shall be delighted to make the acquaintance of Mr. Roden." A slight
frown, a shade of regret, passed over the face of Lady Persiflage
as she heard the name. A darker and bitterer cloud settled itself
on Lady Kingsbury's brow. Lord Kingsbury rolled himself uneasily
on his couch. Lady Amaldina slightly pinched her lover's arm. Lord
Persiflage was almost heard to whistle. Vivian tried to look as if
it didn't signify. "I am very much obliged to you for your courtesy,
Lord Llwddythlw," said George Roden. To have called him by his name
was the greatest favour that could have been done to him at that
moment. Then the door was opened and dinner announced.
"Time and the hour run through the roughest day." In this way that
dinner at Kingsbury House did come to an end at last. There was a
weight of ill-humour about Lady Kingsbury on this special occasion
against which even Lady Persiflage found it impossible to prevail.
Roden, whose courage rose to the occasion, did make a gallant effort
to talk to Lady Frances, who sat next to him. But the circumstances
were hard upon him. Everybody else in the room was closely connected
with everybody else. Had he been graciously accepted by the mistress
of the house, he could have fallen readily enough into the intimacies
which would then have been opened to him. But as it was he was forced
to struggle against the stream, and so to struggle as to seem not to
struggle. At last, however, time and the hour had done its work, and
the ladies went up to the drawing-room.
"Lord Llwddythlw called him Mr. Roden!" This was said by the
Marchioness in a tone of bitter reproach as soon as the drawing-room
door was closed.
"I was so sorry," said Lady Amaldina.
"It does not signify in the least," said Lady Persiflage. "It cannot
be expected that a man should drop his old name and take a new one
all in a moment."
"He will never drop his old name and take the new one," said Lady
Frances.
"There now," said the Marchioness. "What do you think of that,
Geraldine?"
"My dear Fanny," said Lady Persiflage, without a touch of ill-nature
in her tone, "how can you tell what a young man will do?"
"I don't think it right to deceive Mamma," said Fanny. "I know him
well enough to be quite sure that he will not take the title, as he
has no property to support it. He has talked it over with me again
and again, and I agree with him altogether."
"Upon my word, Fanny, I didn't think that you would be so foolish,"
said her aunt. "This is a kind of thing in which a girl should not
interfere at all. It must be arranged between the young man's uncle
in Italy, and--and the proper authorities here. It must depend very
much upon--." Here Lady Persiflage reduced her words to the very
lowest whisper. "Your uncle has told me all about it, and of course
he must know better than any one else. It's a kind of thing that must
be settled for a man by,--by--by those who know how to settle it. A
man can't be this or that just as he pleases."
"Of course not," said Lady Amaldina.
"A man has to take the name, my dear, which he inherits. I could not
call myself Mrs. Jones any more than Mrs. Jones can call herself
Lady Persiflage. If he is the Duca di Crinola he must be the Duca di
Crinola."
"But he won't be Duca di Crinola," said Lady Frances.
"There now!" said the Marchioness.
"If you will only let the matter be settled by those who understand
it, and not talk about it just at present, it would be so much
better."
"You heard what Lord Llwddythlw called him," said the Marchioness.
"Llwddythlw always was an oaf," said Amaldina.
"He meant to be gracious," said Fanny; "and I am much obliged to
him."
"And as to what you were saying, Fanny, as to having nothing to
support the title, a foreign title in that way is not like one here
at home. Here it must be supported."
"He would never consent to be burdened with a great name without any
means," said Fanny.
"There are cases in which a great name will help a man to get means.
Whatever he calls himself, I suppose he will have to live, and
maintain a wife."
"He has his salary as a clerk in the Post Office," said Fanny very
boldly. Amaldina shook her head sadly. The Marchioness clasped
her hands together and raised her eyes to the ceiling with a look
of supplication. Were not her darlings to be preserved from such
contamination?
"He can do better than that, my dear," exclaimed Lady Persiflage;
"and, if you are to be his wife, I am sure that you will not stand in
the way of his promotion. His own Government and ours between them
will be able to do something for him as Duca di Crinola, whereas
nothing could be done for George Roden."
"The English Government is his Government," said Fanny indignantly.
"One would almost suppose that you want to destroy all his
prospects," said Lady Persiflage, who was at last hardly able to
restrain her anger.
"I believe she does," said the Marchioness.
In the mean time the conversation was carried on below stairs, if
with less vigour, yet perhaps with more judgment. Lord Persiflage
spoke of Roden's Italian uncle as a man possessing intellectual gifts
and political importance of the highest order. Roden could not deny
that the Italian Cabinet Minister was his uncle, and was thus driven
to acknowledge the family, and almost to acknowledge the country.
"From what I hear," said Lord Persiflage, "I suppose you would not
wish to reside permanently in Italy, as an Italian?"
"Certainly not," said Roden.
"There is no reason why you should. I can imagine that you should
have become too confirmed an Englishman to take kindly to Italian
public life as a career. You could hardly do so except as a follower
of your uncle, which perhaps would not suit you."
"It would be impossible."
"Just so. D'Ossi was saying to me this morning that he thought as
much. But there is no reason why a career should not be open to you
here as well as there;--not political perhaps, but official."
"It is the only career that at present is open to me."
"There might be difficulty about Parliament certainly. My advice to
you is not to be in a hurry to decide upon anything for a month or
two. You will find that things will shake down into their places."
Not a word was said about the name or title. When the gentlemen went
up-stairs there had been no brilliancy of conversation, but neither
were there any positive difficulties to be incurred. Not a word
further was said in reference to "George Roden" or to the "Duca di
Crinola."
CHAPTER X.
AFTER ALL HE ISN'T.
Six weeks passed by, and nothing special had yet been done to arrange
George Roden's affairs for him in the manner suggested by Lady
Persiflage. "It's a kind of thing that must be settled for a man by,
by, by--those who know how to settle it." That had been her counsel
when she was advocating delay. No doubt "things" often do arrange
themselves better than men or women can arrange them. Objections
which were at first very strong gradually fade away. Ideas which were
out of the question become possible. Time quickly renders words and
names and even days habitual to us. In this Lady Persiflage had not
been unwise. It was quite probable that a young man should become
used to a grand name quicker than he had himself expected. But
nothing had as yet been done in the right direction when the 1st of
June had come.
Attempts had been made towards increasing the young man's
self-importance, of which he himself had been hardly aware. Lord
Persiflage had seen Sir Boreas Bodkin, and Vivian had seen the
private secretary of the Postmaster-General. As the first result
of these interviews our clerk was put to sit in a room by himself,
and called upon to manage some separate branch of business in which
he was free from contact with the Crockers and Bobbins of the
Department. It might, it was thought, be possible to call a man a
Duke who sat in a separate room, even though he were still a clerk.
But, as Sir Boreas had observed, there were places to be given away,
Secretaryships, Inspectorships, Surveyorships, and suchlike, into
one of which the Duke, if he would consent to be a Duke, might be
installed before long. The primary measure of putting him into a room
by himself had already been carried out. Then a step was taken, of
which George Roden had ground to complain. There was a certain Club
in London called the Foreigners, made up half of Englishmen and half
of men of other nations, which was supposed to stand very high in the
world of fashion. Nearly every member was possessed of either grand
titles before his name, or of grand letters after it. Something
was said by Vivian to George Roden as to this club. But no actual
suggestion was made, and certainly no assent was given. Nevertheless
the name of the Duca di Crinola was put down in the Candidate Book,
as proposed by Baron d'Ossi and seconded by Lord Persiflage. There it
was, so that all the world would declare that the young "Duca" was
the "Duca." Otherwise the name would not have been inserted there
by the Italian Minister and British Secretary of State. Whereas
George Roden himself knew nothing about it. In this way attempts
were made to carry out that line of action which Lady Persiflage had
recommended.
Letters, too, were delivered to Roden, addressed to the Duca di
Crinola, both at Holloway and at the Post Office. No doubt he refused
them when they came. No doubt they generally consisted of tradesmen's
circulars, and were probably occasioned by manoeuvres of which Lady
Persiflage herself was guilty. But they had the effect of spreading
abroad the fact that George Roden was George Roden no longer, but
was the Duca di Crinola. "There's letters coming for the Duker every
day," said the landlady of the Duchess to Mrs. Duffer of Paradise
Row. "I see them myself. I shan't stand on any p's and q's. I shall
call him Duker to his face." Paradise Row determined generally to
call him Duker to his face, and did so frequently, to his great
annoyance.
Even his mother began to think that his refusal would be in vain. "I
don't see how you're to stand out against it, George. Of course if
it wasn't so you'd have to stand out against it; but as it is the
fact--"
"It is no more a fact with me than with you," he said angrily.
"Nobody dreams of giving me a title. If all the world agrees, you
will have to yield."
Sir Boreas was as urgent. He had always been very friendly with the
young clerk, and had now become particularly intimate with him. "Of
course, my dear fellow," he said, "I shall be guided entirely by
yourself."
"Thank you, sir."
"If you tell me you're George Roden, George Roden you'll be to me.
But I think you're wrong. And I think moreover that the good sense of
the world will prevail against you. As far as I understand anything
of the theory of titles, this title belongs to you. The world never
insists on calling a man a Lord or a Count for nothing. There's too
much jealousy for that. But when a thing is so, people choose that it
shall be so."
All this troubled him, though it did not shake his convictions. But
it made him think again and again of what Lady Persiflage had said to
him down at Castle Hautboy. "Will it be honest on your part to ask
her to abandon the rank which she will be entitled to expect from
you?" If all the world conspired to tell him that he was entitled
to take this name, then the girl whom he intended to marry would
certainly be justified in claiming it. It undoubtedly was the fact
that titles such as these were dear to men,--and specially dear to
women. As to this girl, who was so true to him, was he justified in
supposing that she would be different from others, simply because she
was true to him? He had asked her to come down as it were from the
high pedestal of her own rank, and to submit herself to his lowly
lot. She had consented, and there never had been to him a moment of
remorse in thinking that he was about to injure her. But as Chance
had brought it about in this way, as Fortune had seemed determined
to give back to her that of which he would have deprived her, was it
right that he should stand in the way of Fortune? Would it be honest
on his part to ask her to abandon these fine names which Chance was
putting in her way?
That it might be so, should he be pleased to accept what was offered
to him, did become manifest to him. It was within his power to call
himself and to have himself called by this new name. It was not only
the party of the Crockers. Others now were urgent in persuading him.
The matter had become so far customary to him as to make him feel
that if he would simply put the name on his card, and cause it to
be inserted in the Directories, and write a line to the officials
saying that for the future he would wish to be so designated, the
thing would be done. He had met Baron D'Ossi, and the Baron had
acknowledged that an Englishman could not be converted into an
Italian Duke without his own consent,--but had used very strong
arguments to show that in this case the Englishman ought to give his
consent. The Baron had expressed his own opinion that the Signorina
would be very much ill-used indeed if she were not allowed to take
her place among the Duchessinas. His own personal feelings were in
no degree mitigated. To be a Post Office clerk, living at Holloway,
with a few hundreds a-year to spend,--and yet to be known all over
the world as the claimant of a magnificently grand title! It seemed
as though a cruel fate had determined to crush him with a terrible
punishment because of his specially democratic views! That he of all
the world should be selected to be a Duke in opposition to his own
wishes! How often had he been heard to declare that all hereditary
titles were, of their very nature, absurd! And yet he was to be
forced to become a penniless hereditary Duke!
Nevertheless he would not rob her whom he hoped to make his wife of
that which would of right belong to her. "Fanny," he said to her one
day, "you cannot conceive how many people are troubling me about this
title."
"I know they are troubling me. But I would not mind any of
them;--only for papa."
"Is he very anxious about it?"
"I am afraid he is."
"Have I ever told you what your aunt said to me just before I left
Castle Hautboy?"
"Lady Persiflage, you mean. She is not my aunt, you know."
"She is more anxious than your father, and certainly uses the only
strong argument I have heard."
"Has she persuaded you?"
"I cannot say that; but she has done something towards persuading me.
She has made me half think that it may be my duty."
"Then I suppose you will take the name," she said.
"It shall depend entirely upon you. And yet I ought not to ask you. I
ought to do as these people bid me without even troubling you for an
expression of your wish. I do believe that when you become my wife,
you will have as complete a right to the title as has Lady Kingsbury
to hers. Shall it be so?"
"No," she said.
"It shall not?"
"Certainly, no; if it be left to me."
"Why do you answer in that way when all your friends desire it?"
"Because I believe that there is one friend who does not desire it.
If you can say that you wish it on your own account, of course I will
yield. Otherwise all that my friends may say on the matter can have
no effect on me. When I accepted the offer which you made me, I gave
up all idea of rank. I had my reasons, which I thought to be strong
enough. At any rate I did so, and now because of this accident I will
not be weak enough to go back. As to what Lady Persiflage says about
me, do not believe a word of it. You certainly will not make me happy
by bestowing on me a name which you do not wish me to bear, and which
will be distasteful to yourself."
After this there was no longer any hesitation on Roden's part, though
his friends, including Lord Persiflage, the Baron, Sir Boreas, and
Crocker, were as active in their endeavours as ever. For some days he
had doubted, but now he doubted no longer. They might address to him
what letters they would, they might call him by what nickname they
pleased, they might write him down in what book they chose, he would
still keep the name of George Roden, as she had protested that she
was satisfied with it.
It was through Sir Boreas that he learnt that his name had been
written down in the club Candidate Book as "Duca di Crinola." Sir
Boreas was not a member of the club, but had heard what had been
done, probably at some club of which he was a member. "I am glad to
hear that you are coming up at the Foreigners," said Æolus.
"But I am not."
"I was told last night that Baron D'Ossi had put your name down as
Duca di Crinola." Then Roden discovered the whole truth,--how the
Baron had proposed him and the Foreign Secretary had seconded him,
without even going through the ceremony of asking him. "Upon my word
I understood that you wished it," Vivian said to him. Upon this the
following note was written to the Foreign Secretary.
Mr. Roden presents his compliments to Lord Persiflage, and
begs to explain that there has been a misunderstanding
about the Foreigners' Club. Mr. Roden feels very much the
honour that has been done him, and is much obliged to Lord
Persiflage; but as he feels himself not entitled to the
honour of belonging to the club, he will be glad that his
name should be taken off. Mr. Roden takes the opportunity
of assuring Lord Persiflage that he does not and never
will claim the name which he understands to have been
inscribed in the club books.
"He's a confounded ass," said Lord Persiflage to the Baron as he
did as he was bid at the club. The Baron shrugged his shoulders, as
though acknowledging that his young fellow-nobleman certainly was an
ass. "There are men, Baron, whom you can't help, let you struggle
ever so much. This man has had stuff enough in him to win for himself
a very pretty girl with a good fortune and high rank, and yet he is
such a fool that he won't let me put him altogether on his legs when
the opportunity comes!"
Not long after this Roden called at the house in Park Lane, and
asked to see the Marquis. As he passed through the hall he met Mr.
Greenwood coming very slowly down the stairs. The last time he had
met the gentleman had been in that very house when the gentleman
had received him on behalf of the Marquis. The Marquis had not
condescended to see him, but had deputed his chaplain to give him
whatever ignominious answer might be necessary to his audacious
demand for the hand of Lady Frances. On that occasion Mr. Greenwood
had been very imperious. Mr. Greenwood had taken upon himself almost
the manners of the master of the house. Mr. Greenwood had crowed as
though the dunghill had been his own. George Roden even then had not
been abashed, having been able to remember through the interview that
the young lady was on his side; but he had certainly been severely
treated. He had wondered at the moment that such a man as Lord
Kingsbury should confide so much of his family matters to such
a man as Mr. Greenwood. Since then he had heard something of Mr.
Greenwood's latter history from Lady Frances. Lady Frances had joined
with her brother in disliking Mr. Greenwood, and all that Hampstead
had said to her had been passed on to her lover. Since that last
interview the position of the two men had been changed. The chaplain
had been turned out of the establishment, and George Roden had been
almost accepted into it as a son-in-law. As they met on the foot of
the staircase, it was necessary that there should be some greeting.
The Post Office clerk bowed very graciously, but Mr. Greenwood barely
acknowledged the salutation. "There," said he to himself, as he
passed on, "that's the young man that's done all the mischief. It's
because such as he are allowed to make their way in among noblemen
and gentlemen that England is going to the dogs." Nevertheless, when
Mr. Greenwood had first consented to be an inmate of the present
Lord Kingsbury's house, Lord Kingsbury had, in spite of his Order,
entertained very liberal views.
The Marquis was not in a good humour when Roden was shown into his
room. He had been troubled by his late chaplain, and he was not able
to bear such troubles easily. Mr. Greenwood had said words to him
which had vexed him sorely, and these words had in part referred to
his daughter and his daughter's lover. "No, I'm not very well," he
said in answer to Roden's inquiries. "I don't think I ever shall be
better. What is it about now?"
"I have come, my lord," said Roden, "because I do not like to be here
in your house under a false pretence."
"A false pretence? What false pretence? I hate false pretences."
"So do I."
"What do you mean by a false pretence now?"
"I fear that they have told you, Lord Kingsbury, that should you
give me your daughter as my wife, you will give her to the Duca di
Crinola." The Marquis, who was sitting in his arm-chair, shook his
head from side to side, and moved his hands uneasily, but made no
immediate reply. "I cannot quite tell, my lord, what your own ideas
are, because we have never discussed the subject."
"I don't want to discuss it just at present," said the Marquis.
"But it is right that you should know that I do not claim the title,
and never shall claim it. Others have done so on my behalf, but with
no authority from me. I have no means to support the rank in the
country to which it belongs; nor as an Englishman am I entitled to
assume it here."
"I don't know that you're an Englishman," said the Marquis. "People
tell me that you're an Italian."
"I have been brought up as an Englishman, and have lived as one for
five-and-twenty years. I think it would be difficult now to rob me
of my rights. Nobody, I fancy, will try. I am, and shall be, George
Roden, as I always have been. I should not, of course, trouble you
with the matter were it not that I am a suitor for your daughter's
hand. Am I right in supposing that I have been accepted here by
you in that light?" This was a question which the Marquis was not
prepared to answer at the moment. No doubt the young man had been
accepted. Lady Frances had been allowed to go down to Castle Hautboy
to meet him as her lover. All the family had been collected to
welcome him at the London mansion. The newspapers had been full
of mysterious paragraphs in which the future happy bridegroom was
sometimes spoken of as an Italian Duke and sometimes as an English
Post Office clerk. "Of course he must marry her now," the Marquis
had said to his wife, with much anger. "It's all your sister's
doings," he had said to her again. He had in a soft moment given his
affectionate blessing to his daughter in special reference to her
engagement. He knew that he couldn't go back from it now, and had it
been possible, would have been most unwilling to give his wife such a
triumph. But yet he was not prepared to accept the Post Office clerk
simply as a Post Office clerk. "I am sorry to trouble you at this
moment, Lord Kingsbury, if you are not well."
"I ain't well at all. I am very far from well. If you don't mind I'd
rather not talk about it just at present. When I can see Hampstead,
then, perhaps, things can be settled." As there was nothing further
to be said George Roden took his leave.
CHAPTER XI.
"OF COURSE THERE WAS A BITTERNESS."
It was not surprising that Lord Kingsbury should have been unhappy
when Roden was shown up into his room, as Mr. Greenwood had been
with him. Mr. Greenwood had called on the previous day, and had
been refused admittance. He had then sent in an appeal, asking so
piteously for an interview that the Marquis had been unable to
repudiate it. Mr. Greenwood knew enough of letter-writing to be able
to be effective on such an occasion. He had, he said, lived under the
same roof with the Marquis for a quarter of a century. Though the
positions of the two men in the world were so different they had
lived together as friends. The Marquis throughout that long period
had frequently condescended to ask the advice of his chaplain, and
not unfrequently to follow it. After all this could he refuse to
grant the favour of a last interview? He had found himself unable to
refuse the favour. The interview had taken place, and consequently
the Marquis had been very unhappy when George Roden was shown up into
his room.
The Rector of Appleslocombe was dead. The interview was commenced by
a communication to that effect from Mr. Greenwood. The Marquis of
course knew the fact,--had indeed already given the living away,--had
not delayed a minute in giving it away because of some fear which
still pressed upon him in reference to Mr. Greenwood. Nor did Mr.
Greenwood expect to get the living,--or perhaps desire it. But he
wished to have a grievance, and to be in possession of a subject on
which he could begin to make his complaint. "You must have known, Mr.
Greenwood, that I never intended it for you," said the Marquis. Mr.
Greenwood, seated on the edge of his chair and rubbing his two hands
together, declared that he had entertained hopes in that direction.
"I don't know why you should, then. I never told you so. I never
thought of it for a moment. I always meant to put a young man into
it;--comparatively young." Mr. Greenwood shook his head and still
rubbed his hands. "I don't know that I can do anything more for you."
"It isn't much that you have done, certainly, Lord Kingsbury."
"I have done as much as I intend to do," said the Marquis, rousing
himself angrily. "I have explained all that by Mr. Roberts."
"Two hundred a year after a quarter of a century!" Mr. Greenwood had
in truth been put into possession of three hundred a year; but as
one hundred of this came from Lord Hampstead it was not necessary to
mention the little addition.
"It is very wrong,--your pressing your way in here and talking to me
about it at all."
"After having expected the living for so many years!"
"You had no right to expect it. I didn't promise it. I never thought
of it for a moment. When you asked me I told you that it was out
of the question. I never heard of such impertinence in all my life.
I must ask you to go away and leave me, Mr. Greenwood." But Mr.
Greenwood was not disposed to go away just yet. He had come there for
a purpose, and he intended to go on with it. He was clearly resolved
not to be frightened by the Marquis. He got up from his chair and
stood looking at the Marquis, still rubbing his hands, till the sick
man was almost frightened by the persistency of his silence. "What is
it, Mr. Greenwood, that makes you stand thus? Do you not hear me tell
you that I have got nothing more to say to you?"
"Yes, my lord; I hear what you say."
"Then why don't you go away? I won't have you stand there staring
like that." He still shook his head. "Why do you stand there and
shake your head?"
"It must be told, my lord."
"What must be told?"
"The Marchioness!"
"What do you mean, sir? What have you got to say?"
"Would you wish to send for her ladyship?"
"No; I wouldn't. I won't send for her ladyship at all. What has her
ladyship got to do with it?"
"She promised."
"Promised what?"
"Promised the living! She undertook that I should have Appleslocombe
the moment it became vacant."
"I don't believe a word of it."
"She did. I don't think that her ladyship will deny it." It might
have been so, certainly; and had there been no chance of truth in
the statement he would hardly have been so ready to send for Lady
Kingsbury. But had she done so the promise would amount to nothing.
Though he was sick and wretched and weak, and in some matters afraid
of his wife, there had been no moment of his life in which he would
have given way to her on such a subject as this. "She promised it
me,--for a purpose."
"A purpose!"
"For a purpose, my lord."
"What purpose?" Mr. Greenwood went on staring and shaking his head
and rubbing his hands, till the Marquis, awestruck and almost
frightened, put out his hand towards the bell. But he thought of it
again. He remembered himself that he had nothing to fear. If the man
had anything to say about the Marchioness it might perhaps be better
said without the presence of servants. "If you mean to say anything,
say it. If not,--go. If you do neither one nor the other very
quickly, I shall have you turned out of the house."
"Turned out of the house?"
"Certainly. If you have any threat to make, you had better make it in
writing. You can write to my lawyers, or to me, or to Lord Hampstead,
or to Mr. Roberts."
"It isn't a threat. It is only a statement. She promised it me,--for
a purpose."
"I don't know what you mean by a purpose, Mr. Greenwood. I don't
believe Lady Kingsbury made any such promise; but if she did it
wasn't hers to promise. I don't believe it; but had she promised I
should not be bound by it."
"Not if you have not given it away?"
"I have given it away, Mr. Greenwood."
"Then I must suggest--"
"Suggest what!"
"Compensation, my lord. It will only be fair. You ask her ladyship.
Her ladyship cannot intend that I should be turned out of your
lordship's house with only two hundred a year, after what has passed
between me and her ladyship."
"What passed?" said the Marquis, absolutely rousing himself so as to
stand erect before the other man.
"I had rather, my lord, you should hear it from her ladyship."
"What passed?"
"There was all that about Lady Frances."
"What about Lady Frances?"
"Of course I was employed to do all that I could to prevent the
marriage. You employed me yourself, my lord. It was you sent me down
to see the young man, and explain to him how impertinent he was. It
isn't my fault, Lord Kingsbury, if things have got themselves changed
since then."
"You think you ought to make a demand upon me because as my Chaplain
you were asked to see a gentleman who called here on a delicate
matter?"
"It isn't that I am thinking about. If it had been only that I should
have said nothing. You asked me what it was about, and I was obliged
to remind you of one thing. What took place between me and her
ladyship was, of course, much more particular; but it all began with
your lordship. If you hadn't commissioned me I don't suppose her
ladyship would ever have spoken to me about Lady Frances."
"What is it all? Sit down;--won't you?--and tell it all like a man
if you have got anything to tell." The Marquis, fatigued with his
exertion, was forced to go back to his chair. Mr. Greenwood also sat
down,--but whether or no like a man may be doubted. "Remember this,
Mr. Greenwood, it does not become a gentleman to repeat what has been
said to him in confidence,--especially not to repeat it to him or to
them from whom it was intended to be kept secret. And it does not
become a Christian to endeavour to make ill-blood between a husband
and his wife. Now, if you have got anything to say, say it." Mr.
Greenwood shook his head. "If you have got nothing to say, go away.
I tell you fairly that I don't want to have you here. You have begun
something like a threat, and if you choose to go on with it, you may.
I am not afraid to hear you, but you must say it or go."
Mr. Greenwood again shook his head. "I suppose you won't deny that
her ladyship honoured me with a very close confidence."
"I don't know anything about it."
"Your lordship didn't know that her ladyship down at Trafford used
to be talking to me pretty freely about Lord Hampstead and Lady
Frances?"
"If you have got anything to say, say it," screamed the Marquis.
"Of course his lordship and her ladyship are not her ladyship's own
children."
"What has that got to do with it?"
"Of course there was a bitterness."
"What is that to you? I will hear nothing from you about Lady
Kingsbury, unless you have to tell me of some claim to be made upon
her. If there has been money promised you, and she acknowledges it,
it shall be paid. Has there been any such promise?"
Mr. Greenwood found it very difficult,--nay, quite impossible,--to
say in accurate language that which he was desirous of explaining
by dark hints. There had, he thought, been something of a compact
between himself and the Marchioness. The Marchioness had desired
something which she ought not to have desired, and had called upon
the Chaplain for more than his sympathy. The Chaplain had been
willing to give her more than his sympathy,--had at one time been
almost willing to give her very much more. He might possibly, as he
now felt, have misinterpreted her wishes. But he had certainly heard
from her language so strong, in reference to her husband's children,
that he had been justified in considering that it was intended to
be secret. As a consequence of this he had been compelled to choose
between the Marquis and the Marchioness. By becoming the confidential
friend of the one he had necessarily become the enemy of the other.
Then, as a further consequence, he was turned out of the house,--and,
as he declared to himself, utterly ruined. Now in this there had
certainly been much hardship, and who was to compensate him if not
the Marquis?
There certainly had been some talk about Appleslocombe during those
moments of hot passion in which Lady Kingsbury had allowed herself to
say such evil things of Lady Frances and Lord Hampstead. Whether any
absolute promise had been given she would probably not now remember.
There certainly had been a moment in which she had thought that
her husband's life might possibly pass away before that of the old
rector; and reference may have been made to the fact that had her own
darling been the heir, the gift of the living would then have fallen
into her own hands. Mr. Greenwood had probably thought more of some
possible compensation for the living than of the living itself. He
had no doubt endeavoured to frighten her ladyship into thinking that
some mysterious debt was due to him, if not for services actually
rendered, at any rate for extraordinary confidences. But before he
had forced upon her the acknowledgment of the debt, he was turned out
of the house! Now this he felt to be hard.
What were two hundred a-year as a pension for a gentleman after
such a life-long service? Was it to be endured that he should have
listened for so many years to all the abominable politics of the
Marquis, and to the anger and disappointment of the Marchioness, that
he should have been so closely connected, and for so many years,
with luxury, wealth, and rank, and then arrive at so poor an evening
of his day? As he thought of this he felt the more ashamed of his
misfortune, because he believed himself to be in all respects a
stronger man than the Marquis. He had flattered himself that he could
lead the Marquis, and had thought that he had been fairly successful
in doing so. His life had been idle, luxurious, and full of comfort.
The Marquis had allowed him to do pretty well what he pleased until
in an evil hour he had taken the side of the Marchioness in a family
quarrel. Then the Marquis, though weak in health,--almost to his
death,--had suddenly become strong in purpose, and had turned him
abruptly out of the house with a miserable stipend hardly fit for
more than a butler! Could it be that he should put up with such
usage, and allow the Marquis to escape unscathed out of his hand?
In this condition of mind, he had determined that he owed it to
himself to do or say something that should frighten his lordship into
a more generous final arrangement. There had been, he said to himself
again and again, such a confidence with a lady of so high a rank,
that the owner of it ought not to be allowed to languish upon two or
even upon three hundred a-year. If the whole thing could really be
explained to the Marquis, the Marquis would probably see it himself.
And to all this was to be added the fact that no harm had been done.
The Marchioness owed him very much for having wished to assist her in
getting rid of an heir that was disagreeable to her. The Marquis owed
him more for not having done it. And they both owed him very much
in that he had never said a word of it all to anybody else. He had
thought that he might be clever enough to make the Marquis understand
something of this without actually explaining it. That some
mysterious promise had been made, and that, as the promise could not
be kept, some compensation should be awarded,--this was what he had
desired to bring home to the mind of the Marquis. He had betrayed no
confidence. He intended to betray none. He was very anxious that the
Marquis should be aware, that as he, Mr. Greenwood, was a gentleman,
all confidences would be safe in his hands; but then the Marquis
ought to do his part of the business, and not turn his confidential
Chaplain out of the house after a quarter of a century with a
beggarly annuity of two hundred a-year!
But the Marquis seemed to have acquired unusual strength of
character; and Mr. Greenwood found that words were very difficult
to be found. He had declared that there had been "a bitterness,"
and beyond that he could not go. It was impossible to hint that her
ladyship had wished to have Lord Hampstead--removed. The horrid
thoughts of a few days had become so vague to himself that he doubted
whether there had been any real intention as to the young lord's
removal even in his own mind. There was nothing more that he could
say than this,--that during the period of this close intimacy her
ladyship had promised to him the living of Appleslocombe, and that,
as that promise could not be kept, some compensation should be made
to him. "Was any sum of money named?" asked the Marquis.
"Nothing of the kind. Her ladyship thought that I ought to have the
living."
"You can't have it; and there's an end of it."
"And you think that nothing should be done for me?"
"I think that nothing should be done for you more than has been
done."
"Very well. I am not going to tell secrets that have been intrusted
to me as a gentleman, even though I am so badly used by those who
have confided them to me. Her ladyship is safe with me. Because I
sympathized with her ladyship your lordship turned me out of the
house."
"No; I didn't."
"Should I have been treated like this had I not taken her ladyship's
part? I am too noble to betray a secret, or, no doubt, I could compel
your lordship to behave to me in a very different manner. Yes, my
lord, I am quite ready to go now. I have made my appeal, and I have
made it in vain. I have no wish to call upon her ladyship. As a
gentleman I am bound to give her ladyship no unnecessary trouble."
While this last speech was going on a servant had come into the room,
and had told the Marquis that the "Duca di Crinola" was desirous of
seeing him. The servants in the establishment were of course anxious
to recognize Lady Frances' lover as an Italian Duke. The Marquis
would probably have made some excuse for not receiving the lover at
this moment, had he not felt that he might in this way best insure
the immediate retreat of Mr. Greenwood. Mr. Greenwood went, and Roden
was summoned to Lord Kingsbury's presence; but the meeting took place
under circumstances which naturally made the Marquis incapable of
entering at the moment with much spirit on the great "Duca" question.
CHAPTER XII.
LORD HAMPSTEAD AGAIN WITH MRS. RODEN.
Weeks had passed by since Lord Hampstead had walked up and down Broad
Street with Mr. Fay,--weeks which were to him a period of terrible
woe. His passion for Marion had so seized upon him, that it had in
all respects changed his life. The sorrow of her alleged ill-health
had fallen upon him before the hunting had been over, but from that
moment he had altogether forgotten his horses. The time had now come
in which he was wont to be on board his yacht, but of his yacht he
took no notice whatever. "I can tell you nothing about it as yet,"
he said in the only line which he wrote to his skipper in answer to
piteous applications made to him. None of those who were near and
dear to him knew how he passed his time. His sister left him and went
up to the house in London, and he felt that her going was a relief to
him. He would not even admit his friend Roden to come to him in his
trouble. He spent his days all alone at Hendon, occasionally going
across to Holloway in order that he might talk of his sorrow to Mrs.
Roden. Midsummer had come upon him before he again saw the Quaker.
Marion's father had left a feeling almost of hostility in his mind
in consequence of that conversation in Broad Street. "I no longer
want anything on your behalf," the Quaker had seemed to say. "I care
nothing now for your name, or your happiness. I am anxious only for
my child, and as I am told that it will be better that you should not
see her, you must stay away." That the father should be anxious for
his daughter was natural enough. Lord Hampstead could not quarrel
with Zachary Fay. But he taught himself to think that their interests
were at variance with each other. As for Marion, whether she were
ill or whether she were well, he would have had her altogether to
himself.
Gradually there had come upon him the conviction that there was a
real barrier existing between himself and the thing that he desired.
To Marion's own words, while they had been spoken only to himself,
he had given no absolute credit. He had been able to declare to her
that her fears were vain, and that whether she were weak or whether
she were strong, it was her duty to come to him. When they two had
been together his arguments and assurances had convinced at any rate
himself. The love which he had seen in her eyes and had heard from
her lips had been so sweet to him, that their savour had overcome
whatever strength her words possessed. But these protestations, these
assurances that no marriage could be possible, when they reached him
second-hand, as they had done through his sister and through the
Quaker, almost crushed him. He did not dare to tell them that he
would fain marry the girl though she were dying,--that he would
accept any chance or no chance, if he might only be allowed to hold
her in his arms, and tell her that she was all his own. There had
come a blow, he would say to himself, again and again, as he walked
about the grounds at Hendon, there had come a blow, a fatal blow, a
blow from which there could be no recovery,--but, still, it should,
it ought, to be borne together. He would not admit to himself that
because of this verdict there ought to be a separation between them
two. It might be that the verdict had been uttered by a Judge against
whom there could be no appeal; but even the Judge should not be
allowed to say that Marion Fay was not his own. Let her come and
die in his arms if she must die. Let her come and have what of life
there might be left to her, warmed and comforted and perhaps extended
by his love. It seemed to him to be certainly a fact, that because
of his great love, and of hers, she did already belong to him; and
yet he was told that he might not see her;--that it would be better
that she should not be disturbed by his presence,--as though he were
no more than a stranger to her. Every day he almost resolved to
disregard them, and go down to the little cottage in which she was
living. But then he remembered the warnings which were given to him,
and was aware that he had in truth no right to intrude upon the
Quaker's household. It is not to be supposed that during this time
he had no intercourse with Marion. At first there came to be a few
lines, written perhaps once a week from her, in answer to many lines
written by him; but by degrees the feeling of awe which at first
attached itself to the act of writing to him wore off, and she did
not let a day pass without sending him some little record of herself
and her doings. It had come to be quite understood by the Quaker
that Marion was to do exactly as she pleased with her lover. No one
dreamed of hinting to her that this correspondence was improper or
injurious. Had she herself expressed a wish to see him, neither would
the Quaker nor Mrs. Roden have made strong objection. To whatever
might have been her wish or her decision they would have acceded. It
was by her word that the marriage had been declared to be impossible.
It was in obedience to her that he was to keep aloof. She had failed
to prevail with her own soft words, and had therefore been driven to
use the authority of others.
But at this period, though she did become weaker and weaker from
day to day, and though the doctor's attendance was constant at the
cottage, Marion herself was hardly unhappy. She grieved indeed for
his grief; but, only for that, there would have been triumph and joy
to her rather than grief. The daily writing of these little notes was
a privilege to her and a happiness, of which she had hitherto known
nothing. To have a lover, and such a lover, was a delight to her,
a delight to which there was now hardly any drawback, as there was
nothing now of which she need be afraid. To have him with her as
other girls may have their lovers, she knew was impossible to her.
But to read his words, and to write loving words to him, to talk to
him of his future life, and bid him think of her, his poor Marion,
without allowing his great manly heart to be filled too full with
vain memories, was in truth happiness to her. "Why should you want to
come?" she said. "It is infinitely better that you should not come.
We understand it all now, and acknowledge what it is that the Lord
has done for us. It would not have been good for me to be your wife.
It would not have been good for you to have become my husband. But it
will I think be good for me to have loved you; and if you will learn
to think of it as I do, it will not have been bad for you. It has
given a beauty to my life," she said, "which makes me feel that I
ought to be contented to die early. If I could have had a choice I
would have chosen it so."
But these teachings from her had no effect whatever upon him. It
was her idea that she would pass away, and that there would remain
with him no more than a fair sweet shade which would have but
little effect upon his future life beyond that of creating for him
occasionally a gentle melancholy. It could not be, she thought, that
for a man such as he,--for one so powerful and so great,--such a
memory should cause a lasting sorrow. But with him, to his thinking,
to his feeling, the lasting biting sorrow was there already. There
could be no other love, no other marriage, no other Marion. He had
heard that his stepmother was anxious for her boy. The way should be
open for the child. It did seem to him that a life, long continued,
would be impossible to him when Marion should have been taken away
from him.
"Oh yes;--he's there again," said Miss Demijohn to her aunt. "He
comes mostly on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays. What he can be
coming about is more than I can guess. Crocker says it's all true
love. Crocker says that the Duca says--"
"Bother the Duca," exclaimed the old woman. "I don't believe that
Crocker and George Roden ever exchange a word together."
"Why shouldn't they exchange words, and they fast friends of five
years' standing? Crocker says as Lord Hampstead is to be at Lady
Amaldina's wedding in August. His lordship has promised. And Crocker
thinks--"
"I don't believe very much about Crocker, my young woman. You had
better look to yourself, or, perhaps, you'll find when you have got
yourself married that Crocker has not got a roof to cover you."
Lord Hampstead had walked over to Paradise Row, and was seated with
Mrs. Roden when this little squabble was going on. "You don't think
that I ought to let things remain as they are," he said to Mrs.
Roden. To all such questions Mrs. Roden found it very difficult to
make any reply. She did in truth think that they ought to be allowed
to remain as they were,--or rather that some severance should be made
more decided even than that which now existed. Putting aside her
own ideas, she was quite sure that Marion would not consent to a
marriage. And, as it was so, and must be so, it was better, she
thought, that the young people should see no more of each other.
This writing of daily letters,--what good could it do to either of
them? To her indeed, to Marion, with her fixed purpose, and settled
religious convictions, and almost certain fate, little evil might be
done. But to Lord Hampstead the result would be, and was, terribly
pernicious. He was sacrificing himself, not only as Mrs. Roden
thought for the present moment, but for many years perhaps,--perhaps
for his future life,--to a hopeless passion. A cloud was falling upon
him which might too probably darken his whole career. From the day
on which she had unfortunately taken Marion to Hendon Hall, she had
never ceased to regret the acquaintance which she had caused. To her
thinking the whole affair had been unfortunate. Between people so
divided there should have been no intimacy, and yet this intimacy
had been due to her. "It is impossible that I should not see her,"
continued Lord Hampstead. "I will see her."
"If you would see her, and then make up your mind to part with
her,--that I think would be good."
"To see her, and say farewell to her for ever?"
"Yes, my lord."
"Certainly not. That I will never do. If it should come to pass that
she must go from me for ever, I would have her in my arms to the very
last!"
"At such a moment, my lord, those whom nature has given to her for
her friends--"
"Has not nature given me too for her friend? Can any friend love her
more truly than I do? Those should be with us when we die to whom our
life is of most importance. Is there any one to whom her life can be
half as much as it is to me? The husband is the dearest to his wife.
When I look upon her as going from me for ever, then may I not say
that she is the same to me as my wife."
"Why--why,--why?"
"I know what you mean, Mrs. Roden. What is the use of asking 'why'
when the thing is done? Could I make it so now, as though I had never
seen her? Could I if I would? Would I if I could? What is the good
of thinking of antecedents which are impossible? She has become
my treasure. Whether past and fleeting, or likely to last me for
my life, she is my treasure. Can I make a change because you ask
why,--and why,--and why? Why did I ever come here? Why did I know
your son? Why have I got a something here within me which kills me
when I think that I shall be separated from her, and yet crowns me
with glory when I feel that she has loved me. If she must leave me, I
have to bear it. What I shall do, where I shall go, whether I shall
stand or fall, I do not pretend to say. A man does not know, himself,
of what stuff he is made, till he has been tried. But whatever may be
my lot, it cannot be altered by any care or custody now. She is my
own, and I will not be separated from her. If she were dead, I should
know that she was gone. She would have left me, and I could not help
myself. As yet she is living, and may live, and I will be with her. I
must go to her there, or she must come here to me. If he will permit
it I will take some home for myself close to hers. What will it
matter now, though every one should know it? Let them all know it.
Should she live she will become mine. If she must go,--what will the
world know but that I have lost her who was to have been my wife?"
Even Mrs. Roden had not the heart to tell him that he had seen
Marion for the last time. It would have been useless to tell him
so, for he would not have obeyed the behest contained in such an
assertion. Ideas of prudence and ideas of health had restrained him
hitherto,--but he had been restrained only for a time. No one had
dared suggest to him that he should never again see his Marion. "I
suppose that we must ask Mr. Fay," she replied. She was herself more
powerful than the Quaker, as she was well aware; but it had become
necessary to her to say something.
"Mr. Fay has less to say to it even than I have," said Hampstead. "My
belief is that Marion herself is the only one among us who is strong.
If it were not that she is determined, he would yield and you would
yield."
"Who can know as she knows?" said Mrs. Roden. "Which among us is so
likely to be guided by what is right? Which is so pure, and honest,
and loving? Her conscience tells her what is best."
"I am not sure of that," said he. "Her conscience may fill her as
well as another with fears that are unnecessary. I cannot think that
a girl should be encouraged by those around her to doom herself after
this fashion. Who has a right to say that God has determined that she
shall die early?" Mrs. Roden shook her head. "I am not going to teach
others what religion demands, but to me it seems that we should leave
these things in God's hands. That she may doubt as to herself may be
natural enough, but others should not have encouraged her."
"You mean me, my lord?"
"You must not be angry with me, Mrs. Roden. The matter to me is so
vital that I have to say what I think about it. It does seem to me
that I am kept away from her, whereas, by all the ties which can
bind a man and a woman together, I ought to be with her. Forms and
ceremonies seem to sink to nothing, when I think of all she is to me,
and remember that I am told that she is soon to be taken away from
me."
"How would it be if she had a mother?"
"Why should her mother refuse my love for her daughter? But she has
no mother. She has a father who has accepted me. I do believe that
had the matter been left wholly to him, Marion would now be my wife."
"I was away, my lord, in Italy."
"I will not be so harsh to such a friend as you, as to say that I
wish you had remained there; but I feel,--I cannot but feel--"
"My lord, I think the truth is that you hardly know how strong in
such a matter as this our Marion herself can be. Neither have I nor
has her father prevailed upon her. I can go back now, and tell you
without breach of confidence all that passed between her and me. When
first your name was discussed between us; when first I saw that you
seemed to make much of her--"
"Make much of her!" exclaimed Hampstead, angrily.
"Yes; make much of her! When first I thought that you were becoming
fond of her."
"You speak as though there had been some idle dallying. Did I not
worship her? Did I not pour out my whole heart into her lap from the
first moment in which I saw her? Did I hide it even from you? Was
there any pretence, any falsehood?"
"No, indeed."
"Do not say that I made much of her. The phrase is vile. When she
told me that she loved me, she made much of me."
"When first you showed us that you loved her," she continued, "I
feared that it would not be for good."
"Why should it not be for good?"
"I will not speak of that now, but I thought so. I thought so, and I
told my thoughts to Marion."
"You did?"
"I did;--and I think that in doing so, I did no more than my duty
to a motherless girl. Of the reasons which I gave to her I will
say nothing now. Her reasons were so much stronger, that mine were
altogether unavailing. Her resolutions were built on so firm a rock,
that they needed no persuasions of mine to strengthen them. I had
ever known Marion to be pure, unselfish, and almost perfect. But
I had never before seen how high she could rise, how certainly she
could soar above all weakness and temptation. To her there was never
a moment of doubt. She knew from the very first that it could not be
so."
"It shall be so," he said, jumping up from his chair, and flinging up
his arms.
"It was not I who persuaded her, or her father. Even you cannot
persuade her. Having convinced herself that were she to marry you,
she would injure you, not all her own passionate love will induce her
to accept the infinite delight of yielding to you. What may be best
for you;--that is present to her mind, and nothing else. On that her
heart is fixed, and so clear is her judgment respecting it, that she
will not allow the words of any other to operate on her for a moment.
Marion Fay, Lord Hampstead, is infinitely too great to have been
persuaded in any degree by me."
* * * * * *
Nevertheless Mrs. Roden did allow herself to say that in her opinion
the lover should be allowed to see his mistress. She herself would go
to Pegwell Bay, and endeavour to bring Marion back to Holloway. That
Lord Hampstead should himself go down and spend his long hours at
the little seaside place did not seem to her to be fitting. But she
promised that she would do her best to arrange at any rate another
meeting in Paradise Row.
CHAPTER XIII.
LORD HAMPSTEAD AGAIN WITH MARION.
The Quaker had become as weak as water in his daughter's hands. To
whatever she might have desired he would have given his assent. He
went daily up from Pegwell Bay to Pogson and Littlebird's, but even
then he was an altered man. It had been said there for a few days
that his daughter was to become the wife of the eldest son of the
Marquis of Kingsbury, and then it had been said that there could be
no such marriage--because of Marion's health. The glory while it
lasted he had borne meekly, but with a certain anxious satisfaction.
The pride of his life had been in Marion, and this young lord's
choice had justified his pride. But the glory had been very fleeting.
And now it was understood through all Pogson and Littlebird's that
their senior clerk had been crushed, not by the loss of his noble
son-in-law, but by the cause which produced the loss. Under these
circumstances poor Zachary Fay had hardly any will of his own, except
to do that which his daughter suggested to him. When she told him
that she would wish to go up to London for a few days, he assented as
a matter of course. And when she explained that she wished to do so
in order that she might see Lord Hampstead, he only shook his head
sadly, and was silent.
"Of course I will come as you wish it," Marion had said in her letter
to her lover. "What would I not do that you wish,--except when you
wish things that you know you ought not? Mrs. Roden says that I am to
go up to be lectured. You mustn't be very hard upon me. I don't think
you ought to ask me to do things which you know,--which you know that
I cannot do. Oh, my lover! oh, my love! would that it were all over,
and that you were free!"
In answer to this, and to other letters of the kind, he wrote to
her long argumentative epistles, in which he strove to repress the
assurances of his love, in order that he might convince her the
better by the strength of his reasoning. He spoke to her of the will
of God, and of the wickedness of which she would be guilty if she
took upon herself to foretell the doings of Providence. He said much
of the actual bond by which they had tied themselves together in
declaring their mutual love. He endeavoured to explain to her that
she could not be justified in settling such a question for herself
without reference to the opinion of those who must know the world
better than she did. Had the words of a short ceremony been spoken,
she would have been bound to obey him as her husband. Was she not
equally bound now, already, to acknowledge his superiority,--and if
not by him, was it not her manifest duty to be guided by her father?
Then at the end of four carefully-written, well-stuffed pages, there
would come two or three words of burning love. "My Marion, my self,
my very heart!" It need hardly be said that as the well-stuffed pages
went for nothing with Marion,--had not the least effect towards
convincing her, so were the few words the very food on which she
lived. There was no absurdity in the language of love that was not to
her a gem so brilliant that it deserved to be garnered in the very
treasure house of her memory! All those long useless sermons were
preserved because they had been made rich and rare by the expression
of his passion.
She understood him, and valued him at the proper rate, and measured
him correctly in everything. He was so true, she knew him to be so
true, that even his superlatives could not be other than true! But as
for his reasoning, she knew that that came also from his passion. She
could not argue the matter out with him, but he was wrong in it all.
She was not bound to listen to any other voice but that of her own
conscience. She was bound not to subject him to the sorrows which
would attend him were he to become her husband. She could not tell
how weak or how strong might be his nature in bearing the burden
of the grief which would certainly fall upon him at her death. She
had heard, and had in part seen, that time does always mitigate the
weight of that burden. Perhaps it might be best that she should go
at once, so that no prolonged period of his future career should
be injured by his waiting. She had begun to think that he would be
unable to look for another wife while she lived. By degrees there
came upon her the full conviction of the steadfastness, nay, of the
stubbornness, of his heart. She had been told that men were not
usually like that. When first he had become sweet to her, she had
not thought that he would have been like that. Was it not almost
unmanly,--or rather was it not womanly? And yet he,--strong and
masterful as he was,--could he have aught of a woman's weakness about
him? Could she have dreamed that it would be so from the first, she
thought that from the very first she could have abstained.
"Of course I shall be at home on Tuesday at two. Am I not at home
every day at all hours? Mrs. Roden shall not be there as you do not
wish it, though Mrs. Roden has always been your friend. Of course I
shall be alone. Papa is always in the City. Good to you! Of course I
shall be good to you! How can I be bad to the one being that I love
better than all the world? I am always thinking of you; but I do wish
that you would not think so much of me. A man should not think so
much of a girl,--only just at his spare moments. I did not think that
it would be like that when I told you that you might love me."
All that Tuesday morning, before he left home, he was not only
thinking of her, but trying to marshal in order what arguments
he might use,--so as to convince her at last. He did not at all
understand how utterly fruitless his arguments had been with her.
When Mrs. Roden had told him of Marion's strength he had only in part
believed her. In all matters concerning the moment Marion was weak
and womanly before him. When he told her that this or the other thing
was proper and becoming, she took it as Gospel because it came from
him. There was something of the old awe even when she looked up into
his face. Because he was a great nobleman, and because she was the
Quaker's daughter, there was still, in spite of their perfect love,
something of superiority, something of inferiority of position. It
was natural that he should command,--natural that she should obey.
How could it be then that she should not at last obey him in this
great thing which was so necessary to him? And yet hitherto he had
never gone near to prevailing with her. Of course he marshalled all
his arguments.
Gentle and timid as she was, she had made up her mind to everything,
even down to the very greeting with which she would receive him. His
first warm kiss had shocked her. She had thought of it since, and
had told herself that no harm could come to her from such tokens of
affection,--that it would be unnatural were she to refuse it to him.
Let it pass by as an incident that should mean nothing. To hang upon
his neck and to feel and to know that she was his very own,--that
might not be given to her. To hear his words of love and to answer
him with words as warm,--that could be allowed to her. As for the
rest, it would be better that she should let it so pass by that there
need be as little of contention as possible on a matter so trivial.
When he came into the room he took her at once, passive and
unresisting, into his arms. "Marion," he said. "Marion! Do you say
that you are ill? You are as bright as a rose."
"Rose leaves soon fall. But we will not talk about that. Why go to
such a subject?"
"It cannot be helped." He still held her by the waist, and now again
he kissed her. There was something in her passive submission which
made him think at the moment that she had at last determined to yield
to him altogether. "Marion, Marion," he said, still holding her in
his embrace, "you will be persuaded by me? You will be mine now?"
Gradually,--very gently,--she contrived to extricate herself. There
must be no more of it, or his passion would become too strong for
her. "Sit down, dearest," she said. "You flurry me by all this. It is
not good that I should be flurried."
"I will be quiet, tame, motionless, if you will only say the one word
to me. Make me understand that we are not to be parted, and I will
ask for nothing else."
"Parted! No, I do not think that we shall be parted."
"Say that the day shall come when we may really be joined together;
when--"
"No, dear; no; I cannot say that. I cannot alter anything that I have
said before. I cannot make things other than they are. Here we are,
we two, loving each other with all our hearts, and yet it may not be.
My dear, dear lord!" She had never even yet learned another name for
him than this. "Sometimes I ask myself whether it has been my fault."
She was now sitting, and he was standing over her, but still holding
her by the hand.
"There has been no fault. Why should either have been in fault?"
"When there is so great a misfortune there must generally have
been a fault. But I do not think there has been any here. Do not
misunderstand me, dear. The misfortune is not with me. I do not know
that the Lord could have sent me a greater blessing than to have
been loved by you,--were it not that your trouble, your grief, your
complainings rob me of my joy."
"Then do not rob me," he said.
"Out of two evils you must choose the least. You have heard of that,
have you not?"
"There need be no evil;--no such evil as this." Then he dropped her
hand, and stood apart from her while he listened to her, or else
walked up and down the room, throwing at her now and again a quick
angry word, as she went on striving to make clear to him the ideas as
they came to her mind.
"I do not know how I could have done otherwise," she said, "when
you would make it so certain to me that you loved me. I suppose it
might have been possible for me to go away, and not to say a word in
answer."
"That is nonsense,--sheer nonsense," he said.
"I could not tell you an untruth. I tried it once, but the words
would not come at my bidding. Had I not spoken them, you would read
the truth in my eyes. What then could I have done? And yet there was
not a moment in which I have not known that it must be as it is."
"It need not be; it need not be. It should not be."
"Yes, dear, it must be. As it is so why not let us have the sweet
of it as far as it will go? Can you not take a joy in thinking that
you have given an inexpressible brightness to your poor Marion's
days; that you have thrown over her a heavenly light which would
be all glorious to her if she did not see that you were covered by
a cloud? If I thought that you could hold up your head with manly
strength, and accept this little gift of my love, just for what it is
worth,--just for what it is worth,--then I think I could be happy to
the end."
"What would you have me do? Can a man love and not love?"
"I almost think he can. I almost think that men do. I would not have
you not love me. I would not lose my light and my glory altogether.
But I would have your love to be of such a nature that it should not
conquer you. I would have you remember your name and your family--"
"I care nothing for my name. As far as I am concerned, my name is
gone."
"Oh, my lord!"
"You have determined that my name shall go no further."
"That is unmanly, Lord Hampstead. Because a poor weak girl such as I
am cannot do all that you wish, are you to throw away your strength
and your youth, and all the high hopes which ought to be before you?
Would you say that it were well in another if you heard that he had
thrown up everything, surrendered all his duties, because of his love
for some girl infinitely beneath him in the world's esteem?"
"There is no question of above and beneath. I will not have it. As to
that, at any rate we are on a par."
"A man and a girl can never be on a par. You have a great career, and
you declare that it shall go for nothing because I cannot be your
wife."
"Can I help myself if I am broken-hearted? You can help me."
"No, Lord Hampstead; it is there that you are wrong. It is there that
you must allow me to say that I have the clearer knowledge. With an
effort on your part the thing may be done."
"What effort? What effort? Can I teach myself to forget that I have
ever seen you?"
"No, indeed; you cannot forget. But you may resolve that, remembering
me, you should remember me only for what I am worth. You should not
buy your memories at too high a price."
"What is it that you would have me do?"
"I would have you seek another wife."
"Marion!"
"I would have you seek another wife. If not instantly, I would have
you instantly resolve to do so."
"It would not hurt you to feel that I loved another?"
"I think not. I have tried myself, and now I think that it would not
hurt me. There was a time in which I owned to myself that it would be
very bitter, and then I told myself, that I hoped,--that I hoped that
you would wait. But now, I have acknowledged to myself the vanity and
selfishness of such a wish. If I really love you am I not bound to
want what may be best for you?"
"You think that possible?" he said, standing over her, and looking
down upon her. "Judging from your own heart do you think that you
could do that if outward circumstances made it convenient?"
"No, no, no."
"Why should you suppose me to be harder-hearted than yourself, more
callous, more like a beast of the fields?"
"More like a man is what I would have you."
"I have listened to you, Marion, and now you may listen to me. Your
distinctions as to men and women are all vain. There are those, men
and women both, who can love and do love, and there are those who
neither do nor can. Whether it be for good or evil,--we can, you and
I, and we do. It would be impossible to think of giving yourself to
another?"
"That is certainly true."
"It is the same with me,--and will ever be so. Whether you live or
die, I can have no other wife than Marion Fay. As to that I have a
right to expect that you shall believe me. Whether I have a wife or
not you must decide."
"Oh, dearest, do not kill me."
"It has to be so. If you can be firm so can I. As to my name and
my family, it matters nothing. Could I be allowed to look forward
and think that you would sit at my hearth, and that some child
that should be my child should lie in your arms, then I could look
forward to what you call a career. Not that he might be the last of a
hundred Traffords, not that he might be an Earl or a Marquis like his
forefathers, not that he might some day live to be a wealthy peer,
would I have it so,--but because he would be yours and mine." Now she
got up, and threw her arms around him, and stood leaning on him as
he spoke. "I can look forward to that and think of a career. If that
cannot be, the rest of it must provide for itself. There are others
who can look after the Traffords,--and who will do so whether it be
necessary or not. To have gone a little out of the beaten path, to
have escaped some of the traditional absurdities, would have been
something to me. To have let the world see how noble a Countess I
could find for it--that would have satisfied me. And I had succeeded.
I had found one that would really have graced the name. If it is not
to be so,--why then let the name and family go on in the old beaten
track. I shall not make another venture. I have made my choice, and
it is to come to this."
"You must wait, dear;--you must wait. I had not thought it would be
like this; but you must wait."
"What God may have in store for me, who can tell. You have told me
your mind, Marion; and now I trust that you will understand mine. I
do not accept your decision, but you will accept mine. Think of it
all, and when you see me again in a day or two, then see whether you
will not be able to join your lot to mine and make the best of it."
Upon this he kissed her again, and left her without another word.
CHAPTER XIV.
CROCKER'S DISTRESS.
When Midsummer came Paradise Row was alive with various interests.
There was no one there who did not know something of the sad story of
Marion Fay and her love. It was impossible that such a one as Lord
Hampstead should make repeated visits to the street without notice.
When Marion returned home from Pegwell Bay, even the potboy at The
Duchess of Edinburgh knew why she had come, and Clara Demijohn
professed to be able to tell all that passed at the interview next
day. And there was the great "Duca" matter;--so that Paradise Row
generally conceived itself to be concerned on all questions of
nobility, both Foreign and British. There were the Ducaites and the
anti-Ducaites. The Demijohn faction generally, as being under the
influence of Crocker, were of opinion that George Roden being a Duke
could not rid himself of his ducal nature, and they were loud in
their expression of the propriety of calling the Duke Duke whether
he wished it or no. But Mrs. Grimley at The Duchess was warm on the
other side. George Roden, according to her lights, being a clerk in
the Post Office, must certainly be a Briton, and being a Briton, and
therefore free, was entitled to call himself whatever he pleased.
She was generally presumed to enunciate a properly constitutional
theory in the matter, and, as she was a leading personage in the
neighbourhood, the Duca was for the most part called by his old name;
but there were contests, and on one occasion blows had been struck.
All this helped to keep life alive in the Row.
But there had arisen another source of intense interest. Samuel
Crocker was now regularly engaged to marry Miss Demijohn. There had
been many difficulties before this could be arranged. Crocker not
unnaturally wished that a portion of the enormous wealth which rumour
attributed to Mrs. Demijohn should be made over to the bride on her
marriage. But the discussions which had taken place between him and
the old lady on the matter had been stormy and unsuccessful. "It's a
sort of thing that one doesn't understand at all, you know," Crocker
had said to Mrs. Grimley, giving the landlady to understand that he
was not going to part with his own possession of himself without
adequate consideration. Mrs. Grimley had comforted the young man by
reminding him that the old lady was much given to hot brandy and
water, and that she could not "take her money with her where she was
going." Crocker had at last contented himself with an assurance that
there should be a breakfast and a trousseau which was to cost £100.
With the promise of this and the hope of what brandy-and-water might
do for him, he had given in, and the match was made. Had there been
no more than this in the matter the Row would not have been much
stirred by it. The Row was so full of earls, marquises, and dukes
that Crocker's love would have awakened no more than a passing
attention, but for a concomitant incident which was touching in
its nature, and interesting in its development. Daniel Tribbledale,
junior clerk at Pogson and Littlebird's, had fought a battle with his
passion for Clara Demijohn like a man; but, manly though the battle
had been, Love had prevailed over him. He had at last found it
impossible to give up the girl of his heart, and he had declared his
intention of "punching Crocker's head" should he ever find him in the
neighbourhood of the Row. With the object of doing this he frequented
the Row constantly from ten in the evening till two in the morning,
and spent a great deal more money than he ought to have done at The
Duchess. He would occasionally knock at No. 10, and boldly ask to
be allowed to see Miss Clara. On one or two of these occasions he
had seen her, and tears had flown in great quantities. He had thrown
himself at her feet, and she had assured him that it was in vain. He
had fallen back at Pogson and Littlebird's to £120 a year, and there
was no prospect of an increase. Moreover the betrothment with Crocker
was complete. Clara had begged him to leave the vicinity of Holloway.
Nothing, he had sworn, should divorce him from Paradise Row. Should
that breakfast ever be given; should these hated nuptials ever take
place; he would be heard of. It was in vain that Clara had threatened
to die on the threshold of the church if anything rash were done.
He was determined, and Clara, no doubt, was interested in the
persistency of his affection. It was, however, specially worthy of
remark that Crocker and Tribbledale never did meet in Paradise Row.
Monday, 13th of July, was the day fixed for the marriage, and
lodgings for the happy pair had been taken at Islington. It had been
hoped that room might have been made for them at No. 10; but the
old lady, fearing the interference of a new inmate, had preferred
the horrors of solitude to the combined presence of her niece and
her niece's husband. She had, however, given a clock and a small
harmonium to grace the furnished sitting-room;--so that things might
be said to stand on a sound and pleasant footing. Gradually, however,
it came to be thought both by the old and the young lady, that
Crocker was becoming too eager on that great question of the Duca.
When he declared that no earthly consideration should induce him to
call his friend by any name short of that noble title which he was
entitled to use, he was asked a question or two as to his practice at
the office. For it had come round to Paradise Row that Crocker was
giving offence at the office by his persistency. "When I speak of him
I always call him the 'Duca,'" said Crocker, gallantly, "and when I
meet him I always address him as Duca. No doubt it may for a while
create a little coolness, but he will recognize at last the truth of
the spirit which actuates me. He is 'the Duca.'"
"If you go on doing what they tell you not to do," said the old
woman, "they'll dismiss you." Crocker had simply smiled ineffably.
Not Æolus himself would dismiss him for a loyal adherence to the
constitutional usages of European Courts.
Crocker was in truth making himself thoroughly disagreeable at the
Post Office. Sir Boreas had had his own view as to Roden's title, and
had been anxious to assist Lord Persiflage in forcing the clerk to
accept his nobility. But when he had found that Roden was determined,
he had given way. No order had been given on the subject. It was a
matter which hardly admitted of an order. But it was understood that
as Mr. Roden wished to be Mr. Roden, he was to be Mr. Roden. It was
declared that good taste required that he should be addressed as he
chose to be addressed. When, therefore, Crocker persisted it was felt
that Crocker was a bore. When Crocker declared to Roden personally
that his conscience would not allow him to encounter a man whom he
believed to be a nobleman without calling him by his title, the
office generally felt that Crocker was an ass. Æolus was known to
have expressed himself as very angry, and was said to have declared
that the man must be dismissed sooner or later. This had been
reported to Crocker. "Sir Boreas can't dismiss me for calling a
nobleman by his right name," Crocker had replied indignantly. The
clerks had acknowledged among themselves that this might be true,
but had remarked that there were different ways of hanging a dog. If
Æolus was desirous of hanging Crocker, Crocker would certainly find
him the rope before long. There was a little bet made between Bobbin
and Geraghty that the office would know Crocker no longer before the
end of the year.
Alas, alas;--just before the time fixed for the poor fellow's
marriage, during the first week of July, there came to our Æolus not
only an opportunity for dismissing poor Crocker, but an occasion on
which, by the consent of all, it was admitted to be impossible that
he should not do so, and the knowledge of the sin committed came
upon Sir Boreas at a moment of great exasperation caused by another
source. "Sir Boreas," Crocker had said, coming into the great man's
room, "I hope you will do me the honour of being present at my
wedding breakfast." The suggestion was an unpardonable impertinence.
"I am asking no one else in the Department except the Duca," said
Crocker. With what special flea in his ear Crocker was made to leave
the room instantly cannot be reported; but the reader may be quite
sure that neither did Æolus nor the Duca accept the invitation. It
was on that very afternoon that Mr. Jerningham, with the assistance
of one of the messengers, discovered that Crocker had--actually torn
up a bundle of official papers!
Among many official sins of which Crocker was often guilty was that
of "delaying papers." Letters had to be written, or more probably
copies made, and Crocker would postpone the required work from day to
day. Papers would get themselves locked up, and sometimes it would
not be practicable to trace them. There were those in the Department
who said that Crocker was not always trustworthy in his statements,
and there had come up lately a case in which the unhappy one was
supposed to have hidden a bundle of papers of which he denied having
ever had the custody. Then arose a tumult of anger among those who
would be supposed to have had the papers if Crocker did not have
them, and a violent search was instituted. Then it was discovered
that he had absolutely--destroyed the official documents! They
referred to the reiterated complaints of a fidgety old gentleman who
for years past had been accusing the Department of every imaginable
iniquity. According to this irritable old gentleman, a diabolical
ingenuity had been exercised in preventing him from receiving a
single letter through a long series of years.
This was a new crime. Wicked things were often done, but anything so
wicked as this had never before been perpetrated in the Department.
The minds of the senior clerks were terribly moved, and the young men
were agitated by a delicious awe. Crocker was felt to be abominable;
but heroic also,--and original. It might be that a new opening for
great things had been invented.
The fidgety old gentleman had never a leg to stand upon,--not a
stump; but now it was almost impossible that he should not be made
to know that all his letters of complaint had been made away with!
Of course Crocker must be dismissed. He was at once suspended, and
called upon for his written explanation. "And I am to be married next
week!" he said weeping to Mr. Jerningham. Æolus had refused to see
him, and Mr. Jerningham, when thus appealed to, only shook his head.
What could a Mr. Jerningham say to a man who had torn up official
papers on the eve of his marriage? Had he laid violent hands on his
bride, but preserved the papers, his condition, to Mr. Jerningham's
thinking, would have been more wholesome.
It was never known who first carried the tidings to Paradise Row.
There were those who said that Tribbledale was acquainted with a
friend of Bobbin, and that he made it all known to Clara in an
anonymous letter. There were others who traced a friendship between
the potboy at The Duchess and a son of one of the messengers. It was
at any rate known at No. 10. Crocker was summoned to an interview
with the old woman; and the match was then and there declared to be
broken off. "What are your intentions, sir, as to supporting that
young woman?" Mrs. Demijohn demanded with all the severity of which
she was capable. Crocker was so broken-hearted that he had not a word
to say for himself. He did not dare to suggest that perhaps he might
not be dismissed. He admitted the destruction of the papers. "I never
cared for him again when I saw him so knocked out of time by an old
woman," said Clara afterwards.
"What am I to do about the lodgings?" asked Crocker weeping.
"Tear 'em up," said Mrs. Demijohn. "Tear 'em up. Only send back the
clock and the harmonium."
Crocker in his despair looked about everywhere for assistance. It
might be that Æolus would be softer-hearted than Clara Demijohn.
He wrote to Lord Persiflage, giving him a very full account of the
affair. The papers, he said, had in fact been actually torn by
accident. He was afraid of "the Duca," or he would have applied to
him. "The Duca," no doubt had been his most intimate friend,--so he
still declared,--but in such an emergency he did not know how to
address "the Duca." But he bethought himself of Lord Hampstead, of
that hunting acquaintance, with whom his intercourse had been so
pleasant and so genial, and he made a journey down Hendon. Lord
Hampstead at this time was living there all alone. Marion Fay had
been taken back to Pegwell Bay, and her lover was at the old house
holding intercourse almost with no one. His heart just now was very
heavy with him. He had begun to believe that Marion would in truth
never become his wife. He had begun to think that she would really
die, and that he would never have had the sad satisfaction of calling
her his own. All lightness and brightness had gone from him, all
the joy which he used to take in argument, all the eagerness of his
character,--unless the hungry craving of unsatisfied love could still
be called an eagerness.
He was in this condition when Crocker was brought out to him in the
garden where he was walking. "Mr. Crocker," he said, standing still
in the pathway and looking into the man's face.
"Yes, my lord; it's me. I am Crocker. You remember me, my lord, down
in Cumberland?"
"I remember you,--at Castle Hautboy."
"And out hunting, my lord,--when we had that pleasant ride home from
Airey Force."
"What can I do for you now?"
"I always do think, my lord, that there is nothing like sport to
cement affection. I don't know how you feel about it, my lord."
"If there is anything to be said--perhaps you will say it."
"And there's another bond, my lord. We have both been looking for the
partners of our joys in Paradise Row."
"If you have anything to say, say it."
"And as for your friend, my lord, the,--the--. You know whom I mean.
If I have given any offence it has only been because I've thought
that as the title was certainly theirs, a young lady who shall be
nameless ought to have the advantage of it. I've only done it because
of my consideration for the family."
"What have you come here for, Mr. Crocker? I am not just now disposed
to converse,--on, I may say, any subject. If there be anything--"
"Indeed, there is. Oh, my lord, they are going to dismiss me! For the
sake of Paradise Row, my lord, pray, pray, interfere on my behalf."
Then he told the whole story about the papers, merely explaining that
they had been torn in accident. "Sir Boreas is angry with me because
I have thought it right to call--you know whom--by his title, and now
I am to be dismissed just when I was about to take that beautiful and
accomplished young lady to the hymeneal altar. Only think if you and
Miss Fay was to be divided in the same way!"
With much lengthened explanation, which was, however, altogether
ineffectual, Lord Hampstead had to make his visitor understand that
there was no ground on which he could even justify a request. "But a
letter! You could write a letter. A letter from your lordship would
do so much." Lord Hampstead shook his head. "If you were just to say
that you had known me intimately down in Cumberland! Of course I am
not taking upon myself to say it was so,--but to save a poor fellow
on the eve of his marriage!"
"I will write a letter," said Lord Hampstead, thinking of it, turning
over in his mind his own idea of what marriage would be to him. "I
cannot say that we have been intimate friends, because it would not
be true."
"No;--no; no! Of course not that."
"But I will write a letter to Sir Boreas. I cannot conceive that it
should have any effect. It ought to have none."
"It will, my lord."
"I will write, and will say that your father is connected with my
uncle, and that your condition in regard to your marriage may perhaps
be accepted as a ground for clemency. Good day to you." Not very
quickly, but with profuse thanks and the shedding of some tears,
poor Crocker took his leave. He had not been long gone before the
following letter was written;--
SIR,
Though I have not the honour of any acquaintance with you,
I take the liberty of writing to you as to the condition
of one of the clerks in your office. I am perfectly aware
that should I receive a reprimand from your hands, I shall
have deserved it by my unjustifiable interference.
Mr. Crocker represents to me that he is to be dismissed
because of some act of which you as his superior officer
highly disapprove. He asks me to appeal to you on his
behalf because we have been acquainted with each other.
His father is agent to my uncle Lord Persiflage, and
we have met at my uncle's house. I do not dare to put
this forward as a plea for mercy. But I understand that
Mr. Crocker is about to be married almost immediately,
and, perhaps, you will feel with me that a period in
a man's life which should beyond all others be one of
satisfaction, of joy, and of perfect contentment, may
be regarded with a feeling of mercy which would be
prejudicial if used more generally.
Your faithful servant,
HAMPSTEAD.
When he wrote those words as to the period of joy and satisfaction
his own heart was sore, sore, sore almost to breaking. There could
never be such joy, never be such satisfaction for him.
CHAPTER XV.
"DISMISSAL. B. B."
By return of post Lord Hampstead received the following answer to his
letter;--
MY DEAR LORD HAMPSTEAD,--
Mr. Crocker's case is _a very bad one_; but the Postmaster
General shall see your appeal, and his lordship will,
I am sure, sympathize with your humanity--as do I also.
I cannot take upon myself to say what his lordship will
think it right to do, and it will be better, therefore,
that you should abstain for the present from communicating
with Mr. Crocker.
I am,
Your lordship's very faithful servant,
BOREAS BODKIN.
Any excuse was sufficient to our Æolus to save him from the horror
of dismissing a man. He knew well that Crocker, as a public servant,
was not worth his salt. Sir Boreas was blessed,--or cursed,--with
a conscience, but the stings of his conscience, though they were
painful, did not hurt him so much as those of his feelings. He had
owned to himself on this occasion that Crocker must go. Crocker was
in every way distasteful to him. He was not only untrustworthy and
incapable, but audacious also, and occasionally impudent. He was a
clerk of whom he had repeatedly said that it would be much better to
pay him his salary and let him have perpetual leave of absence, than
keep him even if there were no salary to be paid. Now there had come
a case on which it was agreed by all the office that the man must go.
Destroy a bundle of official papers! Mr. Jerningham had been heard to
declare that the law was in fault in not having provided that a man
should be at once sent to Newgate for doing such a thing. "The stupid
old fool's letters weren't really worth anything," Sir Boreas had
said, as though attempting to palliate the crime! Mr. Jerningham
had only shaken his head. What else could he do? It was not for
him to dispute any matter with Sir Boreas. But to his thinking the
old gentleman's letters had become precious documents, priceless
records, as soon as they had once been bound by the red tape of the
Government, and enveloped by the security of an official pigeon-hole.
To stay away without leave,--to be drunk,--to be obstinately
idle,--to be impudent, were great official sins; but Mr. Jerningham
was used to them, and knew that as they had often occurred before, so
would they re-occur. Clerks are mortal men, and will be idle, will be
reckless, will sometimes get into disreputable rows. A little added
severity, Mr. Jerningham thought, would improve his branch of the
department, but, knowing the nature of men, the nature especially of
Sir Boreas, he could make excuses. Here, however, was a case in which
no superior Civil Servant could entertain a doubt. And yet Sir Boreas
palliated even this crime! Mr. Jerningham shook his head, and Sir
Boreas shoved on one side, so as to avoid for a day the pain of
thinking about them, the new bundle of papers which had already
formed itself on the great Crocker case. If some one would tear up
that, what a blessing it would be!
In this way there was delay, during which Crocker was not allowed to
show his face at the office, and during this delay Clara Demijohn
became quite confirmed in her determination to throw over her
engagement. Tribbledale with his £120 would be much better than
Crocker with nothing. And then it was agreed generally in Paradise
Row that there was something romantic in Tribbledale's constancy.
Tribbledale was in the Row every day,--or perhaps rather every
night;--seeking counsel from Mrs. Grimley, and comforting himself
with hot gin-and-water. Mrs. Grimley was good-natured, and impartial
to both the young men. She liked customers, and she liked marriages
generally. "If he ain't got no income of course he's out of the
running," Mrs. Grimley said to Tribbledale, greatly comforting the
young man's heart. "You go in and win," said Mrs. Grimley, indicating
by that her opinion that the ardent suitor would probably be
successful if he urged his love at the present moment. "Strike while
the iron is hot," she said, alluding probably to the heat to which
Clara's anger would be warmed by the feeling that the other lover
had lost his situation just when he was most bound to be careful in
maintaining it.
Tribbledale went in and pleaded his case. It is probable that just
at this time Clara herself was made acquainted with Tribbledale's
frequent visits to The Duchess, and though she may not have been
pleased with the special rendezvous selected, she was gratified by
the devotion shown. When Mrs. Grimley advised Tribbledale to "go in
and win," she was, perhaps, in Clara's confidence. When a girl has
told all her friends that she is going to be married, and has already
expended a considerable portion of the sum of money allowed for her
wedding garments, she cannot sink back into the simple position of
an unengaged young woman without pangs of conscience and qualms of
remorse. Paradise Row knew that her young man was to be dismissed
from his office, and condoled with her frequently and most
unpleasantly. Mrs. Duffer was so unbearable in the matter that the
two ladies had quarrelled dreadfully. Clara from the first moment of
her engagement with Crocker had been proud of the second string to
her bow, and now perceived that the time had come in which it might
be conveniently used.
It was near eleven when Tribbledale knocked at the door of No. 10,
but nevertheless Clara was up, as was also the servant girl, who
opened the door for the sake of discretion. "Oh, Daniel, what hours
you do keep!" said Clara, when the young gentleman was shown into the
parlour. "What on earth brings you here at such a time as this?"
Tribbledale was never slow to declare that he was brought thither by
the overwhelming ardour of his passion. His love for Clara was so
old a story, and had been told so often, that the repeating of it
required no circumlocution. Had he chanced to meet her in the High
Street on a Sunday morning, he would have begun with it at once.
"Clara," he said, "will you have me? I know that that other scoundrel
is a ruined man."
"Oh, Daniel, you shouldn't hit those as are down."
"Hasn't he been hitting me all the time that I was down? Hasn't he
triumphed? Haven't you been in his arms?"
"Laws; no."
"And wasn't that hitting me when I was down, do you think?"
"It never did you any harm."
"Oh, Clara;--if you knew the nature of my love you'd understand the
harm. Every time he has pressed your lips I have heard it, though I
was in King's Head Court all the time."
"That must be a crammer, Daniel."
"I did;--not with the ears of my head, but with the fibres of my
breast."
"Oh;--ah. But, Daniel, you and Sam used to be such friends at the
first go off."
"Go off of what?"
"When he first took to coming after me. You remember the tea-party,
when Marion Fay was here."
"I tried it on just then;--I did. I thought that, maybe, I might come
not to care about it so much."
"I'm sure you acted it very well."
"And I thought that perhaps it might be the best way of touching that
cold heart of yours."
"Cold! I don't know as my heart is colder than anybody else's heart."
"Would that you would make it warm once more for me."
"Poor Sam!" said Clara, putting her handkerchief up to her eyes.
"Why is he any poorer than me? I was first. At any rate I was before
him."
"I don't know anything about firsts or lasts," said Clara, as the
ghosts of various Banquos flitted before her eyes.
"And as for him, what right has he to think of any girl? He's a poor
mean creature, without the means of getting so much as a bed for a
wife to lie on. He used to talk so proud of Her Majesty's Civil
Service. Her Majesty's Civil Service has sent him away packing."
"Not yet, Daniel."
"They have. I've made it my business to find out, and Sir Boreas
Bodkin has written the order to-day. 'Dismissal--B. B.' I know those
who have seen the very words written in the punishment book of the
Post Office."
"Poor Sam!"
"Destroying papers of the utmost importance about Her Majesty's Mail
Service! What else was he to expect? And now he's penniless."
"A hundred and twenty isn't so very much, Daniel."
"Mr. Fay was saying only the other day that if I was married and
settled they'd make it better for me."
"You're too fond of The Duchess, Daniel."
"No, Clara--no; I deny that. You ask Mrs. Grimley why it is I come to
The Duchess so often. It isn't for anything that I take there."
"Oh; I didn't know. Young men when they frequent those places
generally do take something."
"If I had a little home of my own with the girl I love on the other
side of the fireplace, and perhaps a baby in her arms--" Tribbledale
as he said this looked at her with all his eyes.
"Laws, Daniel; what things you do say!"
"I should never go then to any Duchess, or any Marquess of Granby, or
to any Angel." These were public-houses so named, all standing thick
together in the neighbourhood of Paradise Row. "I should not want to
go anywhere then,--except where that young woman and that baby were
to be found."
"Daniel, you was always fine at poetry."
"Try me, if it isn't real prose. The proof of the pudding's in
the eating. You come and try." By this time Clara was in his arms,
and the re-engagement was as good as made. Crocker was no doubt
dismissed,--or if not dismissed had shown himself to be unworthy.
What could be expected of a husband who could tear up a bundle of Her
Majesty's Mail papers? And then Daniel Tribbledale had exhibited a
romantic constancy which certainly deserved to be rewarded. Clara
understood that the gin-and-water had been consumed night after night
for her sake. And there were the lodgings and the clock and the
harmonium ready for the occasion. "I suppose it had better be so,
Daniel, as you wish it so much."
"Wish it! I have always wished it. I wouldn't change places now with
Mr. Pogson himself."
"He married his third wife three years ago!"
"I mean in regard to the whole box and dice of it. I'd rather have my
Clara with £120, than be Pogson and Littlebird with all the profits."
This gratifying assurance was rewarded, and then, considerably after
midnight, the triumphant lover took his leave.
Early on the following afternoon Crocker was in Paradise Row. He had
been again with Lord Hampstead, and had succeeded in worming out of
the good-natured nobleman something of the information contained
in the letter from Sir Boreas. The matter was to be left to the
Postmaster-General. Now there was an idea in the office that when
a case was left to his lordship, his lordship never proceeded to
extremities. Kings are bound to pardon if they allow themselves to
be personally concerned as to punishment. There was something of the
same feeling in regard to official discipline. As a fact the letter
from Sir Boreas had been altogether false. He had known, poor man,
that he must at last take the duty of deciding upon himself, and
had used the name of the great chief simply as a mode of escape for
the moment. But Crocker had felt that the mere statement indicated
pardon. The very delay indicated pardon. Relying upon these
indications he went to Paradise Row, dressed in his best frock coat,
with gloves in his hand, to declare to his love that the lodgings
need not be abandoned, and that the clock and harmonium might be
preserved.
"But you've been dismissed!" said Clara.
"Never! never!"
"It has been written in the book! 'Dismissal--B. B.!' I know the eyes
that have seen it."
"That's not the way they do it at all," said Crocker, who was
altogether confused.
"It has been written in the book, Sam; and I know that they never go
back from that."
"Who wrote it? Nothing has been written. There isn't a book;--not at
least like that. Tribbledale has invented it."
"Oh, Sam, why did you tear those papers;--Her Majesty's Mail papers?
What else was there to expect? 'Dismissal--B. B.;' Why did you do
it,--and you engaged to a young woman? No;--don't come nigh to me.
How is a young woman to go and get herself married to a young man,
and he with nothing to support her? It isn't to be thought of. When I
heard those words, 'Dismissal--B. B.,' I thought my very heart would
sink within me."
"It's nothing of the kind," said Crocker.
"What's nothing of the kind?"
"I ain't dismissed at all."
"Oh, Sam; how dare you?"
"I tell you I ain't. He's written a letter to Lord Hampstead, who has
always been my friend. Hampstead wasn't going to see me treated after
that fashion. Hampstead wrote, and then Æolus wrote,--that's Sir
Boreas,--and I've seen the letter,--that is, Hampstead told me what
there is in it; and I ain't to be dismissed at all. When I heard the
good news the first thing I did was to come as fast as my legs would
carry me, and tell the girl of my heart."
Clara did not quite believe him; but then neither had she quite
believed Tribbledale, when he had announced the dismissal with the
terrible corroboration of the great man's initials. But the crime
committed seemed to her to be so great that she could not understand
that Crocker should be allowed to remain after the perpetration of
it. Crocker's salary was £150; and, balancing the two young men
together as she had often done, though she liked the poetry of
Tribbledale, she did on the whole prefer the swagger and audacity of
Crocker. Her Majesty's Civil Service, too, had its charms for her.
The Post Office was altogether superior to Pogson and Littlebird's.
Pogson and Littlebird's hours were 9 to 5. Those of Her Majesty's
Service were much more genteel;--10 namely to 4. But what might not
a man do who had shown the nature of his disposition by tearing up
official papers? And then, though the accidents of the occasion had
enveloped her in difficulties on both sides, it seemed to her that,
at the present moment, the lesser difficulties would be encountered
by adhering to Tribbledale. She could excuse herself with Crocker.
Paradise Row had already declared that the match with Crocker must
be broken off. Crocker had indeed been told that the match was to be
broken off. When Tribbledale had come to her overnight she had felt
herself to be a free woman. When she had given way to the voice
of the charmer, when she had sunk into his arms, softened by that
domestic picture which he had painted, no pricks of conscience had
disturbed her happiness. Whether the "Dismissal--B. B." had or had
not yet been written, it was sure to come. She was as free to "wed
another" as was Venice when her Doge was deposed. She could throw
herself back upon the iniquity of the torn papers were Crocker to
complain. But should she now return to her Crocker, how could she
excuse herself with Tribbledale? "It is all over between you and me,
Sam," she said with her handkerchief up to her eyes.
"All over! Why should it be all over?"
"You was told it was all over."
"That was when all the Row said that I was to be dismissed. There was
something in it,--then; though, perhaps, a girl might have waited
till a fellow had got up upon his legs again."
"Waiting ain't so pleasant, Mr. Crocker, when a girl has to look
after herself."
"But I ain't dismissed at all, and there needn't be any waiting.
I thought that you would be suffering as well as me, and so I came
right away to you, all at once."
"So I have suffered, Sam. No one knows what I have suffered."
"But it'll come all right now?" Clara shook her head. "You don't mean
that Tribbledale's been and talked you over already?"
"I knew Mr. Tribbledale before ever I saw you, Sam."
"How often have I heard you call him a poor mean skunk?"
"Never, Crocker; never. Such a word never passed my lips."
"Something very like it then."
"I may have said he wanted sperrit. I may have said so, though I
disremember it. But if I did,--what of that?"
"You despised him."
"No, Crocker. What I despise is a man as goes and tears up Her
Majesty's Mail papers. Tribbledale never tore up anything at Pogson
and Littlebird's,--except what was to be tore. Tribbledale was never
turned out for nigh a fortnight, so that he couldn't go and show
his face in King's Head Court. Tribbledale never made hisself hated
by everybody." That unknown abominable word which Crocker had put
into her mouth had roused all the woman within her, so that she was
enabled to fight her battle with a courage which would not have come
to her aid had he been more prudent.
"Who hates me?"
"Mr. Jerningham does, and Roden, and Sir Boreas, and Bobbin." She had
learned all their names. "How can they help hating a man that tears
up the mail papers! And I hate you."
"Clara!"
"I do. What business had you to say I used that nasty word? I never
do use them words. I wouldn't even so much as look at a man who'd
demean himself to put such words as them into my mouth. So I tell you
what it is, Mr. Crocker; you may just go away. I am going to become
Daniel Tribbledale's wife, and it isn't becoming in you to stand here
talking to a young woman that is engaged to another young man."
"And this is to be the end of it?"
"If you please, Mr. Crocker."
"Well!"
"If ever you feel inclined to speak your mind to another young woman,
and you carry it as far as we did, and you wishes to hold on to her,
don't you go and tear Her Majesty's Mail papers. And when she tells
you a bit of her mind, as I did just now, don't you go and put nasty
words into her mouth. Now, if you please, you may just as well send
over that clock and that harmonium to Daniel Tribbledale, Esq.,
King's Head Court, Great Broad Street." So saying she left him, and
congratulated herself on having terminated the interview without much
unpleasantness.