer that it should be so. According to
my thinking, no man should fling away a privilege that is his own, or
should be ashamed of assuming a nobility that belongs to him. If not
for his own sake, he should do it for the sake of his children. He
at any rate has nothing to be ashamed of in the name. It belonged to
his father and to his grandfather, and to his ancestors through many
generations. Think how men fight for a title in this country; how
they struggle for it when there is a doubt as to who may properly
have inherited it! Here there is no doubt. Here there need be no
struggle." Convinced by the weight of this argument Mrs. Vincent gave
in her adhesion, and at last expressed an opinion that her cousin
should at once call himself by his father's name.
CHAPTER VII.
THE GREAT QUESTION.
Neither were the arguments of Mrs. Roden nor the adhesion of Mrs.
Vincent of any power in persuading George Roden. He answered his
mother gently, kindly, but very firmly. Had anything, he said, been
necessary to strengthen his own feeling, it would have been found in
his mother's determination to keep his old name. "Surely, mother, if
I may say so without disrespect, what is sauce for the goose is sauce
for the gander." At this the mother smiled, kissing her son to show
that the argument had been taken in good part. "In this matter," he
continued, "we certainly are in a boat together. If I am a Duke you
would be a Duchess. If I am doomed to make an ape of myself at the
Post Office, you must be equally ridiculous in Paradise Row,--unless
you are prepared to go back to Italy and live your life there."
"And you?"
"I could not live there. How could I earn my bread there? How could
I pass my days so as to be in any degree useful? What could be more
mean? My uncle, though he has been civil, and to a certain degree
generous, would be specially anxious not to see me in public life.
You and I together would have just means enough for existence. I
should be doomed to walk about the streets of some third-rate Italian
town, and call myself by my grand name. Would a life like that
satisfy your ambition on my behalf?" Then she thought of the girl who
was in love with him, of the friends whom he had made for himself, of
the character which belonged to him, and she was driven to confess
that, by whatever name he might be called, he must continue to live
an Englishman's life, and to live in England. Nevertheless, she told
herself that the title would not be abolished, because it might be in
abeyance. She might, she thought, still live to hear her son called
by the name of which she herself had been proud till she had become
thoroughly ashamed of the husband who had given it to her.
But there were others besides Crocker and Mrs. Vincent, and his
mother and Sir Boreas, who were much interested by George Roden's
condition. Mrs. Roden returned home on the 2nd of March, and, as may
be remembered, the tidings respecting her son had reached England
before she came. By the end of the month many persons were much
exercised as to the young man's future name, and some people of
high rank had not only discussed the subject at great length, but
had written numerous letters concerning it. It was manifest to Lady
Persiflage that no further attempt should now be made to throw
obstacles in the way of Lady Frances and her lover. Lady Persiflage
had never believed in the obstacles from the first. "Of course
they'll marry," she had said to her one daughter, who was now almost
as good as married herself, and equally trustworthy. "When a girl
is determined like that, of course nothing will stop her. My sister
shouldn't have let her meet the young man at first." But this had
been said before the young man had turned out to be an Italian Duke.
Since the news had come Lady Persiflage had been very eager in
recommending her sister to discontinue the opposition. "Make the most
of him," she had said in one of her letters. "It is all that can be
done now. It is a fine name, and though Italian titles do not count
like ours, yet, when they are as good as this, they go for a good
deal. There are real records of the Di Crinola family, and there is
no manner of doubt but that he is the head of them. Take him by the
hand, and have him down at Trafford if Kingsbury is well enough. They
tell me he is quite presentable, with a good figure and all that;--by
no means a young man who will stand shivering in a room because he
doesn't know how to utter a word. Had he been like that Fanny would
never have set her heart upon him. Persiflage has been talking about
him, and he says that something will be sure to turn up if he is
brought forward properly, and is not ashamed of his family name.
Persiflage will do whatever he can, but that can only be if you will
open your arms to him." Lady Kingsbury did feel that she was called
upon to undergo a terrible revulsion of sentiment. Opening her arms
to the Duca di Crinola might be possible to her. But how was she to
open her arms to Lady Frances Trafford? The man whom she had seen but
once might appear before her with his new title as a young nobleman
of whose antecedents she was not bound to remember anything. She
might seem to regard him as a new arrival, a noble suitor for her
stepdaughter's hand, of whom she had not before heard. But how was
she to receive Fanny Trafford, the girl whom she had locked up at
Königsgraaf, whose letters she had stopped as they came from the Post
Office? Nevertheless she consented,--as far at least as her sister
was concerned. "I shall never like Fanny," she had said, "because she
is so sly." Girls are always called sly by their friends who want to
abuse them. "But of course I will have them both here, as you think
it will be best. What they are to live upon Heaven only knows. But of
course that will be no concern of mine."
As a first result of this Lady Persiflage asked George Roden down to
Castle Hautboy for the Easter holidays. There was a difficulty about
this. How was he to be addressed? Hampstead was consulted, and he,
though he was not much in heart just then for the arrangement of such
a matter, advised that for the present his friend's old name should
be used. Lady Persiflage therefore wrote to--George Roden, Esq., at
the General Post Office. In this letter it was signified that Lord
Persiflage was very anxious to make the acquaintance of--Mr. Roden.
Lady Persiflage was also very anxious. Lady Persiflage explained that
she was aware of,--Well! Lady Frances Trafford was to be at Castle
Hautboy, and that she thought might act as an inducement to--Mr.
Roden. The letter was very cleverly managed.
Though it never once mentioned the grand title it made allusions
which implied that the real rank of the Post Office clerk was well
known to every one at Castle Hautboy. And though nothing of course
was said as to any possible relations between Lord Persiflage as
a member of the British Cabinet and the clerk's uncle as a member
of the Italian Cabinet, nevertheless as to this also there were
allusions which were intelligible. This letter was altogether very
gracious,--such a one as few young men would be able to resist coming
from such a person as Lady Persiflage. But the special offer which
prevailed with our Post Office clerk was no doubt the promise of the
presence of Fanny Trafford. In all the rest, gracious as the words
were, there was nothing but trouble for him. It was clear enough
to him that Lady Persiflage was on the same side as Crocker. Lady
Persiflage would no doubt prefer a Duca di Crinola to a Post Office
clerk for Lady Frances. And he could see also that the Secretary of
State for Foreign Affairs was on the same side. The Secretary of
State would not have expressed a special desire to see him, the Post
Office clerk, at Castle Hautboy, and have, as it were, welcomed him
to the possession of his brother-in-law's daughter, had nothing been
told of the Duca di Crinola. He heard as much from Lord Hampstead,
who advised him to go to Castle Hautboy, and make himself acquainted
with Fanny's family friends. It was all manifest. And as it was all
being done in opposition to his own firm resolution, he would not
have gone,--but that the temptation was too great for him. Fanny
Trafford would be there,--and he was quite open to the charm of the
offer which was almost being made to him of Lady Fanny's hand. He
arranged the matter at the office, and wrote to Lady Persiflage
accepting the invitation.
"So you're going to Castle Hautboy?" said Crocker to him. Crocker was
in torments at the time. He had been made to understand that he would
be doing quite wrong in calling the Duca "Your Grace." Roden, if a
Duke at all, could be only an Italian Duke--and not on that account
"Your Grace." This had been explained by Bobbin, and had disturbed
him. The title "Duca" was still open to him; but he feared Roden's
wrath if he should use it too freely.
"How do you know?" asked Roden.
"I have been there myself, you know;--and am in the habit of hearing
from Castle Hautboy." His father was agent on the property, and of
course he heard tidings, if not from his father, at any rate from his
sisters.
"Yes; I am going to Castle Hautboy."
"Hampstead will be there probably. I met Hampstead there. A man in
Lord Persiflage's position will, of course, be delighted to welcome
the--the--Duca di Crinola." He shrank as though he feared that Roden
would strike him--but he uttered the words.
"Of course, if you choose to annoy me, I cannot well help myself,"
said Roden as he left the room.
On his first arrival at the Castle things were allowed to go quietly
with him. Every one called him "Mr. Roden." Lady Persiflage received
him very graciously. Lady Frances was in the house, and her name was
mentioned to him with the whispered intimacy which on such occasions
indicates the triumph of the man's position. She made no allusion
either to his rank or to his office, but treated him just as she
might have done any other suitor,--which was exactly what he wanted.
Lord Llwddythlw had come down for his Easter holidays of two days,
and was very civil to him. Lady Amaldina was delighted to make his
acquaintance, and within three minutes was calling upon him to
promise that he would not get himself married before August in
consideration for her bevy. "If I was to lose Fanny now," she said,
"I really think I should give it up altogether." Then before dinner
he was allowed to find himself alone with Fanny, and for the first
time in his life felt that his engagement was an acknowledged thing.
All this was made very pleasant to him by the occasional use of
his proper name. He had been almost ashamed of himself because of
the embarrassment which his supposed title had occasioned him. He
felt that he had thought of the matter more than it was worth. The
annoyances of Crocker had been abominable to him. It was not likely
that he should encounter a second Crocker, but still he dreaded he
hardly knew what. It certainly was not probable that these people at
Castle Hautboy should call him by a name he had never used without
consulting him. But still he had dreaded something, and was gratified
that the trouble seemed to pass by him easily. Lady Persiflage and
Lady Amaldina had both used his legitimate name, and Lord Llwddythlw
had called him nothing at all. If he could only be allowed to go
away just as he had come, without an allusion from any one to the
Di Crinola family, then he should think that the people at Castle
Hautboy were very well-bred. But he feared that this was almost too
much to hope. He did not see Lord Persiflage till a moment before
dinner, when he specially remarked that he was introduced as Mr.
Roden. "Very glad to see you, Mr. Roden. I hope you're fond of
scenery. We're supposed to have the finest view in England from the
top of the tower. I have no doubt my daughter will show it you. I
can't say that I ever saw it myself. Beautiful scenery is all very
well when you are travelling, but nobody ever cares for it at home."
Thus Lord Persiflage had done his courtesy to the stranger, and the
conversation became general, as though the stranger were a stranger
no longer. When Roden found that he was allowed to give his arm to
Lady Frances, and go out and eat his dinner quietly and comfortably
without any reference to the peculiarity of his position, he thought
that perhaps no further troubles were in store for him.
The whole of the next day was devoted to the charms of love and
scenery. The spring weather was delightful, and Roden was allowed to
ramble about where he pleased with Lady Frances. Every one about the
place regarded him as an accepted and recognized lover. As he had
never been in truth accepted by one of the family except by the girl
herself;--as the Marquis had not condescended even to see him when
he had come, but had sent Mr. Greenwood to reject him scornfully;
as the Marchioness had treated him as below contempt; as even his
own friend Lord Hampstead had declared that the difficulties would
be insuperable, this sudden cessation of all impediments did seem
to be delightfully miraculous. Assent on the part of Lord and Lady
Persiflage would, he understood, be quite as serviceable as that of
Lord and Lady Kingsbury. Something had occurred which, in the eyes of
all the family, had lifted him up as it were out of the gutter and
placed him on a grand pedestal. There could be no doubt as to this
something. It was all done because he was supposed to be an Italian
nobleman. And yet he was not an Italian nobleman; nor would he allow
any one to call him so, as far as it might be in his power to prevent
it.
His visit was limited to two entire days. One was passed amidst all
the sweets of love-making. With the pleasures of that no allusions
were allowed to interfere. On the following morning he found himself
alone with Lord Persiflage after breakfast. "Delighted to have had
you down here, you know," began his lordship. To this Roden simply
bowed. "I haven't the pleasure of knowing your uncle personally, but
there isn't a man in Europe for whom I have a higher respect." Again
Roden bowed. "I've heard all about this romance of yours from D'Ossi.
You know D'Ossi?" Roden declared that he had not the honour of
knowing the Italian Minister. "Ah; well, you must know D'Ossi, of
course. I won't say whether he's your countryman or not, but you must
know him. He is your uncle's particular friend."
"It's only by accident that I know my uncle, or even learnt that he
was my uncle."
"Just so. But the accident has taken place, and the result
fortunately remains. Of course you must take your own name."
"I shall keep the name I have, Lord Persiflage."
"You will find it to be quite impossible. The Queen will not allow
it." Upon hearing this Roden opened his eyes; but the Secretary of
State for Foreign Affairs looked him full in the face as though to
assure him that, though he had never heard of such a thing before,
such, in fact, was the truth. "Of course there will be difficulties.
I'm not prepared at the present moment to advise how this should be
done. Perhaps you had better wait till Her Majesty has signified her
pleasure to receive you as the Duca di Crinola. When she has done so
you will have no alternative."
"No alternative as to what I may call myself?"
"None in the least, I should say. I am thinking now in a great
measure as to the welfare of my own relative, Lady Frances. Something
will have to be done. I don't quite see my way as yet; but something,
no doubt, will be done. The Duca di Crinola will, I have no doubt,
find fitting employment." Then a little bell was rung, and Vivian,
the private secretary, came into the room. Vivian and Roden knew each
other, and a few pleasant words were spoken; but Roden found himself
obliged to take his departure without making any further protests in
regard to Her Majesty's assumed wishes.
About five o'clock that evening he was invited into a little
sitting-room belonging to Lady Persiflage up-stairs. "Haven't I been
very good to you?" she said, laughing.
"Very good, indeed. Nothing could be so good as inviting me down here
to Castle Hautboy."
"That was done for Fanny's sake. But have I said one word to you
about your terrible name?"
"No, indeed; and now, Lady Persiflage, pray go on and be good to the
end."
"Yes," she said, "I will be good to the end,--before all the people
down-stairs. I haven't said a word of it even to Fanny. Fanny is an
angel."
"According to my thinking."
"That's of course. But even an angel likes to have her proper rank.
You mustn't allow yourself to suppose that even Fanny Trafford is
indifferent to titles. There are things that a man may expect a girl
to do for him, but there are things which cannot be expected, let her
be ever so much in love. Fanny Trafford has got to become Duchess of
Crinola."
"I am afraid that that is more than I can do for her."
"My dear Mr. Roden, it must be done. I cannot let you go away from
here without making you understand that, as a man engaged to be
married, you cannot drop your title. Did you intend to remain single,
I cannot say how far your peculiar notions might enable you to
prevail; but as you mean to marry, she, too, will have rights. I
put it to you whether it would be honest on your part to ask her to
abandon the rank which she will be entitled to expect from you. Just
you think of it, Mr. Roden. And now I won't trouble you any more upon
the subject."
Not a word more was said on the subject at Castle Hautboy, and on the
next day he returned to the Post Office.
CHAPTER VIII.
"I CANNOT COMPEL HER."
About the middle of April Lord and Lady Kingsbury came up to London.
From day to day and week to week he had declared that he would never
again be able to move out of his room; and had gone on making up his
mind to die immediately, till people around him began to think that
he was not going to die at all. He was, however, at last persuaded
that he might at any rate as well die in London as at Trafford,
and, therefore, allowed himself to be carried up to Park Lane. The
condition of his own health was, of course, given to him for the
reason of this movement. At this peculiar period of the year, it
would be better for him, they said, to be near his London doctor. No
doubt the Marquis believed that it was so. When a man is ill nothing
is so important to him as his own illness. But it may be a question
whether the anxiety felt by the Marchioness as to other affairs of
the family generally had not an effect with her in inducing her to
persuade her husband. The Marquis had given a modified assent to his
daughter's marriage; and she, in a manner still more modified, had
withdrawn her opposition. Permission had been given to Fanny to marry
the Duca di Crinola. This had been given without any reference to
money, but had certainly implied a promise of a certain amount of
income from the bride's father. How else would it be possible that
they should live? The letter had been written to Lady Frances by her
stepmother at the dictation of the Marquis. But the words absolutely
dictated had not perhaps been religiously followed. The father
had intended to be soft and affectionate, merely expressing his
gratification that his girl's lover should turn out to be the Duca
di Crinola. Out of this the Marchioness had made a stipulation. The
lover should be received as a lover, on condition that he bore the
name and title. Lady Persiflage had told her sister that as a matter
of course the name would be taken. "A man always takes his father's
name as a matter of course," Lady Persiflage had said. She believed
that the man's absurd notions would be overcome by continual social
pressure. Whether the social pressure would or would not prevail,
the man would certainly marry the girl. There could, therefore, be
no better course than that of trusting to social pressure. Lady
Persiflage was quite clear as to her course. But the Marchioness,
though yielding to her sister in much, still thought that a bargain
should be made. It had been suggested that she should invite "the
young man" down to Trafford. Roden was usually called "the young man"
at present in these family conclaves. She had thought that it would
be better to see him up in London. Lady Frances would come to them in
Park Lane, and then the young man should be invited. The Marchioness
would send her compliments to the "Duca di Crinola." Nothing on
earth should induce her to write the name of Roden,--unless it might
happily come to pass that the engagement should be broken.
Hampstead at this time was still living at Hendon. His sister
remained with him till the Marchioness came up to town about the
middle of April, but no one else except George Roden saw much of him.
Since Roden's return from Italy his visits to Hendon Hall had been
tacitly permitted. The Kingsbury and Persiflage world had taken upon
itself to presume that the young man was the Duca di Crinola, and, so
presuming, had in truth withdrawn all impediments. Lady Frances had
written to her father in answer to the letter which had reached her
from the Marchioness in his name, and had declared that Mr. Roden was
Mr. Roden, and would remain Mr. Roden. She had explained his reasons
at great length, but had probably made them anything but intelligible
to her father. He, however, had simply concealed the letter when
he had half-read it. He would not incur the further trouble of
explaining this to his wife, and had allowed the matter to go on,
although the stipulation made was absolutely repudiated by the
parties who were to have been bound by it.
For Roden and Lady Frances this was no doubt very pleasant. Even Lady
Amaldina Hauteville with her bevy was not more thoroughly engaged
to her aristocratic lover than was Lady Frances to this precarious
Italian nobleman. But the brother in these days was by no means as
happy as his sister. There had been a terrible scene between him
and Lady Frances after his return from Trafford. He came back with
Marion's letter in his pocket,--with every word contained in it clear
in his memory; but still, still doubting as to the necessity of
obeying Marion's orders. She had declared, with whatever force of
words she had known how to use, that the marriage which he proposed
to himself was impossible. She had told him so more than once before,
and the telling had availed nothing. Her first assertion that she
could not become his wife had hardly served to moderate in the least
the joy which he had felt from the assurances of her affections. It
had meant nothing to him. When she had spoken to him simply of their
differences of rank he had thrown the arguments under his feet, and
had trampled upon them with his masterful imperious determination.
His whole life and energy were devoted to the crushing of arguments
used towards him by those who were daily telling him that he was
severed from other men by the peculiarities of his rank. He certainly
would not be severed from this one woman whom he loved by any such
peculiarity. Fortifying his heart by these reflections, he had
declared to himself that the timid doubtings of the girl should go
for nothing. As she loved him he would of course be strong enough
to conquer all such doubtings. He would take her up in his arms and
carry her away, and simply tell her that she had got to do it. He had
a conviction that a girl when once she had confessed that she loved
a man, belonged to the man, and was bound to obey him. To watch over
her, to worship her, to hover round her, so that no wind should be
allowed to blow too strongly on her, to teach her that she was the
one treasure in the world that could be of real value to him,--but
at the same time to make a property of her, so that she should be
altogether his own,--that had been his idea of the bond which should
unite him and Marion Fay together. As she took a joy in his love it
could not be but that she would come to his call at last.
She too had perceived something of this,--so much, that it had become
necessary to her to tell him the whole truth. Those minor reasons,
though even they should have been strong enough, were not, she found,
powerful with him. She tried it, and acknowledged to herself that she
failed. The man was too wilful for her guidance,--too strong for the
arguments by which she had hoped to control him. Then it had been
necessary to tell him all the truth. This she had done at last with
very few words. "My mother died; and all my brothers and sisters have
died. And I also shall die young." Very simple, this had been; but,
ah, powerful as it was simple! In it there had been a hard assertion
of facts too strong even for his masterful nature. He could not say,
even to himself, that it was not so,--that it should not be so. It
might be that she might be spared where others had not been spared.
That risk, of course, he was prepared to run. Without turning it much
in his thoughts, without venturing to think of the results or to
make a calculation, he was prepared to tell her that she too must
leave all that in the hand of God, and run her chance as do all human
mortal beings. He certainly would so argue the matter with her. But
he could not tell her that there was no ground for fear. He could not
say that though her mother had died, and though her little brothers
and sisters had died, there was yet no cause for fear. And he felt
that should she persist in her resolution there would be a potency
about her which it might well be that he should fail to dominate.
If we can live, let us live together; and if we must die, let us
die,--as nearly together as may be. That we should come together is
the one thing absolutely essential; and then let us make our way
through our troubles as best we may under the hands of Fate. This was
what he would now say to her. But he knew that he could not say it
with that bright look and those imperious tones which had heretofore
almost prevailed with her. Not replying to Marion's letter by any
written answer, but resolving that the words which would be necessary
might best be spoken, he came back to Hendon. Oh how softly they
should be spoken! With his arm round her waist he would tell her that
still it should be for better or for worse. "I will say nothing of
what may happen except this;--that whatever may befall us we will
take it and bear it together." With such words whispered into her
ear, would he endeavour to make her understand that though it might
all be true, still would her duty be the same.
But when he reached his house, intending to go on almost at once to
Holloway, he was stopped by a note from the Quaker.
"My dear young friend," said the note from the Quaker,
I am desired by Marion to tell thee that we have thought
it better that she should go for a few weeks to the
seaside. I have taken her to Pegwell Bay, whence I can
run up daily to my work in the City. After that thou last
saw her she was somewhat unwell,--not ill, indeed, but
flurried, as was natural, by the interview. And I have
taken her down to the seaside in compliance with medical
advice. She bids me, however, to tell thee that there
is no cause for alarm. It will, however, be better, for
a time at least, that she should not be called upon to
encounter the excitement of meeting thee.
Thy very faithful friend,
ZACHARY FAY.
This made him nervous, and for the moment almost wretched. It was
his desire at first to rush off to Pegwell Bay and learn for himself
what might be the truth of her condition. But on consideration he
felt that he did not dare to do so in opposition to the Quaker's
injunction. His arrival there among the strangers of the little
watering-place would of course flurry her. He was obliged to abandon
that idea, and content himself with a resolve to see the Quaker in
the City on the next morning. But the words spoken to him afterwards
by his sister were heavier to bear than the Quaker's letter. "Dear
John," she had said, "you must give it up."
"I will never give it up," he had answered. And as he spoke there
came across his brows an angry look of determination.
"Dear John!"
"What right have you to tell me to give it up? What would you say to
me if I were to declare that George Roden should be given up?"
"If there were the same cause!"
"What do you know of any cause?"
"Dear, dearest brother."
"You are taking a part against me. You can be obstinate. I am not
more likely to give a thing up than you are yourself."
"It is her health."
"Is she the first young woman that was ever married without being as
strong as a milkmaid? Why should you take upon yourself to condemn
her?"
"It is not I. It is Marion herself. You told me to go to her, and of
course she spoke to me."
He paused a moment, and then in a hoarse, low voice asked a question.
"What did she say to you when you spoke to her?"
"Oh, John!--I doubt I can hardly tell you what she said. But you know
what she said. Did she not write and tell you that because of her
health it cannot be as you would have it."
"And would you have me yield, because for my sake she is afraid? If
George Roden were not strong would you throw him over and go away?"
"It is a hard matter to discuss, John."
"But it has to be discussed. It has at any rate to be thought of. I
don't think that a woman has a right to take the matter into her own
hands, and say that as a certainty God Almighty has condemned her to
an early death. These things must be left to Providence, or Chance,
or Fate, as you may call it."
"But if she has her own convictions--?"
"She must not be left to her own convictions. It is just that. She
must not be allowed to sacrifice herself to a fantastic idea."
"You will never prevail with her," said his sister, taking him by the
arm, and looking up piteously into his face.
"I shall not prevail? Do you say that certainly I shall not prevail?"
She was still holding his arm, and still looking up into his face,
and now she answered him by slightly shaking her head. "Why should
you speak so positively?"
"She could say things to me which she could hardly say to you."
"What was it then?"
"She could say things to me which I can hardly repeat to you. Oh,
John, believe me,--believe me. It must be abandoned. Marion Fay will
never be your wife." He shook himself free from her hand, and frowned
sternly at her. "Do you think I would not have her for my sister, if
it were possible? Do you not believe that I too can love her? Who can
help loving her?"
He knew, of course, that as the shoe pinched him it could not pinch
her. What were any other love or any other sadness as compared to his
love or to his sadness? It was to him as though the sun were suddenly
taken out of his heaven, as though the light of day were destroyed
for ever from before his eyes,--or rather as though a threat were
being made that the sun should be taken from his heaven and the light
from his eyes,--a threat under which it might be necessary that he
should succumb. "Marion, Marion, Marion," he said to himself again
and again, walking up and down between the lodge and the hall door.
Whether well or ill, whether living or dying, she surely must be his!
"Marion!" And then he was ashamed of himself, as he felt rather than
heard that he had absolutely shouted her name aloud.
On the following day he was with the Quaker in London, walking up and
down Old Broad Street in front of the entrance leading up to Pogson
and Littlebird's. "My dear friend," said the Quaker, "I do not say
that it shall never be so. It is in the hands of the Almighty."
Hampstead shook his head impatiently. "You do not doubt the power of
the Almighty to watch over His creatures?"
"I think that if a man wants a thing he must work for it."
The Quaker looked him hard in the face. "In the ordinary needs of
life, my young lord, the maxim is a good one."
"It is good for everything. You tell me of the Almighty. Will the
Almighty give me the girl I love if I sit still and hold my peace?
Must I not work for that as for anything else?"
"What can I do, Lord Hampstead?"
"Agree with me that it will be better for her to run her chance. Say
as I do that it cannot be right that she should condemn herself. If
you,--you her father,--will bid her, then she will do it."
"I do not know."
"You can try with her;--if you think it right. You are her father."
"Yes,--I am her father."
"And she is obedient to you. You do not think that she should--? Eh?"
"How am I to say? What am I to say else than that it is in God's
hands? I am an old man who have suffered much. All have been taken
from me;--all but she. How can I think of thy trouble when my own is
so heavy?"
"It is of her that we should think."
"I cannot comfort her; I cannot control her. I will not even attempt
to persuade her. She is all that I have. If I did think for a moment
that I should like to see my child become the wife of one so high as
thou art, that folly has been crushed out of me. To have my child
alive would be enough for me now, let alone titles, and high places,
and noble palaces."
"Who has thought of them?"
"I did. Not she,--my angel; my white one!" Hampstead shook his head
and clenched his fist, shaking it, in utter disregard of the passers
by, as the hot, fast tears streamed down his face. Could it be
necessary that her name should be mentioned even in connection with
feelings such as those which the Quaker owned.
"Thou and I, my lord," continued Zachary Fay, "are in sore trouble
about this maiden. I believe that thy love is, as mine, true, honest,
and thorough. For her sake I wish I could give her to thee,--because
of thy truth and honesty; not because of thy wealth and titles. But
she is not mine to give. She is her own,--and will bestow her hand or
refuse to do so as her own sense of what is best for thee may direct
her. I will say no word to persuade her one way or the other." So
speaking the Quaker strode quickly up the gateway, and Lord Hampstead
was left to make his way back out of the City as best he might.
CHAPTER IX.
IN PARK LANE.
On Monday, the 20th of April, Lady Frances returned to her father's
roof. The winter had certainly not been a happy time for her. Early
in the autumn she had been taken off to the German castle in great
disgrace because of her plebeian lover, and had, ever since, been
living under so dark a cloud, as to have been considered unfit for
the companionship of those little darlings, the young lords, her
half-brothers. She had had her way no doubt, never having for a
moment wavered in her constancy to the Post Office clerk; but she
had been assured incessantly by all her friends that her marriage
with the man was impossible, and had no doubt suffered under the
conviction that her friends were hostile to her. Now she might be
happy. Now she was to be taken back to her father's house. Now she
was to keep her lover, and not be held to have been disgraced at all.
No doubt in this there was great triumph.
But her triumph had been due altogether to an accident;--to what her
father graciously called a romance, while her stepmother described
it less civilly as a "marvellous coincidence, for which she ought to
thank her stars on her bended knees." The accident,--or coincidence
or romance as it might be called,--was, of course, her lover's title.
Of this she was by no means proud, and would not at all thank her
stars for it on her bended knees. Though she was happy in her lover's
presence, her happiness was clouded by the feeling that she was
imposing upon her father. She had been allowed to ask her lover to
dine at Kingsbury House because her lover was supposed to be the
Duca di Crinola. But the invitation had been sent under an envelope
addressed to George Roden, Esq., General Post Office. No one had
yet ventured to inscribe the Duke's name and title on the back of a
letter. The Marchioness was assured by her sister that it would all
come right, and had, therefore, submitted to have the young man asked
to come and eat his dinner under the same roof with her darlings.
But she did not quite trust her sister, and felt that after all it
might become her imperative duty to gather her children together
in her bosom, and fly with them from contact with the Post Office
clerk,--the Post Office clerk who would not become a Duke. The
Marquis himself was only anxious that everything should be made to be
easy. He had, while at Trafford, been so tormented by Mr. Greenwood
and his wife that he longed for nothing so much as a reconciliation
with his daughter. He was told on very good authority,--on the
authority of no less a person than the Secretary of State,--that this
young man was the Duca di Crinola. There had been a romance, a very
interesting romance; but the fact remained. The Post Office clerk was
no longer George Roden, and would, he was assured, soon cease to be
a Post Office clerk. The young man was in truth an Italian nobleman
of the highest order, and as such was entitled to marry the daughter
of an English nobleman. If it should turn out that he had been
misinformed, that would not be his fault.
So it was when George Roden came to dine at Kingsbury House. He
himself at this moment was not altogether happy. The last words which
Lady Persiflage had said to him at Castle Hautboy had disturbed him.
"Would it be honest on your part," Lady Persiflage had asked him, "to
ask her to abandon the rank which she will be entitled to expect from
you?" He had not put the matter to himself in that light before. Lady
Frances was entitled to as much consideration in the matter as was
himself. The rank would be as much hers as his. And yet he couldn't
do it. Not even for her sake could he walk into the Post Office and
call himself the Duca di Crinola. Not even for her sake could he
consent to live an idle, useless life as an Italian nobleman. Love
was very strong with him, but with it there was a sense of duty and
manliness which would make it impossible for him to submit himself to
such thraldom. In doing it he would have to throw over all the strong
convictions of his life. And yet he was about to sit as a guest at
Lord Kingsbury's table, because Lord Kingsbury would believe him to
be an Italian nobleman. He was not, therefore, altogether happy when
he knocked at the Marquis's door.
Hampstead had refused to join the party. He was not at present in a
condition to join any social gathering. But, omitting him, a family
party had been collected. Lord and Lady Persiflage were there, with
Lady Amaldina and her betrothed. The Persiflages had taken the matter
up very strongly, so that they may have been said to have become
George Roden's special patrons or protectors. Lord Persiflage, who
was seldom much in earnest about anything, had determined that the
Duca di Crinola should be recognized, and was supposed already to
have spoken a word on the subject in a very high quarter indeed.
Vivian, the Private Secretary, was there. The poor Marquis himself
was considered unable to come down into the dining-room, but did
receive his proposed son-in-law up-stairs. They had not met since the
unfortunate visit made by the Post Office clerk to Hendon Hall, when
no one had as yet dreamed of his iniquity; nor had the Marchioness
seen him since the terrible sound of that feminine Christian name had
wounded her ears. The other persons assembled had in a measure become
intimate with him. Lord Llwddythlw had walked round Castle Hautboy
and discussed with him the statistics of telegraphy. Lady Amaldina
had been confidential with him as to her own wedding. Both Lord
and Lady Persiflage had given him in a very friendly manner their
ideas as to his name and position. Vivian and he had become intimate
personal friends. They could, all of them, accept him with open
arms when he was shown into the drawing-room, except Lady Kingsbury
herself. "No; I am not very well just at present," said the Marquis
from his recumbent position as he languidly stretched out his hand.
"You won't see me down at dinner. God knows whether anybody will ever
see me down at dinner again."
"Not see you down at dinner!" said Lord Persiflage. "In another month
you will be talking treason in Pall Mall as you have done all your
life."
"I wish you had made Hampstead come with you, Mr.--" But the Marquis
stopped himself, having been instructed that he was not on any
account to call the young man Mr. Roden. "He was here this morning,
but seemed to be in great trouble about something. He ought to come
and take his place at the bottom of the table, seeing how ill I
am;--but he won't."
Lady Kingsbury waited until her husband had done his grumbling before
she attempted the disagreeable task which was before her. It was very
disagreeable. She was a bad hypocrite. There are women who have a
special gift of hiding their dislikings from the objects of them,
when occasion requires. They can smile and be soft, with bitter
enmity in their hearts, to suit the circumstances of the moment.
And as they do so, their faces will overcome their hearts, and
their enmity will give way to their smiles. They will become almost
friendly because they look friendly. They will cease to hate because
hatred is no longer convenient. But the Marchioness was too rigid
and too sincere for this. She could command neither her features nor
her feelings. It was evident from the moment the young man entered
the room, that she would be unable to greet him even with common
courtesy. She hated him, and she had told every one there that she
hated him. "How do you do?" she said, just touching his hand as soon
as he was released from her husband's couch. She, too, had been
specially warned by her sister that she must not call the young man
by any name. If she could have addressed him by his title, her manner
might perhaps have been less austere.
"I am much obliged to you by allowing me to come here," said Roden,
looking her full in the face, and making his little speech in such
a manner as to be audible to all the room. It was as though he
had declared aloud his intention of accepting this permission as
conveying much more than a mere invitation to dinner. Her face became
harder and more austere than ever. Then finding that she had nothing
more to say to him she seated herself and held her peace.
Only that Lady Persiflage was very unlike her sister, the moment
would have been awkward for them all. Poor Fanny, who was sitting
with her hand within her father's, could not find a word to say on
the occasion. Lord Persiflage, turning round upon his heel, made a
grimace to his Private Secretary. Llwddythlw would willingly have
said something pleasant on the occasion had he been sufficiently
ready. As it was he stood still, with his hands in his trousers
pockets and his eyes fixed on the wall opposite. According to his
idea the Marchioness was misbehaving herself. "Dear Aunt Clara,"
said Lady Amaldina, trying to say something that might dissipate the
horror of the moment, "have you heard that old Sir Gregory Tollbar
is to marry Letitia Tarbarrel at last?" But it was Lady Persiflage
who really came to the rescue. "Of course we're all very glad to see
you," she said. "You'll find that if you'll be nice to us, we'll all
be as nice as possible to you. Won't we, Lord Llwddythlw?"