t .<w t -i 
 
THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF ILLINOIS 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
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 T 74rrv 
 
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 books. 
 
 U. of I. Library 
 
 OCT 3 0'37 
 
 
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 11148-S 
 
MA RIO N FAY 
 
 a Nobel 
 
 I5Y 
 
 ANTHONY TROLLOPE 
 
 A NEW EDITION 
 
 % o n ft o n 
 
 CHATTO AND WINDUS, PICCADILLY 
 
 1885 
 
Gtafttraj, 4 Je’l 
 
 ^ T- 7 ^ <ryvv 
 
 £ • • 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 \_/ -Li JL U JL> -L U • 
 
 \ * 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 I. The Marquis op Kingsbury 
 
 i * • 
 
 TAG!? 
 
 1 
 
 II. 
 
 Lord Hampstead 
 
 • • • 
 
 7 
 
 III. 
 
 The Marchioness 
 
 • • • 
 
 ... 13 
 
 IV. 
 
 Lady Frances 
 
 • • • 
 
 20 
 
 Y. 
 
 Mrs. Roden 
 
 • • • 
 
 ... 26 
 
 VI. 
 
 Paradise Row 
 
 • • • 
 
 33 
 
 VII. 
 
 The Post Office 
 
 it* 
 
 ... 39 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Mr. Greenwood 
 
 • • • 
 
 46 
 
 IX. 
 
 At Konigsgraaf 
 
 • • • 
 
 ... 52 
 
 X. 
 
 “Noblesse Oblige” ... 
 
 • • • 
 
 58 
 
 XI. 
 
 Lady Persiflage 
 
 • • • 
 
 ... 64 
 
 XII. 
 
 Castle Hautboy 
 
 • • • 
 
 71 
 
 XIII. 
 
 The Beaeside Harriers ... 
 
 • • • 
 
 ... 78 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Coming Home from Hunting ... 
 
 • • • 
 
 84 
 
 XY. 
 
 Marion Fay and her Father 
 
 • • • 
 
 ... 90 
 
 XVI. 
 
 The Walk Back to Hendon ... 
 
 • • • 
 
 97 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Lord Hampstead’s Scheme 
 
 • • * 
 
 ... 103 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 How THEY LIVED AT TrAFFOED PARK ... 
 
 • • • 
 
 109 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Lady Amaldina’s Lover ... 
 
 • • • 
 
 ... 116 
 
 XX. 
 
 The Scheme is Successful 
 
 • • « 
 
 122 
 
 XXI. 
 
 What they all thought as they went 
 
 Home 
 
 ... 129 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Again at Trafford ... 
 
 
 135 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 The Irrepressible Crocker 
 
 
 ... 141 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 Mrs. Roden’s Eloquence 
 
 • • • 
 
 147 
 
 XXV. 
 
 Marion’s Views about Marriage... 
 
 • • • 
 
 ... 154 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 Lord Hampstead is Impatient 
 
 • • . 
 
 160 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 The Quaker’s Eloquence 
 
 • • • 
 
 ... 167 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 Marion’s Obstinacy ... 
 
 • • • 
 
 173 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 Mrs. Demijohn’s Party ... 
 
 ,,, 
 
 ... 180 
 
 XXX. 
 
 New Year’s Day 
 
 • • • 
 
 186 
 
viii 
 
 CONTEXTS. 
 
 CH APT Kit 
 
 XXXI. Miss Demijohn’s Ingenuity 
 XXXII. King’s Court, Old Broad Street ... 
 XXXIII. Mr. Greenwood becomes Ambitious 
 XXXIV. Like the Poor Cat i’ the Adage ... 
 XXXV. Lady Frances sees her Lover ... 
 XXXVI. Mr. Greenwood’s Feelings ... 
 XXXVII. “That would be Disagreeable ” 
 
 XXXVIII. “Ido" . 
 
 XXXIX. At Gorse Hall 
 XL. Poor Walker 
 XLI. False Tidings ... 
 
 XLII. Never, never, to come again 
 XLIII. Di Crinola 
 
 PAGE 
 
 ... 193 
 
 199 
 ... 205 
 211 
 
 ... 218 
 221 
 ... 230 
 23G 
 
 ... 212 
 218 
 ... 251 
 2G0 
 
 ... 260 
 
 XLIV. “I WILL come back as I went” 
 
 XLV. True Tidings ... 
 
 XLVI. All the World knows it ... 
 
 XLVII. “It shall be done” 
 
 XLVIII. Marion will certainly have her Way 
 XLIX. “But he is;—he is” ... 
 
 L. The Great Question 
 
 LI. “I CANNOT COMPEL HER” 
 
 LII. In Park Lane 
 LIII. After all he isn’t 
 LIV. “Of course there w t as a Bitterness” 
 LV. Lord Hampstead again with Mrs. Roden 
 LVI. Lord Hampstaad again with Marion 
 LVII. Crocker’s Distress 
 LVIII. “Dismissal. B. B.” 
 
 LIX. Pegwell Bay ... 
 
 LX. Lady Amaldina’s Wedding ... 
 
 LXI. Crocker’s Tale 
 XLII. “My Marion” 
 
 XLIII. Mr. Greenwood’s Last Battle ... 
 
 XLIV. The Registrar of State Records ... 
 
 070 
 
 — I — 
 
 ... 278 
 283 
 ... 289 
 295 
 ... 300 
 30G 
 ... 312 
 317 
 ... 321 
 329 
 ... 331 
 310 
 ... 31G 
 
 359 
 
 3G5 
 
 371 
 
 378 
 
 381 
 
 390 
 

 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 CHAPTEK I. 
 
 THE MARQUIS OE KINGSBURY. 
 
 When Mr. Lionel Trafford went into Parliament for the Borough 
 of Wednesbury as an advanced Radical, it nearly broke the heart 
 of his uncle, the old Marquis of Kingsbury. Among Tories of his 
 day the Marquis had been hyper-Tory,—as were his friends, the 
 Duke of Newcastle, who thought that a man should be allowed 
 to do what he liked with his own, and the Marquis of Londonderry 
 who, when some such talling-olf in the family politics came near 
 him, spoke with indignation of the family treasure which had been 
 expended in defending the tamily seat. Wednesbury had never 
 been the Marquis’s own; but his nephew was so in a peculiar sense. 
 His nephew was necessarily his heir,—the future Marquis,—and the 
 old Marquis never again, politically, held up his head. He was 
 an old man when this occurred, and luckily for him he did not live 
 to see the worse things which came afterwards. 
 
 The Member for Wednesbury became Marquis and owner of the 
 Itiigo family pioporty, but still ho kept liis politics. He was a 
 Radical Marquis, wedded to all popular measures, not ashamed of 
 his Charter days, and still clamorous for further Parliamentary 
 lefoim, although it was regularly noted in Hod that the Marquis 
 of Kingsbury was supposed to have strong influence in the Borough 
 of Edge ware. It was so strong that both he and his uncle had put 
 in whom they pleased. His uncle had declined to put him in 
 because of his renegade theories, but he revenged himself by giving 
 the seat to a glib-mouthed tailor, who, to tell the truth, had not 
 done much credit to his choice. 
 
 But it came to pass that the shade of his uncle was avenged 
 if it can be supposed that such feelings will affect the eternal rest 
 of a dead Marquis. There grew up a young Lord Hampstead, the 
 son and heir of the Radical Marquis, promising in intelligence and 
 satisfactory in externals, but very difficult to deal with as to the 
 use of his thoughts. They could not keep him at Harrow or at 
 Ox fold, because he not only rejected, but would talk openly against 
 Christian doctrines; a religious boy, but determined not to believe 
 m levealed mysteries. And at twenty-one he declared himself a 
 Republican,—explaining thereby that he disapproved altogether 
 
 B 
 
2 
 
 MABION FAY. 
 
 of hereditary honours. lie was quite as bad to this Marquis as had 
 been this Marquis to the other. The tailor kept his seat because 
 Lord Hampstead would not even condescend to sit for the family 
 borough. He explained to his father that he had doubts about 
 a Parliament of which one section was hereditary, but was sure 
 that at present he was too young for it. There must surely have 
 been gratification in this to the shade of the departed Marquis. 
 
 But there was worse than this,—infinitely worse. Lord Hamp¬ 
 stead formed a close friendship with a young man, five years older 
 than himself, who was but a clerk in the Post Office. In George 
 Boden, as a man and a companion, there was no special fault to be 
 found. There may be those who think that a Marquis’s heir should 
 look for his most intimate friend in a somewhat higher scale of 
 social rank, and that he would more probably serve the purposes 
 of his future life by associating with his equals;—that like to like 
 in friendship is advantageous. The Marquis, his father, certainly 
 thought so in spite of his Eadicalism. But he might have been 
 pardoned on the score of Boden’s general good gifts,—might have 
 been pardoned even though it were true, as supposed, that to 
 Boden’s strong convictions Lord Hampstead owed much of the 
 ultra virus of his political convictions,—might have been pardoned 
 had not there been worse again. At Hendon Hall, the Marquis’s 
 lovely suburban seat, the Post Office clerk was made acquainted 
 with Lady Frances Trafford, and they became lovers. 
 
 The radicalism of a Marquis is apt to be tainted by special con¬ 
 siderations in regard to his own family. This Marquis, though he 
 had his exoteric politics, had his esoteric feelings. With him, 
 Liberal as he was, his own blood possessed a peculiar ichor. Though 
 it might be well that men in the mass should be as nearly equal 
 as possible, yet, looking at the state of possibilities and realities 
 as existent, it was clear to him that a Marquis of Kingsbury had 
 been placed on a pedestal. It might be that the state of things 
 ■was matter for regret. In his grander moments he was certain 
 that it was so. Why should there be a ploughboy unable to open 
 his mouth because of his infirmity, and a Marquis with his own 
 voice very resonant in the House of Lords, and a deputy voice 
 dependent on him in the House of Commons? He had said 
 so very frequently before his son, not knowing then what might 
 be the effect of his own teaching. There had been a certain pride 
 in his heart as he taught these lessons, wrong though it might be 
 that there should be a Marquis and a ploughboy so far reversed 
 by the injustice of Fate. There had been a comfort to him in feeling 
 that Fate had made him the Marquis, and had made some one else 
 the ploughboy. He knew what it was to be a Marquis down to the 
 last inch of aristocratic admeasurement. He would fain that his 
 children should have understood this also. But his lesson had gone 
 deeper than he had intended, and great grief had come of it. 
 
 The Marquis had been first married to a lady altogether uncon¬ 
 nected with noble blood, but whose father had held a position of 
 remarkable ascendancy in the House of Commons. He had never 
 
TIIE MARQUIS OF KINGSBURY . 
 
 O 
 
 been a Cabinet Minister, because lie had persisted m thinking that 
 he could better serve his country by independence. He had been 
 possessed of wealth, and had filled a great place m the social world 
 In marrying the only daughter of this gentleman the Marquis of 
 Kinesburv had indulged his peculiar taste in regard to Liberalism, 
 and was at the same time held not to have derogated from his rank. 
 She had been a woman of great beauty and of many intellectual 
 
 _thoroughly imbued with her father s views, but altogether 
 
 free from feminine pedantry and that ambition which begrudges 
 to men the rewards of male labour. Had she lived. Lady Fiances 
 might probably not have fallen in with the Post Office clerk; never¬ 
 theless, had she lived, she would have known the Post Office clerk 
 to be a worthy gentleman. 
 
 But she had died when her son was about sixteen and her 
 daughter no more than fifteen. Two years afterwards our Marquis 
 had & gone among the dukes, and had found for himself another wife. 
 Perhaps the freshness and edge of his political convictions had been 
 blunted by that gradual sinking down among the great peers m 
 general which was natural to his advanced years. A man who has 
 spouted at twenty-five becomes tired of spouting at fifty, if nothing 
 siiecial has come from his spouting. He had been glad when he 
 married Lady Clara Mountressor to think that circumstances as they 
 had occurred at the last election would not make it necessary for 
 him to deliver up the borough to the tailor on any further occasion. 
 The tailor had been drunk at the hustings, and he ventured to hope 
 that before six months were over Lord Hampstead would have so 
 far rectified his frontiers as to be able to take a seat m the House 
 
 Then very quickly there were born three little flaxen-haired 
 bovs —who became at least flaxen-haired as they emerged from 
 their cradles,—Lord Frederic, Lord Augustus, and Lord Gregory 
 That they must be brought up with ideas becoming the scions ot 
 a noble House there could be no doubt. Their mother was every 
 inch a duke’s daughter. But, alas, not one of them was likely to 
 become Marquis of Kingsbury. Though born so absolutely m the 
 purple they were but younger sons. This was a silent sorrow 
 but when their half-sister Lady Frances told their mother openly 
 that she had plighted her troth to the Post Office clerk, that was a 
 
 sorrow which did not admit of silence. # . . . . f . 1 
 
 When Lord Hampstead had asked permission to bring his friend 
 
 to the house there seemed to be no valid reason for refusing him. 
 Low as he had descended amidst the depths of disreputable opinion, 
 it was not supposed that even he would countenance anything so 
 horrible as this. And was there not ground for security m the 
 reticence and dignity of Lady Frances herself ? The idea never 
 presented itself to the Marchioness. When she heard that the Post 
 Office clerk was coming she was naturally disgusted. All Lord 
 Hampstead’s ideas, doings, and ways were disgusting to her. She 
 was a woman full of high-bred courtesy, and had always been 
 gracious to her son-in-law’s friends,—but it had been with a cold 
 
4 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 grace Her heart rejected them thoroughly,—as she did him, and, 
 to tell the truth, Lady Frances also. Lady Frances had all her 
 mother s dignity, all her mother’s tranquil manner, but somethin** 
 more than her mother’s advanced opinions. She, too, had her ideas 
 that the world should gradually be taught to dispense with the 
 distances which sejiarate the dukes and the ploughboys,—gradually 
 but still with a progressive motion, always tending in that direction! 
 ihis to her stepmother was disgusting. 
 
 The Post Office clerk had never before been received at Hendon 
 Hall, though he had been introduced in London by Lord Hampstead 
 to his sister. The Post Office clerk had indeed abstained from 
 coming, having urged his own feelings with his friend as to certain 
 unfitnesses. “ A Marquis is as absurd to me as to you,” he had 
 said to Lord Hampstead, “but while there are Marquises they 
 should be indulged, particularly Marchionesses. An over-delicate 
 skm is a nuisance; but if skins have been so trained as not to bear 
 the free air, veils must be allowed for their protection. The object 
 should be to train the skin, not to punish it abruptly. An un- 
 foitunate Sybarite Marchioness ought to have her rose leaves. How 
 I am not a rose leaf.” And so he had stayed away. 
 
 But the argument had been carried on between the friends, and 
 the noble heir had at last prevailed. George Poden w T as not a rose 
 leal, but he was found at Hendon to have flowers of beautiful hues 
 a sweet scent. Had he not been known to be a Post 
 )ffice clerk, could the Marchioness have been allowed to judge of 
 him simply from his personal appearance,—he might have been 
 taken to be as fine a rose leaf as any. He was a tall, fair, strong! y- 
 bmlt young man, with short light hair, pleasant grey eves, an 
 aquiline nose, and small mouth. In his gait and form and face 
 notmng was discermbly more appropriate to Post Office clerks than 
 to the nobility at large. But he was a clerk, and he himself, as he 
 himself declared, knew nothing of his own family,—remembered no 
 relation but his mother. 
 
 It had come to pass that the house at Hendon had become 
 specially the residence of Lord Hampstead, who would neither have 
 lodgings of his own in London or make part of the family when it 
 occupied Kingsbury House in Park Lane. He would sometimes 
 go abroad, would sometimes appear for a week or two at Trafford 
 Park, the grand seat in Yorkshire. But he preferred the place 
 half town half country, in the neighbourhood of London, and here 
 Geoige Eoden came frequently backwards and forwards after the 
 ice had been broken by a first visit. Sometimes the Marquis would 
 be there, and with him his daughter,—rarely the Marchioness. 
 
 1 hen came the time when Lady Frances declared boldly to her step 
 mother that she had pledged her troth to the Post Office clerk. That 
 happened in June, when Parliament was sitting, and when the 
 flowers at Hendon were at their best. The Marchioness came there; 
 loi a day or two, and the Post Office clerk on that morning had left 
 
 j? 01 j se , \ or kis office work, not purposing to come back. Some 
 words had been said which had caused annoyance, and he did not 
 
TEE MARQUIS OF KINGSBURY. 5 
 
 i 
 
 intend to return. When he had been gone about an hour Lady 
 Frances revealed the truth. 
 
 Her brother at that time was two-and-twenty. She was a year 
 younger. The clerk might perhaps be six years older than the 
 young lady. Had he only been the eldest son of a Marquis, or Earl, 
 or Viscount; had he been but an embryo Baron, he might have 
 done very well. He was a well-spoken youth, yet with a certain 
 modesty, such a one as might easily take the eye of a wished-for 
 though ever so noble a mother-in-law. The little lords had learned 
 to play with him, and it had come about that he was at his ease 
 m the house. The very servants had seemed to forget that he was 
 no more than a clerk, and that he went oft by railway into town 
 every morning that he might earn ten shillings by sitting for six 
 hours at his desk. Even the Marchioness had almost trained her¬ 
 self to like him, as one of those excrescences which are sometimes 
 to . be found in noble families, some governess, some chaplain or 
 private secretary, whom chance or merit has elevated in the house, 
 and who thus becomes a trusted friend. Then by chance she heard 
 the name “ Frances ” without the prefix “ Lady/’ and said a word 
 in haughty anger. The Post Office clerk packed up his portmanteau, 
 and Lady Frances told her story. 
 
 Lord Hampstead’s name was John. He was the Honourable 
 John Trafford, called by courtesy Earl of Hampstead. To the 
 world at large he was Lord Hampstead,—to his friends in general 
 he was Hampstead ; to his stepmother he was especially Hampstead, 
 
 as would have been her own eldest son the moment he was born 
 had he been born to such good luck. To his father he had become 
 Hampstead lately. In early days there had been some secret family 
 agreement that in spite of conventionalities he should be John 
 among them. _ The Marquis had latterly suggested that increasing 
 years made this foolish; but the son himself attributed the change 
 to step-maternal influences. But still he was John to his sister, and 
 John to some half-dozen sympathising friends,—and among others 
 to the Post Office clerk. 
 
 He has not said a word to me,” the sister replied when she 
 was taxed by her brother with seeming partiality for their young 
 •visitor. ° 
 
 “ But he will ? ” 
 
 “ No girl will ever admit as much as that, John.” 
 
 “ But if he should ? ” 
 
 “ No girl will have an answer ready for such a suggestion.” 
 
 “ I know ho will.” 
 
 < “ If so, and if you have wishes to express, you should speak to 
 mm. 
 
 All this made the matter quite clear to her brother. A girl 
 such as was his sister would not so receive a brother’s notice as to 
 a proposed overture of love from a Post Office clerk, unless she had 
 brought herself to look at the possibility without abhorrence. 
 
 Would it go against the grain with you, John?” This was 
 what the clerk said when he was interrogated by his friend. 
 
G 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 “ There would be difficulties.” 
 
 " Very great difficulties,—difficulties even with you.” 
 
 u I did not say so.” 
 
 “ They would come naturally. The last thing that a man 
 can abandon of his social idolatries is the sanctity of the women 
 belonging to him.” 
 
 “ God forbid that I should give up anything of the sanctity of 
 my sister.” 
 
 “No; but the idolatry attached to it! It is as well that even a 
 nobleman’s daughter should be married if she can find a nobleman 
 or such like to her taste. There is no breach of sanctity in the 
 love,—but so great a wound to the idolatry in the man! Things 
 have not changed so quickly that even you should be free from 
 the feeling. Three hundred years ago, if the man could not be 
 despatched out of the country or to the other world, the girl at 
 least would be locked up. Three hundred years hence the girl and 
 the man will stand together on their own merits. Just in this 
 period of transition it is very hard for such a one as you to free 
 himself altogether from the old trammels.” 
 
 “I make the endeavour.” 
 
 “ Most bravely. But, my dear fellow, let this individual thing 
 stand separately, away from politics and abstract ideas. I mean to 
 ask your sister whether I can have her heart, and, as far as her 
 will goes, her hand. If you are displeased I suppose we shall have 
 to part,—for a time. Let theories run ever so high, Love will be 
 stronger than them all.” Lord Hampstead at this moment gave no 
 assurance of his good will; but when it came to pass that his sister 
 had given her assurance, then he ranged himself on the side of his 
 friend the clerk. 
 
 So it came to pass that there was great trouble in the household 
 of the Marquis of Kingsbury. The family went abroad before the 
 end of July, on account of the health of the children. So said the 
 Morning Post. Anxious friends inquired in vain what could have 
 befallen those flaxen-haired young Herculeses. Why was it neces¬ 
 sary that they should be taken to the Saxon Alps when the beauties 
 and comforts of Trafford Park were so much nearer and so superior ? 
 Lady Frances was taken with them, and there were one or two 
 noble intimates among the world of fashion who heard some 
 passing whispers of the truth. When passing whispers creep into 
 the world of fashion they are heard far and wide. 
 
( 7 ) 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 LORD HAMPSTEAD. 
 
 Lord Hampstead, though he would not go into Parliament or 
 belong to any London Club, or walk about the streets with a 
 chimney-pot hat, or perform any of his public functions as a young 
 nobleman should do, had, nevertheless, his own amusements and 
 his own extravagances. In the matter of money he was placed 
 outside his father’s liberality,—who was himself inclined to be 
 liberal enough,—by the fact that he had inherited a considerable 
 portion of his maternal grandfather’s fortune. It might almost be 
 said truly of him that money was no object to him. It was not 
 that he did not often talk about money and think about money. 
 He was very prone to do so, saying that money was the most 
 important factor in the world’s justices and injustices. But he was 
 so fortunately circumstanced as to be able to leave money out of 
 his own personal consideration, never being driven by the want of 
 it to deny himself anything, or tempted by a superabundance to 
 expenditure which did not otherwise approve itself to him. To 
 give 10s. or 20s. a bottle for wine because somebody pretended that 
 it was very fine, or £300 for a horse when one at a £100 would do 
 his work for him, was altogether below his philosophy. By his 
 father’s lodge gate there ran an omnibus up to town which he 
 would often use, saying that an omnibus with company was better 
 than a private carriage with none. He was wont to be angry with 
 himself in that he employed a fashionable tailor, declaring that he 
 incurred unnecessary expense merely to save himself the trouble of 
 going elsewhere. In this, however, it may be thought that there 
 was something of pretence, as he was no doubt conscious of good 
 looks, and aware probably that a skilful tailor might add a grace. 
 
 In his amusements he affected two which are especially ex¬ 
 pensive. He kept a yacht, in which he was accustomed to absent 
 himself in the summer and autumn, and he had a small hunting 
 establishment in Northamptonshire. Of the former little need be 
 said here, as he spent his time on board much alone, or with friends 
 with whom we need not follow him; but it may be said that 
 everything about the Free Trader was done well,—for such was the 
 name of the vessel. Though he did not pay 10s. a bottle for his 
 wine, he paid the best price for sails and cordage, and hired a com¬ 
 petent skipper to look after himself and his boat. His hunting was 
 done very much in the same way,—unless it be that in his yachting 
 he was given to be tranquil, and in his hunting he was very fond of 
 hard riding. At Gorse Hall, as his cottage was called, he had all 
 comforts, we may perhaps say much of luxury, around him. It 
 was indeed hardly more than a cottage, having been an old 
 farm-house, and lately converted to its present purpose. There 
 were no noble surroundings, no stately hall, no marble staircases, 
 
s 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 no costly salon. You entered by a passage which deserved no 
 auguster name, on the right of which was the dining-room ; on the 
 left a larger chamber, always called the drawing-room because of the 
 fashion of the name. Beyond that was a smaller retreat in which 
 the owner kept his books. Leading up from the end of the passage 
 there was a steep staircase, a remnant of the old farm-house, and 
 above them five bed-rooms, so that his lordship was limited to the 
 number of four guests. Behind this was the kitchen and the 
 servants’ rooms—sufficient, but not more than sufficient, for such a 
 house. Here our young democrat kept half-a-dozen horses, all of 
 them—as men around were used to declare—fit to go, although 
 they were said to have been bought at not more than £100 each. 
 It was supposed to be a crotchet on the part of Lord Hampstead to 
 assert that cheap things were as good as dear, and there were some 
 who believed that he did in truth care as much for his horses as 
 other people. It was certainly a fact that he never would have but 
 one out in a day, and he was wont to declare that Smith took out 
 his second horse chiefly that Jones might know that he did so. 
 Down here, at Gorse Hall, the Post Office clerk had often been 
 received as a visitor,—but not at Gorse Hall had he ever seen 
 Lady Frances. 
 
 This lord had peculiar ideas about hunting, in reference to 
 sport in general. It was supposed of him, and supposed truly, 
 that no young man in England was more devotedly attached to 
 fox-hunting than he,—and that in want of a fox he would ride 
 after a stag, and in want of a stag after a drag. If everything else 
 failed.he would go home across the country, any friend accompany¬ 
 ing him, or else alone. Nevertheless, he entertained a vehement 
 hostility against all other sports. 
 
 Of racing he declared that it had become simply a way of 
 making money, and of all ways the least profitable to the world 
 and the most disreputable. He was never seen on a racecourse. 
 But his enemies declared of him, that though he loved riding he 
 was no judge of an animal’s pace, and that he was afraid to bet lest 
 he should lose his money. 
 
 Against shooting he was still louder. If there was in his 
 country any tradition, any custom, any law hateful to him, it was 
 such as had reference to the preservation of game. The preserva¬ 
 tion of a fox, he said, stood on a perfectly different basis. The 
 fox was not preserved by law, and when preserved was used for the 
 advantage of all who chose to be present at the amusement. One 
 man in one day would shoot fifty pheasants which had eaten up 
 the food of half-a-dozen human beings. One fox afforded in one 
 day amusement to two hundred sportsmen, and was—or more 
 generally was not—killed during the performance. And the fox 
 during his beneficial life had eaten no corn, nor for the most part 
 geese, but chiefly rats and such like. What infinitesimal sum 
 had the fox cost the country for every man who rushed after him ? 
 Then, what had been the cost of all those pheasants which one 
 shooting cormorant crammed into his lnw§ bag during one day’s 
 greedy sport ? ^ 
 
LORD HAMPSTEAD. 
 
 0 
 
 But it was the public nature of the one amusement and the 
 thoroughly private nature of the other which chiefly affected him. 
 In the hunting-field the farmer’s son, if he had a pony, or the 
 butcher-boy out of the town, could come and take his part; and 
 if the butcher-boy could go ahead and keep his place while the man 
 with a red coat and pink boots and with two horses fell behind, 
 the butcher-boy would have the best of it, and incur the displeasure 
 of no one. And the laws, too, by which hunting is governed, if 
 there be laws, are thoroughly democratic in their nature. They 
 are not, he said, made by any Parliament, but are simply assented 
 to on behalf of the common need. It was simply in compliance 
 with opinion that the lands of all men are open to be ridden over 
 by the men of the hunt. In compliance with opinion foxes are 
 preserved. In compliance with opinion coverts are drawn by this 
 or the other pack of hounds. The Legislature had not stepped in 
 to defile the statute book by bye-laws made in favour of the amuse¬ 
 ments of the rich. If injury were done, the ordinary laws of the 
 country were open to the injured party. Anything in hunting that 
 had grown to be beyond the reach of the law had become so by the 
 force of popular opinion. 
 
 All of this was reversed in shooting, from any participation in 
 which the poor were debarred by enactments made solely on behalf 
 of the rich. Four or five men in a couple of days would offer up 
 hecatombs of slaughtered animals, in doing which they could only 
 justify themselves by the fact that they were acting as poultry- 
 butchers for the supply of the markets of the country. There was 
 no excitement in it,—simply the firing off of many guns with a 
 rapidity which altogether prevents that competition which is 
 essential to the enjoyment of sport. Then our noble Republican 
 would quote Teufelsdrockh and the memorable epitaph of the 
 partridge-slayer. But it was on the popular and unpopular 
 elements of the two sports that he would most strongly dilate, and 
 on the iniquity of the game-laws as applying to the more aristo¬ 
 cratic of the two. It was, however, asserted by the sporting world 
 at large that Hampstead could not hit a haystack. 
 
 As to fishing, he was almost equally violent, grounding his 
 objection on the tedium and cruelty incident to the pursuit. The 
 first was only a matter of taste, he would allow. If a man could 
 content himself and be happy with an average of one fish to every 
 three days’ fishing, that was the man’s affair. He could only think 
 that in such case the man himself must be as cold-blooded as the 
 fish which he so seldom succeeded in catching. As to the cruelty, 
 he thought there could be no doubt. When he heard that bishops 
 and ladies delighted themselves in hauling an unfortunate animal 
 about by the gills for more than an hour at a stretch, he was 
 inclined to regret the past piety of the Church and the past 
 tenderness of the sex. When lie spoke in this way the cruelty of 
 fox-hunting was of course thrown in his teeth. Lid not the poor 
 hunted quadrupeds, when followed hither and thither by a pack of 
 ftX-hounds, endure torments as sharp and as prolonged as those 
 
10 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 inflicted on tlic fish? In answer to this Lord Hampstead was 
 eloquent and argumentative. As far as we could judge from 
 Nature the condition of the two animals during the process was 
 very different. The salmon with the hook in its throat was in a 
 position certainly not intended by Nature. The fox, using all its 
 gifts to avoid an enemy, was employed exactly as Nature had 
 enjoined. It would be as just to compare a human being impaled 
 alive on a stake with another overburdened with his world’s task. 
 The overburdened man might stumble and fall, and so perish. 
 Things w T ould have been hard to him. But not, therefore, could 
 you compare his sufferings with the excruciating agonies of the 
 poor wretch who had been left to linger and starve with an iron 
 rod through his vitals. This argument was thought to be crafty 
 rather than cunning by those who were fond of fishing. But he 
 had another on which, when he had blown off the steam of his 
 eloquence by his sensational description of a salmon impaled by 
 a bishop, he could depend with greater confidence. He would 
 grant,—for the moment, though he was by no means sure of the 
 fact,—but for the moment he would grant that the fox did not 
 enjoy the hunt. Let it be acknowledged—for the sake of the argu¬ 
 ment—that he was tortured by the hounds rather than elated by 
 the triumphant success of his own manoeuvres. Lord Hampstead 
 “ ventured to say,”—this he would put forward in the rationalistic 
 tone with which he was wont to prove the absurdity of hereditary 
 honours ,—“ that in the infliction of all pain the question as to 
 cruelty or no cruelty was one of relative value.” Was it “ tanti? ” 
 Who can doubt that for a certain maximum of good a certain 
 minimum of suffering may be inflicted without slur to humanity ? 
 In hunting, one fox was made to finish his triumphant career, 
 perhaps prematurely, for the advantage of two hundred sportsmen. 
 “Ah, but only for their amusement!” would interpose some 
 humanitarian averse equally to fishing and to hunting. Then 
 his lordship would arise indignantly and would ask his opponent, 
 whether what he called amusement was not as beneficial, as essential, 
 as necessary to the world as even such material good things as bread 
 and meat. Was poetry less valuable than the multiplication table ? 
 Man could exist no doubt without fox-hunting. So he could with¬ 
 out butter, without wine, or other so-called necessaries;—without 
 ermine tippets, for instance, the original God-invested wearer of 
 which had been doomed to lingering starvation and death when 
 trapped amidst the snow, in order that one lady might be made 
 fine by the agonies of a dozen little furry sufferers. It was all a 
 case of “ tanti,” he said, and he said that the fox who had saved 
 himself half-a-dozen times and then died nobly on behalf of those 
 who had been instrumental in preserving an existence for him, 
 ought not to complain of the lot which Fate had provided for him 
 among the animals of the earth. It was said, however, in reference 
 to this comparison between fishing and fox-hunting, that Lord 
 Hampstead was altogether deficient in that skill and patience 
 which is necessary for the landing of a salmon. 
 
LOUD HAMPSTEAD. 
 
 ir 
 
 But men, though they laughed at him, still they liked him. He 
 was good-humoured and kindly-hearted. He was liberal in more 
 than his politics. He had, too, a knack of laughing at himself, and 
 his own peculiarities, which went far to redeem them. That a 
 young Earl, an embryo Marquis, tire heir of such a house as that 
 of Trafford, should preach a political doctrine which those who 
 heard ignorantly called Communistic, was very dreadful; but the 
 horror of it was mitigated when he declared that no doubt as he 
 got old he should turn Tory like any other Badical. In this there 
 seemed to be a covert allusion to his father. And then they could 
 perceive that his “ Communistic ” principles did not prevent him 
 from having a good eye to the value of land. He knew what he 
 was about, as an owner of property should do, and certainly rode 
 to hounds as well as any one of the boys of the period. 
 
 When the idea first presented itself to him that his sister was 
 on the way to fall in love with George Boden, it has to be 
 acknowledged that he was displeased. It had not occurred to him 
 that this peculiar breach would be made on the protected sanctity 
 of his own family. When Koden had spoken to him of this 
 sanctity as one of the “social idolatries,” he had not quite been 
 able to contradict him. He had wished to do so both in defence of 
 his own consistency, and also, if it were possible, so as to maintain 
 the sanctity. The “ divinity ” which “ does hedge a king,” had 
 been to him no more than a social idolatry. The special respect in 
 which dukes and such like were held was the same. The judge’s 
 ermine and the bishop’s apron were idolatries. Any outward 
 honour, not earned by the deeds or words of him so honoured, but 
 coming from birth, wealth, or from the doings of another, was an 
 idolatry. Carrying on his arguments, he could not admit the same 
 thing in reference to his sister;—or rather, he would have to admit 
 it if he could not make another plea in defence of the sanctity. 
 His sister was very holy to him;—but that should be because of 
 her nearness to him, because of her sweetness, because of her 
 own gifts, because as her brother he was bound to be her especial 
 knight till she should have chosen some other special knight for 
 herself. But it should not be because she was the daughter, 
 granddaughter, and great-granddaughter of dukes and marquises. 
 It should not be because she was Lady Trances Trafford. Had he 
 himself been a Post Office clerk, then would not this chosen friend 
 have been fit to love her ? There were unfitnesses, no doubt, very 
 common in this world, which should make the very idea of love 
 impossible to a woman,—unfitness of character, of habits, of 
 feelings, of education, unfitnesses as to inward personal nobility. 
 He could not say that there were any such which ought to separate 
 his sister and his friend. If it was to be that this sweet sister 
 should some day give her heart to a lover, why not to George 
 Eoden as well as to another ? There were no such unfitnesses as 
 those of which he would have thought in dealing with the lives of 
 some other girl and some other young man. 
 
 And yet he was, if not displeased, at any rate dissatisfied. 
 
12 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 There was something which grated against either his taste, or his 
 judgment—or perhaps his prejudices. He endeavoured to inquire 
 into himself fairly on this matter, and feared that he was yet the 
 victim of the prejudices < of his order. He was wounded in his 
 
 to _ think s ^ s ^ er should make herself equal to a clerk 
 
 m the Post Office. Though he had often endeavoured, only too 
 successfully, to make her understand how little she had in truth 
 received from her high birth, yet he felt that she had received 
 something which should have made the proposal of such a marriage 
 distasteful to her. A man cannot rid himself of a prejudice 
 because he knows or believes it to be a prejudice. That the two, 
 it they continued to wish it, must become man and wife he 
 acknowledged to himself;—but he could not bring himself not 
 to be sorry that it should be so. 
 
 . J^ere some wor ds on the subject between himself and 
 his lather before the Marquis went abroad with his family, which, 
 though they did not reconcile him to the match, lessened the dis- 
 satisfaction. His father was angry with him, throwing the blame 
 ot this untoward affair on his head, and he was always prone to 
 resent censure thrown by any of his family on his own peculiar 
 tenets. Thus it came to pass that in defending himself he was 
 driven to defend his sister also. The Marquis had not been at 
 Hendon when the revelation was first made, but had heard it in 
 the couise of the day from his wife. His Radical tendencies had 
 done very little towards reconciling him to such a proposal. He 
 had never brought his_ theories home into his own personalities. 
 ^.0 be a Radical peer in the House of Lords, and to have sent a 
 Radical tailor to the House of Commons, had been enough, if not 
 too much, to satisfy his own political ideas. To himself and to his 
 valet to all those immediately touching himself, he had always 
 been the Marquis of Kingsbury. And so also, in his inner heart. 
 Hie Marchioness was the Marchioness, and Lady Frances Lady 
 -Frances. He had never gone through any process of realizing his 
 convictions as his son had done. “Hampstead,” he said, “can 
 this possibly be true what your mother has told me ? ” This took 
 jilace at the house in Park Lane, to which the Marquis had 
 summoned his son. 
 
 “ Do you mean about Frances and George Roden ? ” 
 
 “ Of course I mean that.” 
 
 I supposed you did, sir. I imagined that when you sent for 
 me it was in regard to them. No doubt it is true.” 
 
 proved" it” ^ tme ? ^ 0l1 s P ea ^ as though you absolutely ap- 
 
 “ Then my voice has belied me, for I disapprove of it.” 
 
 „ X 0 ! 1 , ^ * hope, how utterly impossible it is.” 
 
 “ Not that.” • 
 
 “ Not that ? ” 
 
 “ I cannot say that I think it to be impossible,—or even im¬ 
 probable. Knowing the two, as I do, I feel the probability to be 
 ^©n their side.” J 
 
LORD HAMPSTEAD. 
 
 13. 
 
 “ That they—should be married ? ” 
 
 “ That is what they intend. I never knew either of them to 
 mean anything which did not sooner or later get itself accom¬ 
 plished.” 
 
 “ You’ll have to learn it on this occasion. How on earth can 
 it have been brought about?” Lord Hampstead shrugged his 
 shoulders. “ Somebody has been very much to blame.” 
 
 “ You mean me, sir ? ” 
 
 “ Somebody has been very much to blame.” 
 
 “Of course, you mean me. I cannot take any blame in the 
 matter. In introducing George Eoden to you, and to my mother, 
 and to Frances, I brought you to the knowledge of a highly- 
 educated and extremely well-mannered young man.” 
 
 “ Good God! ” 
 
 “I did to my friend what every young man, I suppose, does 
 to his. I should be ashamed of myself to associate with any one 
 who was not a proper guest for my father’s table. One does not 
 calculate before that a young man and a young woman shall fall in 
 love with each other.” 
 
 “ You see what has happened.” 
 
 “It was extremely natural, no doubt,—though I had not antici¬ 
 pated it. As I told you, I am very sorry. It will cause many 
 heartburns, and some unhappiness.” 
 
 “ Unhappiness! I should think so. I must go away,—in the 
 middle of the Session.” 
 
 “ It will be worse for her, poor girl.” * 
 
 “ It will be very bad for her,” said the Marquis, speaking as 
 though his mind were quite made up on the matter. 
 
 “ But nobody, as far as I can see, has done anything wrong,” 
 continued Lord Hampstead. “ When two young people get 
 together whose tastes are similar, and opinions,—whose educations 
 and habits of thought have been the same-” 
 
 “ Habits the same! ” 
 
 “ Habits of thought, I said, sir.” 
 
 “ You would talk the hind legs off a dog,” said the Marquis, 
 bouncing out of the room. It was not unusual with him, in the 
 absolute privacy of his own circle, to revert to language which he 
 would have felt to be unbecoming to him as Marquis of Kingsbury 
 among ordinary people. 
 
 CHAPTEK III. 
 
 THE MARCHIONESS. 
 
 Though the departure of the Marquis was much hurried, there 
 were other meetings between Hampstead and the family before the 
 flitting was actually made. 
 
 “No doubt I will. I am quite with you there,” the son said to 
 
11 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 the father, who had desired him to explain to the young man the 
 impossibility of such a marriage. “I think it would be a mis¬ 
 fortune to them both, which should be avoided,—if they can get 
 over their present feelings.” 
 
 “ Feelings! ” 
 
 “ I suppose there are such feelings, sir ? ” 
 
 “ Of course he is looking for position—and money.” 
 
 “ Not in the least. That might probably be the idea with some 
 young nobleman who would wish to marry into his own class, and 
 to improve his fortune at the same time. With such a one that 
 would be fair enough. He would give and take. With George 
 that would not be honest;—nor would such accusation be true. 
 The position, as you call it, he would feel to be burdensome. As 
 to money, he does not know whether Frances has a shilling or not.” 
 
 “ Not a shilling,—unless I give it to her.” 
 
 “ He would not think of such a matter.” 
 
 “ Then he must be a very imprudent young man, and unfit to 
 have a wife at all.” 
 
 “ I cannot admit that,—but suppose he is ? ” 
 
 “ And yet you think-? ” 
 
 a I think, sir, that it is unfortunate. I have said so ever since 
 I first heard it. I shall tell him exactly what I think. You will have 
 Frances with you, and will of course express your own opinion.” 
 
 The Marquis was far from satisfied with his son, but did not 
 dare to go on further with the argument. In all such discussions 
 he was wont to feel that his son was “ talking the hind legs off a 
 dog.” His own ideas on concrete points were clear enough to him, 
 —as this present idea that his daughter, Lady Frances Trafford, 
 would outrage all propriety, all fitness, all decency, if she were to 
 give herself in marriage to George Boden, the Post Office clerk. 
 But.words were not plenty with him,—or, when plenty, not 
 efficacious,—and he was prone to feel, wdien beaten in argument, 
 that his opponent was taking an unfair advantage. Thus it was 
 that he often thought, and sometimes said, that those who oppressed 
 him with words would “ talk the hind legs off a dog.” 
 
 The Marchioness also expressed her opinion to Hampstead. 
 She was a lady stronger than her husband;—stronger in this, that 
 she.never allowed herself to be worsted in any encounter. If words 
 would not serve her occasion at the moment, her countenance would 
 do so,—and if not that, her absence. She could be very eloquent 
 with silence, and strike an adversary dumb by the way in which 
 she would leave a room. She was a tall, handsome woman, with a 
 sublime gait .—“ Vera incessu patuit Dea.” She had heard, if not 
 the words, then some translation of the words, and had taken them 
 to heart, and borne them with her as her secret motto. To be 
 every inch an aristocrat, in look as in thought, was the object ol 
 her life. That such was her highest duty was quite fixed in her 
 mind. It had pleased God to make her a Marchioness,—and 
 should she derogate from God’s wish ? It had been her one mis¬ 
 fortune that God should not also have made her the mother of a 
 
THE MARCHIONESS. 
 
 15 
 
 future Marquis. Her face, though handsome, was quite impassive, 
 showing nothing of her sorrows or her joys; and her voice was 
 equally under control. No one had ever imagined, not even her 
 husband, that she felt acutely that one blow of fortune. Though 
 Hampstead’s politics had been to her abominable, treasonable, 
 blasphemous, she treated him with an extreme courtesy. If there 
 were anything that he wished about the house she would have it 
 done for him. She would endeavour to interest herself about his 
 hunting. And she would pay him a great respect—to him most 
 onerous,—as being second in all things to the Marquis. Though 
 a Republican blasphemous rebel,—so she thought of him,—he was 
 second to the Marquis. She would fain have taught her little 
 boys to respect him,—as the future head of the family,—had he 
 not been so accustomed to romp with them, to pull them out of 
 their little beds, and toss them about in their night-shirts, that 
 they loved him much too well for respect. It was in vain that their 
 mother strove to teach them to call him Hampstead. 
 
 Lady Frances had never been specially in her way, but to Lady 
 Frances the stepmother had been perhaps harder than to the step¬ 
 son, of whose presence as an absolute block to her ambition she 
 was well aware. Lady Frances had no claim to a respect higher 
 than that which was due to her own children. Primogeniture had 
 done nothing for her. She was a Marquis’s daughter, but her 
 mother had been only the offspring of a commoner. There was 
 perhaps something of conscience in her feelings towards the two. 
 As Lord Hampstead was undoubtedly in her way, it occurred to 
 her to think that she should not on that account be inimical to 
 him. Lady. Frances was not in her way,—and therefore was open 
 to depreciation and dislike without wounds to her conscience ; and 
 then, though Hampstead was abominable because of his Repub¬ 
 licanism, his implied treason, and blasphemy, yet he was entitled 
 to some excuse as being a. man. These things w^ere abominable no 
 doubt in him, but more pardonably abominable than they would be 
 in a woman. Lady Frances had never declared herself to be a 
 Republican or a disbeliever, much less a rebel,—as, indeed, had 
 neither Lord Hampstead. In the presence of her stepmother she 
 was generally silent on matters of political or religious interest. 
 But she was supposed to sympathise with her brother, and was 
 known to be far from properly alive to aristocratic interests. 
 There was never quarrelling between the two, but there was a lack 
 of that friendship which may subsist between a stepmother of 
 thirty-eight and a stepdaughter of twenty-one. Lady Frances was 
 tall and slender, with quiet speaking features, dark in colour, with 
 blue eyes and hair nearly black. In appearance she was the very 
 opposite of her stepmother, moving quickly and achieving grace as 
 she did so, without a thought, by the natural beauty of her 
 motions. The dignity was there, but without a thought given to it. 
 Not even did the little lords, her brothers, chuck their books and 
 toys about with less idea of demeanour. But the Marchioness never 
 arranged a scarf or buttoned a glove without feeling that it was her 
 
10 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 duty to button her glove and arrange her scarf as became tlio 
 
 Marchioness of Kingsbury. , ,,, , 
 
 The stepmother wished no evil to Lady Frances,—only that she 
 
 should be married properly and taken out of the way. Any stupid 
 Earl or mercurial Viscount would have done, so long as the blood 
 and the money had been there. Lady Frances had been felt to be 
 dangerous, and the hope was that the danger might be got rid Ox 
 bv a proper marriage. But not by such a marriage as this. 
 
 When that accidental calling of the name was first heard and 
 the following avowal made, the Marchioness declared her imme¬ 
 diate feelings’ by a look. It was so that Arthur may have looked 
 when he first heard that his Queen was sinful,—so that Csesar 
 must have felt when even Brutus struck him. For though Lady 
 Frances had been known to be blind to her own greatness, still 
 this,—this at any rate was not suspected. “ You cannot mean it! 
 
 the Marchioness had at last said. 
 
 “ I certainly mean it, mamma.’ Then the Marchioness, with 
 one hand guarding her raiment, and with the other raised high 
 above her shoulder, in an agony of supplication to those deities 
 who arrange the fates of ducal houses, passed slowly out of the, 
 room. It was necessary that she should bethink herself before 
 
 another word was spoken. , . , , 
 
 For some time after that very few words passed between hei 
 and the sinner. A dead silence best befitted the occasion ,—a*, 
 when a child soils her best frock, we put her in the-comer with a 
 scolding; but when she tells a fib we quell her little soul within 
 her by a terrible quiescence. To be eloquently indignant without 
 a word is within the compass of the thoughtfully stolid. It was 
 thus that Lady Frances was at first treated by her stepmother. 
 She was, however, at once taken up to London, subjected to the 
 louder anger of her father, and made to prepare for the Saxon 
 Alns. At first, indeed, her immediate destiny was not communi¬ 
 cated to her. She was to be taken abroad ;—and, in so taking her, 
 it was felt to be well to treat her as the policeman does his prisoner, 
 whom he thinks to be the last person who need be informed as to 
 the whereabouts of the prison. It did leak out quickly, because 
 the Marquis had a castle or chateau of his own m Saxony, but 
 
 that was only an accident. . , , 
 
 The Marchioness still said little on the matter,—unless m what 
 she might say to her husband in the secret recesses of marital dis¬ 
 cussion: but before she departed she found it expedient to express 
 herself on one occasion to Lord Hampstead. “ Hampstead, she 
 said, “ this is a terrible blow that has fallen upon us. 
 
 “ i surprised myself. I do not know that I should call it 
 
 exactly a blow.” . n ^ . 
 
 “ Not a blow! But of course you mean that it will come to 
 
 nothing^ ^ meant wag ^ that though I regard the proposition as 
 inexpedient- 
 
 (( 
 
 Inexpedient! ” 
 
THE MARCHIONESS. 
 
 17 
 
 " YesI think it inexpedient certainly; but there is nothing 
 in it that shocks me.” 
 
 “ Nothing that shocks you ! ” 
 
 “ Marriage in itself is a good thing.” 
 
 “ Hampstead, do not talk to me in that way.” 
 
 “ But I think it is. If it be good for a young man to marry it 
 must be good for a young woman also. The one makes the other 
 necessary.” 
 
 “But not for such as your sister,—and him—together. You 
 are speaking in that way simply to torment me.” 
 
 “ I can only speak as I think. I do agree that it would be 
 inexpedient. She would to a certain extent lose the countenance 
 of her friends-” 
 
 “ Altogether! ” 
 
 “ Not altogether,—but to some extent. A certain class of people, 
 —not the best worth knowing,—might be inclined to drop her. 
 However foolish her own friends may be we owe something—even 
 to their folly.” 
 
 “ Her friends are not foolish,—her proper friends.” 
 
 " I quite agree with that; but then so many of them are im¬ 
 proper.” 
 
 “ Hampstead! ” 
 
 “ I am afraid that I don’t make myself quite clear. But never 
 mind. It would be inexpedient. It would go against the grain 
 with my father, who ought to be consulted.” 
 
 “ I should think so.” 
 
 “ I quite agree with you. A father ought to be consulted, even 
 though a daughter be of age, so as to be enabled by law to do as 
 she likes with herself. And then there would be money discom¬ 
 forts.” 
 
 “ She would not have a shilling.” 
 
 “ Not but what I should think it my duty to put that right if 
 there were any real distress.” Here spoke the heir, who was 
 already in possession of much, and upon whom the whole property 
 of the family was entailed. “ Nevertheless if I can prevent it,— 
 without quarrelling either with one or the other, without saying 
 a hard word,—I shall do so.” 
 
 “ It will be your bounden duty.” 
 
 “ It is always a man’s bounden duty to do what is right. The 
 difficulty is in seeing the way.” After this the Marchioness was 
 silent. What she had gained by speaking was very little,—little or 
 nothing. The nature of the opposition he proposed was almost as 
 bad as a sanction, and the reasons he gave for agreeing with her 
 were as hurtful to her feelings as though they had been advanced 
 on the other side. Even the Marquis was not sufficiently struck 
 with horror at the idea that a daughter of his should have con¬ 
 descended to listen to love from a Post Office clerk! 
 
 On the day before they started Hampstead was enabled to be 
 alone with his sister for a few minutes. “ What an absurdity it 
 is,” she said, laughing,—“ this running away J ” 
 
18 
 
 MAE ION FAY. 
 
 “ It is what yon must have expected.” _ , 
 
 “But not the less absurd. Of course I shall go. Just at tlio 
 moment I have no alternative; as I should have none if they 
 threatened to lock me up, till I got somebody to take my case in 
 hand. But I am as free to do what I please with myself as is 
 
 papa.” 
 
 “ He has got money.” 
 
 “ But he is not, therefore, to be a tyrant. 
 
 « Yes he isover an unmarried daughter who has got none. 
 We cannot but obey those on whom we are dependent.” 
 
 « What I mean is, that carrying me away can do no good, lou 
 don’t suppose, John, that I shall give him up after having once 
 brought myself to say the word! It was very difficult to say 
 but ten times harder to be unsaid. I am quite determined—and 
 
 quite satisfied.” 
 
 " But they are not.” 
 
 “ As regards my father, I am very sorry. As to mamma, she 
 and I are so different in all our thinking that I know beforehand 
 that whatever I might do would displease her. It cannot be 
 helped Whether it be good or bad I cannot be made such as she 
 is. She came too late. You will not turn against me, John ? 
 
 “ I rather think I shall.” 
 
 “ John! ” 
 
 (( i may rather say that I have. I do not think jour engage¬ 
 ment to be wise.” 
 
 “ But it has been made,” said she. 
 
 “ And may be unmade.” 
 
 “ Nounless by him.” „ „ . 
 
 “ I shall tell him that it ought to be unmade,—for the happiness 
 
 of both of you.” 
 
 “ He will not believe you.” , ,, ,,i 
 
 Then Lord Hampstead shrugged his shoulders, and thus the 
 
 conversation was finished. . ,, , 
 
 It was now about the end of June, and the Marquis felt it to be 
 a grievance that he should be carried away from the charm of 
 political life in London. In the horror of the first revelation he 
 had yielded, but had since began to feel that too much was being 
 done in withdrawing him from Parliament. The Conservatives 
 were now in ; but during the last Liberal Government he had con¬ 
 sented so far to trammel himself with the bonds of office as to 
 become Privy Seal for the concluding six months of its existence, 
 and therefore felt his own importance in a party point of view. 
 But having acceded to his wife he could not now go back, and was 
 sulky. On the evening before their departure he was going to dmc 
 out with some of the party. His wife’s heart was too deep in the 
 great family question for any gaiety, and she intended to remain at 
 home,—and to look after the final packings-up for the little lords. 
 
 “ I really do not see why you should not have gone witliou 
 me,” the Marquis said, poking liis head out of his dressing-room. 
 
 " Impossible,” said the Marchioness. 
 
THE MARCHIONESS. 
 
 19 
 
 “ I don’t see it at all.” 
 
 “If he should appear on the scene ready to carry he.v off wlmf 
 should 1 have done ? ” ’ 
 
 Then the Marquis drew his head in again, and went on with 
 Ins dressing. What, indeed, could he do himself if the man were 
 to appear on the scene, and if his daughter should declare hersolf 
 willing to go off with him ? 
 
 When the Marquis went to his dinner-party the Marchioness 
 dined with Lady Frances. There was no one else present but the 
 two servants who waited on them, and hardly a word was spoken 
 The Marchioness felt that an awful silence was becoming in the 
 situation. Lady Frances merely determined more strongly than 
 ever that the situation should not last very long. She would go 
 abroad now, but would let her father understand that the kind of 
 life planned out for her was one that she could not endure. If she 
 was supposed to have disgraced her position, let her be sent away. 
 
 As soon as the melancholy meal was over the two ladies separated, 
 the Marchioness going upstairs among her own children. A more 
 careful, more affectionate, perhaps, I may say, a more idolatrous 
 mother never lived. Every little want belonging to them,—for 
 even little lords have wants,—was a care to her. To see 'them 
 washed and put in and out of their duds was perhaps the greatest 
 pleasure of her life. To her eyes they were pearls of aristocratic 
 loveliness; and, indeed, they were fine healthy bairns, clean-limbed, 
 bright-eyed, with grand appetites, and never cross as Jong as thev 
 were allowed either to romp and make a noise, or else to sleep. 
 Lord Frederic, the eldest, was already in words of two syllables, 
 and sometimes had a bad time with them. Lord Augustus was 
 the owner of great ivory letters of which he contrived to make 
 playthings. Lord Gregory had not as yet been introduced to any 
 of the torments of education. There was an old English clergyman 
 attached to the family who was supposed to be their tutor, but 
 whose chief duty consisted in finding conversation for the Marquis 
 when there was no one else to talk to him. There was also a French 
 governess and a Swiss maid. But as they both learned English 
 quicker than the children learned French, they were not serviceable 
 for the purpose at first intended. The Marchioness had resolved 
 that her children should talk three or four languages as fluently as 
 their own, and that they should learn them without any of the 
 agonies generally incident to tuition. In that she had not as yet 
 succeeded. 
 
 She seated herself for a few minutes among the boxes and port¬ 
 manteaus in the midst of which the children were disporting them¬ 
 selves prior to their final withdrawal to bed. No mother was ever 
 so blessed,—if only, if only! “ Mamma,” said Lord Frederic, 
 
 ‘‘ where’s Jack ? ” “ Jack ” absolutely was intended to signify Lord 
 Hampstead. 
 
 “ Fred, did not I say that you should not call him Jack ? ” 
 
 “He say he is Jack,” declared Lord Augustus, rolling up in 
 between his mother’s knees with an impetus which would have 
 
MARION FAY. 
 
 >0 
 
 upset her had she not been a strong woman and accustomed to 
 
 attacks 
 
 these n , -i 
 
 « That is only because he is good-natured, - * - 
 
 with you? You should call him Hampstead.” 
 
 « ]\iarnma, wasn’t he christianed ? ” asked the eldest. 
 
 « Yes of course he was christened, my dear,” said the mother, 
 llv .—thinking how very much of the ceremony had been thrown 
 away upon the unbelieving, godless young man. Then she super¬ 
 intended the putting to bed, thinking what a terrible bar to hei 
 happiness had been created by that first unfortunate marriage ot 
 her husband’s. Oh, that she should be stepmother to a daughter 
 who desired to fling herself into the arms of a clerk m the I ost 
 Office’ And then that an “ unchristianed,” that an infidel, re¬ 
 publican, un-English, heir should stand in the way of her darling 
 boy' She had told herself a thousand times that the devil was i 
 speaking to her when she had dared to wish that,—that Lord 
 Hampstead was not there! She had put down the wish m hoi 
 heart very often, telling herself that it came from the devil She 
 had made a faint struggle to love the young man, which had 
 resulted in constrained civility. It would have been unnatural to 
 her to love any but her own. Now she thought liow glorious liei 
 Erederic would have been as Lord Hampstead,—and how infinitely 
 better it would have been, how infinitely better it would be, tor all 
 the Traffords, for all the nobles of England, and for the country at 
 large! But in thinking this she knew that she was a sinner, and 
 •sluT endeavoured to crush the sin. Was it not tantamount to 
 wishing that her husbands son was dead? 
 
 CHAPTEB IV. 
 
 LADY FRANCES. 
 
 There is something so sad in the condition of a girl who is known 
 to be in love, and has to undergo the process of being made ashamed 
 of it by her friends, that one wonders that any young woman can bear 
 it Most young women cannot bear it, and either give up their 
 love or say that they do. A young man who has got into debt, or 
 been plucked,—or even when he has declared himself to be engaged 
 to a penniless young lady, which is worse,—is supposed merely to 
 have gone after his kind, and done what was to be expected ot him. 
 The mother never looks at him with that enduring anger by which 
 -she intends to wear out the daughter’s constancy. I he father nets 
 and fumes, pays the debts, prepares the way for a new campaign, 
 and merely shrugs his shoulders about the proposed marriage, 
 which he regards simply as an impossibility. But the girl is held 
 to have disgraced herself. Though it is expected of her, or at any 
 rate hoped, that she will get married in due time, yet the fallmg m 
 love with a man,—which is, we must suppose, a preliminary step 
 
LADY FRANCES. 
 
 2i 
 
 to marriage,—is a wickedness. Even among the ordinary Joneses 
 and Browns of the world we see that it is so. "When we are intimate 
 enough with the Browns to be aware of Jane Brown’s passion, we 
 understand the father’s manner and the mother’s look. The very 
 servants about the house are aware that she has given way to her 
 feelings, and treat her accordingly. Her brothers are ashamed of 
 her. Whereas she, if her brother be in love with Jemima Jones 
 applauds him, sympathizes with him, and encourages him. 
 
 There are heroines who live through it all, and are true to the 
 end. There are many pseudo-heroines who intend to do so, but 
 break down. The pseudo-heroine generally breaks down when 
 young Smith,—not so very young,—has been taken in as a partner 
 by Messrs. Smith and Walker, and comes in her way, in want of a 
 wife. The persecution is, at any rate, so often efficacious as to 
 make fathers and mothers feel it to be their duty to use it. It need 
 not be said here how high above the ways of the Browns soared the 
 ideas of the Marchioness of Kingsbury. But she felt that it would 
 be her duty to resort to the measures which they would have 
 adopted, and she was determined that the Marquis should do the 
 same. A terrible evil, an incurable evil, had already been inflicted. 
 Many people, alas, would know that Lady Frances had disgraced 
 herself. She, the Marchioness, had been unable to keep the secret 
 from her own sister, Lady Persiflage, and Lady Persiflage would 
 undoubtedly tell it to others. Her own lady’s maid knew it. The 
 Marquis himself was the most indiscreet of men. Hampstead 
 would see no cause for secrecy. Boden would, of course, boast 
 of it all through the Post Office. The letter-carriers who attended 
 upon Park Lane would have talked the matter over with the 
 footmen at the area gate. There could be no hope of secrecy. All 
 the young marquises and unmarried earls would know that Lady 
 Frances Trafford was in love with the “ postman.” But time, and 
 care, and strict precaution might prevent the final misery of a 
 marriage. Then, if the Marquis would be generous, some young 
 Earl, or at least a Baron, might be induced to forget the “postman/’ 
 and to take the noble lily, soiled, indeed, but made gracious by 
 gilding. Her darlings must suffer. Any excess of money given 
 would be at their cost. But anything would be better than a Post 
 Office clerk for a brother-in-law. 
 
 Such were the views as to their future life with which the 
 Marchioness intended to accompany her stepdaughter to their 
 Saxon residence. The Marquis, with less of a fixed purpose, was 
 inclined in the same way. “ I quite agree that they should be 
 separated quite,” he said. “ It mustn’t be heard ofcertainly 
 not; certainly not. Hot a shilling,—unless she behaves herself 
 properly. Of course she will have her fortune, but not to bestow 
 it in such a manner as that.” 
 
 His own idea was to see them all settled in the chateau, and then, 
 if possible, to hurry back to London before the season was quite 
 p,t an end. His wife laid strong injunctions on him as to absolute 
 secrecy, having forgotten, probably, that she herself had told the 
 
22 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 whole story to Lady Persiflage. The Marquis quite agreed. 
 Secrecy was indispensable. As for him, was it likely that he should 
 speak of a matter so painful and so near to his heart! Nevertheless 
 he told it all to Mr. Greenwood, the gentleman who acted as tutor, 
 private secretary, and chaplain in the house. 
 
 Lady Frances had her own ideas, as to this going away and 
 living abroad, very strongly developed in her mind. They intended 
 to persecute her till she should change her purpose. She intended 
 to persecute them till they should change theirs. She knew herself 
 too well, she thought, to have any fear as to her own persistency. 
 That the Marchioness should persuade, or even persecute, her out 
 of an engagement to which she had assented, she felt to be quite 
 out of the question. In her heart she despised the Marchioness,— 
 bearing with her till the time should come in which she would be 
 delivered from the nuisance of surveillance under such a woman. 
 
 In her father she trusted much, knowing him to be affectionate, 
 believing him to be still opposed to those aristocratic dogmas which , 
 were a religion to the Marchioness,—feeling probably that in his 
 very weakness she would find her best strength. If her stepmother i 
 should in truth become cruel, then her father would take her part 
 against his wife. There must be a period of discomfort,—say, six [ 
 months; and then would come the time in which she would be 1 
 able to say, “I have tried myself, and know my own mind, and I I 
 intend to go home and get myself married.” She would take care 
 that her declaration to this effect should not come as a sudden blow. | 
 The six months should be employed in preparing for it. The j 
 Marchioness might be persistent in preaching her views during the I 
 six months, but so would Lady Frances be persistent in preaching 1 
 
 hers. I 
 
 She had not accepted the man’s love when he had offered it, | 
 without thinking much about it. The lesson which she had heard | 
 in her earlier years from her mother had sunk deep into her very 1 
 sou ^_ m nch more deeply than the teacher of those lessons had sup¬ 
 posed. That teacher had never intended to inculcate as a doctrine 1 
 that rank is a mistake. No one had thought more than she of the 
 incentives provided by rank to high duty. “Noblesse oblige.” 
 The lesson had been engraved on her heart, and might have been 
 read in all the doings of her life. But she had endeavoured to | 
 make it understood by her children that they should not be over¬ 
 quick to claim the privileges of rank. Too many such would be 
 showered on them,—too many for their own welfare. Let them 
 never be greedy to take with outstretched hands those good things 
 of which Chance had provided for them so much more than their 
 fair share. Let them remember that after all there was no virtue 
 in having been born a child to a Marquis. Let them remember how 
 much more it was to be a useful man, or a kind woman. So the I 
 lessons had been given,—and had gone for more than had been j 
 intended. Then all the renown of their father’s old politics assisted, I 
 —the re-election of the drunken tailor,—the jeerings of friends whotl 
 were high enough and near enough to dare to jeer,—the convictions* 
 
LADY FRANCES. 
 
 
 
 of childhood that it was a fine thing, because peculiar for a Marquis 
 and his belongings, to be Radical;—and, added to this, there was 
 contempt for the specially noble graces of their stepmother. Thus 
 it was that Lord Hampstead was brought to his present condition 
 of thinking,—and Lady Frances. 
 
 Her convictions were quite as strong as his, though they did not 
 assume the same form. With a girl, at an early age, all her out- 
 lookings into the world have something to do with love and its 
 consequences. When a young man takes his leaning either towards 
 Liberalism or Conservatism he is not at all actuated by any feeling 
 as to how some possible future young woman may think on the 
 subject. But the girl, if she entertains such ideas at all, dreams of 
 them as befitting the man whom she may some day hope to love. 
 Should she, a Protestant, become a Roman Catholic and then a nun, 
 she feels that in giving up her hope for a man’s love she is making 
 the greatest sacrifice in her power for the Saviour she is taking 
 to her heart. If she devotes herself to music, or the pencil, or to 
 languages, the effect which her accomplishments may have on some 
 beau-ideal of manhood is present to her mind. From the very first 
 she is dressing herself unconsciously in the mirror of a man’s eyes. 
 Quite unconsciously, all this had been present to Lady Frances as 
 month after month and year after year she had formed her strong 
 opinions. She had thought of no man’s love,—had thought but little 
 of loving any man,—but in her meditations as to the weaknesses and 
 vanity of rank there had always been present that idea,—how would 
 it be with her if such a one should ask for her hand, such a one 
 as she might find among those of whom she dreamed as being more 
 noble than Dukes, even though they were numbered among the 
 world’s proletaries ? Then she had told herself that if any such a 
 one should come,—if at any time any should be allowed by herself 
 to come,—he should be estimated by his merits, whether Duke or 
 proletary. With her mind in such a state she had of course been 
 prone to receive kindly the overtures of her brother’s friend. 
 
 What was there missing in him that a girl should require ? It 
 was so that she had asked herself the question. As far as manners 
 were concerned, this man was a gentleman. She was quite sure of 
 that. Whether proletary or not, there was nothing about him to 
 offend the taste of the best-born of ladies. That he was better 
 educated than any of the highly-bred young men she saw around 
 her, she was quite sure. He had more to talk about than others. 
 Of his birth and family she knew nothingv.but rather prided herself 
 in knowing nothing, because of that doctrine of hers that a man is 
 to be estimated only by what he is himself, and not at all by what 
 he may derive from others. Of his personal appearance, which 
 went far with her, she was very proud. He was certainly a hand¬ 
 some young man, and endowed with all outward gifts of manliness : 
 easy in his gait, but not mindful of it, with motions of his body 
 naturally graceful but never studied, with his head erect, with a 
 laugh in his eye, well-made as to his hands and feet. Neither his 
 intellect nor his political convictions would have recommended a 
 

 man to her heart, unless there had been something in the outside 
 to please her eye, and from the first moment in which she had met 
 him he had never been afraid of her,—had ventured when he dis¬ 
 agreed from her to laugh at her, and even to scold her. There is 
 no barrier in a girl’s heart so strong against love as the feeling that 
 the man in question stands in awe of her. 
 
 She had taken some time before she had given him her answer, 
 and had thought much of the perils before her. She had known that 
 she could not divest herself of her rank. She had acknowledged 
 to herself that, whether it was for good or bad, a Marquis’s daughter 
 could not be like another girl. She owed much to her father, much 
 to her brothers, something even to her stepmother. But was the 
 thing she proposed to do of such a nature as to be regarded as an 
 evil to her family ? She could see that there had been changes in 
 the ways of the world during the last century,—changes continued 
 from year to year. Bank was not so high as it used to be,—and in 
 consequence those without rank not so low. The Queen’s daughter 
 had married a subject. Lords John and Lords Thomas were every 
 day going into this and the other business. There were instances 
 enough of ladies of title doing the very thing which she proposed 
 to herself. Why should a Post Office clerk be lower than another ? 
 
 Then came the great question, whether it behoved her to ask 
 her father. Girls in general ask their mother, and send the lover 
 to the father. She had no mother. She was quite sure that she 
 would not leave her happiness in the hands of the present Mar¬ 
 chioness. Were she to ask her father she knew that the matter 
 would be at once settled against her. Her father was too much 
 under the dominion of his wife to be allowed to have an opinion of 
 his own on such a matter. So she declared to herself, and then de¬ 
 termined that she would act on her own responsibility. She would 
 accept the man, and then take the first opportunity of telling her 
 stepmother what she had done. And so it was. It was only early 
 on that morning that she had given her answer to George Eoden,— 
 and early on that morning she had summoned up her courage, and 
 told her whole story. 
 
 The station to which she was taken was a large German schloss, 
 very comfortably arranged, with the mountain as a background 
 and the Biver Elbe running close beneath its terraces, on which the 
 Marquis had spent some money, and made it a residence to be envied 
 by the eyes of all passers-by. It had been bought for its beauty in 
 a freak, but had never been occupied for more than a week at a time 
 till this occasion. Under other circumstances Lady Frances would 
 have been as happy here as the day w T as long, and had often expressed 
 a desire to be allowed to stay for a while at Konigsgraaf. But now, 
 though she made an attempt to regard their sojourn in the place as 
 one of the natural events of their life, she could not shake off the 
 idea of a prison. The Marchioness was determined that the idea 
 of a prison should not be shaken off. In the first few days she said 
 not a word about the objectionable lover, nor did the Marquis. 
 That had been settled between them. But neither was anything 
 
LADY FRANCES. 
 
 25' 
 
 eaid on any other subject. There was a sternness in every motion 
 and a grim silence seemed to preside in the chateau, except when 
 the boys were present,—and an attempt was made to separate her 
 from her brothers as much as possible, which she was more inclined 
 to resent than any other ill usage which was adopted towards her. 
 After about a fortnight it was announced that the Marquis was to 
 return to London. He had received letters from “ the party ” which 
 made it quite necessary that he should be there. When this was 
 told to Lady Frances not a word was said as to the probable 
 duration of their own stay at the chateau. 
 
 “ Papa,” she said, “ you are going back to London ? ” 
 
 “ Yes, my dear. My presence in town is imperatively necessary.” 
 
 “ How long are we to stay here ? ” 
 
 “ How long ? ” 
 
 “ Yes, papa. I like Konigsgraaf very much. I always thought 
 it the prettiest place I know. But I do not like looking forward to 
 staying here without knowing when I am to go away.” 
 
 “ You had better ask your mamma, my dear.” 
 
 “ Mamma never says anything to me. It would be no good mv 
 asking her. Papa, you ought to tell me something before you go 
 away.” 
 
 “ Tell you what ? ” 
 
 “ Or let me tell you something.” 
 
 “ What do you want to tell me, Frances ? ” In saying this lie 
 assumed his most angry tone and sternest countenance,—which, 
 however, were not very angry or very stern, and had no effect in 
 frightening his daughter. He did not, in truth, wish to say a word 
 about the Post Office clerk before he made his escape, and would 
 have been very glad to frighten her enough to make her silent had 
 that been possible. 
 
 f Papa, I want you to know that it will do no good shutting me 
 up there.” 
 
 “ Nobody shuts you up.” 
 
 “ I mean here in Saxony. Of course I shall stay for some time, 
 but you cannot expect that I shall remain here always.” 
 
 " Who has talked about always ? ” 
 
 “I understand that I am brought here to be-out of Mr 
 
 Roden’s way.” 
 
 “I would rather not speak of that young man.” 
 
 “ But, papa,—if he is to be my husband-” 
 
 “ He is not to be your husband.” 
 
 “ It will be so, papa, though I should be kept here ever so long. 
 That is what I want you to understand. Having given my word 
 —and so much more than my word,—I certainly shall not go back 
 from it. I can understand that you should carry me off here so as 
 to try and wean me from it-” 
 
 “ It is quite out of the question ; impossible! ” 
 
 “ No, papa. If he choose,—and I choose,—no one can prevent" 
 us.” As she said this she looked him full in the face. 
 
 “Lo you mean to say that you owe no obedience to your' 
 parents ? ” 
 
•26 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 “ To you, papa, of course I owe obedience,—to a certain extent. 
 There does come a time, I suppose, in which a daughter may use 
 her own judgment as to her own happiness.” 
 
 “ And disgrace all her family ? ” 
 
 “ I do not think that I shall disgrace mine. What I want you 
 to understand, papa, is this,—that you will not ensure my obe¬ 
 dience by keeping me here. I think I should be more likely to be 
 submissive at home. There is an idea in enforced control which is 
 hardly compatible with obedience. I don’t suppose you will look 
 me up.” 
 
 “ You have no right to talk to me in that way.” 
 
 " I want to explain that our being here can do no good. When 
 you are gone mamma and I will only be very unhappy together. 
 She won’t talk to me, and will look at me as though I were a poor 
 lost creature. I don’t think that I am a lost creature at all, but 
 I shall be just as much lost here as though I were at home in 
 England.” 
 
 “ When you come to talking you are as bad as your brother, 
 said the Marquis as he left her. Only that the expression was con¬ 
 sidered to be unfit for female ears, he would have accused her of 
 “ talking the hind legs off a dog.” 
 
 When he was gone the life at Konigsgraaf became very sombre 
 indeed. Mr. George Eoden’s name was never mentioned by either 
 of the ladies. There was the Post Office, no doubt, and the Post 
 Office was at first left open to her; but there soon came a time 
 in which she was deprived of this consolation. With such a 
 guardian as the Marchioness, it was not likely that free corre¬ 
 spondence should be left open to her. 
 
 CHAPTER Y. 
 
 MES. EODEN. 
 
 Geoege Roden, the Post Office clerk, lived with his mother at 
 Holloway, about three miles from his office. There they occupied 
 a small house which had been taken when their means were smaller 
 even than at present;—for this had been done before the young 
 man had made his way into the official elysium of St. Martin’s-le- 
 Grand. This had been effected about five years since, during which 
 time he had risen to an income of £170. As his mother had means 
 of her own amounting to about double as much, and as her personal 
 expenses were small, they were enabled to live in comfort. She 
 was a lady of whom none around knew anything, but there had 
 gone abroad a rumour among her neighbours that there was some¬ 
 thing of a mystery attached to her, and there existed a prevailing 
 feeling that she was at any rate a well-born lady. Eew people at 
 Holloway knew either her or her son. But there were some who 
 condescended to watch them, and to talk about them. It was 
 
MRS. RODEN. 
 
 27 
 
 ascertained that Mrs. Eoden usually went to church on Sunday 
 morning, but that her son never did so. It was known, too, that a 
 female friend called upon her regularly once a week; and it was 
 noted in the annals of Holloway that this female friend came always 
 at three o’clock on a Monday. Intelligent observers had become 
 aware that the return visit was made in the course of the week, 
 but not always made on one certain day;—from which circumstances 
 various surmises arose as to the means, whereabouts, and character 
 of the visitor. Mrs. Roden always went in a cab. The lady, whose 
 name w T as soon known to be Mrs. Vincent, came in a brougham, 
 which for a time was supposed to be her own peculiar property. 
 The man who drove it was so well arrayed as to hat, cravat, and 
 coat, as to leave an impression that he must be a private servant; 
 but one feminine observer, keener than others, saw the man on an 
 unfortunate day descend from his box at a public-house, and knew 
 at once that the trousers were the trousers of a hired driver from a 
 livery-stable. Nevertheless it was manifest that Mrs. Vincent was 
 better to do in the world than Mrs. Eoden, because she could afford 
 to hire a would-be private carriage; and it was imagined also that 
 she was a lady accustomed to remain at home of an afternoon, pro¬ 
 bably with the object of receiving visitors, because Mrs. Eoden 
 made her visits indifferently on Thursday, Friday, or Saturday. 
 It was suggested also that Mrs. Vincent was no friend to the young 
 clerk, because it was well known that he was never there when the 
 lady came, and it was supposed that he never accompanied his 
 mother on the return visits. lie had, indeed, on one occasion been 
 seen to get out of the cab with his mother at their own door, but it 
 was strongly surmised that she had then picked him up at the 
 Post Office. His official engagements might, indeed, have accounted 
 for all this naturally; but the ladies of Holloway were well aware 
 that the humanity of the Postmaster-General allowed a Saturday 
 half-holiday to his otherwise overworked officials, and they were 
 sure that so good a son as George Eoden would occasionally have 
 accompanied his mother, had there been no especial reason against 
 it. From this further surmises arose. Some glance had fallen 
 from the eye of the visitor lady, or perhaps some chance word had 
 been heard from her lips, which created an opinion that she was 
 religious. She probably objected to George Eoden because he was 
 anti-religious, or at any rate anti-church, meeting, or chapel-going. 
 It had become quite decided at Holloway that Mrs. Vincent would 
 not put up with the young clerk’s infidelity. And it was believed 
 that there had bee i <f words ” between the two ladies themselves 
 on the subject of religion,—as to which probably there was no valid 
 foundation, it being an ascertained fact that the two maids who 
 were employed by Mrs. Eoden were never known to tell anything 
 of their mistress. 
 
 It was decided at Holloway that Mrs. Eoden and Mrs. Vincent 
 were cousins. They w r ere like enough in face and near enough in 
 age to have been sisters; but old Mrs. Demijohn, of No. 10, Paradise 
 Eow, had declared that had George been a nephew his aunt would 
 
2S 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 not have wearied in her endeavour to convert him. In such a case 
 there would have been intimacy in spite of disapproval. But a 
 first cousin once removed might be allowed to go to the Mischief 
 in his own way. Mrs. Vincent was supposed to be the elder cousin, 
 —perhaps three or four years the elder,—and to have therefore 
 something of an authority, but not much. She was stouter, too, 
 less careful to hide what grey hairs years might have produced, 
 and showing manifestly by the nature of her bonnets and shawls 
 that she despised the vanities of the world. Not but that she was 
 always handsomely dressed, as Mrs. Demijohn was very well aware. 
 Less than a hundred a year could not have clothed Mrs. Vincent, 
 whereas Mrs. Boden, as all the world perceived, did not spend half 
 the money. But who does not know that a lady may repudiate 
 vanity in rich silks and cultivate the world in woollen stuffs, or 
 even in calico ? Nothing was more certain to Mrs. Demijohn than 
 that Mrs. Vincent was severe, and that Mrs. Boden w r as soft and 
 gentle. It was assumed also that the two ladies were widows, as 
 no husband or sign of a husband had appeared on the scene. Mrs. 
 Vincent showed manifestly from her deportment, as well as from 
 her title, that she had been a married woman. As to Mrs. Boden, 
 of course, there was no doubt. 
 
 In regard to all this the reader may take the settled opinions of 
 Mrs. Demijohn and of Holloway as being nearly true. Biddles may 
 be read very accurately by those who will give sufficient attention 
 and ample time to the reading of them. They who will devote 
 twelve hours a day to the unravelling of acrostics, may discover 
 nearly all the enigmas of a weekly newspaper with a separate 
 editor for such difficulties. Mrs. Demijohn had almost arrived at 
 the facts. The two ladies were second cousins. Mrs. Vincent was 
 a widow, was religious, was austere, was fairly well off, and had 
 quarrelled altogether with her distant relative George of the Post 
 Office. Mrs. Boden, though she went to church, was not so well 
 given to religious observances as her cousin would have her. Hence 
 words had come which Mrs. Boden had borne with equanimity, 
 but had received without effect. Nevertheless the two wrnmen 
 loved each other dearly, and it was a great part of the life of each 
 of them that these weekly visits should be made. There was one 
 great fact, as to which Mrs. Demijohn and Holloway were in the 
 wrong. Mrs. Boden w-as not a widow. 
 
 It w r as not till the Kingsburys had left London that George told 
 his mother of his engagement. She was well acquainted with his 
 intimacy with Lord Hampstead, and knew that he had been staying 
 at Hendon Hall with the Kingsbury family. There had been no 
 reticence between the mother and son as to these people, in regard 
 to whom she had frequently cautioned him that there was danger 
 in such associations with people moving altogether in a different 
 sphere. In answer to this the son had always declared that he 
 did not see the danger. He had not run after Lord Hampstead. 
 Circumstances had thrown them together. They had originally met 
 each other in a small political debating society, and gradually 
 
MRS. HODEN. 
 
 2d 
 
 friendship had grown. The lord had sought him, and not ho the 
 /oid. That, according to his own idea, had been right. Difference 
 m rank, difference in wealth, difference in social regard, required 
 as much as that. He, when he had discovered who was the young 
 man whom lie had met, stood off somewhat, and allowed the friend¬ 
 ship to spring from the other side. He had been slow to accept 
 favour, even at first to accept hospitality. But whenever the ice 
 had, as he said, been thoroughly broken, then he thought that there 
 was no reason why they should not pull each other out of the cold 
 water together. As for danger, what was there to fear ? The 
 Marchioness would not like it ? Very probably. The Marchioness 
 was not very much to Hampstead, and was nothing at all to him. 
 The Marquis would not really like it ? Perhaps not. But in choos¬ 
 ing a friend a young man is not supposed to follow altogether his 
 fathers likings,—much less need the chosen friend follow them. 
 But the Marquis, as George pointed out to his mother, was hardly 
 more like other marquises than the son was like other marquis’s 
 sons. There was a Badical strain in the family, as was made clear 
 by that tailor who was still sitting for the borough of Edgeware. 
 Mrs. Koden, however, though she lived so much alone, seeing hardly 
 anything of the world except as Mrs. Vincent might be supposed 
 to represent the world, had learned that the feelings and political 
 convictions of the Marquis were hardly what they had been before 
 he had married his present wife. “ You may be sure, George,” she 
 had said, “ that like to like is as safe a motto for friendship as it is 
 for love.” 
 
 “ Not a doubt, mother,” he replied; e ‘ but before you act upon 
 it you must define f like/ What makes two men like—or a man 
 and a woman ? ” 
 
 “ Outside circumstances of the world more than anything else ” 
 she answered, boldly. 
 
 “ I would fancy that the inside circumstances of the mind would 
 have more to do with it.” She shook her head at him, pleasantly, 
 softly, and lovingly,—but still with a settled purpose of con¬ 
 tradiction. “ I have admitted all along,” he continued, “ that low 
 birth-” 
 
 “ ^ l^ ve sa ^ nothing of low birth! ” Here was a point on which 
 there, did not exist full confidence between the mother and son, 
 but in regard to which the mother was always attempting to 
 reassure the son, while he would assume something against himself 
 which she would not allow to pass without an attempt of faint denial. 
 
 . “ That birth low by comparison,” he continued, going on with 
 his sentence,“should not take upon itself as much as may be 
 allowed to nobility by descent is certain. Though the young prince 
 may be superior in his gifts to the young shoeblack, and would 
 best show his princeliness by cultivating the shoeblack, still the 
 shoeblack should wait to be cultivated. The world has created a 
 state of things in which the shoeblack cannot do otherwise without 
 showing an arrogance and impudence by which he could achieve 
 nothing.” 
 
so 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 “ Which, too, would make him black his shoos very badly.” 
 f No doubt. That will have to come to pass auy way, because 
 the nobler employments to which he will be raised by the appre¬ 
 ciating prince will cause him to drop his shoes.” 
 
 “ Is Lord Hampstead to cause you to drop the Post Office ? ” 
 
 “ Not at all. He is not a prince nor am I a shoeblack. Though 
 we are far apart, we are not so far apart as to make such a change 
 
 essential to our acquaintance. But I was saying-I don’t know 
 
 what I was saying.” 
 
 were defining what ‘ like ’ means. But people always get 
 muddled when they attempt definitions,” said the mother. 
 
 “ Though it depends somewhat on externals, it has more to do 
 with internals.. That is what I mean. A man and woman might 
 live together with most enduring love, though one had been noble 
 and wealthy and the other poor and a nobody. But a thorough 
 brute and a human being of fine conditions can hardly live together 
 and love each other.” 
 
 “ That is true,” she said. “ That I fear is true.” 
 
 “ I hope it is true.” 
 
 “ It has often to .be tried, generally to the great detriment of the 
 better nature. 
 
 All this, however, had been said before George Poden had 
 spoken a word to Lady Frances, and had referred only to the 
 friendship as it was growing between her son and the young lord. 
 
 The young lord had come on various occasions to the house at 
 Holloway, and had there made himself thoroughly pleasant to his 
 fiiend s mother. Lord Hampstead had away of making himself 
 pleasant in which, he never failed when he chose to exercise it. 
 And he did exercise it almost always,—always, indeed, unless ho 
 was driven to be courteously disagreeable by opposition to his own 
 peculiar opinion. In shooting, fishing, and other occupations not 
 approved of, he would fall into a line of argument, seemingly and 
 indeed truly.good-humoured, which was apt, however, to be aggra¬ 
 vating to his opponent. In this way he would make himself 
 thoroughly odious to his stepmother, with whom he had not one 
 sentiment in common. In other respects his manners were invariably 
 sweet, with an assumption of intimacy which was not unbecoming • 
 and thus he had greatly recommended himself to Mrs. Bodem 
 \\ ho does not know the fashion in which the normal young man 
 conducts himself when he is making a morning call ? He has come 
 there because he means, to be civil. He would not be there unless 
 he wished to make himself popular. He is carrying out some 
 recognized purpose of society. He would [fain be agreeable if it 
 were possible. He w T ould enjoy the moment if he could. But it is 
 clearly his conviction that he is bound to gel through a certain 
 amount of altogether uninteresting conversation, and then to get 
 mmself out of the room with as little awkwardness as may be. 
 Unless there be a pretty girl, and chance favour him with her 
 special companionship, he does not for a moment suppose that any 
 social pleasure is to be enjoyed. That rational amusement can be 
 
MRS. RODEN. 
 
 31 
 
 got out of talking to Mrs. Jones does not' enter into his mind. And 
 yet Mrs. Jones is probably a fair specimen of that general society in 
 which every one wishes to mingle. Society is to him generally 
 made up of several parts, each of which is a pain, though the total 
 is deemed to be desirable. The pretty girl episode is no doubt an 
 exception,—though that also has its pains when matter for conver¬ 
 sation does not come readily, or when conversation, coming too 
 readily, is rebuked. The morning call may be regarded as a period 
 of unmitigated agony. Now it has to be asserted on Lord Hamp¬ 
 stead’s behalf that he could talk with almost any Mrs. Jones freely 
 and pleasantly while he remained, and take his departure without 
 that dislocating struggle which is too common. He would make 
 himself at ease, and discourse as though he had known the lady all 
 his life. There is nothing which a woman likes so much as this, 
 and by doing this Lord Hampstead had done much, if not to over¬ 
 come, at any rate to quiet the sense of danger of which Mrs. Roden 
 had spoken. 
 
 But this refers to a time in which nothing was known at Hol¬ 
 loway as to Lady Frances. Very little had been said of the family 
 between the mother and son. Of the Marquis George Roden had 
 wished to think well, but had hardly succeeded. Of the stepmother 
 he had never even wished to do so. She had from the first been 
 known to him as a woman thoroughly wedded to aristocratic pre¬ 
 judices,—who regarded herself as endowed with certain privileges 
 which made her altogether superior to other human beings. Hamp¬ 
 stead himself could not even pretend to respect her. Of her Roden 
 had said very little to his mother, simply speaking of her as the 
 Marchioness, who was in no way related to Hampstead. Of Lady 
 Frances he had simply said that there was a girl there endowed 
 with such a spirit, that of all girls of her class she must surely be 
 the best and noblest. Then his mother had shuddered inwardly, 
 thinking that here too there might be possible danger; but she had 
 shrunk from speaking of the special danger even to her son. 
 
 “ How has the visit gone ? ” Mrs. Roden asked, when her son 
 had already been some hours in the house. This was after that 
 last visit to Hendon Hall, in which Lady Frances had promised to 
 become his wife. 
 
 “ Pretty well, taking it altogether.” 
 
 “ I know that something has disappointed you.” 
 
 “ No, indeed, nothing. I have been somewhat abashed.” 
 
 “ What have they said to you ? ” she asked. 
 
 “ Very little but what was kind,—just one word at the last.” 
 
 “ Something, I know, has hurt you,” said the mother. 
 
 “Lady Kingsbury has made me aware that she dislikes me 
 thoroughly. It is very odd how one person can do that to another 
 almost without a word spoken.” 
 
 “ I told you, George, that there would be danger in going there.” 
 
 “There would be no danger in that if there were nothing 
 more.” 
 
 “ What more is there, then ? ” 
 
32 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 1 
 
 “ There would be no danger jn that if Lady Kingsbury was I 
 simply Hampstead’s stepmother.” I 
 
 “ What more is she ? ” j 
 
 “ She is stepmother also to Lady Frances. Oh, mother!” I 
 
 “ George, what has happened ? ” she asked. I 
 
 “ I have asked Lady Frances to be my wife.” 
 
 “ Your wife ? ” 
 
 “ And she has promised.” 
 
 “ Oh, George ! ” 
 
 “ Yes, indeed, mother. Now you can perceive that she indeed 
 may be a danger. When I think of the power of tormenting her 
 stepdaughter which may rest in her hands I can hardly forgive i 
 myself for doing as I have done.” 
 
 “ And the Marquis ? ” asked the mother. 
 
 “ I know nothing as yet as to what his feelings may be. I have 
 had no opportunity of speaking to him since the little occurrence 
 took place. A word escaped me, an unthought-of word, which her 
 ladyship overheard, and for which she rebuked me. Then I left 
 the house.” i 
 
 “ What word ? ” » 
 
 “ Just a common word of greeting, a word that would be common J 
 among dear friends, but which, coming from me to her, told all the 1 
 story. I forgot the prefix which was clue from such a one as I am . 
 to such as she is. I can understand with what horror I must hence¬ 
 forward be regarded by Lady Kingsbury.” 
 
 “ What will the Marquis say ? ” 
 
 “ I shall be a horror to him also,—an unutterable horror. The 
 idea of contact so vile will care him at once of all his little Radical 
 longings.” 
 
 “ And Hampstead ? ” 
 
 “ Nothing, 1 think, can cure Hampstead of his convictions;— 
 but even he is not well pleased.” 
 
 “ Has he quarrelled with you ? ” 
 
 “ No, not that. He is too noble to quarrel on such offence. Ho 
 is too noble even to take offence on such a cause. But he refuses to 
 believe that good will come of it. And you, mother ? ” 
 
 “ Oh, George, I doubt, I doubt.” 
 
 “ You will not congratulate me ? ” 
 
 “ What am I to say ? I fear more than I. can hope.” 
 
 “ When I tell you that she is noble at all points, noble in heart, 
 noble in beauty, noble in that dignity which a woman should always 
 carry with her, that she is as sweet a creature as God ever created 
 to bless a man with, will you not then congratulate me?” 
 
 “I would her birth were other than it is,” said the mother. 
 
 “ I would have her altered in nothing,” said the son. “ Her 
 birth is the smallest thing about her, but such as she is I would 
 have her altered in nothing.” I 
 
C S3 ) 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 PARADISE ROW. 
 
 \botjt a fortnight after George Roden’s return to Holloway-a 
 ortniellt passed by the mother in meditation as to her son s glomus 
 mt dangerous love,—Lord Hampstead called at No. 11, Paradise 
 RoV Mrs Roden lived at No. 11, and Mrs. Demijohn lived at No. 
 
 0 the house opposite. There had already been some discussion 
 n Holloway about Lord Hampstead, but nothing had as yet been 
 discovered. He might have been at the house on various pievious 
 accasions, but had come in so unpretending a manner as hardly to 
 have done more than to cause himself to be regarded as a sL’angei 
 in Holloway. He was known to be George s friend, because he had 
 been first seen coming with George on a Saturday afternoon. He 
 had also called on a Sunday and walked aw T ay, down the Row, with 
 George. Mrs. Demijohn concluded that he was a brother clerx in 
 the Post Office, and had expressed an opinion that it did not 
 Signify " meaning thereby to imply that Holloway need not interest 
 itself" about the stranger. A young Government clerk voulcl 
 naturally have another young Government clerl^ tor his frien . 
 Twice Lord Hampstead had come down m an omnibus from Isling¬ 
 ton ; on which occasion it was remarked that as he did not come 
 on Saturday there must be something wrong. A clerk, with Satur¬ 
 day half-holidays, ought not to be away from Ins work on Mondays 
 and Tuesdavs. Mrs. Duffer, who w r as regarded in Paradise Ro 
 !as being veiT inferior to Mrs. Demijohn, suggested that the young 
 man might perhaps, not be a Post Office clerk. This however, 
 was*ridiculed? Where should a Post Office clerk find his friends 
 Except among Post Office clerks ? “ Perhaps he is coming after the 
 widow” suggested Mrs. Duffer. But this also was received with 
 dissent. Mrs. Demijohn declared that Post Office clerks knew 
 better than to marry widows with no more than two or three 
 hundred a year, and old enough to be their mothers. But why 
 does he come on a Tuesday?” asked MB.D"feri ‘'« 5 ^y does 
 no mmp alone 9 ” “Oh you dear old Mis. Duffer I saici inara 
 Demijohn, the old lady’s niece, naturally thinking that it might not 
 be unnatural that handsome young men should come to Paradise 
 
 ^All this, however, had been as nothing to what occurred in the 
 Row on the occasion which is now about to.be described. 
 
 « Aunt Jemima,” exclaimed Clara Demijohn, looking out of the 
 window, “there’s that young man come again to Number Eleven, 
 riding on horseback, with a groom behind to hold him . . 
 
 « G?oom to hold him! ” exclaimed Mrs. Demijohn jumping with 
 : a ii her rheumatism, quickly from her seat, and trottm & to t m 
 
 window.^ there a j n ’t —with boots and breeches.” 
 
 a 
 
MARION FAY. 
 
 “ It must be another,” said Mrs. Demijohn, after a pause, during- 
 which she had been looking intently at the empty saddle of the 
 horse which the groom was leading slowly up and down the Row. 
 
 “ It’s the same that came with young Roden that Saturday,” 
 said Clara; “only he hadn’t been walking, and he looked nicer 
 than ever.” 
 
 “ You can hire them all, horses and groom,” said Mrs. Demi¬ 
 john; “but he’d never make his money last till the end of the 
 month if he went on in that way.” 
 
 “ They ain’t hired. They’re his own,” said Clara. 
 
 “ How do you know, Miss ? ” 
 
 “ By the colour of his boots, and the way he touched his hat r 
 and because his gloves are clean. He ain’t a Post Office clerk at 
 all. Aunt Jemima.” 
 
 “ I wonder whether he can be coming after the widow,” said 
 Mrs. Demijohn. After this Clara escaped out of the room, leaving 
 her aunt fixed at the window. Such a sight as that groom and 
 those two horses moving up and down together had never beeil 
 seen in the Row before. Clara put on her hat and ran across 
 hurriedly to Mrs. Duffer, who lived at No. 15, next door but one tf 
 Mrs. Roden. But she was altogether too late to communicate the 
 news as news. 
 
 “ I knew he wasn’t a Post Office clerk,” said Mrs. Duffer, w-lio 
 had seen Lord Hampstead ride up the street; “ but who he is, or 
 Avliy, or wherefore, it is beyond me to conjecture. But I never will 
 give up my opinion again, talking to your aunt. I suppose she 
 holds out still that lie’s a Post Office clerk.” 
 
 “ She thinks he might have hired them.” j 
 
 “ Oh my! Hired them! ” 
 
 “ But did you ever see anything so noble as the way he got off 
 his horse? As for hire, that’s nonsense. He’s been getting offj 
 that horse every day of his life.” Thus it was that Paradise Row 
 was awe-stricken by this last coming of George Roden’s friend. 
 
 It was an odd thing to do,—this riding down to Holloway. No 
 one else would have done it, either lord or Post Office clerk;—with 
 a hired horse or with private property. There was a hot July sun¬ 
 shine, and the roads across from Hendon Hall consisted chiefly of 
 paved streets. But Lord Hampstead always did things as others 
 would not do them. It was too far to walk in the midday sun, 
 and therefore he rode. There would be no servant at Mrs. Roden’s 
 house to hold his horse, and therefore he brought one of his own. 
 He did not see why a man on horseback should attract more atten¬ 
 tion at Holloway than at Hyde Park Corner. Had he guessed tho 
 effect which he and his horse would have had in Paradise Row he 
 would have come by some other means. 
 
 Mrs. Roden at first received him with considerable embarrass¬ 
 ment,—which he probably observed, but in speaking to her seemed 
 not to observe. “ Very hot, indeed,” he said;—“ too hot for riding 
 as I found soon after I started. I suppose George has given up 
 walking for the present.” 
 
 1 
 
r 
 
 PARADISE ROW. 
 
 35 
 
 ; u He still walks home, I think.” 
 
 ; “ If he had declared his purpose of doing so, he’d go on though 
 
 he had sunstroke every afternoon.” 
 j “ I hope he is not so obstinate as that, my lord.” 
 
 “ The most obstinate fellow I ever knew in my life! Though 
 the world were to come to an end, he’d let it come rather than 
 change his purpose. It’s all very well for a man to keep his 
 purpose, but he may overdo it.” 
 
 “ Has he been very determined lately in anything ? ” 
 
 “No;—nothing particular. I haven’t seen him for the last 
 week. I want him to come over and dine with me at Hendon one 
 ef these days. I’m all alone there.” From this Mrs. Eoden learnt 
 that Lord Hampstead at any rate did not intend to quarrel with 
 her son, and she learnt also that Lady Frances was no longer 
 staying at the Hall. “ I can send him home,” continued the lord, 
 (f if he can manage to come down by the railway or the omnibus.” 
 
 ; “ I will give him your message, my lord.” 
 
 “ Tell him I start on the 21st. My yacht is at Cowes, and 
 £ shall go down there on that morning. I shall be away Heaven 
 knows how long;—probably for a month. 'Vivian will be with me, 
 and we mean to bask away our time in the Norway and Iceland 
 seas, till he goes, like an idiot that he is, to his grouse-shooting. 
 I should like to see George before I start. I said that I was all 
 ulone; but Vivian will be with me. George has met him before, 
 ind as they didn’t cut each other’s throats then I suppose they 
 von’t now.” 
 
 “ I will tell him all that,” said Mrs. Eoden. 
 
 Then there was a pause for a moment, after which Lord Hamp¬ 
 stead went on in an altered voice. “ Has he said anything to you 
 since he was at Hendon;—as to my family, I mean ? ” 
 
 “ He has told me something.” 
 
 “I was sure he had. I should not have asked unless I had 
 been quite sure. I know that he would tell you anything of that 
 kind. Well?” 
 
 “ What am I to say, Lord Hampstead ? ” 
 tf What has he told you, Mrs. Eoden ? ” 
 
 “ He has spoken to me of your sister.” 
 
 “ But what has he said ? ” 
 
 “ That he loves her.” 
 
 “ And that she loves him ? ” 
 
 “ That he hopes so.” 
 
 “ He has said more than that, I take it. They have engaged 
 themselves to each other.” 
 
 “ So I understand.” 
 
 “ What do you think of it, Mrs. Eoden? ” 
 
 “ What can I think of it. Lord Hampstead ? I hardly dare to 
 think of it at all.” 
 
 “ Was it wise?” 
 
 <£ I suppose where love is concerned wisdom is not much com 
 cidcrcd.” , 
 
3 G 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 « 
 
 But people have to consider it. I hardly know how to tiling 
 of it. To my idea it was not wise. And yet there is no one living 
 whom I esteem so much as your son.” 
 
 “ You are very good, my lord.” 
 
 “ There is no goodness in it,—any more than in his liking for' 1 
 me. But I can indulge my fancy without doing harm to others.' 
 Lady Kingsbury thinks that I am an idiot because I do not live 
 exclusively with counts and countesses; but in declining to take 
 her advice I do not injure her much. She can talk about me and 
 my infatuations among her friends with a smile. She will not be 
 tortured by any feeling of disgrace. So with my father. He has 
 an idea that I am out-Heroding Herod, he having been Ilerod;— 
 but there is nothing bitter in it to him. Those fine young gentle¬ 
 men, my brothers, who are the dearest little chicks in the world, 
 five and six and seven years old, will be able to laugh pleasantly at 
 their elder brother when they grow up, as they will do, among the 1 
 other idle young swells of the nation. That their brother and 
 'George Boden should be always together will not even vex them. 
 They may probably receive some benefit themselves, may achieve 
 some diminution of the folly natural to their position, by their 
 advantage in knowing him. In looking at it all around, as far 
 as that goes, there is not only satisfaction to me, but a certain 
 pride. I am doing no more than I have a right to do. Whatever 
 counter-influence I may introduce among my own people, will bef 
 good and wholesome. Do you understand me, Mrs. Boclen? ” 
 
 “ I think so ;—very clearly. I should be dull, if I did not.” 
 
 “But it becomes different when one's sister is concerned, 
 am thinking of the happiness of other people.” 
 
 “ She, I suppose, will think of her own.” 
 
 “ Not exclusively, I hope.” 
 
 “ No; not that, I am sure. But a girl, when she loves— 
 
 “Yes; that is all true. But a girl situated like Frances i 
 
 bound not to,-not to sacrifice those with whom Fame and! 
 
 Fortune have connected her. I can speak plainly to you, Mrs.' 
 Boden, because you know what are my own opinions about many 
 things.” 
 
 “George has no sister, no girl belonging to him; but if he had, 
 and you loved her, would you abstain from marrying her lest you 
 should sacrifice your—connections ? ” 
 
 “ The word has offended you ? ” | 
 
 “Not in the least. It is a word true to the purpose in hand.' 
 I understand the sacrifice you mean. Lady Kingsbury’s feelings/ 
 would be—sacrificed were her daughter,—even her stepdaughter,— * 
 to become my boy’s husband. She supposes that her girl’s birth is 
 superior to my boy’s.” 
 
 “ There are so many meanings to that word f birth.’ ” j 
 
 “ I will take it all as you mean, Lord Hampstead, and will not 
 be offended. My boy, as he is, is no match for your sister. Both 
 Lord and Lady Kingsbury would think that there had been—a sacri¬ 
 fice. It might be that those little lords Would. not in future years be 
 
 a 
 
PARADISE BOW. 
 
 37 
 
 , . i oll _ „i. n lp ; r c i u b of their brother-in-law, the Post Office 
 3 nt to talk at then cmo duke wlth whom they 
 
 erk, as they would of some tail 01 ■ so . b an dacknowledge 
 
 du practise such self-deraal^s th t y ^tter ft wM1 y 6) and then 
 
 nswered ?he question " I do not think that the two oases would 
 e quite analogous.” J? 
 
 t^foSfngkiore delicate, more nice, requiring 
 ;reater caution in the conduct of a girl of d * “ a f 3 ‘ in ques tion, 
 
 ict of a girl’s life, as contrasted * a gentleman whom she 
 
 tot,-the act now s "PP^/ n Sg which should exclude her 
 loves,—your sister would do noth » well-ordered ladies. 
 
 K m “worllf bf^sorted. I do not 
 
 commenTih ‘ Though my hoy’s heart m dearer to ^han any- 
 
 eart that a olhe°rs 
 
 muld’be ddivered “tfiot thhik she’‘would 
 
 awKStw* or mpgji. jgff&ss c 
 
 rould by a similar marriage. looked him full in the face, 
 
 rat'd from her chair on the tab e, singularly handsome, 
 
 fnd he felt, as she did so e ar. she was 
 
 - had condo - 
 
 t'SySSS. iB dominant among your class 
 i illJ it is one to which you would submit yourself, I will not 
 “mdil it But‘you shall not induce me toe— toit^by 
 
 even a false idea as to the so er , q 1( made to stand for 
 
 delicacy, with its privileges andr duties^ « be ma jt fm . 
 
 what it is worth, and to occupy p ™XXyou.” It was thus 
 other mock purposes, then I will quarrel wnu y 
 
 were brought 
 
 in qutrn? y YoS U wm a°t any mto admit that my argument is 
 iUSt ‘”l hardly know. I must think of it. Such a marriage on 
 
38 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 my part would not outrage my stepmother, as would that of ml 
 sister.” 1 
 
 “ Outrage! You speak, Lord Hampstead, as though youi] 
 mother would think that your sister would have disgraced herself! 
 as a woman! ” 
 
 “I am speaking of her feelings,—not of mine. It would be 
 different were I to marry in the same degree.” 
 
 “ Would it? Then I think that perhaps I had better counsel 
 George not to go to Hendon Hall.” 
 
 “ My sister is not there. They are all in Germany.” 
 
 “ He had better not go where your sister will be thought of.” 
 
 “ I would not quarrel with your son for all the world.” 
 
 “ It will be better that you should. Do not suppose that I aim 
 pleading for him.” That, however, was what he did suppose, and 
 that was what she was doing. “ I have told him already that I 
 think that the prejudices will be too hard for him, and that ho had 
 better give it up before he adds to his own misery, and perhaps tc 
 hers. What I have said has not been in the way of pleading,—but 
 only as showing the ground on which I think that such a marriage 
 would be inexpedient. It is not that we, or our sister, are too bad 
 or too low for such contact; but that you, on your side, are not as 
 yet good enough or high enough.” 
 
 “ I will not dispute that with you, Mrs. Roden. But you wil 
 give him my message ? ” 
 
 “ Yes; I will give him your message.” 
 
 Then Lord Hampstead, having spent a full hour in the house 
 took his departure and rode away. 
 
 “ Just an hour,” said Clara Demijohn, who was still looking out 
 of Mrs. Duffer’s window. “What can they have been talking 
 about?” 
 
 “ I think he must be making u'p to the widow,” said Mrs. Duffer 
 who was so lost in surprise as to be unable to suggest any new idea 
 
 “ He’d never have come with saddle horses to do that. Sh< 
 wouldn’t be taken by a young man spending his money in tha 1 
 fashion. She’d like saving ways better. But they’re his owr 
 horses, and his own man, and he’s no more after the widow than 
 he’s after me,” said Clara, laughing. 
 
 “ I wish he were, my dear.” 
 
 “ There may be as good as him come yet, Mrs. Duffer. I don’t 
 think so much of their having horses and grooms. When they 
 have these things they can’t afford to have wives too,—and some¬ 
 times they can’t afford to pay for either.” Then, having seen the 
 last of Lord Hampstead as he rode out of the Row, she went baclj 
 to her mother’s house. I 
 
 But Mrs. Demijohn had been making use of her time while! 
 Clara and Mrs. Duffer had been wasting theirs in mere gazing and! 
 making vain surmises. As soon as she found herself alone the olcj 
 woman got her bonnet and shawl, and going out slily into the Row! 
 made her way down to the end of the street in the direction oppo J 
 site to that in which the groom was at that moment walking thP 
 
THE POST OFFICE. 
 
 39 
 
 horses. There she escaped the eyes of her niece and of the neig 1 - 
 jours, and was enabled to wait unseen till the man, m his walking, 
 ,-aine down to .the spot at which she was standing. My young 
 man,” she said in her most winning yoice, when the groom came 
 
 near her. 
 
 “ What is it, Mum ?” , . 
 
 « You’d like a glass of beer, wouldn’t youafter walking up 
 
 and down so long ? ” . , 
 
 “No, I wouldn’t, not just at present. He knew whom he 
 
 served, and from whom it would become him to take beer. 
 
 “ I’d be happy to pay for a pint,” said Mrs. Demijohn, fingering 
 
 a fourpenny bit so that he might see it. 
 
 “ Thankye, Mum; no, I takes it reg’lar when I takes it. 1 m on 
 
 jdooty just at present.” 
 
 “ Your master’s horses, I suppose ? ” 
 
 “Whose else, Mum? His lordship dont ride generally no¬ 
 body’s’orses but his own.” . , 
 
 Here was a success! And the fourpenny bit saved. His lou.- 
 ship ! “ Of course not,” said Mrs. Demijohn. “ Why should he . 
 
 “ Why, indeed, Mum?” . Q „ 
 
 “Lord-; Lord-Lord who, is he? 
 
 The groom poked up his hat, and scratched his head, and be¬ 
 thought himself. A servant generally wishes to do what honour 
 lie can to his master. This man had no desire to gratify an in¬ 
 quisitive old woman, but he thought it derogatory to his master 
 and to himself to seem to deny their joint name. Ampstead. 
 le said, looking down very serenely on the lady, and then moaed 
 )n, not wasting another word. 
 
 “ I knew all along they were something out of the common 
 vaysaid Mrs. Demijohn as soon as her niece came in. 
 
 “ You haven’t found out who it is, aunt ? ” ^ , , 
 
 “'You’ve been with Mrs. Duffer, I suppose. You twod put 
 tour heads together for a week, and then would know nothing. 
 It was not till quite the last thing at night that she told her seciet. 
 I‘ He was a peer! He was Lord ’Ampstead. 
 
 He°was Lord ’Ampstead, I tell you,” said Mrs. Demijohn. 
 
 I don’t believe there is such a lord,” said Clara, as she took 
 
 herself up to bed. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 TI1E POST OFFICE. 
 
 When George Roden came home that evening the matter was 
 discussed between him and his mother at great length. She was 
 eager with him, if not to abandon his love, at any rate to understand 
 how impossible it was that he should marry Lady 1 ranees. She 
 Was very tender with him, full of feeling, full of compassion and 
 
 *1 
 
4 0 
 
 MARION FA r. 
 
 sympathy; but she was persistent in declaring that no good could 
 come from such an engagement. But he would not be deterred in| 
 the least from his resolution, nor would he accept it as possible that 
 he should be turned from his object by the wishes of any person as 
 long as Lady Frances was true to him. “ You speak as if daughters! 
 
 were slaves/’ he said. , 
 
 “ So they are. So women must be ;—slaves to the conventions ot 
 the world. A young woman can hardly run counter to her family f 
 on a question of marriage. She may be persistent enough to over ¬ 
 come objections, but that will be because the objections themselves- 
 are not strong enough to stand against her. But here the objec¬ 
 tions will be very strong.” 
 
 “We will see, mother,” he said. She who knew him well, 
 perceived that it would be vain to talk to him further. 
 
 “Oh yes,” he said, “I will go out to Hendon, perhaps on 
 Sunday. That Mr. Yivian is a pleasant fellow, and as Hampstead 
 does not wish to quarrel with me I certainly will not quarrel with 
 him.” 
 
 Roden was generally popular at his office, and had contrived to. 
 make his occupation there pleasant to himself and interesting; but 
 he had his little troubles, as will happen to most men in all walks 
 of life. His came to^ him chiefly from the ill manners of a fellow-1 
 clerk who sat in the J same room with him, and at the same desk, j 
 There were five who occupied the apartment, an elderly gentleman 
 and four youngsters. The elderly gentleman was a quiet, civil, 
 dull old man, who never made himself disagreeable, and was 
 content to put up with the frivolities of youth, if they did not 
 become too uproarious or antagonistic to discipline. When they ] 
 did, he had but one word of rebuke. “ Mr. Crocker, I will not have 
 it.” Beyond that he had never been known to go in the way either] 
 of reporting the misconduct of his subordinates to other superior 
 powers, or in quarrelling with the young men himself. Even with 
 Mr. Crocker, who no doubt was troublesome, he contrived to main- ' 
 tain terms of outward friendship. His name was Jerningham, and 
 next to Mr. Jerningham in age came Mr. Crocker, by whose ill-1 
 timed witticisms our George Boden was not unfrequently made to 
 suffer. This had sometimes gone so far that Boden had contem¬ 
 plated the necessity of desiring Mr. Crocker to assume that a bond 
 of enmity had been established between themor in other words,/ 
 that they were not “to speak” except on official subjects. But 
 there had been an air of importance about such a proceeding of 
 which Crocker hardly seemed to be worthy; and Boden had 
 abstained, putting off the evil hour from day to day, but still 
 conscious that he must do something to stop vulgarities which 
 were distasteful to him. 
 
 The two other young men, Mr. Bobbin and Mr. Geraghty, who 
 sat at a table by themselves and were the two junior clerks in that 
 branch of the office, were pleasant and good-humoured enough. 
 They were both young, and as yet not very useful to the Queen. 
 They were apt to come late to their office, and impatient to leave it 
 
FAB ADISE BQW. 
 
 41- 
 
 Ivlien the hour of four drew nigh. There would sometimes come a 
 
 J;torm through the Department, moved by an unseen but powerful 
 find unsatisfied iEolus, in which Bobbin and Geraghty would be 
 threatened to be blown into infinite space. Minutes would bo 
 [written and rumours spread about; punishments would be inflicted, 
 land it would be given to be understood that now one and then the 
 bther would certainly have to return to his disconsolate family at 
 the very next offence. There was a question at this very moment 
 kvhetlier Geraghty, who had come from the sister island about 
 twelve months since, should not be returned to King’s County. No 
 Koubt he had passed the Civil Service examiners with distinguished 
 ■applause; but iEolus hated the young Crichtons who came to him 
 Ivith full marks, and had declared that Geraghty, though no doubt 
 li linguist, a philosopher, and a mathematician, was not worth his- 
 salt as a Post Office clerk. But he, and Bobbin also, were protected 
 |>y Mr. Jerningham, and were well liked by George Boden. 
 l That Boden was intimate with Lord Hampstead had become 
 Inown to his fellow-clerks. The knowledge of this association acted 
 bmewhat to his advantage and somewhat to his injury. His daily 
 Bompanions could not but feel a reflected honour in their own 
 intimacy with the friend of the eldest son of a Marquis, and were 
 anxious to stand well with one who lived in such high society. 
 Such was natural;—but it was natural also that envy should show 
 Tself in ridicule, and that the lord should be thrown in the clerk’s 
 fceth when the clerk should be deemed to have given offence, 
 irocker, when it first became certain that Boden passed much oi¬ 
 ls time in company with a young lord, had been anxious enough 
 foregather with the fortunate youth who sat opposite to him ; 
 it Boden had not cared much for Crocker’s society, and hence it 
 id come to pass that • Crocker had devoted himself to jeers and 
 Fitticisms. Mr. Jerningham, who in his very soul respected a 
 farquis, and felt something of genuine awe for anything that 
 buched the peerage, held his fortunate junior in unfeigned esteem 
 bin the moment in which he became aware of the intimacy. He 
 |d in truth think better of the clerk because the clerk had known 
 dw to make himself a companion to a lord. He did not want 
 lything for himself. He was too old and settled in life to be 
 bsirous of new friendships. He was naturally conscientious, gentle, 
 lid unassuming. But Boden rose in his estimation, and Crocker 
 pi, when he became assured that Boden and Lord Hampstead 
 Fere intimate friends, and that Crocker had dared to jeer at the 
 liendship. A lord is like a new hat. The one on the arm the 
 )ther on the head are no evidences of mental superiority. But yet 
 they are taken, and not incorrectly taken, as signs of merit. The 
 increased esteem shown by Mr. Jerningham for Boden should, I 
 think, be taken as showing Mr. Jerningham’s good sense and 
 general appreciation. 
 
 The two lads were both on Boden’s side. Boden was not a rose, 
 but he lived with a rose, and the lads of course liked the scent of 
 roses. They did not particularly like Crocker, though Crocker 
 
42 . MARION FAY. 
 
 had a dash about him which would sometimes win their flattery 
 Crocker was brave and impudent and self-assuming. They wercl 
 not as yet sufficiently advanced in life to be able to despise Crocker! 
 Crocker imposed upon them. But should there come anything of 
 real warfare between Crocker and Boden, there could be no do\ibt 
 but that they would side with Lord Hampstead’s friend. Such was 
 the state of the room at the Post Office when Crocker entered it, or 
 the morning of Lord Hampstead’s visit to Paradise Eow. 
 
 Crocker was a little late. He was often a little late,—a fact ol 
 which Mr. Jerningham ought to have taken more stringent notice 
 than he did. Perhaps Mr. Jerningham rather feared Crocker 
 Crocker had so read Mr. Jerningham’s character as to have becom< 
 aware that his senior was soft, and perhaps timid. He had so far 
 advanced in this reading as to have learned to think that he could 
 get the better of Mr. jerningham by being loud and impudent] 
 He had no doubt hitherto been successful, but there were thosf 
 in the office who believed that the day might come when Mi] 
 Jerningham would rouse himself in his wrath. 
 
 “ Mr. Crocker, you are late,” said Mr. Jerningham. 
 
 “Mr. Jerningham, I am late. I scorn false excuses. Geraght! 
 would say that his watch was wrong. Bobbin would have eatei 
 something that had disagreed with him. Boden would have bcei 
 detained by his friend. Lord Hampstead.” To this Boden made n< 
 reply, even by a look. “For me, I have to acknowledge that 
 lid not turn out when I vvas called. Of twenty minutes I ha\« 
 deprived my country; but as my country values so much of ml 
 time at only sevenpence-halfpenny, it is hardly worth saying muc] 
 about it.” 1 
 
 “ You are frequently late.” 
 
 “ When the amount has come up to ten pound I will send til 
 Postmastei-General stamps to that amount.” He was now stand 
 ing at his desk, opposite to Boden, to whom he made a low bo^ 
 iJi. Geoige Boden, he said, “I hope that his lordship is qui] 
 
 “ The only lord with whom I am acquainted is quite well; bl 
 I do not know why you should trouble yourself about him.” , 
 
 “ 1 think it becoming in one who takes the Queen’s pay to sho 
 a becoming anxiety as to the Queen’s aristocracy. I have til 
 greatest respect for the Marquis of Kingsbury. Have not you MJ 
 Jerningham?” ’ T 
 
 c a tl^hdnly I have. But if you would go to your work instea] 
 oi talking so much it would be better for everybody.” 
 
 “lam at my work already. Do you think that' I cannot work! 
 and talk at the same time ? Bobbin, my boy, if you would open that 
 window, do you think it would hurt your complexion ? ” Bobbin 
 opened the window. “ Paddy, where were you last night ? ” Padd v 
 was Mr. Geraghty. J 
 
 “ I was dining, then, with my sister’s mother-in-law.” 
 
 “ What, the O’Kelly, the great legislator and Home Buler 
 whom ms country so loves and Parliament so hates ! I don’t think 
 
THE r-OST OFFICE. 
 
 43 
 
 liny Home Ruler’s relative ought to be allowed into the service. Do 
 ■you, Mr. Jerningham ? ” 
 
 i “ I think Mr. Geraghty, if he will only be a little more careful, 
 ■will do great credit to the service,” said Mr. Jerningham. 
 i\ “I hope that iEolus may think the same.” iEolus was the 
 ■name by which a certain pundit was known at the office;—a violent 
 land imperious Secretary, but not in the main ill-natured. “ iEolus, 
 ■Jvhen last I heard of his opinion, seemed to have his doubts about 
 ■Door Paddy.” This was a disagreeable subject, and it was felt by 
 ■them all that it might better be left in silence. From that time 
 ■the work of the day was continued with no more than moderate 
 interruptions till the hour of luncheon, when the usual attendant 
 Entered with the usual mutton-chops. “ I wonder if Lord Hamp- 
 ■stead has mutton-chops for luncheon ? ” asked Crocker. 
 
 , “ Why should he not? ” asked Mr. Jerningham, foolishly. 
 
 “There must be some kind of gilded cutlet, ivpon which the 
 higher members of the aristocracy regale themselves. I suppose, 
 Roden, you must have seen his lordship at lunch.” 
 
 “I dare say I have,” said Roden, angrily. He knew that he 
 was annoyed, and was angry with himself at his own annoyance. 
 
 “Are they golden or only gilded?” asked Crocker. 
 
 “ I believe you mean to make yourself disagreeable,” said the 
 other. 
 
 “ Quite the reverse. I mean to make myself agreeable;—only 
 you have soared so high of late tka> ordinary conversation has no 
 charms for you. Is there any reason why Lord Hampstead’s lunch 
 should not be mentioned ? ” 
 
 “ Certainly there is,” said Roden. 
 
 “ Then, upon my life, I cannot see it. If you talked of my mid¬ 
 day chop I should not take it amiss.” 
 
 “ I don’t think a fellow should ever talk about another fellow’s 
 eating unless he knows the fellow.” This came from Bobbin, who 
 intended it well, meaning to fight the battle for Roden as well as 
 he knew how. 
 
 “ Most sapient Bobb,” said Crocker, “ you seem to be unaware 
 that one young fellow, w T ho is Roden, happens to be the peculiarly 
 intimate friend of the other fellow, who is the Earl of Hampstead. 
 Therefore the law, as so clearly laid down by yourself, has not been 
 infringed. To return to our muttons, as the Frenchman says, 
 what sort of lunch does his lordship eat? ” 
 
 “You are determined to make yourself disagreeable” said 
 Roden. 
 
 “I appeal to Mr. Jerningham whether I have said anything 
 unbecoming.” 
 
 “If you appeal to me, I think you have,” said Mr. Jerningham. 
 
 “ You have, at any rate, been so successful in doing it,” continued 
 Roden, “ that I must ask you to hold your tongue about Lord 
 Hampstead. It has not been by anything I have said that you 
 have heard of my acquaintance with him. The joke is a bad one, 
 and will become vulgar if repeated.” 
 
MARION FAY. 
 
 41 
 
 “Vulgar!” cried Crocker, pushing away his plate, and risingl 
 from his chair. I 
 
 “I mean ungentlemanlike. I don’t want to use hard words,] 
 but I will not allow myself to be annoyed.” ] 
 
 “Hoity, toity,” said Crocker, “here’s a row because I made al 
 chance allusion to a noble lord! I am to be called vulgar because! 
 I mentioned his name.” Then he began to "whistle. | 
 
 “Mr. Crocker, I will not have it,” said Mr. Jerninghaml 
 assuming his most angry tone. “You make more noise in the! 
 room than all the others put together.” j 
 
 “ Nevertheless, I do wonder what Lord Hampstead has had foil 
 his lunch.” This was the last shot, and after that the five gentle-l 
 men did in truth settle down to their afternoon’s work. f 
 
 When four o’clock came Mr. Jerningliam with praiseworthy" 
 punctuality took his hat and departed. His wife and three un¬ 
 married daughters w T ere waiting for him at Islington, and as he was 
 always in his seat punctually at ten, he was justified in leaving it 
 punctually at four. Crocker swaggered about the room for a minute 
 or two with his hat on, desirous of showing that he was by no means 
 affected by the rebukes which he had received. But he, too, soon 
 went, not having summoned courage to recur to the name of 
 Eoden’s noble friend. The two lads remained for the sake of saying 
 a word of comfort to Boden, who still sat writing at his desk. “ I 
 thought it was very lew form,” said Bobbin; “ Crocker going on 
 like that.” 
 
 “ Crocker’s a baist,” said Geraghty. 
 
 “ What was it to him what anybody eats for his lunch ? ” con¬ 
 tinued Bobbin. 
 
 “ Only he likes to have a nobleman’s name in his mouth,” said 
 Geraghty. “I think it’s the hoighth of bad manners talking about 
 anybody’s friends unless you happen to know them yourself.” 
 
 “ I think it is,” said Boden, looking up from his desk. “ But 
 I’ll tell you what shows worse manners;—that is, a desire to annoy 
 anybody. Crocker likes to be funny, and he thinks there is no fun 
 so good as what he calls taking a rise. I don’t know that I’m very 
 fond of Crocker, but it may be as well that we should all think no- 
 more about it.” Upon this the young men promised that they, at 
 least, would think no more about it, and then took their departure. 
 George Boden soon followed them, for it was not the practice of 
 anybody in that department to remain at work long after four 
 o’clock. 
 
 Boden as he walked home did think more of the little affair 
 than it deserved,—more at least than he would acknowledge that it 
 deserved. He was angry with himself for bearing it in mind, and 
 yet he did bear it in mind. Could it be that a creature so insignifi¬ 
 cant as Crocker could annoy him by a mere word or two? But he 
 ■was annoyed, and did not know how such annoyance could be made 
 to cease. If the man would continue to talk about Lord Hamp¬ 
 stead there was nothing by which he could be made to hold his 
 tongue. He could not be kicked, or beaten, or turned out of the 
 
THE POST OFFICE. 
 
 45 
 
 foom. For any purpose of real assistance Mr. Jerningham was 
 -useless. As to complaining to the JEolus of the office that a certain 
 Aelerk would talk about Lord Hampstead, that of course was out of 
 Qhe question. He had already used strong language, calling- the 
 Jman vulgar and ungentlemanlike, but if a man does not regard 
 ► strong language what further can an angry victim do to him? 
 
 Then his thoughts passed on to his connexion with the Marquis 
 of Kingsbury’s family generally. Had he not done -wrong, at any 
 'rate, done foolishly, in thus moving himself out of his own sphere ? 
 At the present moment Lady Frances was nearer to him even than 
 Lord Hampstead,—was more important to him and more in his 
 thoughts. Was it not certain that he would give rise to misery 
 rather than to happiness by what had occurred between him and 
 Lady Frances? Was it not probable that he had embittered for 
 jher all the life of the lady -whom he loved? He had assumed an 
 assured face and a confident smile while declaring to his mother 
 that no power on earth should stand between him and his promised 
 (wife* fh&t she would be able to walk out from her father’s hall 
 and marry him as certainly as might the housemaid or the plough- 
 jmau’s daughter go to her lover. But what would be achieved by 
 rthat if she were to walk out only to encounter misery ? The 
 (country was so constituted that he and these Traffords were in 
 truth of a different race; as much so as the negro is different from 
 lie whit!, man. The Post Office clerk may, indeed, possibly 
 1 lecome a Duke; whereas the negro’s skin cannot be washed white. 
 But while he and Lady Frances were as they were, the distance 
 between them was so great that no approach could be made 
 between them without disruption. The world might be wrong in 
 this. To his thinking the world was wrong. But while the facts 
 existed they were too strong to be set aside. He could do his duty 
 to the world by struggling to propagate his own opinions, so that 
 (the distance might be a little lessened in his own time. He was 
 sure that the distance was being lessened, and with this he thought 
 hat he ought to have been contented. The jeering of such a one 
 is Crocker was unimportant though disagreeable, but it sufficed to 
 ‘how the feeling. Such a friendship as his with Lord Hampstead 
 pad appeared to Crocker to be ridiculous. Crocker would not have 
 jseen the absurdity unless others had seen it also. Even his own 
 mother saw it. Here in England it was accounted so foolish a thing 
 that he, a Post Office clerk, should be hand and glove with such a one 
 as Lord Hampstead, that even a Crocker could raise a laugh against 
 him! What would the world say when it should have become 
 known that he intended to lead Lady Frances to the “ hymeneal 
 altar '’ ? As he repeated the words to himself there was something 
 ridiculous even to himself in the idea that the hymeneal altar 
 should ever be mentioned in reference to the adventures of such a 
 person as George Iioden, the Post Office clerk. Thinking of all 
 Lis, he was not in a happy frame of mind when he reached his 
 home in Paradise Kow. 
 
46 
 
 MARION FAY . 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 MR. GREEN n 03D. 
 
 Roden spent a pleasant evening with his friend and his friend’s 
 friend at Hendon Hall before their departure for the yacht,—during 
 which not a word was said or an allusion made to Lady Frances 
 The day was Sunday, July 20th. The weather was very hot, and 
 the two young men were delighted at the idea of getting away to 
 the cool breezes of the Northern Seas. Vivian also was a cler 
 in the public service, but he was a clerk very far removed in hi 
 position from that filled by George Roden. He was attached to the] 
 Foreign Office, and was Junior Private Secretary to Lord Persiflage] 
 who was Secretary of State at that moment. Lord Persiflage an 
 our Marquis had married sisters. Vivian was distantly related t 
 the two ladies, and hence the young men had become friends. Ai 
 Lord Hampstead and Roden had been drawn together by similarit 
 of opinion, so had Lord Hampstead and Vivian by the reverse 
 Hampstead could always produce Vivian in proof that he was not. 
 in truth, opposed to liis own order. Vivian was one who pro¬ 
 claimed his great liking for things as he found them. It was a 
 thousand pities that any one should be hungry; but, for himself 
 he liked truffles, ortolans, and all good things. If there was anj 
 injustice in the world he was not responsible. And if there was anj 
 injustice he had not been the gainer, seeing that ho was ft youngei 
 brother. To him all Hampstead’s theories were sheer rhodomontade 
 There was the world, and men had got to live in it as best they might 
 He intended to do so, and as he liked yachting and liked grouse- 
 shooting, he was very glad to have arranged w T ith Lord Persiflage 
 and his brother Private Secretary, so as to be able to get out o. 
 town for the next two months. He was member of half-a-dozen 
 clubs, could always go to his brother’s country house if nothing 
 more inviting offered, dined out in London four or five days a week! 
 and considered himself a thoroughly useful member of society in 
 that he condescended to "write letters for Lord Persiflage. He was 
 pleasant in his manners to all men, and had accommodated himself 
 to Roden as w r ell as though Roden’s office had also been in Downing 
 Street instead of the City. 
 
 “ Yes, grouse,” t he said, after dinner. “ If anything better car 
 be invented I’ll go and do it. American bears are a myth. Yor 
 may get one in three years, and, as far as I can hear, very poor fur 
 it is when you get it. Lions are a grind. Elejrhants are as big as 
 a haystack. Pig-sticking may be very well, but you’ve got to go t 
 India, and if you’re a poor Foreign Office clerk you haven’t go 
 either the time or the money.” 
 
 “ You speak as though killing something were a necessity,” said 
 Roden. 
 
 “ So it is, unless somebody can invent something better. I hat 
 

 47 
 
 MR. GREENWOOD. 
 
 races, where a fellow has nothing to do with himself when ^ n 
 afford to bet. I don’t moan to take to cards for the^ ZTtl ^ 
 I have never been up in a balloon. Spooning is goodftm buTit 
 comes to an end so soon one way or another. Girls are so wide 
 awake that they won’t spoon for nothing Unon the whole t a >1 
 see what a fellow is to do unless he killf somettdn- .” Wh ° le 1 d ° U fc 
 i ou won t have mucli to kill on board tho vaplif ** cm*ri 
 “fishing without end in Iceland and Norway ! 1 1 ™!“"' 
 who killed a ton of trout out of an Iceland lake. ” He had to nack 
 
 But ho hkod that rather than not, and he killed Ills ton of trout™' 
 “ 5 ho "“filed them ? ” asked Hampstead. 
 
 I ow veil you may know a Utilitarian by the nature of bio- 
 questions! If a man doesn’t kill his ton all out, he can sav^ be did 
 which is the next best thing to it.” U a ^ iie c 1C ’ 
 
 u y0U ta S ng close -packing nets with you’” Eoden asked 
 Well, no. Hampstead would bo too imnatienf aWa +? sk ® d * 
 Trader isn’t big enough to bring away theS But f S 
 
 S Sunday?’? 11 **“* 1 day I’m out,- 
 
 a few°momente In wWe^Eodtn^nd lordaM there T ere ' 
 together. Eoden had made up his mind & otm'HZ 
 questions unless the subject were mentioned and L “ f 
 allude to any of the family; but he W In “o c r?e oflhe 
 evening that the Marquis had come back from Germany with the 
 
 “ofthfS *° MS Pariia “ ent ^ ^ re- 
 
 Pranchfse, ^“suppose.”™ ° UV ’ SaM Ti ™“’ County 
 
 he Me“to f te^hou?h\ e wTl S ° m 0 ? about County Fra nchise as 
 liCUfooCi tope, though I hope he will be one of the few to surmort 
 
 pass it.” 6 USS ° f L ” dS th6 H ° USe of Commons eTer lams to 
 
 dau-htefoffIn S’™ ,eamt that , the Mar( I uis ’ who ha(I carried his 
 w-mIi • \ Sax jpy as soon as he had heard of the engagement 
 
 ad left his charge there and had returned to London As he wen* 
 
 to T nrd h TV- eTe , nmS he *1?°' “S ht that it would be his duty to go” 
 •?the?ld SSb 7 y ’ f n ? tcli him > as ft* himself, that /hich the 
 
 III was aware thlfft hlf™ 1 fl '° m his , c,fra S lltCT or from his wife, 
 to J to * * j 10 , Tes a man when he has won a girl’s heart 
 
 i Pi 0 ,, father and ask permission to carry on his suit Thi<* 
 c 11 y thought he was bound to perform, even though the father 
 
 Sff-P 6 ®” 80 and might/as the'M^Tfc<3^Kingsbur/ 
 Ilitheito any such going was out of his power. The Marquis had 
 
 I nd. 1 carrkd 1 hei^offp iad immec £ately caught his daughter up 
 
 "Tito ^ytould 
 
 such a duty be performed. Now the Marquis had come ba if to 
 
MARION FAY. 
 
 AS 
 
 London; and though the operation would be painful the duty 
 seemed to be paramount. On the next day he informed Mr. Jer- 
 ningham that private business of importance would take him to the 
 West End, and asked leave to absent himself. The morning had 
 been passed in the room at the Post Office with more than ordinary 
 silence. Crocker had been collecting himself for an attack, but his 
 courage had hitherto failed him. As Roden put on his hat and 
 ♦opened the door he fired a parting shot. “ Remember me kindly 
 to Lord Hampstead/’ he said; “ and tell him I hope he enjoyed his 
 cutlets.” 
 
 Roden stood for a moment with the door in his hand, thinking 
 that he would turn upon the man and rebuke his insolence, but at 
 last determined that it would be best to hold his peace. 
 
 He went direct to Park Lane, thinking that he would probably 
 find the Marquis before he left the house after his luncheon. He 
 had never been before at the town mansion which was known as 
 Kingsbury House, and which possessed all the appanages of gran¬ 
 deur which can be given to a London residence. As he knocked 
 at the door he acknowledged that he was struck with a certain awe 
 of which he was ashamed. Having said, so much to the daughter 
 surely he should not be afraid to speak to the father! But he felt 
 that he could have managed the matter much better had he con¬ 
 trived to have the interview at Hendon Hall, which was much less 
 grand than Kingsbury House. Almost as soon as he knocked the 
 door was opened, and he found himself with a powdered footman 
 as well as the porter. The powdered footman did not know whether 
 or no “my lord” was at home. He would inquire. Would the 
 gentleman sit down for a minute or two ? The gentleman did sit 
 down, and -waited for what seemed to him to be more than half-an* 
 hour. The house must be very large indeed if it took the man all 
 this time to look for the Marquis. He -was beginning to think in 
 what way he might best make his escape,—as a man is apt to think 
 when delays of this kind prove too long for the patience,—but the 
 man returned, and with a cold unfriendly air bade Roden to follow 
 him. Roden was quite sure that some evil was to happen, so cold 
 and unfriendly was the manner of the man; but still he followed, 
 having now no means of escape. The man had not said that the 
 Marquis would see him, had not even given any intimation that 
 the Marquis was in the house. It was as though he were being led 
 away to execution for having had the impertinence to knock at the 
 door. But still he followed. He was taken along a passage on the 
 ground floor, past numerous doors, to what must have been the 
 back of the house, and there was shown into a somewhat dingy 
 room that was altogether surrounded by books. There he saw an 
 old gentleman;—but the old gentleman was not the Marquis 01 
 Kingsbury. 
 
 “ Ah, eh, oh,” said the old gentleman. “ You, I believe, are Mr. 
 George Roclen.” 
 
 “ That is my name. I had hoped to see Lord Kingsbury.” 
 
 ‘‘Lord Kingsbury has thought it best for all parties that,—that. 
 
MR. GREENWOOD. 
 
 49 
 
 —that,-1 should see you. That is, if anybody should see you. 
 
 My name is Greenwood;—the Eev. Mr. Greenwood. I am his lord- 
 chip’s chaplain, and, if I may presume to say so, his most attached 
 and sincere friend. 1 have had the honour of a very long connexion 
 with his lordship, and have therefore been entrusted by him with 
 this,—this,—this delicate duty, I had perhaps better call it.” Mr. 
 Greenwood was a stout, short man, about sixty years of age, with 
 pendant cheeks, and pendant chin, with a few grey hairs brushed 
 carefully over his head, with a good forehead and well-fashioned 
 nose, who must have been good-looking when he was young, but 
 that he was too short for manly beauty. Now, in advanced years;, 
 he had become lethargic and averse to exercise; and having grown 
 to be corpulent he had lost whatever he had possessed in height by 
 becoming broad, and looked to be a fat dwarf. Still there would/ 
 have been something pleasant in his face but for an air of doubt' 
 and hesitation which seemed almost to betray cowardice. At the 
 present moment he stood in the middle of the room rubbing his- 
 hands together, and almost trembling as he explained to George 
 Eoden who he was. 
 
 “I had certainly wished to see his lordship himself,” said Eoden. 
 
 “ The Marquis has thought it better not, and I must say that I 
 agree with the Marquis.” At the moment Eoden hardly knew how 
 to go on with the business in hand. “I believe I am justified in 
 assuring you that anything you would have said to the Marquis 
 you may say to me.” 
 
 “Am I to understand that Lord Kingsbury refuses to see me?” 
 
 “Well;—yes. At the present crisis he does refuse. What can 
 be gained ? ” 
 
 Eoden did not as yet know how far he might go in mentioning 
 the name of Lady Frances to the clergyman, but was unwilling to 
 leave the house without some reference to the business he had in 
 hand. He was peculiarly averse to leaving an impression that he 
 was afraid to mention what he had done. “ I had to speak to his 
 lordship about his daughter,” he said. 
 
 “ I know; I know; Lady Frances! I have known Lady Frances 
 since she was a little child. I have the warmest regard for Lady 
 Frances,—as I have also for Lord Hampstead,—and for the Mar¬ 
 chioness, and for her three dear little boys, Lord Frederic, Lord 
 Augustus, and Lord Gregory. I feel a natural hesitation in calling 
 them my friends because I think that the difference in rank and 
 station which it has pleased the Lord to institute should be main¬ 
 tained with all their privileges and all their honours. Though I 
 have agreed with the Marquis through a long life in those political 
 tenets by propagating which he has been ever anxious to improve 
 the condition of the lower classes, I am not and have not been on 
 that account less anxious to uphold by any small means which may 
 be in my power those variations in rank, to which, I think, in con¬ 
 junction with the Protestant religion, the welfare and high standing 
 of this country are mainly to be attributed. Having these feelings 
 at my heart very strongly I do not wish, particularly on such an 
 
 E 
 
50 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 occasion as this, to seem by even a chance word to diminish the 
 respect which I feel to he due to all the members of a family of a 
 rank so exalted as that which belongs to the family of the Marquis 
 of Kingsbury. Putting that aside for a moment, I perhaps may 
 venture on this occasion, having had confided to me a task so 
 delicate as the present, to declare my warm friendship for all who 
 bear the honoured name of Trafford. I am at any rate entitled to 
 declare myself so far a friend, that you may say anything on this 
 delicate subject which you would think it necessary to say to the 
 young lady’s father. However inexpedient it may be that anything 
 should be said at all, I have been instructed by his lordship to hear, 
 —and to reply.” 
 
 George Roden, while he was listening to this tedious sermon, 
 was standing opposite to the preacher with his hat in his hand, 
 having not yet had accorded to him the favour of a seat. During 
 the preaching of the sermon the preacher had never ceased to shiver 
 and shake, rubbing one fat little clammy hand slowly over the 
 other, and apparently afraid to look his audience in the face. It 
 seemed to Roden as though the words must have been learnt by 
 heart, they came so glibly, with so much of unction and of earnest¬ 
 ness, and were in their glibness so strongly opposed to the man’s 
 manner. There had not been a single word spoken that had not 
 been offensive to Roden. It seemed to him that they had been 
 chosen because of their offence. In all those long-winded sentences 
 about rank in which Mr. Greenwood had expressed his own humility 
 and insufficiency for the position of friend in a family so exalted 
 he had manifestly intended to signify the much more manifest 
 insufficiency of his hearer to fill a place of higher honour even than 
 that of friend. Had the words come at the spur of the moment, 
 the man must, thought Roden, have great gifts for extempore 
 preaching. He had thought the time in the hall to be long, but it 
 had not been much for the communication of the Earl’s wishes, and 
 then for the preparation of all these words. It was necessary, 
 however, that he must make his reply without any preparation. 
 
 “I have come,” he said, “ to tell Lord Kingsbury that I am in 
 love with his daughter.” At hearing this the fat little man held 
 up both his hands in amazement,—although he had already made 
 it clear that he was acquainted with all the circumstances. “ And 
 I should have been bound to add,” said Roden, plucking up all his 
 courage, “that the young lady is also in love with me.” 
 
 “Oh,—oh,—oh!” The hands went higher and higher as these 
 interjections were made. 
 
 “ Why not ? Is not the truth the best ? ” 
 
 “ A young man, Mr. Roden, should never boast of a young lady’s 
 affection,—particularly of such a young lady ;—particularly when 
 I cannot admit that it exists;—particularly not in her father’s 
 house.” 
 
 Nobody should boast of anything, Mr. Greenwood. I speak of 
 a fact which it is necessary that a father should know. If the lady 
 denies the assertion I have done.” 
 
MR. GREENWOOD. 
 
 51 
 
 “It is a matter in which delicacy demands that no question 
 shall he put to the young lady. After what has occurred, it is out 
 of the question that your name should even he mentioned in the 
 young lady’s hearing.” 
 
 “ Why?—I mean to marry her.” 
 
 “Mean!”—this word was shouted in the extremity of Mr. 
 Greenwood’s horror. “ Mr. Eoden, it is my duty to assure you that 
 under no circumstances can you ever see the young lady again.” 
 
 “ Who says so ? ” 
 
 “The Marquis says so,—and the Marchioness,—and her little 
 brothers, who with their growing strength will protect her from 
 nil harm.” 
 
 “I hope their growing strength may not he wanted for any 
 such purpose. Should it be so I am sure they will not be deficient 
 as brothers. At present there could not be much for them to do.” 
 Mr. Greenwood shook his head. He was still standing, not having 
 moved an inch from the position in which he had been placed when 
 the door was opened. “I can understand, Mr. Greenwood, that 
 any further conversation on the subject between you and me must 
 be quite useless.” 
 
 “ Quite useless,” said Mr. Greenwood. 
 
 “ But it has been necessary for my honour, and for my purpose, 
 that Lord Kingsbury should know that I had come to ask him for 
 his daughter’s hand. I had not dared to expect that he w r ould 
 accept my proposal graciously.” 
 
 “No, no; hardly that, Mr. Eoden.” 
 
 “ But it was necessary that he should know my purpose from 
 myself. He will now, no doubt, do so. He is, as I understand you, 
 aware of my presence in the house.” Mr. Greenwood shook his 
 head, as though he would say that this was a matter he could not 
 any longer discuss. “If not, I must trouble his lordship with a 
 letter.” 
 
 “ That will be unnecessary.” 
 
 “He does know?” Mr. Greenwood nodded his head. “And 
 you will tell him why I have come ? ” 
 
 “ The Marquis shall be made acquainted with the nature of 
 the interview.” 
 
 Eoden then turned to leave the room, but was obliged to ask 
 Mr. Greenwood to show him the way along the passages. This the 
 clergyman did, tripping on, ahead, upon his toes, till he had de¬ 
 livered the intruder over to the hall porter. Having done so, he 
 made as it were a valedictory bow, and tripped back to his own 
 apartment. Then Eoden left the house, thinking as he did so that 
 there was certainly much to be done before he could be received 
 there as a welcome son-in-law. 
 
 As he made his way back to Holloway he again considered it 
 all. How could there be an end to this,—an end that would be 
 satisfactory to himself and to the girl that he loved ? The aversion 
 expressed to him through the person of Mr. Greenwood was 
 natural. It could not but be expected that such a one as the 
 
52 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 Marquis of Kingsbury should endeavour to keep liis daughter out 
 of the hands of such a suitor. If it were only in regard to money 
 would it not be necessary for him to do so ? Every possible barri¬ 
 cade would be built up in his way. There would be nothing on 
 his side except the girl’s love for himself. Was it to be expected 
 that her love would have power to conquer such obstacles as these ? 
 And if it were, would she obtain her own happiness by clinging to 
 it? He was aware that in his present position no duty was so 
 incumbent on him as that of looking to the happiness of the woman 
 whom he wished to make his w r ife. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 AT KONIGSGRAAF. 
 
 Very shortly after this there came a letter from Lady Frances te 
 Paradise Row,—the only letter which Roden received from her 
 during this period of his courtship. A portion of the letter shall 
 be given, from which the reader will see that difficulties had arisen 
 at Konigsgraaf as to their correspondence. He had written twice. 
 The first letter had in due course reached the young lady’s hands, 
 having been brought up from the village post-office in the usual 
 manner, and delivered to her without remark by her own maid. 
 When the second reached the Castle it fell into the hands of the 
 Marchioness. She had, indeed, taken steps that it should fall into 
 her hands. She was aware that the first letter had come, and had 
 been shocked at the idea of such a correspondence. She had 
 received no direct authority from her husband on the subject, but 
 felt that it was incumbent on herself to take strong steps. It must 
 not be that Lady Frances should receive love-letters from a Post 
 Office clerk! As regarded Lady Frances herself, the Marchioness. 
 v r ould have been willing enough that the girl should be given over 
 to a letter-carrier, if she could be thus got rid of altogether,—so 
 that the world should not know that there was or had been a Lady 
 Frances. But the fact was patent,-as was also that too, too sad 
 truth of the existence of a brother older than her own comely 
 bairns. As the feeling of hatred grew upon her, she continually 
 declared to herself that she would have been as gentle a stepmother 
 as ever loved another woman’s children, had these two known how 
 to bear themselves like the son and daughter of a Marquis. Seein^ 
 what they were,—and what were her own children,—how these 
 struggled to repudiate that rank which her own were born to adorn 
 and protect, was it not natural that she should hate them, and 
 profess that she should wish them to be out of the way? they 
 could not be made to get out of the way, but Lady Frances might 
 at any rate be repressed. Therefore she determined to stop the 
 correspondence. 
 
 She did stop the second letter,—and told her daughter that she 
 had done so. 
 
AT KONIGSGBAAF. 
 
 53 
 
 “ Papa didn’t say I wasn’t to have my letters,” pleaded Lady 
 Frances. 
 
 “Your papa did not suppose for a moment that you would 
 submit to anything so indecent.” 
 
 “ It is not indecent.” 
 
 “ I shall make myself the judge of that. You are now in my 
 care. Your papa can do as he likes when he comes back.” There 
 was a long altercation, but it ended in victory on the part of the 
 Marchioness. The young lady, when she was told that, it' necessary, 
 the postmistress in the village should be instructed not to send on 
 any letter addressed to George Boden, believed in the potency of 
 the threat. She felt sure also that she would be unable to get at 
 any letters addressed to herself if the quasi-parental authority 
 of the Marchioness were used to prevent it. She yielded, on 
 the condition, however, that one letter should be sent; and the 
 Marchioness, not at all thinking that her own instructions would 
 have prevailed with the postmistress, yielded so far. 
 
 The tenderness of the letter readers can appreciate and under¬ 
 stand without seeing it expressed in words. It was very tender, 
 full of promises, and full of trust. Then came the short passage 
 in which her own uncomfortable position was explained ;— 
 
 “ You will understand that there has come one letter which I 
 have not been allowed to see. Whether mamma has opened it 
 I do not know, or whether she has destroyed it. Though I have 
 not seen it, I take it as an assurance of your goodness and truth. 
 But it will be useless for you to write more till you hear from me 
 again ; and I have promised that this, for the present, shall be my 
 last to you. The last and the first! I hope you will keep it till 
 you have another, in order that you may have something to tell 
 you how well I love you.” As she sent it from her she did not 
 know how much of solace there was even in the writing of a letter 
 to him she loved, nor had she as yet felt how great was the torment 
 of remaining without palpable notice from him she loved. 
 
 After the episode of the letter life at Konigsgraaf was very 
 bitter and very dull. But few words were spoken between the 
 Marchioness and her stepdaughter, and those were never friendly 
 in their tone or kindly in their nature. Even the children were 
 taken out of their sister’s way as much as possible, so that their 
 morals should not be corrupted by evil communication. When 
 she complained of this to their mother the Marchioness merely 
 drew herself up and was silent. Were it possible she would have 
 altogether separated her darlings from contact with their sister, 
 not because she thought that the darlings would in truth be in¬ 
 jured,—as to which she had no fears at all, seeing that the darlings 
 were subject to her own influences,—but in order that the punish¬ 
 ment to Lady Frances might be the more complete. The circum¬ 
 stances being such as they were, there should be no family love, no 
 fraternal sports, no softnesses, no mercy. There must, she thought, 
 have come from the blood of that first wife a stain of impurity 
 which had made her children altogether unfit for the rank to 
 
MARION FAY. 
 
 which they had unfortunately been born. This iniquity on the part 
 of Lady Frances, this disgrace which made her absolutely tremble as 
 she thought of it, this abominable affection for an inferior creature, 
 acerbated her feelings even against Lord Hampstead. The two were 
 altogether so base as to make -her think that they could not be 
 intended by Divine Providence to stand permanently in the way of 
 the glory of the family. Something certainly would happen. It would 
 turn out that they were not truly the legitimate children of a real 
 Marchioness. Some beautiful scheme of romance would discover 
 itself to save her and her darlings, and all the Trafifords and all the 
 Montressors from the terrible abomination with which they were 
 threatened by these interlopers. The idea dwelt in her mind till 
 it became an almost fixed conviction that Lord Frederic would 
 live to become Lord Hampstead,—or probably Lord Highgate, as 
 there was a third title in the family, and the name of Hampstead 
 must for a time be held to have been disgraced,—and in due course 
 of happy time Marquis of Kingsbury. Hitherto she had been 
 accustomed to speak to her own babies of their elder brother with 
 something of that respect which was due to the future head of the 
 family; but in these days she altered her tone when they spoke to 
 her of Jack, as they would call him, and she, from herself, never 
 mentioned his name to them. “Is Fanny naughty?”. Lord 
 Frederic asked one day. To this she made no reply. “ Is Fanny 
 very naughty ? ” the boy persisted in asking. To this she nodded 
 her head solemnly. “ What has Fanny done, mamma ? ” At this 
 she shook her head mysteriously. It may, therefore, be understood 
 that poor Lady Frances was sadly in want of comfort during the 
 sojourn at Konigsgraaf. 
 
 About the end of August the Marquis returned. He had hung on 
 in London till the very last days of the Session had been enjoyed, and 
 had then pretended that his presence had been absolutely required 
 at Trafford Park. To Trafford Park he went, and had spent ten 
 miserable days.alone. Mr. Greenwood had indeed gone with him; 
 but the Marquis was a man who was miserable unless surrounded 
 by the comforts of his family, and he led Mr. Greenwood such a 
 life that that worthy clergyman was very happy when he was left 
 altogether in solitude by his noble friend. Then, in compliance 
 with the promise which he had absolutely made, and aware that it 
 was his duty to look after his wicked daughter, the Marquis 
 returned to Konigsgraaf. Lady Frances was to him at this period 
 of his life a cause of unmitigated trouble. It must not be 
 supposed that his feelings were in any way akin to those of the 
 Marchioness as to either of his elder children. Both of them were 
 very dear to him, and of both of them he was in some degree 
 proud. They were handsome, noble-looking, clever, and to himself 
 thoroughly well-behaved. He had seen what trouble other elder 
 sons could give their fathers, what demands were made for increased 
 allowances, what disreputable pursuits were sometimes followed, 
 what quarrels there were, wliat differences, what want of affection- 
 and want of respect! He was wise enough to have perceived all 
 
AT K0N1GSVRAAF. 
 
 55 
 
 this, and to be aware that he was in some respects singularly blest. 
 Hampstead never asked him for a shilling. He was a liberal man, 
 and would willingly have given many shillings. But still there 
 was a comfort in having a son who was quite contented in having 
 his own income. No doubt a time would come when those little 
 lords would want shillings. And Lady Frances had always been 
 particularly soft to him, diffusing over his life a sweet taste of the 
 memory of his first wife. Of the present Marchioness he was fond 
 enough, and was aware how much she did for him to support his 
 position. But he was conscious ever of a prior existence in which 
 there had been higher thoughts, grander feelings, and aspirations 
 which were now wanting to him. Of these something would come 
 back in the moments which he spent with his daughter; and in 
 this way she was very dear to him. But now there had come a 
 trouble which robbed his life of all its sweetness. He must go 
 back to the grandeur of his wife and reject the tenderness of his 
 daughter. During these days at Trafford he made himself very 
 unpleasant to the devoted friend who had always been so true to 
 his interests. 
 
 When the battle about the correspondence was explained to 
 him by his wife, it, of course, became necessary to him to give his 
 orders to his daughter. Such a matter could hardly be passed 
 over in itilence,—though he probably might have done so had lie 
 not been instigated to action by the Marchioness. 
 
 “ Fanny,” he said, “ I have been shocked by these letters.” 
 
 “ I only wrote one, papa.” 
 
 “ Well, one. But two came.” 
 
 “ I only had one, papa.” 
 
 “ That made two. But there should have been no letter at all. 
 Do you think it proper that a young lady should correspond with, 
 —with,—a gentleman in opposition to the wishes of her father and 
 mother ? ” 
 
 “ I don’t know, papa.” 
 
 This seemed to him so weak that the marquis took heart of 
 grace, and made the oration which he felt that he as a father was 
 bound to utter upon the entire question. For, after all, it was not 
 the letters which were of importance, but the resolute feeling which 
 had given birth to the letters. “My dear, this is a most un¬ 
 fortunate affair.” He paused for a reply; but Lady Frances felt 
 that the assertion was one to which at the present moment she 
 could make no reply. “ It is, you know, quite out of the question 
 that you should marry a young man so altogether unfitted for you 
 in point of station as this young man.” 
 
 “ But I shall, papa.” 
 
 “ Fanny, you can do no such thing.” 
 
 “ I certainly shall. It may be a very long time first; but I 
 certainly shall,—unless I die.” 
 
 “ It is wicked of you, my dear, to talk of dying in that way.” 
 
 “ What I mean is, that however long I may live I shall consider 
 myself engaged to Mr. Boden.” 
 
5 G 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 “ He has behaved very, very badly. He has made his way into 
 m 3 7 house under a false pretence.” 
 
 “ He came as Hampstead’s friend.” 
 
 u It was very foolish of Hampstead to bring him,—very foolish 
 —a Post Office clerk. 
 
 “ Vivian is a clerk in the Foriegn Office. Why shouldn’t 
 one office be the same as another'? ” 
 
 “ They are very different;—but Mr. Vivian wouldn’t think of 
 such a thing. He understands the nature of things, and knows his 
 ow T n position. There is a conceit about the other man.” 
 
 _ "A man should be conceited, papa. Nobody will think well of 
 him unless he thinks well of himself.” 
 
 “ He came to me in Park Lane.” 
 
 “What! Mr. Roden?” 
 
 h"m ”^ eS, came ‘ But I didn’t see him. Mr. Greenwood saw 
 
 “ What could Mr. Greenwood say to him ? ” 
 
 ££ Mr. Greenwood could tell him to leave the house,—and he did 
 so. There was nothing more to tell him. Now, my dear let there 
 be no more about it. If you will put on your hat, we will go out 
 and walk down to the village.” h 
 
 To this Lady Frances gave a ready assent. She was not at all 
 disposed to quarrel with her father, or to take in bad part what I 10 
 had said about her lover. She had not expected that things would 
 go "s ciy easily. She had promised to herself constancy and final 
 success; but she had not expected that in her case the course of 
 true love could be made to run smooth. She was quite willing to 
 return to a condition of good humour with her father, and—not 
 exactly to drop her lover for the moment,—but so to conduct 
 iierselt as though he were not paramount in her thoughts. The 
 cruelty of her stepmother had so weighed upon her that she found 
 it to be quite a luxury to be allowed to walk with her father. 
 
 I don t know that anything can be done,” the Marquis said a 
 few days afterwards to his wife. “It is one of those misfortunes 
 which do happen now and again ! ” 
 
 clerk Tnthe'pos? Oflfcet« 0Ur daUghter sllould “ «P to a 
 
 USe ° f r ®P eatiu S that so often ? I don’t know that 
 the Post Office is worse than anything else. Of course it can’t be 
 ailowedand having said so, the best thing will be to go on just 
 as though nothing had happened.” J 
 
 “ Anc t lot her do just wliat she pleases ? ” 
 
 “ Who ,’ s f oiD g t0 let her do anything ? She said she wouldn’t 
 wnte, and she hasn t written. We must just take her back to 
 Ti afford, and let her forget him as soon as she can.” 
 
 I he Marchioness was by no means satisfied, though she did not 
 know what measure of special severity to recommend. There was 
 
 once a time, a very good time, as Lady Kingsbury thought now__ 
 
 m which a young lady could be locked up in a convent, or perhaps 
 m a prison, or absolutely forced to marry some suitor whom her 
 
 TT 
 
AT KONIGSGRAAF. 
 
 57 
 
 parents should find for her. But those comfortable days were 
 past. In a prison Lady Frances was detained now; but it was a 
 prison of which the Marchioness was forced to make herself the 
 gaoler, and in which her darlings were made to be fellow-prisoners 
 with their wicked sister. She herself was anxious to get back to 
 Trafford and the comforts of her own home. The beauties of 
 Konigsgraaf were not lovely to her in her present frame of mind. 
 But how would it be if Lady Frances should jump out of the 
 window at Trafford and run awaiy with George Boden? The 
 
 windows at Konigsgraaf were certainly much higher than those at 
 Trafford. 
 
 They had made up their mind to return early in September, and 
 the excitement of packing up had almost commenced among them 
 when Lord Hampstead suddenly appeared on the scene. He had 
 had enough of yachting, and had grown tired of books and garden- 
 ' in g a t Hendon. Something must be done before the hunting began, 
 and so, without notice, he appeared one day at Konigsgraaf. This 
 was to the intense delight of his brothers, over whose doings he 
 assumed a power which their mother was unable to withstand. 
 They were made to gallop on ponies on which they had only walked 
 before; they were bathed in the river, and taken to the top of the 
 Castle, and shut up in the dungeon after a fashion which was 
 within the reach of no one but Hampstead. Jack was Jack, and 
 all was delight, as far as the children were concerned; but the 
 Marchioness was not so well pleased with the arrival. A few days 
 after his coming a conversation arose as to Lady Frances which 
 Lady Kingsbury would have avoided had it been possible, but it 
 was forced upon her by her stepson. 
 
 “ I don’t think that Fanny ought to be bullied,” said her stepsrn. 
 
 “Hampstead, I wish you would understand that I do not 
 understand strong language.” 
 
 “Teased, tormented, and made wretched.” 
 
 “ If she be wretched she has brought it on herself.” 
 
 “ But she is not to be treated as though she had disgraced herself.” 
 
 “ She has disgraced herself.” 
 
 “I deny it. I will not hear such a word said of her even by 
 you.” The Marchioness drew herself up as though she had been 
 insulted. “ If there is to be such a feeling about her in your house 
 I must ask my father to have her removed, and I will make a home 
 for her. I will not see her broken-hearted by cruel treatment. I 
 am sure that he would not wish it.” 
 
 “ You have no right to speak to me in this manner.” 
 
 a I surely have a right to protect my sister, and I will exercise it.” 
 
 “You have brought most improperly a young man into the 
 house-” 
 
 “ I have brought into the house a young man whom I am proud 
 to call my friend.” 
 
 “ And now y6u mean to assist him in destroying your sister.” 
 
 “ You are very wrong to say so. They both know, Boden and 
 my sister also, that I disapprove of this marriage. If Fanny were 
 
58 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 av itli me I should not think it right to ask Roden into the house. 
 They would both understand that. But it does not follow that she 
 should be cruelly used.” 
 
 ‘ No one has been cruel to her but she herself.” 
 
 " It is easy enough to perceive what is going on. It will be 
 much better that Fanny should remain with the family; but you 
 may be sure of this,—that I will not see her tortured.” Then he 
 took himself off, and on the next day he had left Kdnigsgraaf. It 
 may be understood that the Marchioness was not reconciled to her 
 radical stepson by such language as he had used to her. About a 
 week afterwards the whole family returned to England and to 
 Trafford. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 Ci NOBLESSE OBLIGE.” 
 
 “ I quite agree,” said Hampstead, endeavouring to discuss the 
 matter rationally with his sister, “ that her ladyship should not 
 be allowed to torment you.” 
 
 “ She does torment me. You cannot perceive what my life was 
 at Kdnigsgraaf! There is a kind of usage which would drive any 
 girl to run away,—or to drown herself. I don’t suppose a man can 
 know what it is always to be frowned at. A man has his own friends, 
 and can go anywhere. His spirits are not broken by being isolated. 
 He would not even see half the things which a girl is made to feel. 
 The very servants were encouraged to treat me badly. The boys 
 were not allowed to come near me. I never heard a word that was 
 not intended to be severe.” 
 
 “ I am sure it was bad.” 
 
 “ And it was not made better by the conviction that she has 
 never cared for me. It is to suffer all the authority, but to enjoy 
 none of the love of a mother. When papa came of course it was 
 better; but even papa cannot make her change her ways. A man 
 is comparatively so very little in the house. If it goes on it will 
 drive me mad.” 
 
 “ Of course I’ll stand to you.” 
 
 “ Oh, John, I am sure you will.” 
 
 " But it isn’t altogether easy to know how to set about it. If 
 we were to keep house together at Hendon”—as he made this pro¬ 
 position a look of joy came over her face, and shone amidst her 
 tears ,—“ there w T ould, of course, be a difficulty.” 
 
 “ What difficulty ? ” She, however, knew well what would bo 
 the difficulty. 
 
 “ George Roden would be too near to us.” 
 
 “ I should never see him unless you approved.” 
 
 “ I should not approve. That would be the difficulty. He 
 would argue the matter with me, and I should have to tell him 
 
“NOBLESSE OBLIGE .” 
 
 that I could not let him come to the house, except with my father’s 
 leave. That would be out of the question. And therefore, as 
 X say, there would be a difficulty.” 
 
 “ I would never see him,—except with your sanction,—nor write 
 to him,—nor receive letters from him. You are not to suppose- 
 that I would give him up. I shall never do that. I shall go on. 
 and wait. When a girl has once brought herself to tell a man, 
 that she loves him, according to my idea she cannot give him up. 
 There are things which cannot be changed. I could have lived 
 very well without thinking of him had I not encouraged myself to 
 love him. But I have done that, and now he must be everything, 
 to me.” 
 
 “ I am sorry that it should be so.” 
 
 “ It is so. But if you will take me to Hendon I will never see 
 him till I have papa’s leave. It is my duty to obey him,—but 
 not her.” 
 
 “ I am not quite clear about that.” 
 
 “ She has rejected me as a daughter, and therefore I reject her as 
 a mother. She would get rid of us both if she could.” 
 
 “ You should not attribute to her any such thoughts.” 
 
 “ If you saw her as often as I do you would know. She hates 
 you almost as much as me,—though she cannot show it so easily.” 
 
 “ That she should hate my theories I can easily understand.” 
 
 “ You stand in her way.” 
 
 “ Of course I do. It is natural that a woman should wish to- 
 have the best for her own children. I have sometimes myself felt 
 it to be a pity that Frederic should have an elder brother. Think 
 what a gallant young Marquis he would make, while I am alto¬ 
 gether out of my element.” 
 
 “ That is nonsense, John.” 
 
 “ I ought to have been a tailor. Tailors, I think, are generally 
 the most ill-conditioned, sceptical, and patriotic of men. Had my 
 natural propensities been sharpened by the difficulty of maintain¬ 
 ing a wife and children upon seven and sixpence a day, I really 
 think I could have done something to make myself conspicuous. 
 As it is, I am neither one thing nor another; neither fish nor fowl 
 nor good red herring. To the mind devoted to marquises I can 
 understand that I should be a revolting being. I have no apti¬ 
 tudes for aristocratic prettinesses. Her ladyship has three sons, 
 either of which would make a perfect marquis. How is it jiossible 
 that she should not think that I am standing in her way ? ” 
 
 “ But she knew of your existence when she married papa.” 
 
 “No doubt she did;—but that does not alter her nature. I 
 think I could find it in my heart to forgive her, even though she 
 attempted to poison me, so much do I stand in her way. I have 
 sometimes thought that I ought to repudiate myself; give up my 
 prospects, and call myself John Trafford—so as to make way tor her 
 more lordly lordlings.” 
 
 “ That is nonsense, John.” 
 
 “ At any rate it is impossible. I could only do it by blowing my 
 
'€0 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 brains out—which would not be in accordance with my ideas of 
 life. But you are not in anybody’s way. There is nothing to be 
 got by poisoning you. If she were to murder me there would be 
 something reasonable in it,—something that one could pardon ; but 
 in torturing you she is instigated by a vile ambition. She is afraid, 
 lest her own position should bo tarnished by an inferior marriage 
 on your part. There would be something noble in killing me for 
 the sake of dear little Fred. She would be getting something for 
 him who, of course, is most dear to her. But the other is the 
 meanest vanity;—and I will not stand it.” 
 
 This conversation took place early in October, when they had 
 been some weeks at Trafford Park. Hampstead had come and 
 gone, as was his wont, never remaining there above two or three 
 days at a time. Lord Kingsbury, w T ho was ill at ease, had run 
 liither and thither about the country, looking after this or the 
 other property, and staying for a day or two with this or the other 
 friend. The Marchioness had declined to invite any friends to the 
 house, declaring to her husband that the family was made unfit for 
 gaiety by the wicked conduct ofjhis eldest daughter. There was 
 no attempt at shooting the pheasants, or even preparing to shoot 
 them, so great was the general depression. Mr. Greenwood was 
 there, and w T as thrown into very close intercourse with her lady¬ 
 ship. He fully sympathized with her ladyship. Although he had 
 always agreed with the Marquis,—as he had not forgotten to tell 
 George Boden during that interview in London,—in regard to his 
 lordship’s early political tenets, nevertheless his mind was so 
 constituted that he was quite at one with her ladyship as to the 
 disgraceful horror of low associations for noble families. Not only 
 did he sympathize as to the abomination of the Post Office clerk, 
 but he sympathized also fully as to the positive unfitness which 
 Lord Hampstead displayed for that station in life to which he had 
 been called. Mr. Greenwood would sigh and wheeze and groan 
 when the future prospects of the House of Trafford were discussed 
 between him and her ladyship. It might be, or it might not be, 
 well,—so he kindly put it in talking to the Marchioness,—that a 
 nobleman should indulge himself with liberal politics; but it was 
 dreadful to think that the heir to a great title should condescend to 
 opinions w r orthy of a radical tailor. For Mr. Greenwood agreed 
 with Lord Hampstead about the tailor. Lord Hampstead seemed 
 to him to be a matter simplyTor sorrow,—not for action. Nothing, 
 ho thought, could be done in regard to Lord Hampstead. Time,— 
 time that destroys but which also cures so many things,—would 
 no doubt have its effect; so that Lord Hampstead might in the 
 fulness of years live to be as staunch a supporter of his class as any 
 Duke or Marquis living. Or perhaps,—perhaps, it might be that 
 the Lord would take him. Mr. Greenwood saw that this remark 
 was more to the purpose, and at once w T ent to work with the 
 Peerage, and found a score of cases in which, within half-a-century, 
 the second brother had risen to the title. It seemed, indeed, to be 
 the case that a peculiar mortality attached itself to the eldest 
 

 “NOBLESSE OBLIGED 
 
 G* 
 
 sons of Peers. This was comforting. But there was not in it so 
 much ground for positive action as at the present moment existed 
 in regard to Lady Frances. On this matter there was a complete 
 unison of spirit between the two friends. 
 
 Mr. Greenwood had seen the objectionable young man, and 
 could say how thoroughly objectionable he was at all points—how 
 vulgar, flippant, ignorant, impudent, exactly what a clerk in the 
 Post Oiflce might be expected to be. Any severity, according to- 
 Mr. Greenwood, would be justified in keeping the two young persons 
 apart. Gradually Mr. Greenwood learnt to talk of the female young- 
 person with very little of that respect which he showed to other 
 members of the family. In this way her ladyship came to regard 
 Lady Frances as though she were not Lady Frances at all,—as 
 though she were some distant Fanny Trafford, a girl of bad taste 
 and evil conduct, who had unfortunately been brought into the 
 family on grounds of mistaken charity. 
 
 Things had so gone on at Trafford, that Trafford had hardly 
 been preferable to Eonigsgraaf. Indeed, at Konigsgraaf there had 
 been no Mr. Greenwood, and Mr. Greenwood had certainly added 
 much to the annoyances which poor Lady Frances was made to 
 bear. In this condition of things she had written to her brother 
 begging him to come to her. He had come, and thus had taken 
 place the conversation which has been given above. 
 
 On the same day Hampstead saw his father and discussed the 
 matter with him;—that matter, and, as will be seen, some others- 
 also. “ What on earth do you wish me to do about her ? ” asked 
 the Marquis. 
 
 “ Let her come and live with me at Hendon. If you will let mo 
 have the house I will take all the rest upon myself.” 
 
 “ Keep an establishment of your own ? ” 
 
 “ W hy not ? If I found I couldn’t afford it I’d give up the 
 hunting and stick to the yacht.” 
 
 “ It isn’t about money,” said the Marquis, shaking his head. 
 
 “ Her ladyship never liked Hendon for herself.” 
 
 “ Nor is it about the house. You might have the house and 
 welcome. But how can I give up my charge over your sister just 
 when I know that she is disposed to do just what she ought 
 not ? ” 
 
 “ She won’t be a bit more likely to do it there than here,” said 
 the brother. 
 
 “ He would be quite close to her.” 
 
 “ You may take this for granted, sir, that no two persons would 
 be more thoroughly guided by a sense of duty than my sister and 
 George Roden.” 
 
 “ Hid she show her duty when she allowed herself to be engaged 
 to a man like that without saying a word to any of her family ? ” 
 
 “ She told her ladyship as soon as it occurred.” 
 
 “ She should not have allowed it to have occurred at all. It is 
 nonsense talking like that. You cannot mean to say that such a 
 girl as your sister is entitled to do what she lilies with herself with- 
 
<5 2 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 out consulting any of her family,—even to accepting such a man as 
 this for her lover.” 
 
 “ I hardly know,” said Hampstead, thoughtfully. 
 
 “You ought to know. I know. Everybody knows. It is 
 nonsense talking like that.” 
 
 “ I doubt whether people do know,” said Hampstead. “ She 
 is twenty-one, and as far as the law goes might, I believe, walk out 
 of the house, and marry any man she pleases to-morrow. You as 
 her father have no authority over her whatever; ”—here the indig¬ 
 nant father jumped up from his chair; but. his son went on with 
 his speech, as though determined not to be interrupted,—“ except 
 what may come to you by her good feeling, or else from the fact 
 that she is dependent on you for her maintenance.” 
 
 “ Good G-! ” shouted the Marquis. 
 
 “ I think this is about the truth of it. Young ladies do subject 
 themselves to the authority of their parents from feeling, from love, 
 and from dependence; but, as far as I understand in the matter, 
 they are not legally subject beyond a certain age.” 
 
 “ You’d talk the hind legs off a dog.” 
 
 “ I wish I could. But one may say a few words without being 
 so eloquent as that. If such is the case I am not sure that Fanny 
 has been morally wrong. She may have been foolish. I think she 
 has been, because I feel that the marriage is not suitable for her.” 
 
 “ Noblesse oblige,” said the Marquis, putting his hand upon his 
 bosom. 
 
 “No doubt. Nobility, whatever may be its nature, imposes 
 bonds on us. And if these bonds be not obeyed, then nobility ceases. 
 But I deny that any nobility can bind us to any conduct which we 
 believe to be wrong.” 
 
 “ Who has said that it does ? ” 
 
 “ Nobility,” continued the son, not regarding his father’s question, 
 “ cannot bind me to do that which you or others think to be right, 
 if I do not approve it myself.” 
 
 “ What on earth are you driving at P ” 
 
 “ You imply that because I belong to a certain order,—or my 
 sister,—we are bound to those practices of life which that order 
 regards with favour. This I deny both on her behalf and my own. 
 I didn’t make myself the eldest son of an English peer. I do 
 acknowledge that as very much has been given to me in the way 
 of education, of social advantages, and even of money, a higher line 
 of conduct is justly demanded from me than from those who have 
 been less gifted. So far, noblesse oblige. But before I undertake 
 the duty thus imposed upon me, I must find out what is that higher 
 line of conduct. Fanny should do the same. In marrying George 
 Boden she would do better, according to your maxim, than in giving 
 herself to some noodle of a lord who from first to last will have 
 nothing to be proud of beyond his acres and his title.” 
 
 The Marquis had been walking about the room impatiently, 
 while his didactic son was struggling to explain his own theory as 
 to those words noblesse oblige. Nothing could so plainly express the 
 
G3 
 
 “NOBLESSE OBLIGE 
 
 feelings of the Marquis on the occasion as that illustration of his 
 as to the clog’s hind legs. But he was a little ashamed of it, and 
 did not dare to use it twice on the same occasion. He fretted and 
 fumed, and would have stopped Hampstead had it been possible; 
 but Hampstead was irrepressible when he had become warm on his 
 own themes, and his father knew that he must listen on to the 
 hitter end. “ I won’t have her go to Hendon at all,” he said, when 
 his son had finished. 
 
 “Then you will understand little of her nature,—or of mine. 
 Boclen will not come near her there. I can hardly be sure that he 
 will not do so here. Here Fanny will feel that she is being treated 
 us an enemy.” 
 
 “ You have no right to say so.” 
 
 “ There she will know that you have done much to promote her 
 happiness. I will give you my assurance that she will neither see 
 him nor write to him. She has promised as much to me herself, 
 and I can trust her.” 
 
 “ Why should she be so anxious to leave her natural home ? ” 
 
 “ Because,” said Hampstead boldly, “ she has lost her natural 
 mother.” The Marquis frowned awfully at hearing this. “I have 
 not a word to say against my stepmother as to myself. I will not 
 accuse her of anything as to Fanny,—except that they thoroughly 
 misunderstand each other. You must see it yourself, sir.” The 
 Marquis had seen it very thoroughly. “And Mr. Greenwood has 
 taken upon himself to speak to her,—w T hich was, I think, very 
 impertinent.” 
 
 “ I never authorized him.” 
 
 “But he did. Her ladyship no doubt authorized him. The 
 -end of it is that Fanny is watched. Of course she will not bear 
 a continuation of such misery. Why should she ? It will be better 
 that she should come to me than be driven to go off with her lover.” 
 
 Before the week was over the Marquis had yielded. Hendon 
 Hall was to be given up altogether to Lord Hampstead, and his 
 •sister was to be allowed to live with him as the mistress of his 
 house. She w r as to come in the course of next month, and remain 
 there at any rate till the spring. There would be a difficulty about 
 the hunting, no doubt, but that Hampstead if necessary was pre¬ 
 pared to abandon for the season. He thought that perhaps he might 
 be able to run down twice a w r eek to the Yale of Aylesbury, going 
 across from Hendon to the Willesden Junction. He would at any 
 rate make his sister’s comfort the first object of his life, and would 
 take care that in doing so George Boden should be excluded alto¬ 
 gether from the arrangement. 
 
 The Marchioness was paralyzed when she heard that Lady 
 Frances was to be taken away,—to be taken into the direct neigh¬ 
 bourhood of London and the Post Office. Very many words she 
 said to her husband, and often the Marquis vacillated. But, when 
 once the promise was given, Lady Frances was strong enough to 
 demand its fulfilment. It was on this occasion that the Marchioness 
 first allowed herself to speak to Mr. Greenwood with absolute dis- 
 
61 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 approval of her husband. “ To Hendon Hall!” said Mr. Green woody 
 holding up his hands with surprise when the project was explained. 
 
 “Yes, indeed! It does seem to me to be the most,—most 
 improper sort of thing to do.” 
 
 “ He can walk over there every day as soon as he has got rid of 
 the letters.” Mr. Greenwood probably thought that George Roden 
 was sent about with the Post Office bags. 
 
 “ Of course they will meet.” 
 
 “ I fear so, Lady Kingsbury.” 
 
 “ Hampstead will arrange that for them.” 
 
 “No, no!” said the clergyman, as though he were bound on 
 behalf of the family to repudiate an idea that was so damnatory to 
 its honour. 
 
 “ It is just what he will do. Why else should he want to have 
 her there ? With his ideas he would think it the best thing he 
 could do utterly to degrade us all. He has no idea of the honour 
 of his brothers. How should he, wdien he is so anxious to sacrifice 
 his own sister? As for me, of course, he would do anything to 
 break my heart. He knows that I am anxious for his father’s 
 name, and, therefore, he would disgrace me in any way that w T as 
 possible. But that the Marquis should consent!” 
 
 “ That is what I cannot understand,” said Mr. Greenwood. 
 
 “ There must be something in it, Mr. Greenwood, which they 
 mean to keep from me.” 
 
 “ The Marquis can’t intend to give her to that young man! ” 
 
 “ I don’t understand it. I don’t understand it at all,” said 
 the Marchioness. “ He did seem so firm about it. As for the girl 
 herself, I will never see her again after she has left my house in 
 such a fashion. And, to tell the truth, I never wish to see Hamp¬ 
 stead again. They are plotting against me; and if there is any¬ 
 thing I hate it is a plot.” In this way Mr. Greenwood and the 
 Marchioness became bound together in their great disapproval 
 of Lady Prances and her love. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 LADY PERSIFLAGE. 
 
 Hampstead rushed up to Hendon almost without seeing his 
 stepmother, intent on making preparations for his sister, and then, 
 before October was over, rushed back to fetch her. He was very 
 great at rushing, never begrudging himself any personal trouble in 
 what he undertook to do. When he left the house he hardly spoke 
 to her ladyship. When he took Lady Prances away he was of 
 course bound to bid her adieu. 
 
 “ I think,” he said, “ that Frances will be happy with me at 
 Hendon.” 
 
 “I have nothing to do with it,—literally nothing,” said the 
 
LADY PERSIFLAGE. 65 
 
 Marchioness, with her sternest frown. “ I wash my hands of the 
 whole concern.” 
 
 “ I am sure you would be glad that she should be happy.” 
 
 “ It is impossible that any one should be happy who misconducts 
 herself.” 
 
 “ That, I think, is true.” 
 
 " It is certainly true, with misconduct such as this.” 
 
 “I quite agree with what you said first. But the question 
 remains as to what is misconduct. Now-” 
 
 “I will not hear you, Hampstead; not a word. You can 
 persuade your father, I dare say, but you cannot persuade me. 
 Fanny has divorced herself from my heart for ever.” 
 
 “ I am sorry for that.” 
 
 "‘And I’m bound to say that you are doing the same. It is 
 better in some cases to be plain.” 
 
 “ Oh—certainly; but not to be irrational.” 
 
 “ I am not irrational, and it is most improper for you to speak 
 to me in that way.” 
 
 “Well, good-bye. I have no doubt it will come right some 
 of these days,” said Hampstead, as he took his leave. Then he 
 carried his sister off to Hendon. 
 
 Previous to this there had been a great deal of unpleasantness 
 in the house. From the moment in which Lady Kingsbury had 
 heard that her stepdaughter was to go to her brother she had 
 refused even to speak to the unfortunate girl. As far as it was 
 possible she put her husband also into Coventry. She held daily 
 consultations with Mr. Greenwood, and spent most of her hours in 
 embracing, coddling, and spoiling those three unfortunate young 
 noblemen who were being so cruelly injured by their brother and 
 sister. One of her keenest pangs was in seeing how boisterously 
 the three bairns romped with “ Jack ” even after she had dismissed 
 him from her own good graces as utterly unworthy of her regard. 
 That night he positively brought Lord Gregory down into the 
 drawing-room in his night-shirt, having dragged the little urchin 
 out of his cot,—as one might do who was on peculiar terms of 
 friendship with the mother. Lord Gregory was in Elysium, but 
 the mother tore the child from the sinner’s arms, and carried him 
 back in anger to the nursery. 
 
 “ Nothing does children so much good as disturbing them in 
 their sleep,” said Lord Hampstead, turning to his father; but the 
 anger of the Marchioness was too serious a thing to allow of a 
 joke. 
 
 “ From this time forth for evermore she is no child of mine,” 
 said Lady Kingsbury the next morning to her husband, as soon as 
 the carriage had taken the two sinners away from the door. » 
 
 " It is very wrong to say that. She is your child, and must be 
 your child.” 
 
 “ I have divorced her from my heart;—and also Lord Hamp¬ 
 stead. How can it be otherwise, when they are both in [rebellion 
 against me ? Now there will be this disgraceful marriage. Would 
 
66 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 you wish that I should receive the Post Office clerk here as my 
 son-in-law ? ” 
 
 “ There won’t be any disgraceful marriage,” said the Marquis. 
 “ At least, what I mean is, that it will be much less likely at 
 Hendon than here.” 
 
 “ Less likely than here! Here it would have been impossible. 
 There they will be all together.” 
 
 “ No such thing,” said the Marquis. tf Hampstead will see to 
 that. And she too has promised me.” 
 
 “ Pshaw! ” exclaimed the Marchioness. 
 
 “ I won’t have you say Pshaw to me when I tell you. Fanny 
 always has kept her word to me, and I don’t in the least doubt her. 
 Had she remained here your treatment would have induced her to 
 run away with him at the first word.” 
 
 “ Lord Kingsbury,” said the offended lady, “ I have always done 
 my duty by the children of your first marriage as a mother should 
 do. I have found them to be violent, and altogether unaware of 
 the duties which their position should impose upon them. It was 
 only yesterday that Lord Hampstead presumed to call me irrational. 
 I have borne a great deal from them, and can bear no more. I 
 wish you would have found some one better able to control their 
 conduct. Then, with a stately step, she stalked out of the room. 
 Under these circumstances, the house was not comfortable to any 
 of the inhabitants. 
 
 As soon as her ladyship had reached her own apartments after 
 this rough interview she seated herself at the table, and commenced 
 a letter to her sister, Lady Persiflage, in wffiich she proceeded to 
 give a detailed account of all her troubles and sufferings. Lady 
 Persiflage, who was by a year or two the younger of the two, filled 
 a higher position in society than that of the Marchioness herself. 
 She was the wife only of an Earl; but the Earl was a Knight of the 
 Garter, Lord Lieutenant of his County, and at the present moment 
 Secretary of State for the Home Department. The Marquis had 
 risen to no such honours as these. Lord Persiflage was a peculiar 
 man. Nobody quite knew of what his great gifts consisted. But 
 it was acknowiedged of him that he was an astute diplomat; that 
 the honour of England was safe in his hands; and that no more 
 perfect courtier ever gave advice to a well-satisfied sovereign. He 
 was beautiful to look at, with his soft grey hair, his bright eyes, and 
 well-cut features. He was much of a dandy, and, though he was 
 known to be nearer seventy than sixty years of age, he maintained 
 an appearance of almost green juvenility. Active he was not, nor 
 learned, nor eloquent. But he knew how to hold his own, and had 
 held it for many years. He had married his wife when she was 
 very young, and she had become, first a distinguished beauty, and 
 then a leader of fashion. Her sister, our Marchioness, had been 
 past thirty when she married, and had never been quite so much in 
 the world’s eye as her sister, Lady Persiflage. And Lady Persiflage 
 was the mother of her husband’s heir. The young Lord Hautboy, 
 her eldest son, was now just of age. Lady Kingsbury looked upon 
 
LADY PERSIFLAGE. 07 
 
 him as all that the heir to an earldom ought to be. His mother 
 too, was proud of him, for he was beautiful as a young Phoebus! 
 1 le Pari, his father, was not always as well pleased, because his 
 son had already achieved a knack of spending money. The 
 Peisinage estates were somewhat encumbered, and there seemed to 
 be a probability that Lord Hautboy might create further trouble 
 feuck was the family to whom collectively the Marchioness looked 
 .1 support m her unhappiness. The letter which she wrote to her 
 sister on the present occasion was as follows 
 
 “ Trafford Park , 
 
 (< n r-rr . /-n “ Saturday , October Toth. 
 
 “My dear Geraldine,— 
 
 •'IX , 1 h ke U P “y P en to write to you with a heart laden 
 with trouble. Things have become so bad with me that I do not 
 know where to turn myself unless you can give me comfort. I am 
 beginning to feel how terrible it is to have undertaken the position 
 of mother to another person’s children. God knows I have en¬ 
 deavoured to do my duty. But it has all been in vain. Every¬ 
 thing is over now. I have divided myself for ever from Hampstead 
 and from Fanny. I have felt myself compelled to tell their father 
 that I have divorced them from my heart; and I have told Lord 
 -Hampstead the same. Ton will understand how terrible must have 
 been the occasion when I found myself compelled to take such a 
 step as this. 
 
 “You know how dreadfully shocked I was when she first 
 revealed to me the fact that she had promised to marry that Post 
 Othce clerk ,The young man had actually the impudence to call 
 on Lord Kingsbury in London, to offer himself as a son-in-law. 
 Kingsbury very properly would not see him, but instructed Mr. 
 Greenwood to do so. Mr. Greenwood has behaved very well in the 
 matter, and is a great comfort to me. I hope we may be able to do 
 something for him some day. A viler or more ill-conditioned young 
 man he says that he never sawinsolent, too, and talking as 
 though he had as much right to ask for Fanny’s hand as though 
 he were on« of the same class. As for that, she would deserve 
 nothing better than to be married to such a man, were it not that 
 all the world would know how closely she is connected with mv 
 own darling boys! 3 
 
 t i T he V W x t0 ? k ker ok> Konigsgraaf; and such a time as 
 I had with her ! She would write letters to this wretch, and 
 contrived to receive one. I did stop that, but you cannot conceive 
 what a life she led me. Of course I have felt from the first that 
 she would be divided from her brothers, because one never knows 
 how early bad morals may be inculcated! Then her papa came 
 and Hampstead,—who in all this has encouraged his sister The 
 young man is his friend. After this who will say that any noble¬ 
 man ought to call himself what they call a Liberal ? Then we 
 came home; and what do you think has happened ? Hampstead 
 has taken his sister to live with him at Hendon, next door, as you 
 
MARION FAT. 
 
 G3 
 
 may say, to the Post Office clerk, where the young man has made 
 himself thoroughly at home;—and Kingsbury has permitted it! 
 Oh, Geraldine, that is the worst of it! Am I not justified in 
 declaring that I have divorced them from my heart ? 
 
 “ You can hardly feel as I do, you, whose son fills so well that 
 position which an eldest son ought to fill! Here am I with my 
 darlings, not only under a shade, but with this disgrace before 
 them which they will never be able altogether to get rid of. I can 
 divorce Hampstead and his sister from my heart; but they will still 
 be in some sort brother and sister to my poor boys. How am I to 
 teach them to respect their elder brother, who I suppose must in 
 course of time become Head of the House, when he is hand and 
 glove with a dreadful young man such as that! Am I not justified 
 in declaring that no communication shall be kept up between the 
 two families ? If she marries the man she will of course drop the 
 name; but yet all the world will know because of the title. As for 
 him, I am afraid that there is no hope;—although it is odd that 
 the second son does so very often come to the title. If you look 
 into it you will find that the second brother has almost a better 
 chance than the elder,—although I am sure that nothing of the 
 kind will ever happen to dear Hautboy. But he knows how to live 
 in that state of life to which it has pleased God to call him ! Do 
 write to me at once, and tell me what I ought to do with a due 
 regard to the position to which I have been called upon to fill in 
 the world. 
 
 u Your most affectionate sister, 
 
 “Clara Kingsbury. 
 
 “P.S.— Do remember poor Mr. Greenwood if Lord Persiflage 
 should know how to do something for a clergyman. He is getting 
 old, and Kingsbury has never been able to do anything for him. I 
 hope the Liberals never will be able to do anything for anybody. 
 I don’t think Mr. Greenwood would be fit for any duty, because he 
 has been idle all his life, and is now fond of good living; but a 
 deanery would just suit him.” 
 
 After the interval of a fortnight Lady Kingsbury received a 
 reply from her sister which the reader may as well see at once. 
 
 “ Castle Hautboy, 
 
 “ November 9 th. 
 
 “My dear Clara,— 
 
 “ I don’t know that there is anything further to be done 
 about Fanny. As for divorcing her from your heart, I don’t 
 suppose that it amounts to much. I advise you to keep on good 
 terms with Hampstead, because if anything were to happen, it is 
 always well for the Dowager to be friends with the heir. If Fanny 
 will marry the man she must. Lady Di Peacocke married Mr. 
 Billyboy, who was a clerk in one of the offices. They made him 
 Assistant Secretary, and they now live in Portugal Street and do 
 very well. I see Lady Diana about everywhere. Mr. Billyboy 
 can’t keep a carriage for her, but that of course is her look-out. 
 
LADY PERSIFLAGE. 
 
 69 
 
 As to ttliat you say about second sons succeeding, don’t think 
 of it. It would get you into a bad frame of mind, and make you 
 hate the very person upon whom you will probably have to depend 
 for much of your comfort. 
 
 “ I think you should take things easier, and, above all, do not 
 trouble your husband. I am sure he could make himself very 
 unpleasant if he were driven too far. Persiflage has no clerical 
 patronage whatever, and would not interfere about Deans or Bishops 
 for all the world. I suppose he could appoint a Chaplain to an 
 Embassy, but your clergyman seems to be too old and too idle for 
 that. 
 
 “ Your affectionate sister, 
 
 “ Geraldine Persiflage.” 
 
 This letter brought very little comfort to the distracted 
 Marchioness. There was much in it so cold that it offended her 
 deeply, and for a moment prompted her almost to divorce also 
 Lady Persiflage from her heart. Lady Persiflage seemed to think 
 that Fanny should be absolutely encouraged to marry the Post 
 Office clerk, because at some past period some Lady Diana, who at 
 the time was near fifty, had married a clerk also. It might be that 
 a Lady Diana should have run away with a groom, but would that 
 be a reason why so monstrous a crime should be repeated ? And 
 then in this letter there was so absolute an absence of all affec¬ 
 tionate regard for her own children! She had spoken with great 
 love of Lord Hautboy; but then Lord Hautboy was the acknow¬ 
 ledged heir, whereas her own children were nobodies. In this 
 there lay the sting. And then she felt herself to have been rebuked 
 because she had hinted at the possibility of Lord Hampstead’s 
 departure for a better world. Lord Hampstead was mortal, as well 
 as others. And why should not his death be contemplated, 
 especially as it wxmld confer so great a benefit on the world at 
 large ? Her sister’s letter persuaded her of nothing. The divorce 
 should remain as complete as ever. She would not condescend to 
 think of any future advantages which might accrue to her from 
 any intimacy with her stepson. Her dower had been regularly 
 settled. Her auty was to her own children,—and secondly to her 
 husband. If she could succeed in turning him against these two 
 wicked elder children, then she would omit to do nothing which 
 might render his life pleasant to him. Such were the resolutions 
 which she formed on receipt of her sister’s letter. 
 
 About this time Lord Kingsbury found it necessary to say a few 
 words to Mr. Greenwood. There had not of late been much 
 >*£!&'ession of kindness from the Marquis to the clergyman. Since 
 tneir return from Germany his lordship had been either taciturn 
 or cross. Mr. Greenwood took this very much to heart. For 
 though he was most anxious to assure to himself the friendship of 
 the Marchioness he did not at all wish to neglect the Marquis. It 
 was in truth on the Marquis that he depended for everything that 
 he had in the world. The Marquis could send him out of the house 
 
70 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 to-morrow,—and if this house were closed to him, none other, as 
 far as he knew, would be open to him except the Union. He had 
 lived delicately all his life, and luxuriously,—but fruitlessly as 
 regarded the gathering of any honey for future wants. Whatever 
 small scraps of preferment might have come in his way had been 
 rejected as having been joined with too much of labour and too little 
 of emolument. He had gone on hoping that so great a man as the 
 Marquis would be able to do something for him,—thinking that he 
 might at any rate fasten his patron closely to him by bonds of 
 affection. This had been in days before the coming of the present 
 Marchioness. At first she had not created any special difficulty for 
 him. She did not at once attempt to overthrow the settled politics 
 of the family, and Mr. Greenwood had been allowed to be blandly 
 liberal. But during the last year or two, great management had 
 been necessary. By degrees he had found it essential to fall into 
 the conservative views of her ladyship,—which extended simply to 
 the idea that the cream of the earth should be allowed to be the 
 cream of the earth. It is difficult in the same house to adhere to 
 two political doctrines, because the holders of each will require 
 support at all general meetings. Gradually the Marchioness had 
 become exigeant, and the Marquis was becoming aware that he was 
 being thrown over. A feeling of anger was growing up in his mind 
 which he did not himself analyze. When he heard that the clergy¬ 
 man had taken upon himself to lecture Lady Frances,—for it was 
 thus he read the few words which his son had spoken to him,—he 
 carried his anger with him for a day or two, till at last he found an 
 opportunity of explaining himself to the culprit. 
 
 “ Lady Frances will do very well where she is,” said the Marquis, 
 in answer to some expression of a wish as to his daughter’s com' 
 fort. 
 
 “ Oh, no doubt! ” 
 
 “I am not sure that I am fond of too much interference in such 
 matters.” 
 
 “ Have I interfered, my lord ? ” 
 
 “ I do not mean to find any special fault on this occasion.” 
 
 “ I hope not, my lord.” 
 
 " But you did speak to Lady Frances when I think it might 
 have been as well that you should have held your tongue.” 
 
 “ I had been instructed to see that young man in London.” 
 
 “ Exactly;—but not to say anything to Lady Frances.” 
 
 “ I had known her ladyship so many years ! ” 
 
 “ Ho not drive me to say that you had known her too long.” 
 
 Mr. Greenwood felt this to be very hardfor what he had said 
 to Lady Frances he had in truth said under instruction. That last 
 speech as to having perhaps known the young lady too long seemed 
 to contain a terrible threat. He was thus driven to fall back upon 
 his instructions. “ Her ladyship seemed to think that perhaps a 
 word in season-” 
 
 The Marquis felt this to be cowardly, and was more inclined to 
 be angry with his old friend than if he had stuck to that former 
 
CASTLE HAUTBOY. 
 
 71 
 
 plea of old friendship. " I will not have interference in this house, 
 and there’s an end of it. If I wish you to do anything for me I will 
 tell you. That is all. If you please nothing more shall be said 
 about it. The subject is disagreeable to me.” 
 
 * #**•#■* 
 
 “ Has the Marquis said anything about Lady Frances since she 
 went ? ” the Marchioness asked the clergyman the next morning. 
 How was he to hold his balance between them if he was to be 
 questioned by both sides in this way ? “ I suppose he has men¬ 
 tioned her ? ” 
 
 “ He just mentioned the name one day.” 
 
 " Well?” 
 
 c ‘ I rather think that he does not wish to be interrogated about 
 her ladyship.” 
 
 “ I dare say not. Is he anxious to have her back again ? ” 
 
 “ That I cannot say, Lady Kingsbury. I should think he must 
 be.” 
 
 “ Of course I shall be desirous to ascertain the truth. He has 
 been so unreasonable that I hardly know how to speak to him 
 myself. I suppose he tells you! ” 
 
 “I rather think his lordship will decline to speak about her 
 ladyship just at present.” 
 
 “ Of course it is necessary that I should know. Now that she 
 has chosen to take herself off I shall not choose to live under the 
 same roof with her again. If Lord Kingsbury speaks to you on 
 the subject you should make him understand that.” Poor Mr. 
 Greenwood felt that there were thorny paths before him, in which 
 it might be very difficult to guard his feet from pricks. Then he 
 had to consider if there were to be two sides in the house, strongly 
 opposed to each other, with which would it be best for him to take 
 a part? The houses of the Marquis, with all their comforts, were 
 open for him; but the influence of Lord Persiflage was very great, 
 whereas that of the Marquis was next to nothing. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 CASTLE HAUTBOY. 
 
 <e Iou’jd better ask the old Traffords down here for a few weeks. 
 Hampstead won t shoot, but he can hunt with the Braeside harriers.” 
 
 This was the answer made by Lord Persiflage to his wife when 
 he was told by her of that divorce which had taken place at 
 Trafford Park, and of the departure of Lady Frances for Hendon. 
 Hampstead and Lady Frances were the old Traffords. Lord 
 Persiflage, too, was a Conservative, but his politics were of a very 
 different order from those entertained by his sister-in-law. He was, 
 above all a man of the world. He had been our Ambassador at 
 St. Petersburg, and was now a Member of the Cabinet. He liked 
 
72 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 the good things of office, but had no idea of quarrelling with a 
 Eadical because he was a Eadical. He cared very little as to the 
 opinions of his guests, if they could make themselves either pleasant 
 or useful. He looked upon his sister-in-law as an old fool, and had 
 no idea of quarrelling with Hampstead for her sake. If the girl per¬ 
 sisted in making a bad match she must take the consequences. No 
 great harm would come,—except to her. As to the evil done to his 
 “ order,” that did not affect Lord Persiflage at all. He did not 
 expect his order to endure for ever. All orders become worn out 
 in time, and effete. He had no abhorrence for anybody; but he 
 liked ^pleasant people; he liked to treat everything as a joke; and 
 he liked the labours of his not unlaborious life to be minimised. 
 Having given his orders about the old Traffords, as he called them 
 in reference to the “ darlings,” he said nothing more on the subject. 
 Lady Persiflage wrote a note to “Dear Fanny,” conveying the 
 invitation in three words, and received a reply to the effect that 
 she and her brother would be at Castle Hautboy before the end 
 of November. Hampstead would perhaps bring a couple of horses, 
 but he would put them up at the livery stables at Penrith. 
 
 “ How do you do, Hampstead ? ” said Persiflage when he first 
 met his guest before dinner on the day of the arrival. “ You 
 haven’t got rid of everything yet ? ” 
 
 This question was supposed to refer to Lord Hampstead’s 
 revolutionary tendencies. “Not quite so thoroughly as we hope 
 to do soOn.” 
 
 “I always think it a great comfort that in our country the 
 blackguards are so considerate. I must own that we do very 
 little for them, and yet they never knock us over the head or shoot 
 at us, as they do in Eussia and Germany and France.” Then 
 he passed on, having said quite enough for one conversation. 
 
 “ So you’ve gone off to Hendon to live with your brother?” said 
 Lady Persiflage to her niece. 
 
 “Yes; indeed,” said Lady Fanny, blushing at the implied 
 allusion to her low-born lover which was contained in this question. 
 
 But Lady Persiflage had no idea of saying a word about the 
 lover, or of making herself in any way unpleasant. “ I dare say 
 it will be very comfortable for you both,” she said; “ but we thought 
 you might be a little lonely till you got used to it, and therefore 
 asked you to come down for a week or two. The house is full of 
 people, and you will be sure to find some one that you know.” 
 Not a word was said at Castle Hautboy as to those terrible things 
 which had occurred in the Trafford family. 
 
 Young Yivian was there, half, as he said, for ornament, but 
 partly for pleasure and partly for business. “ He likes to have a 
 private secretary with him,” he said to Hampstead, “ in order that 
 people might think there is something to do. As a rule they never 
 send anything down from the Foreign Office at this time of year. 
 He always has a Foreign Minister or two in the house, or a few 
 Secretaries of Legation, and that gives an air of business. Nothing 
 would offend or surprise him so much as if one of them were to say 
 
CAtil'LE HAUTBOY. 
 
 73 
 
 a word about affairs. Nobody ever does, and therefore he is 
 supposed to be the safest Foreign Minister that we’ve had fn 
 Downing Street since old-’s time.” 
 
 “ Well, Hautboy.” “ Well, Hampstead.” Thus the two heirs 
 greeted each other. “ You’ll come and shoot to-morrow ? ” asked 
 the young host. 
 
 “ I never shoot. I thought all the world knew that.” 
 
 “ The best cock-shooting in all England,” said Hautboy. “ But 
 we shan’t come to that for the next month.” 
 
 “ Cocks or hens, pheasants, grouse, or partridge, rabbits or 
 hares, it’s all one to me. I couldn’t hit ’em if I would, and I 
 wouldn’t if I could.” 
 
 “ There is a great deal in the couldn’t,” said Hautboy. “ As for 
 hunting, those Braeside fellows go out two or three times a week. 
 But it’s a wretched sort of affair. They hunt hares or foxes just as 
 they come, and they’re always climbing up a ravine or tumbling 
 down a precipice.” 
 
 “ I can climb and tumble as well as any one,” said Hampstead. 
 So that question as to the future amusement of the guest was 
 settled. 
 
 But the glory of the house of Hauteville,—Hauteville was the 
 Earl’s family name,—at present shone most brightly in the person 
 of the eldest daughter, Lady Amaldina. Lady Amaldina, who was 
 as beautiful in colour, shape, and proportion as wax could make 
 a Venus, was engaged to marry the eldest son of the Duke of 
 Merioneth. The Marquis of Llwddythlw was a young man about 
 forty years of age, of great promise, who had never been known to 
 do a foolish thing in his life, and his father was one of those half- 
 dozen happy noblemen, each of whom is ordinarily reported to be 
 the richest man in England. Lady Amaldina was not unnaturally 
 proud of her high destiny, and as the alliance had already been 
 advertised in all the newspapers, she was not unwilling to talk 
 about it. Lady Frances was not exactly a cousin, but stood in the 
 place of a cousin, and therefore was regarded as a good listener 
 for all the details which had to be repeated. It might be that Lady 
 Amaldina took special joy in having such a listener, because Lady 
 Frances herself had placed her own hopes so low. That story as 
 to the Post Office clerk was known to everybody at Castle Hautboy. 
 Lady Persiflage ridiculed the idea of keeping such things secret. 
 Having so much to be proud of in regard to her own children, she 
 thought that there should be no such secrets. If Fanny Trafford 
 did intend to marry the Post Office clerk it would be better that all 
 the world should know it beforehand. Lady Amaldina knew it, 
 and was delighted at having a confidante whose views and prospects 
 in life w r ere so different from her own. “ Of course, dear, you have 
 heard what is going to happen to me,” she said, smiling. 
 
 “ I have heard of your engagement with the son of the Duke of 
 Merioneth, the man with the terrible Welsh name.” 
 
 “ When you once know how to pronounce it, it is the prettiest 
 word that poetry ever produced!” Then Lady Amaldina did 
 
74 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 pronounce her future name;—but nothing serviceable would be 
 done for the reader if an attempt were made to write the sound 
 which she produced. “ I am not sure but what it was the name 
 which first won my heart. I can sign it now quite easily without 
 a mistake.” 
 
 “It won’t be long, I suppose, before you will have to do so 
 always ? ” 
 
 “ An age, my dear ! The Duke’s affairs are of such a nature,— 
 and Llwddythlw is so constantly engaged in business, that I don’t 
 suppose it will take place for the next ten years. What with 
 settlements, and entails, and Parliament, and the rest of it, I shall 
 be an old woman before I am,—led to the hymeneal altar.”* 
 
 “ Ten years! ” said Lady Fanny. 
 
 “ Well, say ten months, which seems to be just as long.” 
 
 “ Isn’t he in a hurry ? ” 
 
 “Oh, awfully; but what can he do, poor fellow? He is so 
 placed that he cannot have his affairs arranged for him in half-an- 
 hour, as other men can do. It is a great trouble having estates 
 so large and interests so complicated! Now there is one thing 
 I particularly want to ask you.” 
 
 “ What is it?” 
 
 “ About being one of the bridesmaids.” 
 
 “ One can hardly answer for ten years hence.” 
 
 “ That is nonsense, of course. I am determined to have no girl 
 who has not a title. It isn’t that I care about that kind of thing 
 in the least, but the Duke does. And then I think the list will 
 sound more distinguished in the newspapers, if all the Christian 
 names are given with the Lady before them. There are to be his 
 three sisters. Lady Anne, Lady Antoinette, and Lady Anatolia 
 then my two sisters. Lady Alphonsa and Lady Amelia. To be sure, 
 they are very young.” 
 
 “ They may be old enough according to what you say.” 
 
 “ Yes, indeed. And then there will be Lady Arabella Portroyal, 
 and Lady Augusta Gelashires. I have got the list written out 
 somewhere, and there are to be just twenty. 
 
 “ If the catalogue is finished there will hardly be room for 
 me.” 
 
 “ The Earl of Knocknacoppul’s daughter has sent me word that 
 she must refuse, because her own marriage will take place first. 
 She would have put it off, as she is only going to marry an Irish 
 baronet, and because she is dying to have her name down as one of 
 the bevy, but he says that if she delays any longer he’ll go on a 
 shooting expedition to the Pocky Mountains, and then perhaps he 
 might never come back. So there is a vacancy.” 
 
 “ I hardly like to make a promise so long beforehand. Perhaps 
 I might have a young man, and he might go off to the Pocky 
 Mountains.” 
 
 “ That's just what made me not put down your name at first 
 Of course you know we’ve heard about Mr. Poden.” 
 
 “ I didn’t know/’ said Lady Frances, blushing. 
 
CASTLE HAUTBOY. 
 
 75 
 
 “ Oil dear, yes. Everybody knows it. And I think it sncli a 
 brave thing to do,—if you’re really attached to him! ” 
 
 “I should never marry any man without being attached to 
 him,” said Lady Frances. 
 
 “ That’s of course! But I mean romantically attached. I don’t 
 pretend to that kind of thing with Llwddythlw. I don’t think 
 it necessary in a marriage of this kind. He is a great deal older 
 than I am, and is bald. I suppose Mr. Boden is very, very 
 handsome ? ” 
 
 “ I have not thought much about that.” 
 
 “ I should have considered that one would want it for a marriage 
 of that kind. I don’t know whether after all it isn’t the best thing 
 to do. Romance is so delicious! ” 
 
 “ But then it’s delicious to be a Duchess,” said Lady Frances, 
 with the slightest touch of irony. 
 
 “ Oh, no doubt! One has to look at it all round, and then to 
 form a judgment. It went a great way with papa, I know, 
 Llwddythlw being such a good man of business. He has been in 
 the Household, and the Queen will be sure to send a handsome 
 present. I expect to have the grandest show of wedding presents 
 that any girl has yet exhibited in England. Ever so many people 
 have asked mamma already as to what I should like best. Mr. 
 MacWhapple said out plain that he would go to a hundred and 
 fifty pounds. He is a Scotch manufacturer, and has papa’s interest 
 in Wigtonshire. I suppose you don’t intend to do anything very 
 grand in that way.” 
 
 “I suppose not, as I don’t know any Scotch manufacturers. 
 But my marriage, if I ever am married, is a thing so much of the 
 future that I haven’t even begun to think of my dress yet.” 
 
 “I’ll tell you a secret,” said Lady Amaldina, whispering. 
 “ Mine is already made, and I’ve tried it on.” 
 
 “ You might get ever so much stouter in ten years,” said Lady 
 Frances. 
 
 “ That of course was joking. But we did think the marriage 
 would come off last June, and as we were in Paris in April the 
 order was given. Don’t you tell anybody about that.” 
 
 Then it was settled that the name of Lady Frances should be 
 put down on the list of bridesmaids, but put down in a doubtful 
 manner,—as is done with other things of great importance. 
 
 A few days after Lord Hampstead’s arrival a very great dinner¬ 
 party was given at the Castle, to which all the county round was 
 invited. Castle Hautboy is situated near Pooly Bridge, just in the 
 county of Westmoreland, on an eminence, giving it a grand prospect 
 over Ulleswater, which is generally considered to be one of the 
 Cumberland Lakes. Therefore the gentry from the two counties 
 were invited as far round as Penrith, Shap, Bampton, and Patterdale. 
 The Earl’s property in that neighbourhood was scattered about 
 through the two counties, and was looked after by a steward, or 
 manager, who lived himself at Penrith, and was supposed to be very 
 efficacious in such duties. His name was Crocker; and not only 
 
76 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 was he invited to the dinner, but also his son, who happened at the 
 time to be enjoying the month’s holiday which was allowed to him 
 by the authorities of the office in London to which he was attached. 
 
 The reader may remember that a smart young man of this 
 name sat at the same desk with George Roden at the General Post 
 Office. Young Crocker was specially delighted with the honour 
 done him on this occasion. He not only knew that his fellow- 
 clerk’s friend, Lord Hampstead, was at the Castle, and his sister. 
 Lady Frances, with him; but he also knew that George Roden was 
 engaged to marry that noble lady! Had he heard this before he 
 left London, he would probably have endeavoured to make some 
 atonement for his insolence to Roden; for he was in truth filled 
 with a strong admiration for the man who had before him the 
 possibility of such high prospers. But the news had only reached 
 him since he had been in the North. Now he thought that he 
 might possibly find an opportunity of making known to Lord 
 Hampstead his intimacy with Roden, and of possibly saying a word 
 —just uttering a hint—as to that future event. 
 
 It was long before he could find himself near enough to Lord 
 Hampstead to address him. He had even refused to return home 
 with his father, who did not like being very late on the road, saying 
 that he had got a lift into town in another conveyance. This he 
 did, with the prospect of having to walk six miles into Penrith in 
 his dress boots, solely with the object of saying a few words to 
 Roden’s friend. At last he was successful. 
 
 “ We have had what I call an extremely pleasant evening, my 
 lord.” It was thus he commenced; and Hampstead, whose practice 
 it was to be specially graceful to any one whom he chanced to 
 meet but did not think to be a gentleman, replied very courteously 
 that the evening had been pleasant. 
 
 “ Quite a thing to remember,” continued Crocker. 
 
 “Perhaps one remembers the unpleasant things the longest,” 
 said Hampstead, laughing. 
 
 “Oh no, my lord, not that. I always forget the unpleasant. 
 That’s what I call philosophy.” Then he broke away into the 
 subject that was near his heart. “I wish our friend Roden had 
 been here, my lord.” 
 
 " Is he a friend of yours ? ” 
 
 “ Oh dear, yes;—most intimate. We sit in the same room at 
 the Post Office. f And at the same desk,—as thick as thieves, as the 
 saying is. We often have a crack about your lordship.” 
 
 “ I have a great esteem for George Roden. He and I are really 
 friends. I know no one for whom I have a higher regard.” This 
 he said with an earnest voice, thinking himself bound to express 
 his friendship more loudly than he would have done had the friend 
 been in his own rank of life. 
 
 “ That’s just what I feel. Roden is a man that will rise.” 
 
 “ I hope so.” 
 
 “'He’ll be sure to get something good before long. They’ll 
 make him a Surveyor, or Chief Clerk, or something of that kind, 
 
CAS1ZE HAUTBOY. 
 
 77 
 
 I’ll back him to have £500 a year before any man in the office. 
 There'll be a shindy about it, of course. There always is a shindy 
 when a fellow is put up out of his turn. But he needn t caie for 
 that. They can laugh as win. Eh, my lord ! ” 
 
 “ He would be the last to wish an injustice to be done for his 
 
 own good.” -if ,, . , 
 
 “ We’ve got to take that as it comes, my lord. I won t say but 
 
 what I should like to go up at once to a senior class over other 
 men’s heads. There isn’t a chance of that, because I’m independent, 
 and the seniors don’t like me. Old Jerningham is always down 
 upon me just for that reason. You ask Roden, and he’ll tell you 
 the same thing,—my lord.” Then came a momentary break m the 
 conversation, and Lord Hampstead was seizing advantage of it 
 to escape. But Crocker, who had taken enough wine to be bold, 
 saw the attempt, and intercepted it. He was desirous of letting 
 the lord know all that he knew. “ Roden is a happy dog, my 
 
 Happy, I hope, though not a dog,” said Hampstead, trusting 
 that he could retreat gracefully behind the joke. . 
 
 “ Ha, ha, ha! The dog only meant what a lucky fellow he is. 
 
 * I have heard him speak in raptures of what is in store for him.” 
 
 “What!” . . . . n 
 
 “ There’s no happiness like married happiness; is there, my 
 
 lord?” 
 
 “ Upon my word, I can’t say. Good night to you. ’ 
 
 “ I hope you will come and see me and Roden at the office some 
 of these days.” 
 
 “Good night, good night!” Tlien the man did go. For a 
 moment or two Lord Hampstead felt actually angry with Ins friend. 
 Could it be that Roden should make so little of his sister’s name a.* 
 to talk about her to the Post Office clerks,—to so mean a felloV 
 as this! And yet the man certainly knew the fact of the existing 
 engagement. Hampstead thought it impossible that it should have 
 travelled beyond the limits of his own family. It was natural that 
 Roden should have told his mother; but unnatural,—so Hampsteaa 
 thought,—that his friend should have made his sister a subject cC 
 conversation to any one else. It was horrible to him that a stranger 
 such as that should have spoken to him about his sister at all. 
 But surely it was not possible that Roden should have sinned after 
 that fashion. He soon resolved that it was not possible. But how 
 grievous a thing it was that a girl’s name should be made so 
 common in the mouths of men! 
 
 After that he sauntered into the smoking-room, where were 
 congregated the young men who were staying in the house. 
 “ That’s a kind of thing that happens only once a year,” said Haut¬ 
 boy, speaking to all the party; “ but I cannot, for the life of me, 
 
 see why it should happen at all.” 
 
 “ Your governor finds that it succeeds in the county,” said one. 
 
 “ He polishes off a whole heap at one go,” said another. 
 
 “ It does help to keep a party together,” said a third. 
 
78 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 “ And enables a lot of people to talk of dining at Castle Hautboy 
 without lying/’ said a fourth. 
 
 “But -why should a lot of people be enabled to say that they’d 
 dined here ? ” asked Hautboy. “ I like to see my friends at dinner 
 What did you think about it, Hampstead ? ” 
 
 “ It’s all according to Hampstead's theories,” said one. 
 
 • “ Only he’d have had the tinkers and the tailors too,” said 
 another. 
 
 “ And wouldn’t have had the ladies and gentlemen,” said a 
 third. 
 
 (f “I would have had the tailors and tinkers,” said Hampstead, 
 and I would have had the ladies and gentlemen too, if I could 
 have got them to meet the tailors and tinkers;—but I would not 
 have had that young man who got me out into the hall just now ” 
 
 “ Why,—that was Crocker, the Post Office clerk,” said Hautboy. 
 “Why shouldn’t we have a Post Office clerk as well as some one 
 else? Nevertheless, Crocker is a sad cad.” In the mean time 
 Crocker was walking home to Penrith in his dress boots. 
 
 CHAPTEB XIII. 
 
 THE BRAESIDE HARRIERS. 
 
 The Braeside Harriers can hardly be called a “crack” pack of 
 hounds. Lord Hautboy had been right in saying that they were 
 always scrambling through ravines, and that they hunted whatever 
 they could find to hunt. Nevertheless, the men and the hounds 
 were in earnest, and did accomplish a fair average of sport under 
 difficult circumstances. No “Pegasus” or “Littlelegs,” or “Pio- 
 skin, e-ver sent accounts of wondrous runs from Cumberland or 
 Westmoreland to the sporting papers, in which the gentlemen who 
 had asked the special Pigskin of the day to dinner were described 
 as having been “in” at some “glorious finish” on their well-known 
 horses Banker or Buff,—the horses named being generally those 
 which the gentlemen wished to sell. The names of gorses and 
 brooks had not become historic, as have those of Eanksborough 
 and, \A hissendine. Trains were not run to suit this or the other 
 meet. Gentlemen did not get out of fast drags with pretty little 
 aprons tied around their waists, like girls in a country house 
 coming down to breakfast. Not many perhaps wore pink coats 
 and none pink tops. One horse would suffice for one day’s work! 
 An old. assistam huntsman in an old red coat, with one boy mounted 
 on a ragged pony, served for an establishment. The whole thing 
 was despicable in the eyes of men from the Quorn and Cottesmore. 
 But there was some wonderful riding and much constant sport with 
 the Braeside Harriers, and the country had given birth to certainly 
 the best hunting song in the language 
 
79 
 
 TEE BRAES1DE BARRIERS. 
 
 1)0 j ou ken John Peel with his coat so gay: 
 
 Do you ken John Peel at the break of day ; 
 
 Do you ken John Peel when he’s far, far away 
 With his hounds and his horn in the morning ? 
 
 Such as the Braeside Harriers were, Lord Hampstead determined 
 to make the experiment, and on a certain morning had himself 
 driven to Cronelloe Tliorn, & favourite meet half-way between Pen- 
 rith and Keswick. 
 
 I hold that nothing is so likely to be permanently prejudicial to 
 the interest of hunting in the British Isles as a certain flavour of 
 tip-top fashion which has gradually enveloped it. There is a 
 pretence of grandeur about that and, alas, about other sports also 
 which is, to my thinking, destructive of all sport itself. Men will not 
 shoot unless game is made to appear before them in clouds. Thev 
 will not fish unless the rivers be exquisite. To row is nothing 
 unless you cun be known us u nutionul hero. Cricket requires 
 appendages which ure troublesome und costly ^ und by which the 
 minds of economical fathers are astounded. To play a game of 
 hockey in accordance with the times you must have a specially 
 tiained pony and a gaudy dress. Bacquets have given place to 
 tennis because tennis is costly. In all these cases the fashion of the 
 game is much more cherished than the game itself. But in nothing 
 is this feeling so predominant as in hunting. For the management 
 of a pack, as packs are managed now, a huntsman needs must be a 
 great man himself, and three mounted subordinates are necessary as 
 at any rate for two of these servants a second horse is required. * A 
 hunt is nothing in the world unless it goes out four times a week at 
 
 A ^ Un not t mg jUess the pace be that of a steeplechase. 
 Whether there be or be not a fox before the hounds is of little conse¬ 
 quence to the great body of riders. A bold huntsman who can make 
 a dash across country from one covert to another, and who can so 
 tiam his hounds that they shall run as though game were before 
 them, is supposed to have provided good sport. If a fox can be killed 
 m covert afterwards so much the better for those who like to talk of 
 their doings. Though the hounds brought no fox with them, it is 
 ot no matter. When a fox does run according to his nature he is 
 reviled as a useless brute, because he will not go straight across 
 country. But the worst of all is the attention given by men to 
 things altogether outside the sport. Their coats and waistcoats 
 their boots and breeches, their little strings and pretty scarfs, their 
 saddles and bridles, their dandy knick-knacks, and, above all their 
 flasks, are more to many men than aught else in the day’s proceed¬ 
 ings. I have known girls who have thought that their first 
 appearance m the ball-room, when all was fresh, unstained, and 
 perfect from the milliner’s hand, was the one moment of rapture for 
 the evening I have sometimes felt the same of young sportsmen 
 at a Leicestershire or Northamptonshire meet. It is not that thev 
 will not ride when the occasion comes. They are always readv 
 enough to break their bones. There is no greater mistake than to 
 suppose that dandyism is antagonistic to pluck. The fault is that 
 
MARION FAY. 
 
 59 
 
 men train themselves to care for nothing that is not as costly at 
 unlimited expenditure can make it. Thus it comes about that tlu 
 real love of sport is crushed under a desire for fashion. A man will 
 be almost ashamed to confess that he hunts in E^sex or Sussex, 
 because the proper thing is to go down to the Shires. Grass, nc- 
 donbt, is better than ploughed land to ride upon, but, taking 
 together the virtues and vices of all hunting counties, I doubt 
 whether better sport is not to be found in what I will venture to 
 call the haunts of the clodpoles, than among the palmy pastures of 
 the well-breeched beauties of Leicestershire. 
 
 Braeside Harriers though they were, a strong taste for foxes had 
 lately srrown up in the minds of men and in the noses of hounds. 
 Blank "days they did not know, because a hare would serve the 
 turn if the nobler animal were not forthcoming ; but ideas of pre¬ 
 serving had sprung up; steps were taken to solace the minds ot 
 old women who had lost their geese; and the Braeside Harrier.^, 
 though thev had kept their name, were gradually losing their 
 character. On this occasion the hounds were taken off to draw a 
 covert instead of going to a so-ho, as regularly as though they were 
 advertised among the fox-hounds in The Times. It was soon 
 known that Lord Hampstead was Lord Hampstead, and he was 
 welcomed by the field. What matter that he was a revolutionary 
 Radical if he could ride to hounds ? At any rate, he was the son of 
 a Marquis, and was not left to that solitude which sometimes falls 
 upon a man who appears suddenly as a stranger among strangers 
 on a hunting morning. “ I am glad to see you out, my lord, said 
 Mr. Amblethwaite, the Master. “ It isn’t often that we get recruits 
 
 from Castle Hautboy.” 
 
 “ They think a good deal of shooting there. 
 
 “ Yes : and they keep their horses in Northamptonshire. Lord 
 Hautboy'does his hunting there. The Earl, I think, never comes 
 
 out now.” „ . ,. , , . r , „ 
 
 “ ; dare say not. He has all the foreign nations to look after. 
 
 "I suppose he has his hands pretty full,” said Mr. Amblethwaiie. 
 " L know 1 have mine just at this time of the year. Where do you 
 think these hounds ran their fox to last Friday? We found him 
 outside of the Lowther Whods, near the village of Clifton. They 
 took him straight over Shap Fell, and then turning sharp to the 
 right, went all along Hawes Wall and over High Street into 
 T routbeck.” 
 
 « That’s all among the mountains," said Hampstead. 
 
 <f Mountains! I should think so. I have to spend half my time 
 
 among the mountains.” 
 
 “ But you couldn’t ride over High Street ? ” 
 
 «Xo, we couldn’t ride; not there. But we had to make our 
 way round, some of us, and some of them went on foot. Lick 
 never lost sight of the hounds the whole day. ’ Dick was the boy 
 who rode the ragged pony. “ W’hen we found ’em there he was with 
 half the hounds around him, and the fox’s brush stuck in his cap, 
 
 “ How did you get home that night ? ” asked Hampstead. 
 
THE BRAESIDE HARRIERS. 
 
 81 
 
 “ Home! I didn’t get home at all. It was pitch dark before we 
 got the rest of the hounds together. Some of them we didn’t find 
 till next day. I had to go and sleep at Bowness, and thought 
 myself very lucky to get a bed. Then I had to ride home next day 
 over Kirkstone Fell. That’s what I call something like work for a 
 man and horse.—There’s a fox in there, my lord, do you hear them ? 
 Then Mr. Amblethwaite bustled away to assist at the duty of 
 getting the fox to break. 
 
 “I’m glad to see that you’re fond of this kind of thing, my 
 lord,” said a voice in Hampstead’s ear, which, though he had only 
 heard it once, he well remembered. It was Crocker, the guest at 
 the dinner-party,—Crocker, the Post Office clerk. 
 
 “ Yes,” said Lord Hampstead, “ I am very fond of this kind of 
 thing. That fox has broken, I think, at the other side of the 
 cover.” Then he trotted off down a little lane between two loose- 
 built walls, so narrow that there was no space for two men to ride 
 abreast. His object at that moment was to escape Crocker rather 
 than to look after the hounds. 
 
 They were in a wild country, not exactly on a mountain side, 
 but among hills which not far off grew into mountains, where 
 cultivation of the rudest kind was just beginning to effect its 
 domination over human nature. There was a long spinney rather 
 than a wood stretching down a bottom, through which a brook 
 ran. It would now cease, and then renew itself, so that the trees, 
 though not absolutely continuous, were nearly so for the distance 
 of half a mile. The ground on each side was rough with big 
 stones, and steep in some places as they went down the hill. But 
 still it was such that huntsmen could gallop on it. The fox made 
 his way along the whole length, and then traversing, so as to avoid 
 the hounds, ran a ring up the hillside, and back into the spinney 
 again. Among the horsemen many declared that the brute must 
 be killed unless he would make up his mind for a fair start. Mr. 
 Amblethwaite was very busy, hunting the hounds himself, and 
 intent rather on killing the fox fairly than on the hopes of a run. 
 Perhaps he was not desirous of sleeping out another night on the 
 far side of Helvellyn. In this way the sportsmen galloped up and 
 down the side of the wood till the feeling arose, as it does on such 
 occasions, that it might be well for a man to stand still awhile and 
 spare his horse, in regard to the future necessities of the day. 
 Lord Hampstead did as others were doing, and in a moment 
 Crocker was by his side. Crocker was riding an animal which his 
 father was wont to drive about the country, but one well known in 
 the annals of the Braeside Harriers. It was asserted of him that 
 the fence was not made which he did not know how to creep over. 
 Of jumping, such as jumping is supposed to be in the shires, he 
 knew nothing. He was, too, a bad hand at galloping, but with a 
 shambling, half-cantering trot, which he had invented for himself, 
 he could go along all day, not very quickly, but in such fashion as 
 never to be left altogether behind. He was a flea-bitten horse, if 
 my readers know what that is,—a flea-bitten roan, or white covered 
 
 G 
 
S2 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 with small red spots. Horses of this colour are ugly to look at 
 but are very seldom bad animals. Such as he was, Crocker, who 
 clicl not ride much when up in London, was very proud of him. 
 Crocker was dressed in a green coat, which in a moment of 
 extravagance he had had made for hunting, and in brown breeches 
 in which he dehghted to display himself on all possible occasions' 
 My ioid, lie said, you d hardly think it, but I believe this horse 
 to be the best hunter in Cumberland.” 
 
 “Is he, indeed? Some horse of course must be the best, and 
 why not yours ? ” ’ 
 
 Theies nothing he can’t do;—nothing. His jumping is 
 mi-raculous, and as for pace, you’d be quite surprised.—They’re 
 at him again now.. What an echo they do make among the hills t ” 
 
 Indeed they did. Every now and then the Master would just 
 touch his horn, giving a short blast, just half a note, and then the 
 sound would come back, first from this rock and then from the 
 other, and the hounds as they heard it would open as thou 0- !! en¬ 
 couraged by the music of the hills, and then their voices would be 
 carried round the valley, and come back again and again from the 
 steep places, and they would become louder and louder as though 
 delighted with the effect of their own efforts. Though there should 
 be no hunting, the concert was enough to repay a man for his 
 trouble in coming there. “ Yes,” said Lord Hampstead, Ms disgust 
 at the man having been quenched for the moment by the charm of 
 the music, “ it is a wonderful spot for echoes.” 
 
 “ It’s w hat I call awfully nice. We don’t have anything like 
 that up at St. Martin s-le-Grand. Perhaps it may be necessary to 
 explain that the Post Office in London stands in a spot bearing 
 that poetic name. ® 
 
 “ 1 don’t remember any echoes there,” said Lord Hampstead 
 
 “No, indeed;—nor yet no hunting, nor yet no hounds: are 
 there, my lord ? All the same, it’s not a bad sort of place! ” 
 
 “ A very respectable public establishment! ” said Lord Hamp- 
 steel cl. 
 
 “Just so, my lord; that’s just what I always say. It ain’t 
 swell like Downing Street, but it’s a deal more respectable than the 
 Custom House.” 
 
 “ Is it ? I didn’t know.” 
 
 “Ok yes. They all admit that. You ask Poden else.” On 
 hearing the name, Lord Hampstead began to move his horse but 
 Crocker was at his side and could not be shaken off. “ Have' you 
 
 heard from him, my lord, since you have been down in these 
 parts ? 
 
 “ Not a word.” 
 
 “ I dare say he thinks more of writing to a correspondent of 
 the fairer sex.” 
 
 This was unbearable. Though the fox had again turned and 
 gone up the valley,—a movement which seemed to threaten his 
 instant death, and to preclude any hope of a run from that spot — 
 Hampstead felt himself compelled to escape, if he could In his 
 
THE BRAESIDE HARRIERS. 
 
 83 
 
 anger lie touched bis horse with his spur and galloped away among 
 the rocks, as though his object was to assist Mr. Ambleth waite in 
 his almost frantic efforts. But Crocker cared nothing for the 
 stones. Where the lord went, he went. Having made acquaintance 
 with a lord, he was not going to waste the blessing which Providence 
 had vouchsafed to him.” 
 
 “ He’ll never leave that place alive, my lord.” 
 
 “ I dare say not.” And again the persecuted nobleman rode 
 on,—thinking that neither should Crocker, if he could have his 
 will.” 
 
 “ By the way, as -we are talking of Boden-” 
 
 “I haven’t been talking about him at all.” Crocker caught 
 the tone of anger, and stared at his companion. “ I’d rather not 
 talk about him.” 
 
 “ My lord! I hope there has been nothing like a quarrel. For 
 the lady’s sake, I hope there’s no misunderstanding ! ” 
 
 “ Mr. Crocker,” he said very slowly, “ it isn’t customary-” 
 
 At that moment the fox broke, the hounds were away, and 
 Mr. Ambleth waite was seen rushing down the hillside, as though 
 determined on breaking his neck. Lord Hampstead rushed after 
 him at a pace which, for a time, defied Mr. Crocker. He became 
 thoroughly ashamed of himself in even attempting to make the 
 man understand that he was sinning against good taste. He could 
 not do so without some implied mention of his sister, and to allude 
 to his sister in connection with such a man was a profanation. He 
 could only escape from the brute. Was this a punishment which 
 he was doomed to bear for being—as his stepmother was wont to 
 say—untrue to his order ? 
 
 In the mean time the hounds went at a great pace down the 
 hill. Some of the old stagers, who knew the country well, made a 
 wide sweep round to the left, w T hence by lanes and tracks, which 
 were known to them, they could make their way down to the road 
 which leads along Ulleswater to Patterdale. In doing this they 
 might probably not see the hounds again that day,—but such are 
 the charms of hunting in a hilly country. They rode miles around, 
 and though they did again see the hounds, they did not see the 
 hunt. To have seen the hounds as they start, and to see them 
 again as they are clustering round the huntsmen after eating their 
 fox, is a great deal to some men. 
 
 On this occasion it was Hampstead’s lot—and Crocker’s—to do 
 much more than that. Though they had started down a steep 
 valley,—down the side rather of a gully—they were not making 
 their way out from among the hills into the low country. The fox 
 soon went up again,—not back, but over an intervening spur of a 
 mountain towards the lake. The riding seemed sometimes to 
 Hampstead to be impossible. But Mr. Ambletliwaite did it, and 
 he stuck to Mr. Ambletliwaite. It would have been all very well 
 had not Crocker stuck to him. If the old roan would only tumble 
 among the stones what an escape there would be! But the old 
 roan was true to his character, and, to give every one his due, the 
 
84 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 Post Office clerk rode as well as the lord. There was nearly an 
 hour and a half of it before the hounds ran into their fox just as he 
 was gaining an earth among the bushes and hollies with which 
 Airey Force is surrounded. Then on the sloping meadow just 
 above the waterfall, the John Peel of the hunt dragged out the fox 
 from among the trees, and, having dismembered him artistically 
 gave him to the hungry hounds. Then it was that perhaps half-a- 
 dozen diligent, but cautious, huntsmen came up, and heard all 
 those details of the race which they were afterwards able to give 
 as on their own authority, to others who had been as cautious but 
 not so diligent, as themselves. * 
 
 “ One of the best things I ever saw in this country,” said Crocker 
 who had never seen a hound in any other country. At this moment 
 he had ridden up alongside of Hampstead on the way back to Pen¬ 
 rith. The Master and the hounds and Crocker must go all the 
 way. Hampstead would turn off at Pooley Bridge. But still there 
 were four miles, during which he would be subjected to his tor¬ 
 mentor. 
 
 “ Yes indeed. A very good thing, as I was saying, Mr. Amble¬ 
 thwaite.” 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 COMING HOME FROM HUNTING. 
 
 Lord Hampstead had been discussing with Mr. Amblethwaite the 
 difficult nature of hunting in such a county as Cumberland. The 
 hounds were in the road before them with John Peel in the midst 
 of them. Dick with the ragged pony was behind, looking after 
 stragglers. Together with Lord Hampstead and the Master was 
 a hard-ndmg, rough, weather-beaten half-gentleman, half-farmer 
 named Patterson, who lived a few miles beyond Penrith and was 
 Ambleth waite’s right hand in regard to hunting. Just as Crocker 
 joined them the road had become narrow, and the young lord had 
 
 fallen a little behind. Crocker had seized his opportunity •_but 
 
 the lord also seized his, and thrust himself in between Mr. Patterson 
 and the Master. “ That’s all true,” said the Master. “ Of course 
 we. don’t presume to do the thing as you swells do it down in the 
 Shires. We haven’t the money, and we haven’t the country and 
 we haven’t the foxes. But I don’t know whether for hunting we 
 don’t see as much of it as you do.” 
 
 “ Quite as much, if I may take to-day as a sample.” 
 
 “Very ordinarywasn’t it, Amblethwaite ? ” asked Patterson 
 who was quite determined to make the most of his own good 
 things. 6 
 
 “ It was not bad to-day. The hounds never left their scent 
 after they found him. I think our hillsides carry the scent better 
 than our grasses. If you want to ride, of course^ it’s rough. But 
 
COMING HOME FROM HUNTING. 
 
 85 
 
 if you like hunting, and don’t mind a scramble, perhaps you may 
 see it here as well as elsewhere.” 
 
 " Better, a deal, from all I hear tell,” said Patterson. "Did 
 you ever hear any music like that in Leicestershire, my lord ? ” 
 
 “ I don’t know that ever I did,” said Hampstead. " I enjoyed 
 myself amazingly.” 
 
 " I hope you’ll come again,” said the Master, " and that often.” 
 
 " Certainly, if I remain here.” 
 
 " I knew his lordship would like it,” said Crocker, crowding in 
 on a spot where it was possible for four to ride abreast. _ " I think 
 it was quite extraordinary to see how a stranger like his lordship 
 got over our country.” 
 
 “ Clever little ’orse his lordship’s on,” said Patterson. 
 
 "It’s the man more than the beast, I think,” said Crocker, 
 trying to flatter. 
 
 " “The best man in England,” said Patterson, "can’t ride to 
 hounds without a tidy animal under him.” 
 
 " Nor yet can’t the best horse in England stick to hounds with¬ 
 out a good man on top of him,” said the determined Crocker. 
 Patterson grunted,—hating flattery, and remembering that the 
 man flattered was a lord. 
 
 Then the road became narrow again, and Hampstead fell a little 
 behind. Crocker was alongside of him in a moment. There 
 seemed to be something mean in running away from the man ;— 
 something at any rate absurd in seeming to run away from him. 
 Hampstead was ashamed in allowing himself to be so much annoyed 
 by such a cause. He had already snubbed the man, and the man 
 might probably be now silent on the one subject which was so 
 peculiarly offensive. " I suppose,” said he, beginning a conversation 
 which should show that he was willing to discuss any general 
 matter with Mr. Crocker, "that the country north and west of 
 Penrith is less hilly than this ? ” 
 
 "Oh yes, my lord; a delightful country to ride over in some 
 parts. Is Eoden fond of following the hounds, my lord ? ” 
 
 " I don’t in the least know,” said Hampstead, curtly. Then he 
 made another attempt. " These hounds don’t go as far north as 
 Carlisle ? ” 
 
 "Oh no, my lord; never more than eight or ten miles from 
 Penrith. They’ve another pack up in that country; nothing like 
 ours, but still they do show sport. I should have thought now 
 Eoden would have been just the man to ride to hounds,—if he got 
 the opportunity.” 
 
 " I don’t think he ever saw a hound in his life. I’m rather in a 
 hurry, and I think I shall trot on.” 
 
 " I’m in a hurry myself,” said Crocker, " and I shall be 
 happy to show your lordship the way. It isn’t above a quarter 
 of a mile’s difference to me going by Pooley Bridge instead of 
 Dallmaine.” 
 
 " Pray don’t do anything of the kind; I can find the road.” 
 Whereupon Hampstead shook hands cordially with the Master, 
 
86 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 bade Mr. Patterson good-bye with a kindly smile, and trotted on 
 beyond the hounds as quickly as he could. 
 
 But Crocker was not to be shaken off. The flea-bitten roan was 
 as good at the end of a day as he was at the beginning, and trotted 
 on gallantly. When they had gone some quarter of a mile Hamp¬ 
 stead acknowledged to himself that it was beyond his power to 
 shake off his foe. By that time Crocker had made good his position 
 close alongside of the lord, with his horse’s head even with that of 
 the other. “ There is a word, my lord, I want to say to you.” Thij 
 Crocker muttered somewhat piteously, so that Hampstead’s heart 
 was for the moment softened towards him. He checked his horse 
 and,prepared himself to listen. “ I hope I haven’t given any offence. 
 I can assure you, my lord, I haven’t intended it. I have so much 
 respect for your lordship that I wouldn’t do it for the world.” 
 
 What was he to do ? He had been offended. He had intended 
 to show that he was offended. And yet he did not like to declare 
 as much openly. His object had been to stop the man from talking, 
 and to do so if possible without making any reference himself to 
 the subject in question. Were he now to declare himself offended 
 he could hardly do so without making some allusion to his sister. 
 But he had determined that he would make no such allusion. Now 
 as the man appealed to him, asking as it were forgiveness for some 
 fault of which he was not himself conscious, it was impossible to 
 refrain from making him some answer. “ All right,” he said; “ I’m 
 sure you didn’t mean anything. Let us drop it, and there will be 
 an end of it.” 
 
 “Oh, certainly;—and I’m sure I’m very much obliged to your 
 lordship. But I don’t quite know what it is that ought to be 
 dropped. As I am so intimate with Boden, sitting at the same desk 
 with him every day of my life, it did seem natural to speak to your 
 lordship about him.” 
 
 This was true. As it had happened that Crocker, who as well as 
 Boden was a Post Office clerk, had appeared as a guest at Castle 
 Hautboy, it had been natural that he should speak of his office 
 companion to a man who was notoriously that companion’s friend. 
 Hampstead did not quite believe in the pretended intimacy, having 
 heard Boden declare that he had not as yet formed any peculiar 
 friendship at the Office. He had too felt, unconsciously, that such 
 a one as Boden ought not to be intimate with such a one as Crocker. 
 But. there was no cause of offence in this. “It was natural,” he 
 said. 
 
 “And then I was unhappy when I thought from what you said 
 that there had been some quarrel.” 
 
 “ There has been no quarrel,” said Hampstead. 
 
 “ I am very glad indeed to hear that.” He was beginning to 
 touch again on a matter that should have been private. What was 
 it to him whether or no there was a quarrel between Lord Hamp¬ 
 stead and Boden. Hampstead therefore again rode on in silence. 
 
 “ I should have been so very sorry that anything should have 
 occurred to interfere with our friend’s brilliant prospects.” Lord 
 
COMING HOME FROM HUNTING. 
 
 87 
 
 Hampstead looked about to see -whether there was any spot at 
 which he could make his escape by jumping over a fence. On the 
 right hand there was the lake rippling up on to the edge of the 
 road, and on the left was a high stone wall, without any vestige of 
 an aperture through it as far as the eye could reach. He was 
 already making the pace as fast as he could, and was aware that 
 no escape could be effected in that manner. He shook his head, 
 and bit the handle of his whip, and looked straight away before 
 him through his horse’s ears. “ You cannot think liow proud I’ve 
 been that a gentleman sitting at the same desk with myself should 
 have been so fortunate in his matrimonial prospects. I think it an 
 honour to the Post Office all round.” 
 
 “Mr. Crocker,” said Lord Hampstead, pulling up his horse 
 suddenly, and standing still upon the spot, “ if you will remain 
 here for five minutes I will ride on; or if you will ride on I will 
 remain here till you are out of sight. I must insist that one of 
 these arrangements be made.” 
 
 “ My lord! ” 
 
 “ Which shall it be ? ” 
 
 “ Now I have offended you again.” 
 
 “ Don’t talk of offence, but just do as I bid you. I want to be 
 alone.” 
 
 “Is it about the matrimonial alliance?” demanded Crocker 
 almost in tears. Thereupon Lord Hampstead turned his horse 
 round and trotted back towards the hounds and horsemen, whom 
 he heard on the road behind him. Crocker paused a moment, 
 trying to discover by the light of his own intellect what might have 
 been the cause of this singular conduct on the part of the young 
 nobleman, and then, having failed to throw any light on the matter, 
 he rode on homewards, immersed in deep thought. Hampstead, 
 when he found himself again with his late companions, asked some 
 idle questions as to the hunting arrangements of next week. That 
 they were idle he was quite aware, having resolved that he would 
 pot willingly put himself into any position in which it might be 
 probable that he should again meet that objectionable young man. 
 But he went on with his questions, listening or not listening to Mr. 
 Amblethwaite’s answers, till he parted company with his companions 
 in the neighbourhood of Pooley Bridge. Then he rode alone to 
 Hautboy Castle, with his mind much harassed by what had occurred. 
 It seemed to him to have been almost proved that George Eoden 
 must have spoken to this man of his intended marriage. In all 
 that the man had said he had suggested that the information had 
 come direct from his fellow-clerk. He had seemed to declare,— 
 Hampstead thought that he had declared,—that Eoden had often 
 discussed the marriage with him. If so, how base must have been 
 his friend’s conduct! How thoroughly must he have been mistaken 
 in his friend’s character! How egregiously wrong must his sister 
 have been in her estimate of the man! For himself, as long as the 
 question had been simply one of his own intimacy with a companion 
 whose outside position in the world had been inferior to his own, 
 
8S 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 lie bad been proud of what he had done, and had answered those 
 who had remonstrated with him with a spirit showing that he de¬ 
 spised their practices quite as much as they could ridicule his. He 
 had explained to his father his own ideas of friendship, and had 
 been eager in showing that George Eoden’s company was superior 
 to most young men of his own position. There had been Hautboy 
 and Scatterdash, and Lord Plunge, and the young Earl of Longoolds, 
 all of them elder sons, whom he described as young men without a 
 serious thought in their heads. What was it to him how Eoden 
 got his bread, so long as he got it honestly ? “ The man’s the man 
 tor a that. Thus he had defended himself and been quite con¬ 
 scious that lie was right. When Eoden had suddenly fallen in love 
 with his sister, and his sister had as suddenly fallen in love with 
 Eoden—then lie had begun to doubt. A thing which was in itself 
 meritorious might become dangerous and objectionable by reason 
 of other things which it would bring in its train. He felt for a time 
 that associations which were good for himself might not be so good 
 for his sister. There seemed to be a sanctity about her rank which 
 did not attach to his own. He had thought that the Post Office 
 clerk was as good as himself; but he could not assure himself that 
 he was as good as the ladies of his family. Then he had begun to 
 reason with himself on this subject, as he did on all. What was 
 tlieie diffeient in a girl s nature that ought to make her fastidious 
 as to society which he felt to be good enough for himself? In 
 entertaining the feeling which had been strong within him as to 
 that feminine sanctity, was .he not giving way to one of those empty 
 prejudices of the world, in opposition to which he had resolved to 
 make a life-long fight? So lie had reasoned with himself; but his 
 reason, though it affected his conduct, did not reach his taste. It 
 irked him to think there should be this marriage, though he was 
 strong in his resolution to uphold his sister,—and, if necessary, to 
 defend, her. He had not given way as to the marriage. It had 
 been settled between himself and his sister and his father that there 
 should be no meeting of the lovers at Hendon Hall. He did hope 
 that the engagement might die away, though he was determined to 
 cling to her even though she clung to her lover. This was his 
 state of mind, when this hideous young man, who seemed to have 
 been created with the object of showing him how low a creature a 
 Post Office clerk could be, came across him, and almost convinced 
 him that that other Post Office clerk had been boasting among his 
 official associates of the favours of the high-born lady who had un¬ 
 fortunately become attached to him! He would stick to his politics, 
 to his Eadical theories, to his old ideas about social matters gene¬ 
 rally ; but he was almost tempted to declare to himself that women 
 for the present ought to be regarded as exempt from those radical 
 changes which would be good for men. For himself his ,f order ” 
 was a vanity and a delusion; but for his sister it must still be 
 held as containing some bonds. In this frame of mind he deter¬ 
 mined that he would return to Hendon Hall almost immediately. 
 Further hope of hunting with the Eraeside Harriets tho^o was 
 
COMING HOME FROM HUNTING. SD 
 
 none; and it was necessary for him to see Roden as soon as 
 possible. 
 
 That evening at the Castle Lady Amaldina got hold of him, and 
 asked him his advice as to her future duties as a married woman. 
 Lady Amaldina was very fond of little confidences as to her future 
 life, and had as yet found no opportunity of demanding the sympathy 
 of her cousin. Hampstead was not in truth her cousin, but they 
 called each other cousins,—or were called so. None of the Haute- 
 ville family felt any of that aversion to the Radicalism of the heir 
 to the marquisate which the Marchioness entertained. Lady Amah 
 dina delighted to be Amy to Lord Hampstead, and was very anxious 
 to ask him his advice as to Lord Llwddythlw. 
 
 “ Of course you know all about my marriage, Hampstead ? ” 
 she said. 
 
 “ I don’t know anything about it,” Hampstead replied. 
 
 “ Oh, Hampstead; how ill-natured ! ” 
 
 “Nobody knows anything about it, because it hasn’t taken 
 place.” 
 
 “ That is so like a Radical, to be so precise and rational. My 
 engagement, then ? ” 
 
 “ Yes; I’ve heard a great deal about that. We’ve been talking 
 about that for-how long shall I say ? ” 
 
 “Don’t be disagreeable. Of course such a man as Llwddythlw 
 can’t be married all in a hurry just like anybody else.” 
 
 “ What a misfortune for him! ” 
 
 “ Why should it be a misfortune ? ” 
 
 “ I should think it so if I were going to be married to you.” 
 
 “ That’s the prettiest thing I have ever heard you say. At any 
 rate he has got to put up with it, and so have I. It is a bore, 
 because people will talk about nothing else. What do you think 
 of Llwddythlw as a public man ? ” 
 
 “ I haven’t thought about it. I haven’t any means of thinking. 
 I am so completely a private man myself, that I know nothing of 
 public men. I hope he’s good at going to sleep.” 
 
 “ Going to sleep ? ” 
 
 “Otherwise it must be so dull, sitting so many hours in the 
 House of Commons. But he’s been at it a long time, and I dare 
 say he’s used to it.” 
 
 “ Isn’t it well that a man in his position should have a regard 
 to his country ? ” 
 
 “Every man ought to have a regard to his country;—but a 
 stronger regard, if it be possible, to the world at large.” 
 
 Lady Amaldina stared at him, not knowing in the least what he 
 meant. “ You are so droll,” she said. “ You never, I think, think 
 of the position you were born to fill.” 
 
 “ Oh yes, I do. I’m a man, and I think a great deal about it.” 
 
 “ But you’ve got to be Marquis of Kingsbury, and Llwddythlw 
 has got to be Duke of Merioneth. He never forgets it for a 
 moment.” 
 
 “ What a nuisance for him,- —and for you! ” 
 
MARION FAY. 
 
 ?0 
 
 “Why should it be a nuisance for me? Cannot a wom&a 
 understand her duties as well as a man?” 
 
 “ Quite so, if she knows how to get a glimpse at them.” 
 
 “ I do/’ said Lady Amaldina, earnestly. “ I am always getting 
 glimpses at them. I am quite aware of the functions which it will 
 become me to perform when I am Llwddythlw’s wife.” 
 
 “ Mother of his children ? ” 
 
 “ I didn’t mean that at all, Hampstead. That’s all in the 
 hands of the Almighty. But in becoming the future Duchess of 
 Merioneth-” 
 
 “ That’s in the hands of the Almighty, too, isn’t it? ” 
 
 “ No; yes. Of course everything is in God’s hands.” 
 
 “ The children, the dukedom, and all the estates.” 
 
 “ I never knew any one so provoking,” she exclaimed. 
 
 “ One is at any rate as much as another.” 
 
 “ You don’t a bit understand me,” she said. " Of course if I go 
 and get married, I do get married.” 
 
 “ And if you have children, you do have children. If you do,— 
 and I hope you will,—I’m sure they’ll be very pretty and well 
 behaved. That will be your duty, and then you’ll have to see that 
 Llwddythlw has what he likes for dinner.” 
 
 “ I shall do nothing of the kind.” 
 
 “ Then he’ll dine at the Club, or at the House of Commons. 
 That’s my idea of married life.” 
 
 “ Nothing beyond that ? No community of soul ? ” 
 
 “ Certainly not.” 
 
 “No!” 
 
 “ Because you believe in the Trinity, Llwddythlw won’t go to 
 heaven. If he were to take to gambling and drinking you wouldn’t 
 go to the other place.” 
 
 “How can you be so horrid?” 
 
 “ That would be a community of souls,—as souls are understood. 
 A community of interests I hope you will have, and, in order that 
 you may, take care and look after his dinner.” She could not 
 make much more of her cousin in the way of confidence, but she 
 did exact a promise from him, that he would be in attendance at 
 her wedding. 
 
 A few days afterwards he returned to Hendon Park, leaving hig 
 sister to remain for a fortnight lohger at Castle Hautboy. 
 
 CHAPTEE XV. 
 
 MARION FAY AND HER FATHER. 
 
 “ I saw him go in a full quarter of an hour since, and Marion Fay 
 went in before. I feel quite sure that she knew that he was 
 expected.” Thus spoke Clara Demijohn to her mother. 
 
 “How could she have known it,” asked Mrs. Duffer, who was 
 
MARION FAY ANV I1ER FATHER. 
 
 91 
 
 present in Mrs. Demijohn’s parlour, where the two younger women 
 were standing with their faces close to the window, with their gloves 
 on and best bonnets, ready for church. 
 
 “ I am sure she did, because she had made herself smarter than 
 ever with her new brown silk, and her new brown gloves and her 
 new brown hat,—sly little Quaker that she is. I can see when a 
 girl has made herself up for some special occasion. She wouldn’t 
 have put on new gloves surely to go to church with Mrs. Boden.” 
 
 “ If you stay staring there any longer you’ll both be late,” 
 said Mrs. Demijohn. 
 
 “ Mrs. Boden hasn’t gone yet,” said Clara, lingering. It was 
 Sunday morning, and the ladies at No. 10 were preparing for their 
 devotions. Mrs. Demijohn herself never went to church, having 
 some years since had a temporary attack of sciatica, which had 
 provided her with a perpetual excuse for not leaving the house on 
 a Sunday morning. She was always left at home with a volume of 
 Blair’s Sermons; but Clara, who was a clever girl, was well aware 
 that more than half a page was never read. She was aware also 
 that great progress was then made with the novel which happened 
 to have last come into the house from the little circulating library 
 round the corner. The ringing of the neighbouring church bell 
 had come to its final tinkling, and Mrs. Duffer knew that she must 
 start, or disgrace herself in the eyes of the pew-opener. “ Come, 
 my dear,” she said; and away they went. As the door of No. 10 
 opened so did that of No. 11 opposite, and the four ladies, including 
 Marion Fay, met in the road. “ You have a visitor this morning/ 
 said Clara. 
 
 “ Yes ;—a friend of my son’s.” 
 
 “ We know all about it,” said Clara. “ Don’t you think he’s a 
 very fine-looking young man, Miss Fay ? ” 
 
 “ Yes, I do,” said Marion. “ He is certainly a handsome young 
 man.” 
 
 “ Beauty is but skin deep,” said Mrs. Duffer. 
 
 “ But still it goes a long way,” said Clara, “ particularly with 
 high birth and noble rank.” 
 
 “ He is an excellent young man, as far as I know him,” said 
 Mrs. Boden, thinking that she was called upon to defend her son’s 
 friend. 
 
 Hampstead had returned home on the Saturday, and had taken 
 the earliest opportunity on the following Sunday morning to go 
 over to his friend at Holloway. The distance was about six miles, 
 and he had driven over, sending the vehicle back with the intention 
 of walking home. He would get his friend to walk with him, and 
 then should take place that conversation which he feared would 
 become excessively unpleasant before it was finished. He was 
 shown up to the drawing-room of No. 11, and there he found all 
 alone a young woman whom he had never seen before. This was 
 Marion Fay, the daughter of Zachary Fay, a Quaker, who lived at 
 No. 17, Paradise Bow. " I had thought Mrs. Boden was here,” he 
 said. 
 
92 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 
 “ Mrs. Eoden will be down directly. She is putting her bonnet 
 on to go to church.” 
 
 “ And Mr. Eoden?” he asked. “ He, I suppose, is not going to 
 church with her?” 
 
 “ Ah, no; I wish he were. George Eoden never goes to church.” 
 
 “ Is he a friend of yours ? ” 
 
 “ For his mother’s sake I was speaking;—but why not for his 
 also ? He is not specially my friend, but 1 wish well to all men. 
 He is not at home at present, but I understood that he will be here 
 shortly.” 
 
 “ Do you always go to church ? ” he asked, grounding his 
 question not on any impertinent curiosity as to her observance of her 
 religious duties, but because he had thought from her dress she 
 must certainly be a Quaker. 
 
 “ I do usually go to your church on a Sunday.” 
 
 “ Nay,” said "he, “ I have no right to claim it as my church. I 
 fear you must regard me also as a heathen,—as you do George 
 Eoden.” 
 
 “ I am sorry for that, sir. It cannot be good that any man 
 should be a heathen when so much Christian teaching is abroad. 
 But men, I think, allow themselves a freedom of thought from which 
 women in their timidity are apt to shrink. If so it is surely 
 good that we should be cowards ? ” Then the door opened, and 
 Mrs. Eoden came into the room. 
 
 “ George is gone,” she said, “to call on a sick friend, but he will 
 be back immediately. He got your letter yesterday evening, and 
 he left word that I was to tell you that he would be back by eleven. 
 Have you introduced yourself to my friend Miss Fay ? ” 
 
 “ I had not heard her name,” he said smiling, “ but we had 
 introduced ourselves.” 
 
 “ Marion Fay is my name,” said the girl, “ and yours, I suppose, 
 is—Lord Hampstead.” 
 
 “ So now we may be supposed to know each other for ever after,” 
 he replied, laughing; “—only I fear, Mrs. Eoden, that your friend 
 will repudiate the acquaintance because I do not go to church.” 
 
 «I said not so, Lord Hampstead. The nearer we were to being 
 friends,—if that were possible,—the more I should regret it.” 
 Then the two ladies started on their morning duty. 
 
 Lord Hampstead when he was alone immediately decided that 
 lie would like to have Marion Fay for a friend, and not the less 
 so because she went to church. He felt that she had been right 
 in saying that audacity in speculation on religious subjects was 
 not becoming a young woman. As it was unfitting that his sister 
 Lady Frances should marry a Post Office clerk, so would it have 
 been unbecoming that Marion Fay should have been what she 
 herself called a heathen. Surely of all the women on whom his 
 eyes had ever rested she was,—he would not say to himself the 
 most lovely,—but certainly the best worth looking at. The close 
 brown bonnet and the little cap, and the well-made brown silk 
 dress, and the brown gloves on her little hands, together made, 
 
 4 
 
MAH ION FAY AND HER FATHER . 93 
 
 to his eyes, as piecing a female attire as a girl could well wear 
 c °uld it have been by accident that the graces of her form were so 
 excellently shown ? It had to be supposed that she, as a Quaker 
 was indifferent to outside feminine garniture. It is the theory 
 of a Quaker that she should be so, and in every article she had 
 adhered closely to Quaker rule. As far as he could see there was 
 not a ribbon about her. There was no variety of colour. Her 
 head-dress was as simple and close as any that could have been 
 worn by her grandmother. Hardly a margin of smooth hair 
 appeared between her cap and her forehead. Her dress fitted close 
 to her neck, and on her shoulders she wore a tight-fitting shawl. 
 The purpose m her raiment had been Quaker all through. The 
 exquisite grace must have come altogether by accident,—just 
 because it had pleased nature to make her gracious! As to all 
 this there might perhaps be room for doubt. Whether there had 
 
 T+n ° r n0t P° ssibl y afford scope for consideration. 
 
 ±>ut that the grace was there was a matter which required no con¬ 
 As Marion Fay will have much to do with our story, it will be 
 well that some further description should be given here of herself 
 and of her condition m life. _ Zachary Fay, her father, with whom 
 she lived, was a widower with no other living child There had 
 been many others, who had all died, as had also their mother She 
 had been a prey to consumption, but had lived long enough to 
 know that she had bequeathed the fatal legacy to her offspring - 
 0 all of them except to Marion, who, when her mother died had 
 seemed to be exempted from the terrible curse of the family. * She 
 hq u Gn r 6 ?? ° d to receive her mother’s last instructions 
 
 wi/i 0 rTffi fa 1 t / ier ’ wbo tben a broken-hearted man struggling 
 
 with difficulty against the cruelty of Providence. Why should it 
 have been that God should thus afflict him,—him who had no other 
 Pleasure m the world no delights, but those which were afforded 
 to him by the love of his wife and children ? It was to be her duty 
 
 all' t°w°n ? ake , lip aS she mi S ht ber tenderness for 
 
 all that he had lost and was losing. It was to be especially her 
 
 duty to soften his heart m all worldly matters, and to turn him as 
 far as possible to the love of heavenly things. It was now two 
 } eais since her mother s death, and in all things she had endeavoured 
 to periorm the duties which her mother had exacted from her. 
 
 l ay u aS not a , man whom i1] was eas y to turn 
 hither and thither. He was a stern, hard, iust man of whom if 
 
 may probably be said that if a world were altogether' composed of 
 
 S fn condition of such a world would be much better than 
 
 that of the world we know;—for generosity is less efficacious towards 
 
 permanent good than justice, and tender speaking less enduring 
 
 nmts beneficial results than truth. His enemies, for he had enemief 
 
 said of him hat he loved money. It was no doubt trueffor he 
 
 min .^t love money must be an idiot. He was certainly a 
 
 an who liked to have what was his own, who would have been 
 
 11 ate with any one who had endeavoured to rob him of his own, 
 
94 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 or liad hindered him in his just endeavour to increase his own. 
 That which belonged to another he did not covet,—unless it might 
 be in the way of earning it. Things had prospered with him, and 
 he was—for his condition in life—a rich man. But his worldly 
 prosperity had not for a moment succeeded in lessening the asperity 
 of the blow which had fallen upon him. With all his sternness he 
 was essentially a loving man. To earn money he would say—or 
 perhaps more probably would only think—was the necessity im¬ 
 posed upon man by the Fall of Adam ; but to have something warm 
 at his heart, something that should be infinitely dearer to him than 
 himself and all his possessions,—that was what had been left of 
 Divine Essence in a man even after the Fall of Adam. Now the 
 one living thing left for him to love was his daughter Marion. 
 
 He was not a man whose wealth was of high order, or his 
 employment of great moment, or he would not probably have been 
 living at Holloway in Paradise Eow. He was and had now been 
 for many years senior clerk to Messrs. Pogson and Littlebird, 
 Commission Agents, at the top of King’s Court, Old Broad Street. 
 By Messrs. Pogson and Littlebird he was trusted with everything, 
 and had become so amalgamated with the firm as to have achieved 
 in the City almost the credit of a merchant himself. There were 
 some who thought that Zachary Fay must surely be a partner in 
 the house, or he would not have been so well known or so much 
 respected among merchants themselves. But in truth he was no 
 more than senior clerk, with a salary amounting to four hundred 
 a year. Nor, though he was anxious about his money, would he 
 have dreamed of asking for any increase of his stipend. It was for 
 Messrs. Pogson and Littlebird to say what his services were worth. 
 He would not on any account have lessened his authority with 
 them by becoming a suppliant for increased payment. But for 
 many years he had spent much less than his income, and had known 
 how to use his City experiences in turning his savings to the best 
 account. Thus, as regarded Paradise Bow and its neighbourhood, 
 Zachary Fay was a rich man. 
 
 He was now old, turned seventy, tall and thin, with long grey 
 hair, with a slight stoop in his shoulders,—but otherwise hale as 
 well as healthy. He went every day to his office, leaving his house 
 with strict punctuality at half-past eight, and entering the door 
 of the counting-house just as the clock struck nine. With equal 
 accuracy he returned home at six, having dined in the middle of the 
 day at an eating-house in the City. All this time was devoted 
 to the interests of the firm, except for three hours on Thursday, 
 during which he attended a meeting in a Quaker house of worship. 
 On these occasions Marion always joined him, making a journey 
 into the City for the purpose. She would fain have induced him 
 also to accompany her on Sundays to the English Church. But to 
 this he never would consent at her instance,—as he had refused 
 . to do so at the instance of his wife. He was, he said, a Quaker, and 
 did not mean to be aught else than a Quaker. In truth, though he 
 was very punctual at those Quaker meetings, he was not at heart 
 
MARION FAY AND HER FATHER. 95 
 
 a religious man. To go through certain formularies, Quaker though 
 he was, w T as as sufficient to him as to many other votaries of Church 
 ordinances. He had been brought up to attend Quaker meetings 
 and no doubt would continue to attend them as long as his strength 
 might suffice; but it may be presumed of him without harsh judg¬ 
 ment that the price of stocks was often present to his mind during 
 those tedious hours in the meeting-house. In his language he 
 always complied with the strict tenets of his sect, “thou-ino-” an d 
 “ thee-ing ” all those whom he addressed; but he had assented to 
 an omission in this matter on the part of his daughter, recognizing 
 the tact that there could be no falsehood in using a mode o*f 
 language common to all the world. “ If a plural pronoun of ignoble 
 sound, so he said, “ were used commonly for the singular because 
 the singulai was too grand and authoritative for ordinary use it 
 was no doubt a pity that the language should be so injured * but 
 there could be no untruth in such usage; and it was better’that 
 at any rate the young should adhere to the manner of speech which 
 was common among those with whom they lived.” Thus Marion 
 was saved from the “ thees ” and the - thous,” and escaped that 
 touch of hypocrisy which seems to permeate the now antiquated 
 speeches of Quakers. Zachary Fay in these latter years of his life was 
 never known to laugh or to joke; but, if circumstances were favour¬ 
 able, he would sometimes tall into a quaint mode of conversation 
 in which there was something of drollery and something also of 
 sarcasm; but this was unfrequent, as Zachary was slow in makin" 
 new friends, and never conversed after this fashion with the mere 
 acquaintance of the hour. 
 
 Of Marion Fay’s appearance something has already been said- 
 enough, perhaps, not to impress any clear idea of her figure on 
 the mind’s eye of a reader, for that I regard as a feat beyond the 
 po'WGr of ciny wiitcr^ but to Guablo the rocidor to form a conception 
 of his own. She was small of stature, it should be said, with limbs 
 exquisitely made. It was not the brilliance of her eyes or the 
 chiselled correctness of her features which had struck Hampstead 
 so forcibly as a certain expression of earnest eloquence which 
 pervaded her whole form. And there was a fleeting brightness of 
 colour which went about her cheeks and forehead, and ran around 
 her mouth, which gave to her when she was speaking a brilliance 
 which was hardly to be expected from the ordinary lines of her 
 countenance. Had you been asked, you would have said that she 
 vas a brunette, till she had been worked to some excitement in 
 talking. Then, I think, you would have hardly ventured to de¬ 
 scribe her complexion by any single word. Lord Hampstead, had 
 lie been asked what he thought about her, as he sat waiting for his 
 friend, would have declared that some divinity of grace had been 
 the peculiar gift which had attracted him. And yet that rapid 
 change of colour had not passed unobserved, as she told him that 
 she was sorry that he did not go to church. 
 
 • Mai ion Fay s life in Paradise Row would have been very lonely 
 had she not become acquainted with Mrs. Roden before her mother’s 
 
96 MARION FA Y. 
 
 death. Now hardly a day passed but what she spent an hour with 
 that lady. They were, indeed, fast friends,—so much so that Mrs. 
 Vincent had also come to know Marion, and approving of the girl’s 
 religious tendencies had invited her to spend two or three days 
 at Wimbledon. This was impossible, because Marion would never 
 leave her father;—but she had once or twice gone over with Mrs. 
 Roden, when she made her weekly call, and had certainly ingra¬ 
 tiated herself with the austere lady. Other society she had none, 
 nor did she seem to desire it. Clara Demijohn, seeing the intimacy 
 which had been struck up between Marion and Mrs. Roden,—as 
 to which she had her own little jealousies to endure,—was quite 
 sure that Marion was setting her cap at the Post Office clerk, and 
 had declared in confidence to Mrs. Duffer that the girl was doing it 
 in the most brazen-faced manner. Clara had herself on more than 
 one occasion contrived to throw herself in the clerk’s way on his 
 return homewards on dusky evenings,—perhaps intent only on 
 knowing what might be the young man’s intentions as to Marion 
 Fay. The young man had been courteous to her, but she had 
 declared to Mrs. Duffer that he was one of those stiff young men 
 who don’t care for ladies’ society. ‘'These are they,” said Mrs. 
 Duffer, “who marry the readiest and make the best husbands.” 
 <‘ oh;—she’ll go on sticking to him till she don’t leave a stone 
 unturned,” said Clara,—thereby implying that, as far as she was 
 concerned, she did not think it worth her while to continue her 
 attacks unless a young man would give way to her at once. George 
 had been asked more than once to drink tea at No. 10, but had been 
 asked in vain. Clara, therefore, had declared quite loudly that 
 Marion had made an absolute prisoner of him,—had bound him 
 hand and foot,—would not let him call his life his own. “She 
 interrupts him constantly as he comes from the office,” she said to 
 Mrs. Duffer; “I call that downright unfeminine audacity.” Yet 
 she knew that Mrs. Duffer knew that she had intercepted the young 
 man. Mrs. Duffer took it all in good part, knowing very well how 
 necessary it is that a young woman should fight her own battle 
 strenuously. 
 
 In the mean time Marion Fay and George Roden were good 
 friends. “ He is engaged;—I must not say to whom,” Mrs. Roden 
 had said to her young friend. “ It will, I fear, be a long, long, 
 tedious affair. You must not speak of it.” 
 
 “ If she be true to him, I hope he will be true to her,” said 
 Marion, with true feminine excitement. 
 
 “ I only fear that he will be too true.” 
 
 “ No, no;—that cannot be. Even though he suffer let him bo 
 true. You may be sure I will not mention it,—to him, or to any 
 one. I like him so well that I do hope he may not suffer much.” 
 Prom that time she found herself able to regard George Roden as 
 a real friend, and to talk to him as though there need be no cause 
 for dreading an intimacy. With an engaged man a girl may suffer 
 herself to be intimate. 
 
( 97 ) 
 
 CHAPTER XYI. 
 
 THE WALK BACK TO HENDON. 
 
 “ I W as here a little early/’ said Hampstead when his friend came 
 in, “ and I found your mother just going to church,—with a 
 friend.” 
 
 “ Marion Fay ? ” 
 
 “ Yes, Miss Fay.” 
 
 “She is the daughter of a Quaker who lives a few doors off. 
 But though she is a Quaker she goes to church as well. I envy 
 the tone of mind of those who are able to find a comfort in pouring 
 themselves out in gratitude to the great Unknown God.” 
 
 “ I pour myself out in gratitude,” said Hampstead; “ but with 
 me it is an affair of solitude.” 
 
 “I doubt whether you ever hold yourself for two hours in 
 commune with heavenly power and heavenly influence. Some¬ 
 thing more than gratitude is necessary. You must conceive that 
 there is a duty,—by the non-performance of which you would 
 encounter peril. Then comes the feeling of safety which always 
 follows the performance of a duty. That I never can achieve. 
 What did you think of Marion Fay ? ” 
 
 “ She is a most lovely creature.” 
 
 “ Very pretty, is she not; particularly when speaking ? ” 
 
 “ I never care for female beauty that does not display itself in 
 action,—either speaking, moving, laughing, or perhaps only frown¬ 
 ing,” said Hampstead enthusiastically. “ I was talking the other 
 day to a sort of cousin of mine who has a reputation of being a 
 remarkably handsome young woman. She had ever so much to 
 say to me, and when I was in company with her a page in buttons 
 kept coming into the room. He was a round-faced, high-cheeked, 
 ugly boy; but I thought him so much better-looking than my 
 cousin, because he opened his mouth when he spoke, and showed 
 his eagerness by his eyes.” 
 
 “ Your cousin is complimented.” 
 
 “ She has made her market, so it does not signify. The Greeks 
 seem to me to have regarded form without expression. I doubt 
 whether Phidias would have done much with your Miss Fay. To 
 my eyes she is the perfection of loveliness.” 
 
 “ She is not my Miss Fay. She is my mother’s friend.” 
 
 “Your mother is lucky. A woman without vanity, without 
 jealousy, without envy-” 
 
 “ Where will you find one ? ” 
 
 “Your mother. Such a woman as that can, I think, enjoy 
 feminine loveliness almost as much as a man.” 
 
 “ I have often heard my mother speak of Marion’s good qualities, 
 but not much of her loveliness. To me her great charm is her 
 voice. She speaks musically.” 
 
 H 
 
9S 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 “ As one can fancy Melpomene did. Does she come here often ? ” 
 
 “ Every day, I fancy;—but not generally when I am here. Not 
 but what she and I are great friends. She will sometimes go with 
 me into town on a Thursday morning, on her way to the meeting¬ 
 house.” 
 
 “Lucky fellow!” Eoden shrugged his shoulders as though 
 conscious that any luck of that kind must come to him from 
 another quarter, if it came at all. 
 
 “ What does she talk about ? ” 
 
 “ Eeligion generally.” 
 
 “ And you?” 
 
 “Anything else, if she will allow me. She would wish to 
 convert me. I am not at all anxious to convert her, really believing 
 that she is very well as she is.” 
 
 “ Yes,” said Hampstead; “ that is the worst of what we are apt 
 to call advanced opinions. With all my self-assurance I never dare 
 to tamper with the religious opinions of those who are younger or 
 weaker than myself. I feel that they at any rate are safe if they 
 are in earnest. No one, I think, has ever been put in danger by 
 believing Christ to be a God.” 
 
 “ They none of them know what they believe,” said Eoden; 
 “ nor do you or I. Men talk of belief as though it were a settled 
 thing;. It is so but with few; and that only with those who lack 
 imagination. What sort of a time did you have down at Castle 
 Hautboy ? ” 
 
 “ Oh,—I don’t know,—pretty well. Everybody was very kind, 
 and my sister likes it. The scenery is lovely. You can look up a 
 long reach of Ulleswater from the Castle terrace, and there is 
 Helvellyn in the distance. The house was full of people,—who 
 despised me more than I did them.” 
 
 “ Which is saying a great deal, perhaps.” 
 
 “ There were some uncommon apes. One young lady, not very 
 young, asked me what I meant to do with all the land in the world 
 when I took it away from everybody. I told her that when it was 
 all divided equally there would be a nice little estate even for all 
 the daughters, and that in such circumstances all the sons would 
 certainly get married. She acknowledged that such a result would 
 be excellent, but she did not believe in it. A world in which the 
 men should want to marry was beyond her comprehension. I 
 went out hunting one day.” 
 
 “ The hunting I should suppose was not very good.” 
 
 “ Hut for one drawback it would have been very good indeed.” 
 
 “ The mountains, I should have thought, would be one draw¬ 
 back, and the lakes another.” 
 
 “ Not at all. I liked the mountains because of their echoes, and 
 the lakes did not come in our way.” 
 
 “ Where was the fault ? ” 
 
 “ There came a man.” 
 
 “ Whom you disliked ? ” 
 
 “ Who was a bore.” 
 
THE WALK LACK TO HENDON. 
 
 99 
 
 “ Could you not shut him up ? 55 
 
 “No; nor shake him off. I did at last do that, but it was by 
 turning round and riding backwards when we were coming home. 
 £ had just invited him to ride on while I stood still,—but he 
 wouldn’t.” 
 
 “ Did it come to that ? ” 
 
 “ Quite to that. I actually turned tail and ran away from him; 
 —not as we ordinarily do in society when we sneak off under some 
 pretence, leaving the pretender to think that he has made himself 
 very pleasant; but with a full declaration of my opinion and 
 intention.” 
 
 “ Who was he ? ” 
 
 That was the question. Hampstead had come there on purpose 
 to say who the man was,—and to talk about the man with great 
 freedom. And he was determined to do so. But he preferred 
 not to begin that which he intended to be a severe accusation 
 against his friend till they were walking together, and he did not 
 wish to leave the house without saying a word further about 
 Marion Fay. It was his intention to dine'all alone at Hendon 
 Hall. How much nicer it would be if he could dine in 
 Paradise Row with Marion Fay ! He knew it was Mrs. Roden’s 
 custom to dine early, after church, on Sundays, so that the two 
 maidens who made up her establishment might go out,—either to 
 church or to their lovers, or perhaps to both, as might best suit 
 them. He had dined there once or twice already, eating the 
 humble, but social, leg of mutton of Holloway, in preference to the 
 varied, but solitary, banquet of Hendon. He was of opinion that 
 really intimate acquaintance demanded the practice of social feeling. 
 To know a man very well, and never to sit at table with him, was, 
 according to his views of life, altogether unsatisfactory. Though 
 the leg of mutton might be cold, and have no other accompaniment 
 but the common ill-boiled potato, yet it would be better than any 
 banquet prepared simply for the purpose of eating. He was 
 gregarious, and now felt a longing, of which he was almost 
 ashamed, to be admitted to the same pastures with Marion Fay. 
 There was not, however, the slightest reason for supposing that 
 Marion Fay would dine at No. 11, even were he asked to do so 
 himself. Nothing, in fact, could be less probable, as Marion Fay 
 never deserted her father. Nor did he like to give any hint to his 
 friend that he was desirous of further immediate intimacy with 
 Marion. There would be an absurdity in doing so which he did 
 not dare to perpetrate. Only if he could have passed the morning 
 in Paradise Row, and then have walked home with Roden in the 
 dark evening, he could, he thought, have said what he had to say 
 very conveniently. 
 
 But it was impossible. He sat silent for some minute or two 
 after Roden had asked the name of the bore of the hunting field, 
 and then answered him by proposing that they should start 
 together on their walk towards Hendon. “ I am all ready; but 
 you must tell me the name of this dreadful man.” 
 
100 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 “As soon as we have started I will. I have come hero on 
 purpose to tell you.” 
 
 “ To tell me the name of the man you ran away from in 
 Cumberland ? ” 
 
 “ Exactly that;—come along.” And so they started, more than 
 an hour before the time at which Marion Fay would return from 
 church. “The man who annoyed me so out hunting was an 
 intimate friend of yours.” 
 
 “ I have not an intimate friend in the world except yourself.” 
 
 “ Not Marion Fay ? ” 
 
 “ I meant among men. I do not suppose that Marion Fay was 
 out hunting in Cumberland.” 
 
 “ I should not have ran away from her, I think, if she had. It 
 was Mr. Crocker, of the General Post Office.” 
 
 “ Crocker in Cumberland ? ” 
 
 “ Certainly he was in Cumberland,—unless some one personated 
 him. I met him dining at Castle Hautboy, when he was kind 
 enough to make himself known to me, and again out hunting,— 
 when he did more than make himself known to me.” 
 
 “ I am surprised.” 
 
 “ Is he not away on leave ? ” 
 
 “ Oh yes;—he is away on leave. I do not doubt that it was he.” 
 
 “ Why should he not be in Cumberland,—when, as it happens, 
 his father is land-steward or something of that sort to my uncle 
 Persiflage ? ” 
 
 “ Because I did not know that he had any connection with 
 Cumberland. Why not Cumberland, or Westmoreland, or North¬ 
 umberland, you may say? Why not?—or Yorkshire, or Lincoln¬ 
 shire, or Norfolk ? I certainly did not suppose that a Post Office 
 clerk out on his holidays would be found hunting in any county.” 
 
 “ You have never heard of his flea-bitten horse ? ” 
 
 “ Not a word. I didn’t know that he had ever sat upon a horse. 
 And now will you let me know why you have called him my 
 friend ? ” 
 
 “ Is he not so ? ” 
 
 “ By no means.” 
 
 “ Does he not sit at the same desk with you ? ” 
 
 “ Certainly he does.” 
 
 “ I think I should be friends with a man if I sat at the same 
 desk with him.” 
 
 “ With Crocker even ? ” asked Boden. 
 
 “ Well; he might be an exception.” 
 
 “ But if an exception to you, why not also an exception to me ? 
 As it happens, Crocker has made himself disagreeable to me. 
 Instead of being my friend, he is,—I will not say my enemy, 
 because I should be making too much of him; but nearer to being 
 so than any one I know. Now, what is the meaning of all this? 
 Why did he trouble you especially down in Cumberland ? Why 
 do you call him my friend ? And why do you wish to speak to 
 me about him ? ” 
 
THE WALK BACK TO HENDON. 
 
 ioi 
 
 “.He introduced himself to me, and told me that he was your 
 special friend.” 
 
 “ Then he lied.” 
 
 “ I should not have cared about that;—but he did more.” 
 
 “ What more did he do ? ” 
 
 “ I would have been courteous to him,—if only because he sat 
 at the same desk with you:—but-” 
 
 " But what ? ” 
 
 “ There are things which are difficult to be told.” 
 
 “ If they have to be told, they had better be told,” said Roden, 
 almost angrily. 
 
 “ Whether friend or not, he knew of——your engagement with 
 my sister.” 
 
 “ Impossible! ” 
 
 “He told me of it,” said Lord Hampstead impetuously, his 
 tongue now at length loosed. “ Told me of it! He spoke of it 
 again and again, to my extreme disgust. Though the thing had 
 been fixed as Fate, he should not have mentioned it.” 
 
 “ Certainly not.” 
 
 “But he did nothing but tell me of your happiness, and good 
 luck, and the rest of it. It was impossible to stop him, so that 
 I had to ride away from him. I bade him be silent,—as plainly as 
 I could without mentioning Fanny’s name. But it was of no use.” 
 
 “ How did he know it ? ” 
 
 “ You told him! ” 
 
 “ I! ” 
 
 • j. t* 0 ^ This was not strictly the case. Crocker had so 
 
 introduced the subject as to have avoided the palpable lie of declar¬ 
 ing that the tidings had been absolutely given by Roden to himself. 
 But he had not the less falsely intended to convey that impression 
 to Hampstead, and had conveyed it. “ He gave me to understand 
 that you were speaking about it continually at your office.” Roden 
 
 turned round and looked at the other man, white with rage_as 
 
 though he could not allow himself to utter a word. “ It was as 
 I tell you. He began it at the Castle, and afterwards continued it 
 whenever he could get near m? when hunting.” 
 
 “ And you believed him ? ” 
 
 “ When he repeated his story so often what was I to do 9 ” 
 
 “ Knock him off his horse.” 
 
 “ And so be forced to speak of my sister to every one in the hunt 
 and in the county ? You do not feel how much is due to a girl’s 
 name. 
 
 a I think I do. I think that of all men I am the most likely to 
 feel what is due to the name of Lady Frances Trafford. Of course 
 I never mentioned it to any one at the Post Office.” 
 
 “ From whom had he heard it ? ” 
 
 “How can I answer that ? Probably through some of your own 
 family. It has made its way through Lady Kingsbury to Castle 
 Hautboy, and has then been talked about. I am not responsible for 
 that.” 
 
102 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 (( 
 
 (( 
 
 <c 
 
 ic 
 
 ff 
 
 ’ Not for that certainly,—if it be so.” 
 
 Nor because such a one as he has lied. You should not have 
 believed it of me.” 
 
 " I was bound to ask you.” 
 
 You were bound to tell me, but should not have asked me 
 There are things which do not require asking. What must I do 
 with him ? ” 
 
 “ Nothing. Nothing can be done. You could not touch the 
 subject without alluding to my sister. She is coming back to 
 Hendon in another week.” 
 
 She was there before, but I did not see her.” 
 
 Of course you did not see her. How should you ? ” 
 
 Simply by going there.” 
 
 She would not have seen you.” There came a black frown 
 over Rodens brow as he heard this. “It has been understood 
 between my father and Fanny and myself that you should not 
 come to Hendon while she is living with me.” 
 
 (( Should not I have been a party to that agreement ? ” 
 
 Haidly, I think. This agreement must have been made 
 whether you assented or not. On no other terms would my father 
 have permitted her to come. It was most desirable that she should 
 be separated from Lady Kingsbury.” 
 
 “ Oh yes.” 
 
 “And therefore the agreement was advisable. I would not 
 have had her on any other terms.” 
 
 “ Why not ? ” 
 
 Because I think that such visitings would have been unwise. 
 It is no use my blinking it to you. I do not believe that the 
 marriage is practicable.” 
 
 “ I do.” 
 
 ^ of course I cannot be a party to throwing you 
 
 together M ere you to persist in coming you would only force me 
 to find a home for her elsewhere.” 
 
 “ I have not disturbed you.” 
 
 “You have not. Now I want you to promise me that you will 
 not I have assured my father that it shall be so. Will you say 
 that you will neither come to her at Hendon Hall, nor write to her, 
 while she is staying with me ? ” He paused on the road for an 
 answer, but Roden walked on without making one, and Hampstead 
 was forced to accompany him. “ Will you promise me ? ” 
 
 . I will not promise. I will do nothing which may possibly 
 subject me to be called a liar. I have no wish to knock at any door 
 at which I do not think myself to be welcome.” 
 
 “You know how welcome you would be at mine, but for her.” 
 
 4. ^ m] ght be that I should find myself forced to endeavour 
 
 to see her, and I will therefore make no promise. A man should 
 fetter himself by no assurances of that kind as to his conduct. If a 
 man be a drunkard, it may be well that he should bind himself by 
 a vow against drinking. But he who can rule his own conduct 
 
 should promise nothing. Good-day now. I must be back to dinner 
 with my mother.” 
 
 j-- J_,_ 
 
LORD HAMPSTEAD’S SCHEME. 
 
 103 
 
 Then he took his leave somewhat abruptly, and returned. 
 Hampstead went on to Hendon with his thoughts sometimes fixed 
 on his sister, sometimes on Roden, whom he regarded as impracti¬ 
 cable, sometimes on that horrid Crocker;—but more generally on 
 Marion Fay, whom he resolved that he must see again, whatever 
 might be the difficulties in his way. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 lord hampstead’s scheme. 
 
 During the following week Hampstead went down to Gorse Hall, 
 and hunted two or three days with various packs of hounds within 
 his reach, declaring to himself that, after all, Leicestershire was 
 better than Cumberland, because he was known there, and no one 
 would dare to treat him as Crocker had done. Never before had his 
 democratic spirit received such a shock,—or rather the remnant of 
 that aristocratic spirit which he had striven to quell by the wisdom 
 and humanity of democracy ! That a stranger should have dared 
 to talk to him about one of the ladies of his family! No man 
 certainly would do so in Northamptonshire or Leicestershire. He 
 could not quite explain to himself the difference in the localities, 
 but he was quite sure that he was safe from anything of that kind 
 at Gorse Hall. 
 
 But he had other matters to think of as he galloped about the 
 country. How might he best manage to.see Marion Fay? His 
 mind was set upon that;—or, perhaps, more dangerously still, his 
 heart. Had he been asked before he would have said that there 
 could have been nothing more easy than for such a one as he to 
 make acquaintance with a young lady in Paradise Row. But now, 
 when he came to look at it, he found that Marion Fay was en¬ 
 vironed with fortifications and chevaux-de-frise of difficulties which 
 were apparently impregnable. He could not call at No. 17, and 
 simply ask for Miss Fay. To do so he must be a proficient in that 
 impudence, the lack of which created so many difficulties for him. 
 He thought of finding out the Quaker chapel in the City, and there 
 sitting out the whole proceeding,—unless desired to leave the place, 
 —with the Quixotic idea of returning to Holloway with her in an 
 omnibus. As he looked at this project all round, he became sure 
 that the joint journey in an omnibus would never be achieved. 
 Then he imagined that Mrs. Roden might perhaps give him aid. 
 But with what a face could such a one as he ask such a one as Mrs. 
 Roden to assist him in such an enterprise ? And yet, if anything 
 were to be done, it must be done through Mrs. Roden,—or, at any 
 rate, through Mrs. Roden’s house. As to this, too, there was a new 
 difficulty. He had not actually quarrelled with George Roden, but 
 the two had parted on the road as though there were some hitch in 
 the cordiality of their friendship. He had been rebuked for having 
 
101 
 
 MARION FAT. 
 
 believed what Crocker had told him. He did acknowledge to himself 
 that he should not have believed it. Though Crocker’s lies had been 
 monstrous, he should rather have supposed him to be guilty even 
 of lies so monstrous, than have suspected his friend of conduct that 
 would certainly have been base. Even this added something to the 
 difficulties by which Marion Eay was surrounded. 
 
 Vivian was staying with him at Gorse Hall. “I shall go up to 
 London to-morrow,” he said, as the two of them were riding home 
 after hunting on the Saturday,—the Saturday after the Sunday on 
 which Hampstead had been in Paradise Eow. 
 
 “ To-morrow is Sunday,—no day for travelling,” said Vivian. 
 “The Fitzwilliams are at Lilford Cross Eoads on Monday,—draw 
 back towards the kennels;—afternoon train up from Peterborough 
 at 5-30branch from Oundle to meet it, 4*50—have your traps 
 sent there. It’s all arranged by Providence. On Monday evening 
 I go to Gatcombe,—so that it will all fit.” 
 
 “ You need not be disturbed. A solitary Sunday will enable 
 you to wu-ite all your official correspondence for a fortnight.” 
 
 “ That I should have done, even in your presence.” 
 
 { I must be at home on Monday morning. Give my love to 
 them all at Lilford Cross Eoads. I shall be down again before long 
 if my sister can spare meor perhaps I may induce her to come 
 and rough it here for a week or two.” He was as good as his word, 
 and travelled up to London, and thence across to Hendon Hall on 
 the Sunday. 
 
 It might have been said that no young man could have had 
 stronger inducements for clinging to his sport, or fewer reasons for 
 abandoning it. His stables were full of horses; the weather was 
 good ; the hunting had been excellent; his friends were all around 
 him; and he had nothing else to do. His sister intended to remain 
 for yet another week at Castle Hautboy, and Hendon Hall of itself 
 had certainly no special attractions at the end of November. But 
 Marion Fay was on his mind, and he had arranged his scheme. 
 His scheme, as far as he knew, would be as practicable on a 
 Tuesday as on a Monday; but he was impatient, and for the nonce 
 preferred Marion Fay, whom he probably would not find, to the 
 foxes which would certainly be found in the neighbourhood of 
 Lilford Cross Eoads. 
 
 It was not much of a scheme after all. He would go over to 
 Paradise Eow, and call on Mrs. Eoden. He would then explain to 
 her what had taken place between him and George, and leave some 
 sort of apology for the offended Post Office clerk. Then he would 
 ask them both to come over and dine with him on some day before 
 his sister’s return. In what way Marion Fay’s name might be 
 introduced, or how she might be brought into the arrangement, he 
 must leave to the chapter of accidents. On the Monday he left 
 home at about two o’clock, and making a roundabout journey via 
 Baker Street, King’s Cross, and Islington, went down to Holloway 
 by an omnibus. He had become somewhat abashed and perplexed 
 as to his visits to Paradise Eow, having learned to entertain a 
 

 LORD HAMPSTEAD'S SCHEME. 105 
 
 notion that some of the people there looked at him. It was hard, 
 he thought, that if he had a friend in that or any other street he 
 should not be allowed to visit his friend without creating attention. 
 He was not aware of the special existence of Mrs. Demijohn, or 
 of Clara, or of Mrs. Duffer, nor did he know from what window 
 exactly the eyes of curious inhabitants were fixed upon him. But 
 he was conscious that an interest was taken in his comings and 
 goings. As long as his acquaintance in the street was confined to 
 the inhabitants of No. 11, this did not very much signify. Though 
 the neighbours should become aware that he was intimate with 
 Mrs. Eoden or her son, he need not care much about that. But if 
 he should succeed in adding Marion Fay to the number of his 
 Holloway friends, then he thought inquisitive eyes might be an 
 annoyance. It was on this account that he made his way down 
 in an omnibus, and felt that there was something almost of 
 hypocrisy in the soft, unpretending, and almost skulking manner in 
 which he crept up Paradise Bow, as though his walking there was 
 really of no moment to any one. As he looked round after knock¬ 
 ing at Mrs. Eoden’s door, he saw the figure of Clara Demijohn 
 standing a little back from the parlour window of the house 
 opposite. 
 
 “ Mrs. Eoden is at home,” said the maid, “ but there are friends 
 with her.” Nevertheless she showed the young lord up to the 
 drawing-room. There were friends indeed. It was Mrs. Vincent’s 
 day for coming, and she was in the room. That (alone would not 
 have been much, but with the two elder ladies was seated Marion 
 Fay. So far at any rate Fortune had favoured him. But now 
 there was a difficulty in explaining his purpose. He could not very 
 well give his general invitation,—general at any rate as regarded 
 Marion Fay,—before Mrs. Vincent. 
 
 Of course there was an introduction. Mrs. Vincent, who had 
 often heard Lord Hampstead’s name, in spite of her general severity, 
 was open to the allurements of nobility. She was glad to meet the 
 young man, although she had strong reasons for believing that he 
 was not a tower of strength on matters of Faith. Hampstead and 
 Marion Fay shook hands as though they were old friends, and then 
 the conversation naturally fell upon George Eoden. 
 
 “ You didn’t expect my son, I hope,” said the mother. 
 
 “ Oh dear, no! I had a message to leave for him, which will do 
 just as well in a note.” 
 
 . This was to some extent unfortunate, because it made both Mrs. 
 \ incent and Marion feel that they were in the way. 
 
 “I think I’ll send Betsy down for the brougham,” said the 
 former. The brougham which brought Mrs. Vincent was always 
 in the habit of retiring round the corner to the “ Duchess of 
 Edinburgh,” where the driver had succeeded in creating for himself 
 quite an intimacy. 
 
 . “ do not stir, madam,” said Hampstead, for he had per¬ 
 ceived from certain preparations made by Miss Fay that she would 
 find it necessary to follow Mrs. Vincent out of the i*oorir “I will 
 
- 
 
 106 MARION FAY. . 
 
 write two words for Boden, and that will tell him all I have to 
 say.” 
 
 Then the elder ladies went back to the matter they were dis¬ 
 cussing before Lord Hampstead had appeared. “ I was asking this 
 young lady/’ said Mrs. Vincent, “ to come with me for two or three 
 days down to Brighton. It is absolutely the fact that she has never 
 seen Brighton.” 
 
 As Mrs. Vincent went to Brighton twice annually, for a month 
 at the beginning of the winter and then again for a fortnight in the 
 spring, it seemed to her a wonderful thing that any one living, even 
 at Holloway, should never have seen the place. 
 
 “I think it would be a very good thing,” said Mrs. Boden,— 
 “ if your father can spare you.” 
 
 “ I never leave my father,” said Marion. 
 
 “ Don’t you think, my lord,” said Mrs. Vincent, “ that she looks 
 as though she wanted a change ? ” 
 
 Authorized by this, Lord Hampstead took the opportunity of 
 gazing at Marion, and was convinced that the young lady wanted 
 no change at all. There was certainly no room for improvement; 
 but it occurred to him on the spur of the moment that he, too, 
 might spend two or three days at Brighton, and that he might find 
 his opportunities there easier than in Paradise Bow. <x Yes, indeed,” 
 he said, “ a change is always good. I never like to stay long in one 
 place myself.” 
 
 “ Some people must stay in one place,” r said Marion with a 
 smile. “ Father has to go to his business, and would be very un¬ 
 comfortable if there were no one to give him his meals and sit at 
 table with him.” 
 
 “ He could spare you for a day or two,” said Mrs. Boden, who 
 knew that it would be well for Marion that she should sometimes 
 be out of London. 
 
 “ I am sure that he would not begrudge you a short recreation 
 like that,” said Mrs. Vincent. 
 
 “ He never begrudges me anything. We did go down to Cowes 
 for a fortnight in April, though I am quite sure that papa himself 
 would have preferred remaining at home all the time. He does 
 not believe in the new-fangled idea of changing the air.” 
 
 “Doesn’t he?” said Mrs. Vincent. “I do, I know. Where I 
 live, at Wimbledon, may be said to be more country than town; 
 but if I were to remain all the year without moving, I should 
 become so low and out of sorts, that I veritably believe they would 
 have to bury me before the first year was over.” 
 
 “ Father says that when he was young it was only people of rank 
 and fashion who went out of town regularly; and that folk lived as 
 long then as they do now.” 
 
 “I think people get used to living and dying according to 
 circumstances,” said Hampstead. n Our ancestors did a great many 
 things which we regard as quite fatal. They drank their water 
 without filtering it, and ate salt meat all the winter through. 
 They did very little in the washing way, and knew nothiug of 
 
LORD HAMPSTEAD'S SCHEME. 
 
 10? 
 
 ventilation. Yet they contrived to live.” Marion Fay, however, 
 was obstinate, and declared her purpose of declining Mrs. Vincent’s 
 kind invitation. There was a good deal more said about it, because 
 Hampstead managed to make various propositions. “ He was very 
 fond of the sea himself,” he said,“ and would take them all round, 
 including Mrs. Vincent and Mrs. Eoden, in his yacht, if not to 
 Brighton, at any rate to Cowes.” December was not exactly the 
 time for yachting, and as Brighton could be reached in an hour by- 
 railway, he was driven to abandon that proposition with a little 
 laughter at his own absurdity. 
 
 But it was all done with a gaiety and a kindness which quite won 
 Mrs. Vincent’s heart. She stayed considerably beyond her accus¬ 
 tomed hour, to the advantage of the proprietor of the “ Duchess of 
 Edinburgh,” and at last sent Betsy down to the corner in high good 
 humour. “ I declare, Lord Hampstead,” she said, “I ought to 
 charge you three-and-sixpence before I go. I shall have to break 
 into another hour, because I have stayed talking to you. Pritchard 
 never lets me off if I am not back punctually by four.” Then she 
 took her departure. 
 
 “You needn’t go, Marion,” said Mrs. Eoden,—“unless Lord 
 Hampstead has something special to say to me.” Lord Hampstead 
 declared that he had nothing special to say, and Marion did not go. 
 
 “ But I have something special to say,” said Hampstead, when 
 the elder lady was quite gone, “ but Miss Fay may know it just 
 as well as yourself. As we were walking to Hendon on Sunday 
 a matter came up as to which George and I did not agree.” 
 
 “ There was no quarrel, I hope ? ” said his mother. 
 
 “ Oh dear, no;—but we weren’t best pleased with each other. 
 Therefore I want you both to come and dine with me one day this 
 week. I shall be engaged on Saturday, but any day before that 
 will do.” Mrs. Eoden put on a very serious look on receiving the 
 proposition, having never before been invited to the house of her 
 son’s friend. Nor, for some years past, had she dined out with any 
 acquaintance. And yet she could not think at the moment of any 
 reason why she should not do so. “ 1 was going to ask Miss Fay 
 to come with you.” 
 
 “ Oh, quite impossible,” said Marion. “ It is very kind, my lord; 
 but I never go out, do I, Mrs. Eoden ? ” 
 
 “ That seems to me a reason why you should begin. Of course, 
 I understand about your father. But I should be delighted to 
 make his acquaintance, if you would bring him.” 
 
 “ He rarely goes out, Lord Hampstead.” 
 
 “ Then he will have less power to plead that he is engaged. 
 What do you say, Mrs. Eoden? It would give me the most 
 unaffected pleasure. Like your father, Miss Fay, I, too, am un¬ 
 accustomed to much going out, as you call it. I am as peculiar as 
 he is. Let us acknowledge that we are all peculiar people, and 
 that therefore there is the more reason why we should come together. 
 Mrs. Eoden, do not try to prevent an arrangement which will give 
 me the greatest pleasure, and to which there cannot be any real 
 
103 
 
 MARION FAY 
 
 objection. Why should not Mr. Fay make acquaintance with your 
 son’s friend? Which day would suit you best, Wednesday, 
 Thursday, or Friday ? ” 
 
 At last it was settled that at any rate George Eoden should dine 
 at Hendon Hall on the Friday,—he being absent during the dis¬ 
 cussion,—and that time must be taken as to any further acceptance 
 of the invitation. Mrs. Eoden was inclined to think that it had 
 best be regarded as impossible. She thought that she had made 
 up her mind never to dine out again. Then there came across her 
 mind a remembrance that her son was engaged to marry this young 
 man’s sister, and that it might be for his welfare that she should 
 give way to these overtures of friendship. When her thoughts had 
 travelled so far as this, she might have felt sure that the invitation 
 would at last be accepted. 
 
 As to Marion Fay, the subject was allowed to drop without any 
 further decision. She had said that it was impossible, and she 
 said nothing more. That was the last dictum heard from her; but 
 it was not repeated, as would probably have been the case had she 
 been quite sure that it was impossible. Mrs. Eoden during the 
 interview did not allude to that branch of the subject again. She 
 was fluttered with what had already been said, a little angry with 
 herself that she had so far yielded, a little perplexed at her own too 
 evident confusion, a little frightened at Lord Hampstead’s evident 
 admiration of the girl. As to Marion, it must, of course, be left to 
 her father,—as would the question as to the Quaker himself. 
 
 “I had better be going,” said Marion Fay, who was also 
 confused. 
 
 “So must I,” said Hampstead. “I have to return round by 
 London, and have ever so many things to do in Park Lane. The 
 worst of having two or three houses is that one never knows where 
 one’s clothes are. Good-bye, Mrs. Eoden. Mind, I depend upon 
 you, and that I have set my heart upon it. You will let me walk 
 with you as far as your door. Miss Fay ? ” 
 
 “It is only three doors off,” said Marion, “and in the other 
 direction.” Nevertheless he did go with her to the house, though 
 it was only three doors off. “ Tell your father, with my compli¬ 
 ments,” he said, “ that George Eoden can show you the way over. 
 If you can get a cab to bring you across I will send you back in the 
 waggonette. For the matter of that, there is no reason on earth 
 why it should not be sent for you.” 
 
 “ Oh no, my lord. That is, I do not think it possible that we 
 should come.” 
 
 “ Pray do, pray do, pray do,” he said, as he took her hand when 
 the door at No. 17 was opened. As he walked down the street he 
 saw the figure still standing at the parlour window of No. 10. 
 
 On the same evening Clara Demijohn was closeted with Mrs. 
 Duffer at her lodgings at No. 15. “ Standing in the street, squeezing 
 her hand ! ” said Mrs. Duffer, as though the very hairs of her head 
 were made to stand on end by the tidings,—the moral hairs, that 
 is, of her moral head. Her head, in the flesh, was ornamented by 
 
HOW THEY LIVED AT TRAFFORD PARK. 
 
 109 
 
 a front which must have prevented the actual standing on end of 
 any hair that was left to her. 
 
 “I saw it! They came out together from No. 11 as loving as 
 could be, and he walked up with her to their own house. Then he 
 seized her hand and held it,—oh, for minutes!—in the street. There 
 is nothing those Quaker girls won’t allow themselves. They are 
 so free with their Christian names, that, of course, they get into 
 intimacies instantly. I never allow a young man to call me Clara 
 without leave asked and given.” 
 
 “ I should think not.” 
 
 “One can’t be too particular about one’s Christian name. 
 They’ve been in there together, at No. 11, for two hours. What 
 can that mean? Old Mrs. Vincent was there, but she went away.” 
 
 “ I suppose she didn’t like such doings.” 
 
 “What can a lord be doing in such a place as that,” asked 
 Clara, “ —coming so often, you know ? And one that has to be a 
 Markiss, which is much more than a lord. One thing is quite 
 certain. It can’t mean that he is going to marry Marion Fay ? ” 
 With this assurance Clara Demijohn comforted herself as best she 
 might. 
 
 CHAPTEB XVIII. 
 
 HOW THEY LIVED AT TRAFFORD PARK. 
 
 There certainly was no justification for the ill-humour which Lady 
 Kingsbury displayed to her husband because Hampstead and his 
 sister had been invited down to Castle Hautboy. The Hautboy 
 people were her own relations,—not her husband’s. If Lady 
 Persiflage had taken upon herself to think better of all the evil 
 things done by the children of the first Marchioness, that was not 
 the fault of the Marquis! But to her thinking this visit had been 
 made in direct opposition to her wishes and her interests. Had it 
 been possible she would have sent the naughty young lord and 
 the naughty young lady altogether to Coventry,—as far as all 
 aristocratic associations were concerned. This encouragement of 
 them at Castle Hautboy was in direct contravention of her ideas. 
 But poor Lord Kingsbury had had nothing to do with it. “ They 
 are not fit to go to such a house as Castle Hautboy,” she said. The 
 Marquis, who was sitting alone in his own morning-room at 
 Trafford, frowned angrily. But her ladyship, too, was very angry. 
 “ They have disgraced themselves, and Geraldine should not have 
 received them.” 
 
 There were two causes for displeasure in this. In the first place 
 the Marquis could not endure that such hard things should be said 
 of his elder children. Then, by the very nature of the accusation 
 made, there was a certain special honour paid to the Hauteville 
 family which he did not think at all to be their due. On man* 
 
110 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 occasions his wife had spoken as though her sister had married into 
 a House of peculiar nobility,—because, forsooth. Lord Persiflage 
 was in the Cabinet, and was supposed to have made a figure Tn 
 politics. The Marquis was not at all disposed to regard the Earl 
 as in any way bigger than was he himself. He could have paid all 
 the Earl's debts,—which the Earl certainly could not do himself — 
 and never have felt it. The social gatherings at Castle Hautboy 
 were much more numerous than any at Trafford, but the guests at 
 Castle Hautboy were often people whom the Marquis would never 
 have entertained. His wife pined for the social influence which her 
 sister was supposed to possess, but he felt no sympathy with his 
 wife in that respect. 
 
 “ I deny it/’ said the father, rising from his chair, and scowling 
 at his wife as he stood leaning upon the table. “ They have not 
 disgraced themselves.” 
 
 “ I say they have.” Her ladyship made her assertion boldly, 
 having come into the room prepared for battle, and determined if 
 possible to be victor. “ Has not Fanny disgraced herself in having 
 engaged herself to a low fellow, the scum of the earth, without 
 saying anything even to you about it ? ” 
 
 “No!” shouted the Marquis, who was resolved to contradict 
 his wife in anything she might say. 
 
 “ Then I know nothing of what becomes a young woman,” con¬ 
 tinued the Marchioness. “ And does not Hampstead associate with 
 all manner of low people ? ” 
 
 “ No, never.” 
 
 “ Is not this George Roden a low person ? Does he ever live with 
 young men or with ladies of his own rank ? ” 
 
 “And yet you’re angry with him because he goes to Castle 
 Hautboy! Though, no doubt, he may meet people there quite unfit 
 for society.” 
 
 “ That is not true,” said the Marchioness. “ My brother-in-law 
 entertains the best company in Europe.” 
 
 “ He did do so when he had my son and my daughter under his 
 roof.” 
 
 “ Hampstead does not belong to a single club in London ” said 
 the stepmother. 
 
 “ So much the better,” said the father, “ as far as I know any¬ 
 thing about the clubs. Hautboy lost fourteen hundred pounds the 
 other day at the Pandemonium; and where did the money come 
 from to save him from being expelled ? ” 
 
 “ That’s a very old story,” said the Marchioness, who knew that 
 her husband and Hampstead between them had supplied the money 
 to save the young lad from disgrace. J 
 
 “And yet you throw it in my teeth that Hampstead doesn’t 
 belong to any club! There isn’t a club in London he couldn’t get 
 into to-morrow, if he were to put his name down.” 
 
 “I wish he’d try at the Carlton,” said her ladyship, whose father 
 and brother, and all her cousins, belonged to that aristocratic and 
 exclusive political association. 
 
Ill 
 
 ROW THEY LIVED AT TRAFFOBD PARK. 
 
 “ I should disown him,” said the still Liberal Marquis “ that 
 is to say, of course he’ll do nothing of the kind. But to declare 
 that a young man has disgraced himself because he doesn’t care for 
 club life, is absurdand coming from you as his stepmother is 
 wicked.” As he said this he bobbed his head at her, looking into 
 her face as though he should say to her, “ Now you have my true 
 opinion about yourself.” At this moment there came a gentle 
 knock at the door, and Mr. Greenwood put in his head. “ I am 
 busy,” said the Marquis very angrily. Then the unhappy chaplain 
 retired abashed to Ms own rooms, which were also on the ground 
 floor, beyond that in which his patron was now sitting. 
 
 “ My lord,” said his wife, towering in her passion,’ “ if you call 
 me wicked in regard to your children, I will not continue" to live 
 under the same roof with you.” 
 
 “ Then you may go away.” 
 
 “I have endeavoured to do my duty by your children, and a 
 very hard time I’ve had of it. If you think that your daughter is 
 now conducting herself with propriety, I can only wash my hands 
 of her. 
 
 “ Wash your hands,” he said. 
 
 “Very well. Of course I must'suffer deeply, because the 
 shadow of the disgrace must fall more or less upon my own 
 darlings.” 
 
 <e , 
 
 Bother the darlings,” said the Marquis. 
 
 They’re your own children, my lord; your own children.” 
 
 Of course they are. Why shouldn’t they be my own children ? 
 They are doing very well, and will get quite as good treatment as 
 younger brothers ought to have.” 
 
 “ I don’t believe you care for them the least in the world ” said 
 the Marchioness. 
 
 “ That is not true. You know I care for them.” 
 
 “ You said ‘ bother the darlings ’ when I spoke of them.” Here 
 the poor mother sobbed, almost overcome by the contumely of the 
 expression used towards her own offspring. 
 
 “You drive a man to say anything. Now look here. I will not 
 have Hampstead and Fanny abused in my presence. If there be 
 anything wiong I must suffer more than you, because they are my 
 children. You have made it impossible for her to live here- 
 
 
 “ I haven’t made it impossible for her to live here. I have onl v 
 done my duty by her. Ask Mr. Greenwood.” 
 
 “ D -Mr. Greenwood!” said the Marquis. He certainly did 
 
 say the word at full length, as far as it can be said to have length 
 and with all the emphasis of which it was capable. He certainly 
 did say it though when the circumstance was afterwards not 
 unfrequently thrown in his teeth, he would forget it and deny it 
 Her ladyship heard the word very plainly, and at once stalked out 
 of the room thereby showing that her feminine feelings had received 
 a wrench which made it impossible for her any longer to endure 
 the presence of such a foul-mouthed monster. Up to that moment 
 she had been anything but the victor; but the vulgarity of the 
 
112 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 curse liad restored to her much of her prestige, so that she was able 
 to leave the battle-field as one retiring with all his forces in proper 
 order. He had “ bothered ” his own children, and “ damned ” his 
 own chaplain! 
 
 The Marquis sat awhile thinking alone, and then pulled a string 
 by which communication was made between his room and that in 
 which the clergyman sat. It was not a vulgar bell, which would 
 havejoeen injurious to the reverence and dignity of a clerical friend, 
 as savouring of a menial’s task work, nor was it a pipe for oral 
 communication, which is undignified, as requiring a man to stoop 
 and put his mouth to it,—but an arrangement by which a light tap 
 was made against the wall so that the inhabitant of the room might 
 know that he was wanted without any process derogatory to his 
 self-respect. The chaplain obeyed the summons, and, lightly 
 knocking at the door, again stood before the lord. He found the 
 Marquis standing upon the hearthrug, by which, as he well knew, 
 it was signified that he was not intended to sit down. “ Mr. Green¬ 
 wood,” said the Marquis, in a tone of voice which was intended to 
 be peculiarly mild, but which at the same time was felt to be 
 menacing, “I do not mean at the present moment to have any 
 conversation with you on the subject to which it is necessary that I 
 should allude, and as I shall not ask for your presence for above a 
 minute or two, I will not detain you by getting you to sit down. 
 If I can induce you to listen to me without replying to me it will, 
 I think, be better for both of us.” 
 
 “ Certainly, my lord.” 
 
 “ I will not have you speak to me respecting Lady Frances.” 
 
 “ When have I done so ? ” asked the chaplain plaintively. 
 
 “ Nor will I have you speak to Lady Kingsbury about her step¬ 
 daughter.” Then he was silent, and seemed to imply, by what he 
 had said before, that the clergyman should now leave the room. 
 The first order given had been very simple. It was one which the 
 Marquis certainly had a right to exact, and with which Mr. Green¬ 
 wood felt that he would be bound to comply. But the other was 
 altogether of a different nature. He was in the habit of constant 
 conversation with Lady Kingsbury as to Lady Frances. Twice, 
 three times, four times a day her ladyship, who in her present 
 condition had no other confidant, would open out her sorrow to him 
 on this terrible subject. Was he to tell her that he had been for¬ 
 bidden by his employer to continue this practice, or was he to 
 continue it in opposition to the Marquis’s wishes? He would have 
 been willing enough to do as he was bidden, but that he saw that 
 he would be driven to quarrel with the lord or the lady. The lord, 
 no doubt, could turn him out of the house, but the lady could 
 make the house too hot to hold him. The lord was a just man, 
 though unreasonable, and would probably not turn him out without 
 compensation; but the lady was a violent woman, who if she were 
 angered would remember nothing of justice. Thinking of all this 
 he stood distracted and vacillating before his patron. “ I expect 
 you,” said the Marquis, “to comply with my wishes,—or to leave me.” 
 
HOW THEY LIVED AT TBAFFORD PARK. 
 
 113 
 
 “ To leave Trafford ? ” asked the poor man. 
 
 “Yes; to leave Trafford; to do that or to comply with my 
 wishes on a matter as to which my wishes are certainly entitled to 
 consideration. Which is it to be, Mr. Greenwood ? ” 
 
 “ Of course, I will do as you bid me.” Then the Marquis bowed 
 graciously as he still stood with his back to the fire, and Mr. Green¬ 
 wood left the room. 
 
 Mr. Greenwood knew well that this was only the beginning of 
 his troubles. When he made the promise he was quite sure that 
 he would be unable to keep it. The only prospect open to him 
 was that of breaking the promise and keeping the Marquis in 
 ignorance of his doing so. It would be out of his power not to 
 follow any lead in conversation which the Marchioness might give 
 him. But it might be possible to make the Marchioness under¬ 
 stand that her husband must be kept in the dark as to any 
 confidence between them. For, in truth, many secrets were now 
 discussed between them, as to which it was impossible that her 
 ladyship should be got to hold her tongue. It had come to be 
 received as a family doctrine between them that Lord Hampstead’s 
 removal to a better world was a thing devoutly to be wished. It is 
 astonishing how quickly, though how gradually, ideas of such a 
 nature will be developed when entertainment has once been given 
 to them. The devil makes himself at home with great rapidity 
 when the hall door has been opened to him. A month or two back, 
 before her ladyship went to Konigsgraaf, she certainly would not 
 have ventured to express a direct wish for the young man’s death, 
 however frequently her thoughts might have travelled in that 
 direction. And certainly in those days, though they were yet not 
 many weeks since, Mr. Greenwood would have been much shocked 
 had any such suggestion been made to him as that which was now 
 quite commonly entertained between them. The pity of it, the pity 
 of it, the pity of it! It was thus the heart-broken mother put the 
 matter, reconciling to herself her own wishes by that which she 
 thought to be a duty to her own children. It was not that she and 
 Mr. Greenwood had between them any scheme by which Lord 
 Hampstead might cease to be in the way. Murder certainly had 
 not come into their thoughts. But the pity of it; the pity of it! 
 As Lord Hampstead was in all respects unfit for that high position 
 which, if he lived, he would be called upon to fill, so was her boy, 
 her Lord Frederic, made to adorn it by all good gifts. He was 
 noble-looking, gracious, and aristocratic from the crown of his little 
 head to the soles of his little feet. . No more glorious heir to a title 
 made happy the heart of any British mother,—if only he were the 
 heir. And why should it be denied to her, a noble scion of the 
 great House of Mountressor, to be the mother of none but younger 
 sons ? _ The more her mind dwelt upon it, the more completely did 
 the iniquity of her wishes fade out of sight and her ambition 
 appear to bo no more than the natural anxiety of a mother for her 
 cbild. ^ Mr. Greenwood had no such excuses to offer to himself; 
 but with him, too, the devil having once made his entrance soon 
 
 i 
 
114 
 
 Marion pay. 
 
 found himself comfortably at home. Of meditating Lord Hamp- 
 stead s murder lie declared to himself that he had no idea Z 
 conscience was quite clear to him in that respect. What was it to 
 11 m who might inherit the title and the property of the Traffords ? 
 
 uo e Xlfnf P i y a Silly woman a circumstance which 
 
 no woids of theirs could do aught either to cause or to prevent It 
 
 soon seemed to him to be natural that she should wish it and 
 
 highest f •iend hat ThoM° Uld t0 s ^ m P athize wit h her who was 
 his best'“lend. Ihe Marquis, he was sure, was gradually dropping 
 
 him. _ W here was he to look for maintenance, but to his own 
 remaining friend? The Marquis would probably give him some¬ 
 thing were he dismissed ;-but that something would go buT a 
 short way towards supporting him comfortably for the rest of his 
 life. Ihere was a certain living in the gift of the Marmik tu 
 Eectoiy of Appleslocombe in Somersetshire, which would exactly 
 suit Mr. Greenwood s needs. The incumbent was a very ofo man 
 now known to be bed-ridden. It was £800 a year There worild 
 
 P® X Ple M f ° r hlmself and fol ; a curate. Mr. Greenwood had spoken 
 to the Marquis on the subject;—but had been told, with some 
 expression of civil regret, that he was considered to be too old for 
 new duties The Marchioness had talked to him frequently of 
 Appleslocombe;—but what was the use of that? If the Marquis 
 himself were to die, and then the Lector, there would be a chance 
 
 ^ v him Anf°M CO r dltl0n th f t L ° rd IIam P stead were also out of the 
 vay But Mi. Greenwood, as he thought of it, shook his head at 
 
 the barren Prospect. His sympathies no doubt were on the side of 
 
 the lady. / The Marquis was treating him ill. Lord Hampstead 
 
 was a disgrace to his order. Lady Frances was worse even than 
 
 be r the°hfor' BntTp a good thing that Lord Frederic should 
 be the heir. But all this had nothing to do with murder,—or even 
 
 with meditation of murder. If the Lord should choose to take the 
 young man it would be well; that was all. 
 
 On the same afternoon, an hour or two after he had mode hi<? 
 pronuse to the Marquis, Lady Kingsbury sent for him. She always 
 did send for him to drink tea with her at five o’clock. It was so 
 legular that the servant would simply announce that tea was ready 
 
 lo-day V’tlllZl° 0m UPStalrS ' “ HaV0 y ° U 6een his lOTdslli P 
 “ Yes;—I have seen him.” 
 
 “ Since he told you in that rude way to leave the room ? ” 
 
 Yes, he called me after that.” 
 
 “ Well ? ” 
 
 He bade me not talk about Lady Frances ” 
 
 I caAndeXnd that." 6 ^ kear her name s P okcn ' 
 
 “ He does not wish me to mention her to you ” 
 
 “Not to me? Is my mouth to be stopped? I shall snv m 
 
 spectmg her whatever I think fit. I dare say, indeed' ” 
 
 It was to my talking that he referred.” 
 
 . “He cannot stop people’s mouths. It is all nonsense. He 
 
BOW THEY LIVED AT TBAFFOBD PARE. 
 
 115 
 
 should have kept her at Konigsgraaf, and locked her up till she 
 had changed her mind.” 
 
 “ Ho wanted me to promise that I would not speak of her to 
 your ladyship.” 
 
 “And what did you say?” He shrugged his shoulders, and 
 drank his tea. She shook her head and bit her lips. She would 
 not hold her tongue, be he ever so angry. “ I almost wish that she 
 would marry the man, so that the matter might be settled. I don’t 
 suppose he would ever mention her name then himself. Has she 
 gone back to Hendon yet ? ” 
 
 “ I don’t know, my lady.” 
 
 “ This is his punishment for having run counter to his uncle’s 
 wishes and his uncle’s principles. You cannot touch pitch and not 
 be defiled.” The pitch, as Mr. Greenwood very well understood, 
 was the first Marchioness. “Did he say anything about Hamp¬ 
 stead ? ” 
 
 “ Not a word.” 
 
 “ I suppose we are not to talk about him either! Unfortunate 
 young man! I wonder whether he feels himself how thoroughly 
 he is destroying the family.” 
 
 “ I should think he must.” 
 
 “ Those sort of men are so selfish that they never think of any 
 one else. It does not occur to him what Frederic might be if he 
 were not in the way. Nothing annoys me so much as when he 
 pretends to be fond of the children.” 
 
 “I suppose he won’t come any.more now.” 
 
 “ Nothing will keep him away,—unless he were to die.” Mr. 
 Greenwood shook his head sadly. “ They say he rides hard.” 
 
 “ I don’t know.” There was something in the suggestion which 
 at the moment made the clergyman almost monosyllabic. 
 
 “ Or his yacht might go down with him.” 
 
 He never yachts at this time of the year,” said the clergyman 
 feeling comfort in the security thus assured. 
 
 “ I suppose not. Bad weeds never get cut off. But yet it is 
 astonishing how many elder sons have been—taken awav, durum 
 the last quarter of a century.” 8 
 
 “ A great many.” 
 
 There never could have been one who could be better spared ” 
 said the stepmother. ’ 
 
 “ Yes;—he might be spared.” 
 
 . “ If you only think of the advantage to the family! It will be 
 ruined if he comes to the title. And my Fred would be such an 
 honour to the name! There is nothing to be done, of course.” 
 That was the first word that had ever been spoken in that direction, 
 and that word was allowed to pass without any reply havin°- been 
 made' to it, though it had been uttered almost in a question. ° 
 
lie 
 
 MAltlON FAt. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 LADY AMALDINA’s LOVER. 
 
 Trafford Park was in Shropshire. Liwddythlw, the Welsh seat 
 of the Duke of Merioneth, was in the next county;—one of the seats 
 that is, for the Duke had mansions in many counties. Here at this 
 period of the year it suited Lord Liwddythlw to live,—not for any 
 special gratification of his own, but because North Wales was sup¬ 
 posed to require his presence. He looked to the Quarter Sessions, 
 to the Roads, to the Lunatic Asylum, and to the Conservative 
 Interests generally of that part of Great Britain. That he should 
 spend Christmas at Liwddythlw was a thing of course. In January 
 he went into Durham; February to Somersetshire. In this way 
 he parcelled himself out about the kingdom, remaining in London 
 of course from the first to the last of the Parliamentary Session. 
 It was, we may say emphatically, a most useful life, but in which 
 there was no recreation and very little excitement. It was not 
 wonderful that he should be unable to find time to get married. 
 As he could not get as far as Castle Hautboy,—partly, perhaps, 
 because he did not especially like- the omnium-gatherum mode of 
 living which prevailed there,—ii had been arranged that he should 
 give up two days early in December to meet the lady of his love 
 under her aunt’s roof at Trafford Park. Lady Amaldina and he 
 were both to arrive there on Wednesday, December 3rd, and remain 
 till the Friday morning. There had not been any special term 
 arranged as to the young lady’s visit, as her time was not of much 
 consequence; but it had been explained minutely that the lover 
 must reach Denbigh by the 5.45 train, so as to be able to visit 
 certain institutions in the town before a public dinner which was 
 to be held in the Conservative interest at seven. Lord Liwddythlw 
 had comfort in thinking that he could utilize his two days’ idleness 
 at Trafford in composing and studying the speech on the present 
 state of affairs, which, though to be uttered at Denbigh, would, 
 no doubt, appear in all the London newspapers on the following 
 morning. 
 
 As it was to be altogether a lover’s meeting, no company was to 
 be invited. Mr. Greenwood would, of course, be there. To make 
 up something of a dinner-party,_ the Mayor of Shrewsbury was 
 asked for the first evening, with his wife. The Mayor was a strong 
 Conservative politician, and Lord Liwddythlw would therefore be 
 glad to meet him. For the next day’s dinner the clergyman of the 
 parish, with his wife and daughter, were secured. The chief draw¬ 
 back to these festive arrangements consisted in the fact that both 
 Lady Amaldina and her lover arrived on the day of the bitter 
 quarrel between the Marquis and his wife. 
 
 Perhaps, however, the coming of guests is the best relief which 
 can be afforded for the misery of such domestic feuds. After such 
 
LADY AMaLDINA’S LOVER. 
 
 l 1 ' 7 
 
 words as had been spoken Lord and Lady Trafford conld hardly 
 have sat down comfortably to dinner, with no one between them 
 but Mr. Greenwood. In such case there could not have been much 
 conversation. But now the Marquis could come bustling into tho 
 drawing-room to welcome his wife’s niece before dinner without 
 any reference to the discomforts of the morning. Almost at the 
 same moment Lord Llwddythhv made his appearance, having 
 arrived at the latest possible moment, and having dressed himself 
 in ten minutes. As there was no one present but the family, Lady 
 Amaldina kissed her future husband,—as she might have kissed 
 her grandfather,—and his lordship received the salutation as any 
 stern, undemonstrative grandfather might have done. Then Mr. 
 Greenwood entered, with the Mayor and his wife, and the party 
 was complete. The Marquis took Lady Amaldina out to dinner 
 and her lover sat next to her. The Mayor and his wife were on the 
 other side of the table, and Mr. Greenwood was between them. 
 The soup had not been handed round before Lord Llwddythlw was 
 deep in a question as to the comparative merits of the Shropshire 
 and Welsh Lunatic asylums. From that moment till the time at 
 which the gentlemen went to the ladies in the drawing-room the 
 conversation was altogether of a practical nature. As soon as the 
 ladies had left the table roads and asylums gave way to general 
 politics,—as to which the Marquis and Mr. Greenwood allowed the 
 Conversatives to have pretty much their own way. In the drawing¬ 
 room conversation became rather heavy, till, at a few minutes after 
 ten, the Mayor, observing that he had a drive before him, retired 
 for the night. The Marchioness with Lady Amaldina followed 
 quickly ; and within five minutes the Welsh lord, having muttered 
 something as to the writing of letters, was within the seclusion of 
 his own bedroom. Not a word of love had been spoken, but Lady 
 Amaldina was satisfied. On her toilet-table she found a little 
 parcel addressed to her by his lordship containing a locket with 
 her monogram, “ A. L.,” in diamonds. The hour of midnight was 
 long passed before his lordship had reduced to words the first half 
 of those promises of constitutional safety which he intended to 
 make to the Conservatives of Denbigh. Not much was seen of 
 Lord Llwddythlw after breakfast on the following morning, so 
 determined w r as he to do justice to the noble cause which he had in 
 hand. After lunch a little expedition was arranged for the two 
 lovers, and the busy politician allowed himself to be sent out for a 
 short drive with no other companion than his future bride. Had 
 he been quite intimate with her he would have given her the 
 manuscript of his speech, and occupied himself by saying it to her 
 as a lesson which he had learnt. As he could not do this he re¬ 
 capitulated to her all his engagements, as though excusing his own 
 slowness as to matrimony, and declared that what with the property 
 and what with Parliament, he never knew whether he was standing- 
 on his head or his heels. But when he paused he had done nothing 
 towards naming a certain day, so that Lady Amaldina found her¬ 
 self obliged to take the matter into her own hands. " When then 
 
 
118 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 do you think it will be?” she asked. He put his hand up and 
 rubbed his head under his hat as though the subject were very dis¬ 
 tressing to him. “ I would not for worlds, you know, think that I 
 was in your way,” she said, with just a tone of reproach in her 
 voice. 
 
 He was in truth sincerely attached to her;—much more so than 
 it was in the compass of her nature to be to him. If he could have 
 had her for his wife without any trouble of bridal preparations, or 
 of subsequent honeymooning, he would most willingly have begun 
 from this moment. It was incumbent on him to be married, and 
 he had quite made up his mind that this was the sort of wife that 
 he required. But now he was sadly put about by that tone of re¬ 
 proach. “ I wish to goodness,” he said, “ that I had been born a 
 younger brother, or just anybody else than I am.” 
 
 “Why on earth should you wish that? ” 
 
 “ Because I am so bothered. Of course, you don’t understand it.” 
 
 “I do understand,” said Amaldina;—“but there must, you 
 know, be some end to all that. I suppose the Parliament and the 
 Lunatic Asylums will go on just the same always.” 
 
 “ No doubt,—no doubt.” 
 
 “If so, there is no reason why any day should ever be fixed. 
 People are beginning to think that it must be off, because it has 
 been talked of so long.” 
 
 “ I hope it will never be off.” 
 
 “I know the Prince said the other day that he had ex¬ 
 pected-But it does not signify what he expected.” Lord 
 
 Llwddythlw had also heard the story of what the Prince had said 
 that he expected, and he scratched his head again with vexation. 
 It had been reported that the Prince had declared that he had 
 hoped to be asked to be godfather long ago. Lady Amaldina had 
 probably heard some other version of the story. “ What I mean is 
 that everybody was surprised that it should be so long postponed, 
 but that they now begin to think it is abandoned altogether.” 
 
 “Shall we say June next?” said the ecstatic lover. Lady 
 Amaldina thought that June would do very well. “But there 
 will be the Town’s Education Improvement Bill,” said his lordship, 
 again scratching his head. 
 
 “I thought all the towns had been educated long ago.” He 
 looked at her with feelings of a double sorrow;—sorrow that she 
 should have known so little, sorrow that she should be treated so 
 badly. “I think w r e will put it off altogether,” she said angrily. 
 
 “ No, no, no,” he exclaimed. “ Would August do ? I certainly 
 have promised to he at Inverness to open the New Docks.” 
 
 “ That’s nonsense,” she said. “ What can the Docks want with 
 you to open them ? ” 
 
 “ My father, you know,” he said, “ has a very great interest in 
 the city. I think I’ll get David to do it.” Lord David was his 
 brother, also a Member of Parliament, and a busy man, as were all 
 the Powell family; but one who liked a little recreation among the 
 moors when the fatigue of the House of Commons was over. 
 
LADY AMALDINA’S LOVED. 119 
 
 , • “° f course he could do it,” said Lady Amaldina. “He got 
 lnmself married ten years ago.” ” 
 
 onditn'VM he i’ U be W ? ngry - He alwa y s says that he 
 ou to htn t to be made to do an elder brother’s work ” 
 
 head hnt n didT&t5 “ a “ ma ? ” Jordship again rubbed his 
 Head, but did it this time m a manner that was conceived to signify 
 
 as far as « h b ft w y P1 ' eSSed h j? arm gent1 ^ and the visit to Traffoi^ 
 as tar as she was concerned, was supposed to have been a success. 
 
 he gave him another little squeeze as they got out of the carriage 
 
 and he went away sadly to learn the rest of his speech thinking 
 
 how sweet it might be "To do as others use; Play with the tangle? 
 
 of Nesera s hair. Or sport with Amaryllis in the shade ” 
 
 iv. ■. t ? e ™ ^ asa worse interruption for Lord Llwddythlw than 
 this which he had now undergone. At about five, when he was 
 making the peroration of his speech quite secure in his memory 
 a message came to him from the Marchioness, saying that she 
 would be much obliged to him if he would give her five minutes 
 in her own room. Perhaps he would be kind enough to drink a 
 cup of tea with her. This message was brought by her ladyship’s 
 own maid and could be regarded only as a command. Bid; Lord 
 Llwddythlw wanted no tea, cared not at all for Lady Kingsbury 
 and was very anxious as to his speech. He almost cursed the 
 fidgety fretfulness of women as he slipped the manuscript into his 
 letter-case,^ and followed the girl along the passages. 
 
 This is so kind of you,” she said. He gave himself the usual 
 lub of vexation as he bowed his head, but said nothing. She saw 
 the state of his mmd, but was determined to persevere. Though 
 he was a man plain to look at, he was known to be the very pillar 
 and support of his order. No man in England was so wedded to 
 the Conservative cause —to that cause which depends for its success 
 on the maintenance of those social institutions by which Great 
 
 ^ n ^ n T ha ^ b T^ fil ’ st f moil S the nations. No one believed 
 as did Lord Llwddythlw in keeping the different classes in their 
 
 ST Pj ace ® “ each P lace requiring honour, truth, and industry 
 The Marchioness understood something of his character in that 
 respect. _ Who therefore would be so ready to see the bitterness of 
 her own injuries, to sympathize with her as to the unfitness of that 
 son and daughter who had no blood relationship to herself to 
 perceive how infinitely better it would be for the “order” that’her 
 own little Lord Frederic should be allowed to succeed and to assist 
 m keeping the institutions of Great Britain in their propec position 9 
 She had become absolutely dead to the fact that by any allusion to 
 the probability of such a succession she was expressing a wish for 
 the untimely death of one for whose welfare she was bound to be 
 solicitous. She had lost, by constant dwelling on the subject her 
 power of seeing how the idea would strike the feelings of another 
 person. Here was a man peculiarly blessed in the world, a man at 
 
 th -?nT y t ?! ) of -, hls “ order ' ” one wll ° would be closely connected 
 with herself, and on whom at some future time she might be able 
 
 to lean as on a strong staff. Therefore she determined to trust her 
 sorrows into hjs ears. - + 
 
120 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 “ Won’t yon have a cup of tea ? ” 
 
 “ I never take any at this time of the day.” 
 
 “ Perhaps a cup of coffee ? ” 
 
 “ Nothing before dinner, thank you.” 
 
 “ You were not at Castle Hautboy when Hampstead and his 
 sister were there?” 
 
 “ I have not been at Castle Hautboy since the spring.” 
 
 asked?” y ° U DOt think ** VGry ° dd that they should ' have been 
 
 “ No, indeed! Why odd ? ” 
 
 “You know the storydo you not? As one about to be so 
 nearly connected with the family, you ought to know it. Lady 
 I ranees has made a most unfortunate engagement, to a young man 
 altogether beneath her,—to a Post Office clerk! ” 
 
 “ I did hear something of that.” 
 
 “ She behaved shockingly here, and was then taken away by 
 her broths,. I have been forced to divorce myself from her 
 altogether Lord Llwddythlw rubbed his head; but on this 
 occasion Lady Kingsbury misinterpreted the cause of his vexation 
 He was troubled at being made to listen to this story. She con- 
 ceived that he was disgusted by the wickedness of Lady Frances. 
 
 Alter that I think my sister was very wrong to have her at Castle 
 Hautboy. No countenance ought to be shown to a young woman 
 who can behave so abominably.” He could only rub his head. 
 
 Do you not think that such marriages are most injurious to the 
 best interests of society ? ” 
 
 “I cer tainly think that young ladies should marry in their 
 own rank.” J 
 
 .„‘x, So ^^ uch , < ? ep ? nd3 upon ;t < does it E °t, Lord Llwddythlw 1 ? 
 All tne future blood of our head families! My own opinion is that 
 nothing could be too severe for such conduct.” 
 
 “ Will severity prevent it ? ” 
 
 “Nothing else can. My own impression is that a father in such 
 case should be a lowed to confine his daughter. But then the 
 Marquis is so weak.” 
 
 “ The country would not stand it for a moment.” 
 
 “So much the worse for the country,” said her ladyship, holding 
 
 sister 6 ” ^ andS * * tlie brotber possible worse than the 
 : Hampstead ? ” 
 
 He utterly hates all idea of an aristocracv.” 
 r That is absurd.” 
 
 “Most absurd,” said the Marchioness, feeling herself to be 
 encouragedmost absurd, and abominable, and wicked He is 
 quite a revolutionist.” 
 
 “Not that, I think” said his lordship, who knew pretty well 
 the ^nature of Hampstead’s political feelings. 
 
 “Indeed he is. Why, he encourages his sister! He would not 
 mmd her marrying a shoeblack if only he could debase his own 
 larnily. Think what I must feel—-I, with my darling boys! ” 
 
 c< 
 
 a 
 
LADY AM ALBINA'S LOVEIt. 
 
 121 
 
 “ Is not he kind to them ? ” 
 
 “ I would prefer that he should never see them! ” 
 
 I don’t see that at all,” said the angry lord 
 But she altogether misunderstood him. " When I think of what 
 ne is, and to what he will reduce the whole family should he live 
 I cannot bear to see him touch them. Think of the blood of the 
 iraffords, of the blood of the Mountressors, of the blood of the 
 Hautevilles;——think of your own blood, which is now to be 
 connected with theirs, and that all this is to be defiled because this 
 man chooses to bring about a disreputable, disgusting marriage 
 
 with the expressed purpose of degrading us all” & 6 
 
 degraded” y0Ur pardon ’ Lady Kin S^J ; I shall be in no way 
 
 “ Think of us; think of my children.” 
 
 . “ Nor will they. It may be a misfortune, but will be no degrada¬ 
 tion. Honour can only be impaired by that which is dishonourable. 
 I wish that Lady Frances had given her heart elsewhere, but I feel 
 sure that the name of her family is safe in her hands. As for 
 Hampstead, he is a young man for whose convictions I have no 
 sympathy, but I am sure that he is a gentleman.” 
 
 I would that he were dead,” said Lady Kingsbury in her 
 wratfi* 
 
 “ Lady Kingsbury! ” 
 
 “ I would that he were dead! ” 
 
 “I can only say,” said Lord Llwddythlw, rising from his chair 
 that you have made your confidence most unfortunately. Lord' 
 Hampstead is a young nobleman whom I should be proud to call 
 my friend A man s politics are his own. His honour, his integrity 
 and even his conduct belong in a measure to his family. I do not 
 think that his father, or his brothers, or, if I may say so, his step- 
 moth e r wiH ever Have occasion to blush for anything that he may 
 do. With this he bowed to the Marchioness, and stalked out of 
 the room with a grand manner, which those who saw him shufflino- 
 his feet in the House of Commons would hardly have thought 
 belonged to him. & 
 
 The dinner on that day was very quiet, and Lady Kingsburv 
 retired to bed earlier even than usual. The conversation at the 
 dinner was dull, and turned mostly on Church subjects. Mr. Green¬ 
 wood endeavoured to be sprightly, and the parson, and the parson’s 
 wife, and the parson’s daughter were uncomfortable Lord 
 Llwddythlw was almost dumb. Lady Amaldina, having settled 
 the one matter of interest to her, was simply contented. On the 
 next morning her lover took his departure by an earlier train than 
 lie had intended. It was, he said, necessary that he should look 
 into some matters at Denbigh before he made his speech He 
 contrived to get a compartment to himself, and there he practised 
 Ins lesson till he felt that further practice would only confuse him 
 
 . “ You ^d Fanny at the Castle the other day,” Lady Kingsburv 
 said the next morning to her niece. fe * 
 
 “ Mamma thought it would be good-figured to ask them both,” 
 
122 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 “ They did not deserve it. Their conduct has been such that 
 I am forced to say that they deserve nothing from my family. 
 Did she speak about this marriage of hers ? ” 
 
 “ She did mention it.” 
 
 “ Well! ” 
 
 “ Oh, there was nothing. Of course there was much more to 
 say about mine. She was saying that she would be glad to be a 
 bridesmaid.” 
 
 “ Pray don’t have her.” 
 
 “ Why not, aunt ? ” 
 
 “ I could not possibly be there if you did. I have been com¬ 
 pelled to divorce her from my heart.” 
 
 “ Poor Fanny ! ” 
 
 “ But she was not ashamed of what she is doing? ” 
 
 “I should say not. She is not one of those that are ever 
 ashamed.” 
 
 “No, no. Nothing would make her ashamed. All ideas of 
 propriety she has banished from her,—as though they didn’t exist, 
 I expect to hear that she disregards marriage altogether.” 
 
 “ Aunt Clara! ” 
 
 “ What can you expect from doctrines such as those which she 
 and her brother share? Thank God, you have never been in the 
 way of hearing of such things. It breaks my heart when I think 
 of what my own darlings will be sure to hear some of these days,— 
 should their half-brother and half-sister still be left alive. But, 
 Amaldina, pray do not have her for one of your bridesmaids.’’ 
 Lady Amaldina, remembering that her cousin was very handsome, 
 and also that there might be a difficulty in making up the twenty- 
 titled virgins, gave her aunt no promise. 
 
 CHAPTEE XX. 
 
 THE SCHEME IS SUCCESSFUL. 
 
 When the matter was mentioned to George Eoden by his mother 
 he could see no reason why she should not dine at Hendon Hall. 
 He himself was glad to have an opportunity of getting over that 
 roughness of feeling which had certainly existed between him and 
 his friend when they parted with each other on the road. As to 
 his mother, it would be well that she should so far return to the 
 usages of the world as to dine at the house of her son’s friend. “ It 
 is only going back to what you used to be,” he said. 
 
 “ You know nothing of what I used to be,” she replied, almost 
 angrily. 
 
 “ I as k n ° questions, and have endeavoured so to train myself 
 that I should care but little about it. But I knew it w r as so ” 
 Then after a pause he went back to the current of his thoughts. 
 
 i 
 
THE SCHEME IS SUCCESSFUL. 
 
 123 
 
 “ Had my father been a prince I think that I should take no pride 
 in it. 
 
 “ It is well to have been born a gentleman,” she said. 
 
 “ It is well to be a gentleman, and if the good things which are 
 generally attendant on high birth will help a man in reaching noble 
 feelings and grand resolves, so it may be that to have been well 
 born will be an assistance. But if a man derogates from his birth, 
 —as so many do,—then it is a crime.” 
 
 “ All that has to be taken for granted, George.” 
 
 “But it is not taken for granted. Though the man himself 
 be knave, and fool, and coward, he is supposed to be ennobled 
 because the blood of the Howards run in his veins. And worse 
 again: though he has gifts of nobility beyond compare he can 
 hardly dare to stand upright before lords and dukes because of his 
 inferiority.” 
 
 “ That is all going away.” 
 
 "Would that it could be made to go a little faster. It may 
 be helped in its going. It may be that in these days the progress 
 shall be accelerated. But you will let me write to Hampstead and 
 say that you will come.” She assented, and so that part of the 
 little dinner-party was arranged. 
 
 After that she herself contrived to see the Quaker one evening 
 on his return home. “ Yes,” said Mr. Fay; “ I have heard thy 
 proposition from Marion. Why should the young lord desire such 
 a one as I am to sit at his table ? ” 
 
 “ He is George’s intimate friend.” 
 
 “ That thy son should choose his friend well, I surely believe, 
 because I see him to be a prudent and wise young man, who does 
 not devote himself overmuch to riotous amusements.” George did 
 occasionally go to a theatre, thereby offending the Quaker’s judg¬ 
 ment, justifying the “overmuch,” and losing his claim to a full 
 measure of praise. “ Therefore I will not quarrel with him that 
 he has chosen his friend from among the great ones of the earth. 
 But like to like is a good motto. I fancy that the weary draught- 
 horse, such as I am, should not stable himself with hunters and 
 racers.” 
 
 “ This young man affects the society of such as yourself and 
 George, rather than that of others nobly born as himself.” 
 
 “ I do not know that he shows his wisdom the more.” 
 
 “ You should give him credit at any rate for good endeavours.” 
 
 “ It is not for me to judge him one way or the other. Did he 
 ask that Marion should also go to his house ? ” 
 
 “Certainly. Why should not the child see something of the 
 world that may amuse her ? ” 
 
 “ Little good can come to my Marion from such amusements, 
 Mrs. Pioden; but something, perhaps, of harm. Wilt thou say that 
 such recreation must necessarily be of service to a girl born to 
 perform the hard duties of a strict life ? ” 
 
 “ I would trust Marion in anything,” said Mrs. Eoden, eagerly. 
 
 So would I; so would I. She hath ever been a good girl,” 
 
124 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 “ But do you not distrust her if you shut her up, and are afraid 
 to allow her even to sit at table in a strange house ? ” 
 
 “I have never forbidden her to sit at thy table,” said the 
 Quaker. 
 
 “ And you should let her go specially as a kindness to me. For 
 my son’s sake I have promised to be there, and it would be a com¬ 
 fort to me to have another woman with me,” 
 
 “ Then you will hardly need me,” said Mr. Fay, not without a 
 touch of jealousy. 
 
 “ He specially pressed his request that you would come. It is 
 among such as you that he would wish to make himself known. 
 Moreover, if Marion is to be there, you, I am sure, will choose to 
 accompany her. Would you not wish to see how the child bears 
 herself on such an occasion ? ” 
 
 , “ On all occasions, at all places, at all hours, I would wish'’ to 
 have my child with me. There is nothing else left to me in all the 
 world on which my eye can rest with pleasure. But I doubt 
 whether it may be for her good.” Then he took his departure, 
 leaving the matter still undecided, speaking of it with words 
 which seemed to imply that he must ultimately refuse, but im¬ 
 pressing Mrs. Boden with a conviction that he would at last accept 
 the invitation. 
 
 “Doest thou wish it thyself ?” he said to his daughter before 
 retiring to rest that night. 
 
 “ If you will go, father, I should like it.” 
 
 “ Why shouldst thou like it ? What doest thou expect ? Is it 
 because the young man is a lord, and tha»t there will be something 
 of the gilded grandeur Jof the 'grand ones of the earth to be seen 
 about his house and his table ? ” 
 
 “ It is not for that, father.” 
 
 “ Or is it because he is young and comely, and can say soft 
 things as such youths are wont to say, because he will smell sweetly 
 of scents and lavender, because his hand will be soft to the touch, 
 with rings on his fingers, and jewels perhaps on his bosom like a 
 woman ? ” 
 
 “ No, father; it is not for that.” 
 
 “ The delicacies which he will give thee to eat and to drink; 
 the sweetmeats and rich food cannot be much to one nurtured as 
 thou hast been.” 
 
 “ Certainly not, father; they can be nothing to me.” 
 
 “ Then why is it that thou wouldst go to his house ? ” 
 
 “ It is that I may hear you, father, speak among men.” 
 
 “ Nay,” said he, laughing, “ thou mayst hear me better speak 
 among men at King’s Court in the City. There I can hold my own 
 well enough, but with these young men over their wine, I shall 
 have but little to say, I fancy. If thou hast nothing to gain but to 
 hear thy old father talk, the time and money will be surely thrown 
 away.” 
 
 “ I would hear him talk, father,” 
 
 “ The young lord ? ” 
 
125 
 
 THE SCHEME IS SUCCESSFUL. 
 
 u Yes; the young lord. He is bright and clever, and, coming 
 from another world than our world, can tell me things that I do 
 not know.” 
 
 “ Can he tell thee aught that is good ? ” 
 
 “ From what I hear of him from our friend he will tell me, 
 I think, naught that is bad. You will be there to hear, and to 
 arrest his words if they be evil. But I think him to be one from 
 whose mouth no guile or folly will be heard.” 
 
 “ Who art thou, my child, that thou shouldst be able to judge 
 whether words of guile are likely to come from a young man’s lips?” 
 But this he said smiling and pressing her hand while he seemed to 
 rebuke her. 
 
 “ Nay, father; I do not judge. I only say that I think it might 
 be so. They are not surely all false and wicked. But if you 
 wish it otherwise I will not utter another syllable to urge the 
 request.” 
 
 “ We will go, Marion. Thy friend urged that it is not good 
 that thou shouldst always be shut up with me alone. And, though 
 I may distrust the young lord as not knowing him, my confidence 
 in thee is such that I think that nothing will ever shake it.” And 
 so it was settled that they should all go. He would send to a 
 livery stable and hire a carriage for this unusual occasion. There 
 should be no need for the young lord to send them home. Though 
 he did not know, as he said, much of the ways of the outside world, 
 it was hardly the custom for the host to supply carriages as well as 
 viands. When he dined, as he did annually, with the elder Mr. 
 Pogson, Mr. Pogson sent him home in no carriage. He would sit 
 at the lord’s table, but he would go and come as did other men. 
 
 On the Friday named the two ladies and the two men arrived 
 at Hendon Hall in something more than good time. Hampstead 
 hopped and skipped about as though he were delighted as a boy 
 might have been at their coming. It may be possible that there 
 was something of guile even in this, and that he had calculated that 
 he might thus best create quickly that intimacy with the Quaker 
 and his daughter which he telt to be necessary for his full enjoy¬ 
 ment of the evening. If the Quaker himself expected much of that 
 gilding of which he had spoken he was certainly disappointed. 
 The garniture of Hendon Hall had always been simple, and now 
 had assumed less even of aristocratic finery than it used to show 
 when prepared for the use of the Marchioness. “ I’m glad you’ve 
 come in time,” said he, “ because you can get comfortably warm 
 before dinner.” Then he fluttered about round Mrs. Boden, paying 
 her attention much rather than Marion Fay,—still with some guile, 
 as knowing that he might thus best prepare for the coming of 
 future good things. “ I suppose you found it awfully cold ? ” he 
 said. 
 
 “ I do not know that we were awed, my lord,” said the Quaker. 
 “ But the winter has certainly set in with some severity.” 
 
 “ Oh, father! ” said Marion, rebuking him. 
 
 “Everything is awful now,” said Hampstead, laughing, “Of 
 
12G MARION FAY. 
 
 course the word is absurd, but one gets in the way of using it 
 because other people do.” 
 
 “ Nay, my lord, I crave pardon if I seemed to criticize thy 
 language. Being somewhat used to a sterner manner of speaking, 
 I took the word in its stricter sense.” 
 
 “ It is but slang from a girl’s school, after all,” said Boden. 
 
 “Now, Master George, I am not going to bear correction from 
 you,” said Hampstead, “though I put up with it from your elders. 
 Miss Fay, when you were at school did they talk slang ? ” 
 
 “Where I was at school, Lord Hampstead,” Marion answered, 
 “ we were kept in strict leading-strings. Fancy, father, what Miss 
 Watson would have said if we had used any word in a sense not 
 used in a dictionary.” 
 
 “Miss Watson was a sensible woman, my dear, and understood 
 well, and performed faithfully, the duties which she had under¬ 
 taken. I do not know that as much can be said of all those who 
 keep fashionable seminaries for young ladies at the West End.” 
 
 “ Miss Watson had a red face, and a big cap, and spectacles;—•. 
 had she not ? ” said Hampstead, appealing to Marion Fay. 
 
 “ Miss Watson,” said Mrs. Boden, “ whom I remember to have 
 seen once when Marion was at school with her, was a very little 
 woman, with bright eyes, who wore her own hair, and always 
 looked as though she had come out of a bandbox.” 
 
 “She was absolutely true to her ideas of life, as a Quaker 
 should be,” said Mr. Fay, “and I only hope that Marion will 
 follow her example. As to language, it is, I think, convenient that 
 to a certain extent our mode of speech should consort with our 
 mode of living. You would not expect to hear from a pulpit the 
 phrases which belong to a racecourse, nor would the expressions 
 which are decorous, perhaps, in aristocratic drawing-rooms befit 
 the humble parlours of clerks and artisans.” 
 
 “I never will say that anything is awful again,” said Lord 
 Hampstead, as he gave his arm to Mrs. Boden, and took her in to 
 dinner. 
 
 “ I hope he will not be angry with father,” whispered Marion 
 Fay to George Boden, as they walked across the hall together. 
 
 “ Not in the least. Nothing of that kind could anger him. If 
 your father were to cringe or to flatter him, then he would be dis¬ 
 gusted.” 
 
 “ Father would never do that,” said Marion, with confidence. 
 
 The dinner went off very pleasantly, Hampstead and Boden taking 
 between them the weight of the conversation. The Quaker was 
 perhaps a little frightened by the asperity of his own first remark, 
 and ate his good things almost in silence. Marion was quite con¬ 
 tented to listen, as she had told her father was her purpose ; but it 
 was perhaps to the young lord’s words that she gave attention 
 rather than to those of his friends’. His voice was pleasant to her 
 ears. There was a certain graciousness in his words, as to which 
 she did not suppose that their softness was specially intended for 
 her hearing. 'Who does not know the way in which a man may set 
 
THE SCHEME IS SUCCESSFUL. 127 
 
 at to gain admission into a woman’s heart without 
 addiessmg hardly a word to herself? And who has not noted the 
 sympathy with which the woman has unconsciously accepted the 
 homage . That pressing of the hand, that squeezing of the arm 
 hat glancing of the eyes, which are common among lovers, are 
 generally the developed consequences of former indications which 
 
 iad i thei ^ fu11 eff ect, even though they were hardly under¬ 
 stood, and could not have been acknowledged, at the time. But 
 Marion did, perhaps feel that there was something of worship even 
 in the way in which her host looked towards her with rapid glances 
 from minute to minute, as though to see that if not with words, at 
 any rate with thoughts, she was taking her share in the conversa- 
 tion which was certainly intended for her delight. The Quaker in 
 the mean time ate his dinner very silently. He was conscious of 
 having shown himself somewhat of a prig about that slang phrase 
 and was repenting himself. Mrs. Boden every now and then would 
 put m a word m answer rather to her son than to the host, but she 
 was aware of those electric sparks which, from Lord Hampstead’s 
 
 Fay’s f heart Wire ' bemg directed every moment against Marion 
 
 Now just for the fashion of the thing you must sit here for a 
 quarter of an hour, while we are supposed to be drinking our wine ” 
 This was said by Lord Hampstead when he took the two ladies into 
 the drawing-room after dinner. 
 
 hurry yourselves,” said Mrs. Boden. - Marion and I 
 aie old friends, and will get on very well.” 
 
 . - ., 0 !' y es > sfdd Marion. “ It will be pleasure enough to me iust 
 bet™ he iu and Ioo . k around me.” Then Hampstead knelt down 
 
 reaufreVno el Ho^ e * endlD m l . t0 d °° t0r up the fire ’ which certainly 
 
 the'other on tie itn S 'i ?! ey ? ere stand “g. one on one side and 
 me otliei on the other, looking down upon him. 
 
 t( are spcil^g that fire. Lord Hampstead,” said Mrs Boden 
 Coals were made to be poked. I feel sure of that Do take 
 
 in tlfe°t er “f glVe them ? ne blow - That wiu make you at home 
 m the house for ever you know.” Then he handed the implement 
 
 *°. M t a T-V 1 S , h \ c °? Id llardl y d « other than take it in her h“nd 
 t)he took it, blushed up to the roots of her hair, paused a moment 
 
 her E 1 ^JS e h Wow * he Tl S * hat had been r“d of 
 ? e V J , a ? saicl be > nodding at her as he still knelt at her 
 
 **** nd *?ok J he P oker from her; “ thanks. Now you are free of 
 
 mvfirT’^TTn^+V e u 1 7° uldn ’j have an ^ one but a friend poke 
 } TVTP f 18 ” e J?p,and walked slowly out of the room. 
 
 « t+ M rs ; -Roden, said Marion,“ I wish I hadn’t done it.” 
 t( It doesn t matter. It was only a joke.” 
 
 Of course it was a joke ! but I wish I hadn’t done it Tt 
 seemed at the moment that I should look to be cross if I didn’t do 
 
 TomeLkt Oh** Mrs* T? If, T* tbat ^ “ng at 
 
 nome^r -- On, Mis. Boden, I wish I had not done it.” 
 
 He will know that it was nothing, my dear He is p-nnrl 
 
 humoured and playful, and likes the feehtg of making us feel ?hft 
 
128 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 we are not strangers.” But Marion knew that Lord Hampstead 
 would not take it as meaning nothing. Though she could see no 
 more than his back as he walked out of the room, she knew that 
 he was glowing with triumph. 
 
 “ Now, Mr. Fay, here is port if you like, but I recommend you 
 
 to stick to the claret.” , . . T 
 
 “ I have prettv well done all the sticking, my lord, of which 1 
 
 am competent,” said the Quaker. “ A little wine goes a long way 
 with me, as I am not much used to it.” 
 
 “ Wine maketh glad the heart of man,” said Roden. 
 
 “ True enough, Mr. Roden. But I doubt whether it be good 
 that a man’s heart should be much gladdened. Gladness and 
 sorrow counterbalance each other too surely. An even serenity is 
 best fitted to human life, if it can be reached.” 
 
 “ A level road without hills,” said Hampstead. They say 
 
 that horses are soonest tired by such travelling.” . 
 
 “ They would hardly tell you so themselves if they could give 
 their experience after a long day’s journey.” Then there was a 
 pause, but Mr. Fay continued to speak. “ My lord I fear I mis¬ 
 behaved myself in reference to that word awful which fell by 
 
 chance from thy mouth.” < 
 
 “ Oh dear, no ; nothing of the kind. 
 
 “ I was bethinking me that I was among the young men m our 
 court in Great Broad Street, who will indulge sometimes m a 
 manner of language not befitting their occupation at the time or 
 perhaps their station in life. I am wont then to remind them that 
 words during business hours should be used m their strict sense. 
 But my lord, if you will take a farm-horSe from his plough you 
 cannot expect from him that he should prance upon the. green. 
 
 « It is because I think that there should be more mixing between 
 what you call plough-horses and animals used simply for play, that 
 I have been so proud to make you welcome here. I hope it may 
 not be by many the last time that you will act as a living 
 dictionary for me. If you won’t have any more wine we will go to 
 them in the drawing-room.” 
 
 Mrs. Roden very soon declared it necessary that they should 
 start back to Holloway. Hampstead himself did not attempt to 
 delay them. The words that had absolutely passed between him 
 and Marion had hardly been more than those which have been here 
 set down, but yet he felt that he had accomplished not only with 
 satisfaction but with some glory to himself the purpose for which 
 lie had specially invited his guests. His scheme had been carried 
 out with perfect success. After the manner m which Marion .had 
 obeyed his behest about the fire, he was sure that he was justified 
 in regarding her as a friend. 
 
CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 WHAT THEY ALL THOUGHT AS THEY WENT HOME. 
 
 Lord Hampstead had come to the door to help them into the 
 carriage. “ Lord Hampstead/’ said Mrs. Roden, “ you will catch 
 your death of cold. It is freezing, and you have nothing on your 
 head.” 
 
 “ I am quite indifferent about those things/’ he said, as for a 
 moment he held Marion’s hand while he helped her into the 
 carriage. 
 
 “ Do go in,” she whispered. Her lips as she spoke were close to* 
 his ear,—but that simply came from the position in which chance 
 had placed her. Her hand was still in his,—but that, too, was 
 the accident of the situation. But there is, 1 think, an involuntary 
 tendency among women to make more than necessary use of 
 assistance when the person tendering it has made himself really 
 welcome. Marion had certainly no such intention. Had the idea- 
 come to her at the moment she would have shrank from his touch. 
 It was only when his fingers were withdrawn, when the feeling of 
 the warmth of this proximity had passed away, that she became 
 aware that he had been so close to her, and that now they were 
 separated. 
 
 Then her father entered the carriage, and Roden. 
 
 “ Good night, my lord,” said the Quaker. “ I have passed my 
 evening very pleasantly. I doubt whether I may not feel the less 
 disposed for my day’s work to-morrow.” 
 
 “Not at all, Mr. Lay; not at all. You will be like a giant 
 refreshed. There is nothing like a little friendly conversation for 
 bracing up the mind. I hope it will not be long before you come 
 and try it again.” Then the carriage was driven off, and Lord 
 Hampstead went in to warm himself before the fire which Marion 
 Fay had poked. 
 
 He had not intended to fall in love with her. Was there ever a 
 young man who, when he first found a girl to be pleasant to him, 
 has intended to fall in love with her ? Girls will intend to fall in 
 love, or, more frequently perhaps, to avoid it; but men in such 
 matters rarely have a purpose. Lord Hampstead had found her, 
 as he thought, to be an admirable specimen of excellence in that 
 class of mankind which his convictions and theories induced him 
 to extol. He thought that good could be done by mixing the racers 
 and plough-horses,—and as regarded the present experiment, Marion 
 Fay was a plough-horse. No doubt he would not have made this 
 special attempt had she not pleased his eye, and his ear, and his 
 senses generally. He certainly was not a philosopher to whom in 
 his search after wisdom an old man such as Zachary Fay could 
 make himself as acceptable as his daughler. It may be acknow¬ 
 ledged of him that he was susceptible to female influences. But it 
 
 K 
 
had not at first occurred to him that if would be a good tiring to 
 fall in love with Marion Fay. Why should ho not be on friendly 
 terms with an excellent and lovely girl without loving her ? Such 
 had been his ideas after first meeting Marion at Mrs. Eoden’s house. 
 Then he had determined that friends could not become friends 
 without seeing each other, and he had concocted his scheme without 
 being aware of the feelings which she had excited. The scheme 
 had been carried out; he had had his dinner-party; Marion Fay 
 had poked his fire; there had been one little pressure of the hand 
 as he helped her into the carriage, one little whispered word, which 
 had it not been whispered would have been as nothing; one moment 
 of consciousness that his lips were close to her cheek; and then he 
 returned to the warmth of his fire, quite conscious that he was in 
 love. 
 
 What was to come of it? When he had argued both with his 
 sister and with Eoden that their marriage would be unsuitable 
 because of their difference in social position, and had justified his 
 opinion by declaring it to be impossible that any two persons could, 
 by their own doing, break through the conventions of the world 
 without ultimate damage to themselves and to others, he had 
 silently acknowledged to himself that he also was bound by the 
 law which he was teaching. That such conventions should gra¬ 
 dually cease to be, would be good; but no man is strong enough to 
 make a new law fof his own governing at the spur of the moment; 
 —and certainly no woman. The existing distances between man 
 and man were radically bad. This was the very gist of his doctrine; 
 but the instant abolition of such distances had been proved by 
 many experiments to be a vain dream, and the diminution of them 
 must be gradual and slow. That such diminution would go on 
 till the distances should ultimately disappear in some future 
 millennium w T as to him a certainty. The distances were being 
 diminished by the increasing wisdom and philanthropy of mankind. 
 To him, born to high rank and great wealth, it had been given to 
 do more perhaps than another. In surrendering there is more 
 efficacy, as there is also more grace, than in seizing. What of his 
 grandeur he might surrender without injury to others to whom he 
 was bound, he would surrender. Of what exact nature or kind 
 should be the woman whom it might please him to select as his 
 wife, he had formed no accurate idea; but he would endeavour so 
 to marry that he would make no step down in the world that might 
 be.offensive to his family, but would yet satisfy his own convictions 
 by -drawing himself somewhat away from aristocratic blood. His 
 father had done the same when choosing his first wife, and the 
 happiness of his choice would have been perfect had not death 
 interfered. Actuated by such reasoning as this, he had endeavoured 
 in a mild way to separate his sister from her lover, thinking that 
 they who were in love should be bound by the arguments which 
 seemed good to him who was not in love. But now he also was in 
 love, and the arguments as they applied to himself fell into shreds 
 and tatters as he sat gazing at his fire, holding the poker in his hand. 
 
WE AT THEY ALL THOUGHT AS THEY WENT HOME . 131 
 
 Had there ever been anything more graceful than the mock 
 violence with which she had pretended to strike heartily at the 
 coals?—had there ever anything been more lovely than that mingled 
 glance of doubt, of fear, and of friendliness with which she had 
 looked into his face as she did it? She had quite understood his 
 feeling when he made his little request. There had been heart 
 enough in her, spirit enough, intelligence enough, to tell her at 
 once the purport of his demand. Or rather she had not seen it all 
 at once, but had only understood when her hand had gone too far 
 to be withdrawn that something of love as well as friendship had 
 been intended. Before long she should know how much of love 
 had been intended! Whether his purpose was or was not com¬ 
 patible with the wisdom of his theory as to a gradual diminution 
 of distances, his heart had gone too far now for any retracting. 
 As he sat there he at once began to teach himself that the argu¬ 
 ments he had used were only good in reference to high-born 
 females, and that they need not necessarily affect himself. Whom¬ 
 ever he might marry he would raise to his own rank. For his 
 rank he did not care a straw himself. It was of the prejudices of 
 others he was thinking when he assured himself that Marion would 
 make as good a Countess and as good a Marchioness as any lady 
 in the land. In regard to his sister it was otherwise. She must 
 follow the rank of her husband. It might be that the sores which 
 she would cause to many by becoming the wife of a Post Office 
 clerk ought to be avoided. But there need be no sores in regard 
 to his marriage with Marion Fay. 
 
 His present reasoning was, no doubt, bad, but such as it was it 
 was allowed to prevail absolutely. It did not even occur to him 
 that he would make an attempt to enfranchise himself from Marion’s 
 charms. Whatever might occur, whatever details there might be 
 which would require his attention in regard to his father or others 
 of the family, everything must give way to his present passion. 
 She had poked his fire, and she must be made to sit at his hearth 
 for the remainder of their joint existence. She must be made to 
 sit there if he could so plead his cause that his love should prevail 
 with her. As to the Quaker father, he thought altogether well of 
 him too,—an industrious, useful, intelligent man, of whose quaint 
 manners and manly bearing he would not be ashamed in any 
 society. She, too, was a Quaker, but that to him was little or 
 nothing. He also had his religious convictions, but they were not 
 of a nature to be affronted or shocked by those of any one who 
 believed that the increasing civilization of the world had come 
 from Christ’s teaching. The simple, earnest purity of the girl’s 
 faith would be an attraction to him rather than otherwise. Indeed, 
 there was nothing in his Marion, as he saw her, that was not con¬ 
 ducive to feminine excellence. 
 
 His Marion! How many words had he spoken to her ? How 
 many thoughts had he extracted from her? How many of her 
 daily doings had he ever witnessed ? But what did it matter ? It 
 is not the girl that the man loves, but the image which imagination 
 
132 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 has built up for him to fill the outside covering which has pleased 
 his senses. He was quite as sure that the Ten Commandments 
 were as safe in Marion’s hands as though she were already a saint 
 canonized for the perfection of all virtues. He was quite ready to 
 take that for granted; and having so convinced himself, was now 
 only anxious as to the means by which he might make this nriee- 
 less pearl his own. 1 
 
 There must be some other scheme. He sat, thinking of this 
 cudgelling his brains for some contrivance by which he and Marion 
 Fay nught be brought together again with the least possible delav. 
 His idea of a dinner-party had succeeded beyond all hope. But he 
 could not have another dinner-party next week. Nor could lie 
 oring together the guests whom he had to-day entertained after his 
 sister s return. He was bound not to admit George Eoden to his 
 house as long as she should be with him. Without George he could 
 haiuly hope that Mrs. Eoden would come to him, and without Mrs. 
 Eoden liow could he entice the Quaker and his daughter? His 
 sister would be with him on the following day, and would, no 
 doubt be willing to assist him with Marion if it were possible 
 But the giving ot such assistance on her part would tacitly demand 
 assistance also from him in her difficulties. Such assistance, ho 
 knew, he could not give, having pledged himself to his father in 
 regard to George Eoden. He could at the present moment devise 
 no other scheme than the very simple one of going to Mrs. Eoden 
 and declaring his love for the girl. * 
 
 * 
 
 * 
 
 * 
 
 . The four guests in the carriage were silent throughout their 
 drive home. They all had' thoughts of their own sufficient to 
 occupy them. George Eoden told himself that this, for a long day 
 must be his last visit to Hendon Hall. He knew that Lady 
 Frances would arrive on the morrow, and that then his presence 
 was forbidden. He had refused to make any promise as to his 
 assured absence, not caring to subject himself to an absolute bond^ 
 but he was quite aware that he was bound in honour not to enter 
 the house m which he could not be made welcome. He felt him¬ 
 self to be safe, with a great security. The girl whom he loved 
 would certainly be true. _ He was not impatient, as was Hampstead. 
 He did not trouble Ins mind with schemes which were to be brought 
 to bear within the next few days. He could bide his time, com- 
 fortmg himself with ms faith. But still a lover can hardly be 
 satisfied with the world unless he can see some point in his heaven 
 from which light may be expected to break through the clouds. 
 He could not see the point from which the light might be expected. 
 
 I he Quaker was asking himself many questions. Had he done 
 well to take his girl to this young nobleman’s house ? Had he 
 done well to take himself there ? It had been as it were a sudden 
 disruption m the settled purposes of his life. What had he or his 
 giri to do with lords? And yet he had been pleased. Courtesy 
 always flatters, and flattery is always pleasant. A certain sense oi 
 softness had been grateful to him. There came upon him a painful 
 
133 
 
 WHAT THEY ALL THOUGHT AS THEY WENT HOME. 
 
 question,—as there does on so many of us, when for a time we 
 make a successful struggle against the world’s allurements — 
 whether m abandoning the delights of life we do in truth get any 
 compensation for them. Would it not after all be better to do as 
 others use ? Phoebus as he touches our trembling ear encourages 
 us but with a faint voice. It had been very pleasant,—the soft 
 chairs, the quiet attendance, the well-cooked dinner the good 
 wines, the bright glasses, the white linen,—and pleasanter than 
 all that silvery tone of conversation to which he was so little 
 accustomed either in King’s Court or Paradise Row. Marion 
 indeed was always gentle to him as a dove cooing; but he was 
 aware of himself that he was not gentle in return. Stern truth 
 expressed shortly in strong language, was the staple of his con¬ 
 versation at home. He had declared to himself all through his life 
 that stern truth and strong language were better for mankind than 
 sort phrases. _ But in his own parlour in Paradise Row he had 
 rarely seen his Marion bright as she had been at this lord’s table, i 
 "\v as it good for his Marion that she should be encouraged to such 
 biightness; and if so, had he been cruel to her to suffuse her entire 
 life with a colour so dark as to admit of no light ? Why had her 
 beauty shone so brightly in the lord’s presence? He too knew 
 something of love, and had it always present to his mind that the ' 
 time v ould come when his Marion’s heart would be given to some 
 stiangei. He did not think, he would not think, that the stranger ! 
 had now come; but would, it be well that his girl’s future should 
 be affected even as was his own ? He argued the points much 
 within himself, and told himself that it could not be well. 
 
 Mis. Roden had read it nearly all,—though she could not quite 
 read the simple honesty of the young lord’s purpose. The 
 symptoms of love had been plain enough to her eyes, and she had 
 soon told herself that she had done wrong in taking the girl to the 
 young lord’s house She had seen that Hampstead had admired 
 Mai ion, but she had not dreamed that it would be carried to such 
 a length as this. But when he had knelt on the rug between them 
 leaning just a little towards the girl, and had looked up into the 
 girl s face, smiling at his own little joke, but with his face full of 
 lovethen she had known. And when Marion had whispered 
 the one word with her little fingers lingering within the young 
 loid s touch, then she had known. It was not the young lord only 
 who had given way to the softness of the moment. If evil had 
 been done, she had done it; and it seemed as though evil had 
 certainly been done. If much evil had been done, how could she 
 forgive herself? 
 
 And what were Marion’s thoughts ? Did she feel that an evil 
 had been done, an evil lor which there could never be a cure found? 
 
 h ave so assured herself, had she as yet become aware 
 ot the lull power and depth and mortal nature of the wound she had 
 received. For such a wound, for such a hurt, there is but one 
 cure, and ol that she certainly would have entertained no hope. 
 But^ as it v ill sometimes be that a man shall in h is flesh receive a 
 
134 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 fatal injury, of which he shall for awhile think that only some 
 bruise has pained him, some scratch annoyed him; that a little 
 time, with ointment and a plaister, will give him back his body as 
 sound as ever; but then after a short space it becomes known to 
 him that a deadly gangrene is affecting his very life • so will it be 
 with a girl’s heart. She did not yet,-not yet,—tell herself that 
 half-a-dozen gentle words, that two or three soft glances that a 
 touch of a hand, the mere presence of a youth whose comeliness 
 was endearing to the eye, had mastered and subdued all that there 
 was of Marion Fay. But it was so. Not for a moment did her 
 mmd run away, as they were taken homewards, from the obiect 
 of her unconscious idolatry. Had she behaved ill ?—that was her 
 regret! He had been so gracious;—that was her joy! Then there 
 came a pang from the wound, though it was not as yet a nano- as 
 of death. What right had such a one as she to receive even an 
 idle word of compliment from a man such as was Lord Hampstead ? 
 What could he be to her, or she to him ? He had his high mission 
 to complete, his great duties to perform, and doubtless would find 
 some noble lady as a fit mother for his children. He had come 
 across her path for a moment, and she could not but remember 
 lim foi e^ ei! There was something of an idea present to her that 
 ove would now be beyond her reach. But the pain necessarily 
 attached to such an idea had not as yet reached her There came 
 something of a regret that fortune had placed Her so utterly 
 beyond his notice;—but she was sure of this, sure of this, that if 
 the chance were offered to her, she would not mar his greatness by 
 accepting the priceless boon of his love. But why —why had he 
 been so tender to her? Then she thought of what 'were the ways 
 of men, and of what she had heard of them. It had been bad for 
 her to go abroad thus with her poor'foolish softness, with her girl’s 
 \ntried tenderness, that thus she should be affected by the first 
 chance smile that had been thrown to her by one of those petted 
 darlings of Fortune! And then she was brought round to that 
 same resolution which was at the moment forming itself in her 
 father’s mind;—that it would have been better for her had she not 
 allowed herself to be taken to Hendon Hall. Then they we in 
 Paradise Bow, and were put down at their separate doors with but 
 lew words of farewell to each other. 
 
 . . “They have just come home,” said Clara Demijohn, rushing 
 into her mother’s bedroom. “You’ll find it is quite true. They 
 have been dining with the lord! ” J 
 
 - :"! 
 
( 135 ) 
 
 CIIAPTEK XXII. 
 
 again at trafford. 
 
 The meeting between Hampstead and bis sister was affectionate 
 “ 0l ^ fiatl s f actor.y, though it was necessary that a few 
 woids should be spoken which could hardly be pleasant in themselves 
 I had a dinner-party here last night,” he said laughing, desirous 
 
 Marion^ay?" SOmethmg ° f George ^den,-and somethFng also of 
 
 u Who were the guests ? ” 
 
 " Eo( ^ en Y as here.” Then there was silence. She was glad that 
 ei lover had been one of the guests, but she was not as yet moved 
 to say anything respecting him. “ And his mother.” 
 
 I am sure I shall like his mother,” said Lady Frances. 
 
 I have mentioned it,” continued her brother, speaking with 
 
 n\ n T SU fl! °i r T because ’ in compliance with the agreement ± made 
 at Tiafford, I cannot ask him here again at present.” 
 
 “ I am sorry that I should be in your way, John.” 
 
 “ You are not in my way, as I think you know. Let us say no 
 111016 ,^ ba ^ a ^ present. Then I had a singular old Quaker 
 
 named Zachary Fay, an earnest, honest, but humble man, who blew 
 me up instantly for talking slang.” 
 
 “ Where did you pick him up ? ” 
 
 , “ Se comes out of the City,” he said, not wishing to refer again 
 
 to Paradise Row and the neighbourhood of the Rodens,—“ and he 
 brought his daughter.” ' 
 
 “ A young lady ? ” 
 
 “ Certainly a young lady ” 
 
 “ Ah, but young,—and beautiful ? ” 
 
 “ Young,—and beautiful.” 
 
 Now y0 ? are ^nghing. I suppose she is some strong-minded 
 rather repulsive, middle-aged woman.” ’ 
 
 . /^ s to ^e strength of her mind, I have not seen enough to con- 
 a JUd ^ i?- d H . am P stead > almost with a tone of 
 • G S1 -°i U n d iraa £ me her to be repulsive because she 
 
 is a Quaker, or why middle-aged, 1 do not understand. She is not 
 repulsive to me.” 
 
 some dWinfbeauf” “ ^ ’ N ° W 1 know that you haTO fo ™ d 
 
 i j some ti m es entertain angels unawares. I thought that I 
 had done so when she took her departure.” 
 
 “ Are you in earnest ? ” 
 
 “ 1 ? m qait ® “ ® ar ?f ‘ as to the angel. Now I have to consult 
 ( a . P 1 eject. It may be remembered that Hampstead had 
 
 be r “ t0 the ex P edleI10 y of giving up his horses 
 
 TT 11° 4 h , ls ! . n5 I eans ,' were not sufficient to keep up Hendon 
 
 .Hall, his yacht, and Ins hunting establishment in Northamptonshire. 
 
MARION FAY. 
 
 13 G 
 
 The Marquis, without saying a w T ord to his son, had settled that 
 matter, and Gorse Hall, with its stables, was continued. The pro¬ 
 position now made to Lady Frances was that she should go down with 
 him and remain there for a week or two till she should find the place 
 too dull. He had intended to fix an almost immediate day; but 
 now he was debarred from this by his determination to see Marion 
 yet once again before he took himself altogether beyond the reach 
 of Holloway. The plan, therefore, though it was fixed as far as his 
 own intention went and the assent of Lady Frances, was left un¬ 
 defined as to time. The more he thought of Holloway, and the 
 difficulties of approaching Paradise Eow, the more convinced he 
 became that his only mode of approaching Marion must be through 
 Mrs. Eoden. He had taken two or three days to consider what 
 would be the most appropriate manner of going through this 
 operation, when on a sudden he was arrested by a letter from his 
 father, begging his presence down at Trafford. The Marquis was 
 ill, and was anxious to see his son. The letter in which the request 
 was made was sad and plaintive throughout. He was hardly able 
 to write, Lord Kingsbury said, because he was so unwell; but he 
 had no one to write for him. Mr. Greenwood had made himself so 
 disagreeable that he could no longer employ him for such purposes. 
 “ Your stepmother is causing me much vexation, which I do not 
 think that I deserve from her.” He then added that it would be 
 necessary for him to have his lawyer down at Trafford, but that 
 he wished to see Hampstead first in order that they might settle 
 as to certain arrangements which were required in regard to the 
 disposition of the property. There were some things which Hamp¬ 
 stead could not fail to perceive from this letter. He was sure that 
 his father was alarmed as to his own condition, or he would not 
 have thought of sending for the lawyer to Trafford. He had 
 hitherto always been glad to seize an opportunity of running up 
 to London when any matter of business had seemed to justify the 
 journey. Then it occurred to his son that his father had rarely or 
 ever spoken or written to him of his “ stepmother.” In certain 
 moods the Marquis had been wont to call his wife either the 
 Marchioness or Lady Kingsbury. When in good humour he had 
 generally spoken of her to his son as “your mother.” The injurious 
 though strictly legal name now given to her was a certain index 
 of abiding wrath. But things must have been very bad with the 
 Marquis at Trafford when he had utterly discarded the services of 
 Mr. Greenwood,—services to which he had been used for a time 
 to which the memory of his son did not go back. Hampstead of 
 course obeyed his father’s injunctions, and went down to Trafford 
 instantly, leaving his sister alone at Hendon Hall. He found the 
 Marquis not in bed indeed, but confined to his own sitting-room, 
 and to a very small bed-chamber which had been fitted up for him 
 close to it. Mr. Greenwood had been anxious to give up his own 
 rooms as being more spacious; but the offer had been peremptorily 
 and almost indignantly refused. The Marquis had been unwilling 
 to accept anything like a courtesy from Mr. Greenwood. Should 
 
AGAIN AT TEAFFORD. 
 
 137 
 
 he make up his mind to turn Mr. Greenwood out of the house,— 
 and he had almost made up his mind to do so,—then he could do 
 what he pleased with Mr. Greenwood’s rooms. But he wasn’t going 
 to accept the loan of chambers in his own house as a favour from 
 Mr. Greenwood. 
 
 Hampstead on arriving at the house saw the Marchioness for 
 a moment before he went to his father. “ I cannot tell how he is,” 
 said Lady Kingsbury, speaking in evident dudgeon. “He will 
 hardly let me go near him. Doctor Spicer seems to think that we 
 need not be alarmed. He shuts himself up in those gloomy rooms 
 downstairs. Of course it would be better for him to be off the 
 ground floor, where he would have more light and air. But he has 
 become so obstinate, that I do not know how to deal with him.” 
 
 “ He has always liked to live in the room next to Mr. Green¬ 
 wood’s.” 
 
 “ He has taken an absolute hatred to Mr. Greenwood. You had 
 better not mention the poor old gentleman’s name to him. Shut 
 up as I am here, I have no one else to speak a word to, and for 
 that reason, I suppose, he wishes to get rid of him. He is absolutely 
 talking of sending the man away, after having had him with him 
 for nearly thirty years.” In answer to all this Hampstead said 
 almost nothing. _ He knew his stepmother, and was aware that he 
 could do no service by telling her what he might find it to be his 
 duty to say to his father as to Mr. Greenwood, or on any other 
 subject. He did not hate his stepmother,—as she hated him. But 
 he regarded her as one to whom it was quite useless to speak 
 seriously as to the affairs of the family. He knew her to be pre¬ 
 judiced, ignorant, and falsely proud,—but he did not suppose her 
 to be either wicked or cruel. 
 
 His father began almost instantly about Mr. Greenwood, so 
 that it would have been quite impossible for him to follow Lady 
 Kingsbury’s advice on that matter had he been ever so well minded. 
 “ Of course I’m ill,” he said; “ I suffer so much from sickness and 
 dyspepsia that I can eat nothing. Doctor Spicer seems to think 
 that I should get better if I did not worry myself; but there are 
 so many things to worry me. The conduct of that man is abomin¬ 
 able.” 
 
 “ What man, sir ? ” asked Hampstead,—who knew, however, very 
 well what was coming. 
 
 “That clergyman,” said Lord Kingsbury, pointing in the direction 
 of Mr. Greenwood’s room. 
 
 “ He does not come to you, sir, unless you send for him ? ” 
 
 “ I haven’t seen him for the last five days, and I don’t care if I 
 never see him again.” 
 
 “ How has he offended you, sir ? ” 
 
 “ I gave him my express injunctions that he should not speak 
 of your sister either to me or the Marchioness. He gave me his 
 solemn promise, and I know very well that they are talking about 
 her every hour of the day.” 
 
 " Perhaps that is not his fault.” 
 
138 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 Tf 7*o n eS> ^ ^ nee ^ n ’t talk to a woman unless he likes. 
 
 It is downright impudence on his part. Your stepmother comes to 
 
 m6 S Y rSFi- 7 ’ ? nd never leaves me without abusing Fanny.” 
 
 “ a i if ? thought it better that Fanny should come to me.” 
 ,, n ud then, when I argue with her, she always tells me what 
 fi; Greenwood says about it. Who cares about Mr. Greenwood? 
 What business has Mr. Greenwood to interfere in my family? He 
 does not know how to behave himself, and he shall go ” 
 
 plead* g for the old Tan* *"** ^ 6ir ’” ““ 
 
 Too many,” said the Marquis. “When you’ve had a man 
 about you so long as that, he is sure to take liberties.” 
 
 You must provide for him, sir, if he goes.” 
 
 tt T 1 kav f thought of that. He must have something, of course, 
 lie has had three hundred a~year for the last ten years, and has 
 had everything found for him down to his washing and his cab 
 a ^ e ,' y° r fiv o-and-twenty years he has never paid for a bed or a 
 
 gf * °f f f i hlS ow g pocket * What has lie done with his money ? 
 He ought to be a rich man for his degree.” J 
 
 at a ma + U d T°f S - with his ™ ne y I suppose, no concern to 
 
 !ri f!J h d ay It “ su PPOsed to have been earned, and there is 
 an end of it as far as they are concerned.” 
 
 ‘‘ shall have a thousand pounds,” said the Marquis. 
 
 dismS hZ«ih al ' dIr be liberal 1 ™ Id thtok Wore I 
 
 “I have thought a dozen times.” 
 
 “I would let him remain” said Hampstead, “if only because 
 lies a comfort to Lady Kingsbury. What does it matter though 
 he does talk of Fanny ? Were he to go she would talk to somebody 
 
 else who might be perhaps less fit to hear her, and he would 6f 
 course, talk to everybody.” wuuiu, oi 
 
 cs t+ has he not obeyed me ? ” demanded the Marquis, angrily. 
 
 t is I who have employed him. I have been his patron, and now 
 he turns against me. Thus the Marquis went on till his strength 
 would not suffice for any further talking. Hampstead found him¬ 
 self quite unable to bring him to any other subject on that dav. 
 He was sore with the injury done him in that he was not allowed 
 to be the master m his own house. 
 
 r , 1 0n the n ? xt morning Hampstead heard from Dr. Spicer that his 
 lather was m a state of health very far from satisfactory. The 
 doctor recommended that he should be taken away from Trafford 
 and at last went so far as to say that his advice extended to sepa¬ 
 rating lus patient from Lady Kingsbury. “ It is, of course, a very 
 c lsa § l . eeap J? subject/ said the doctor, “for a medical man to 
 meddle with ; but, my lord, the truth is that Lady Kingsbury frets 
 him. 1 don t of course, care to hear what it is, but there is some- 
 thing wrong. Lord Hampstead, who knew very well what it was, 
 i • contradict him. When, however, he spoke to 
 
 his lather of the expediency of change of air, the Marquis told him 
 that he vould rather die at Trafford than elsewhere. 
 
AGAIN AT TB AFFORD. 
 
 139' 
 
 That his father was really thinking of his death was only too 
 apparent from all that was said and done. As to those matters of 
 business, they were soon settled between them. There was, at any 
 rate, that comfort to the poor man that there was no probability of 
 any difference between him and his heir as to the property or as to 
 money. Half-an-hour settled all that. Then came the time which 
 had been arranged for Hampstead’s return to his sister. But before 
 he went there were conversations between him and Mr. Greenwood, 
 between him and his stepmother, and between him and his father, 
 to which, for the sake of our story, it may be as well to refer. 
 
 “I think your father is ill-treating me,” said Mr. Greenwood. 
 Mr. Greenwood had allowed himself to be talked into a thorough 
 contempt and dislike for the young lord; so that he had almost 
 brought himself to believe in those predictions as to the young 
 lord’s death in which Lady Kingsbury was always indulging. As a 
 consequence of this, he now spoke in a voice very different from 
 those obsequious tones which he had before been accustomed to use 
 when he had regarded Lord Hampstead as his young patron. 
 
 “I am sure my father would never do that,” said Hampstead, 
 angrily. 
 
 “ It looks very like it. I have devoted all the best of my life to 
 his service, and he now talks of dismissing me as though I were no 
 better than a servant.” 
 
 “ Whatever he does, he will, I am sure, have adequate cause for 
 doing.” 
 
 “I have done nothing but my duty. It is out of the question 
 that a man in my position should submit to orders as to what he is 
 to talk about and what not. It is natural that Lady Kingsbury 
 should come to me in her troubles.” 
 
 “If you will take my advice,” said Lord Hampstead, in that 
 tone of voice which always produces in the mind of the listener 
 a determination that the special advice offered shall not be taken, 
 “ you will comply with my father’s wishes while it suits you to live 
 in his house. If you cannot do that, it would become you, I think, 
 to leave it.” In every word of this there was a rebuke; and Miv 
 Greenwood, who did not like being rebuked, remembered it. 
 
 “Of course I am nobody in this house now,” said the Mar¬ 
 chioness in her last interview with her stepson. It is of no use to 
 argue with an angry woman, and in answer to this Hampstead 
 made some gentle murmur which was intended neither to assent 
 or to dispute the proposition made to him. “ Because I ventured 
 to disapprove of Mr. Koden as a husband for your sister I have 
 been shut up here, and not allowed to speak to any one.” 
 
 “ Fanny has left the house, so that she may no longer cause you 
 annoyance by her presence.” 
 
 “ She has left the house in order that she may be near the 
 abominable lover with whom you have furnished her.” 
 
 “ This is not true,” said Hampstead, who was moved beyond his 
 control by the double falseness of the accusation. 
 
 “ Of course you can be insolent to me, and tell me that I speak 
 
110 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 falsehoods. It is part of your new creed that you should be neither 
 respectful to a parent, nor civil to a lady.” 
 
 “ I beg your pardon, Lady Kingsbury,”—he had never called her 
 Lady Kingsbury before,—“ if I have been disrespectful or uncivil, 
 but your statements were very hard to bear. Funny’s engagement 
 with Mr. Koden has not even received my sanction. Much less was 
 it arranged or encouraged by me. She has not gone to Hendon 
 Hall to be near Mr. Koden, with whom she had undertaken to hold 
 no communication as long as she remains there with mo. Both for 
 my own sake and for hers I am bound to repudiate the accusation.” 
 Then he went without further adieu, leaving with her a conviction 
 that she had been treated with the greatest contumely by her 
 husband’s rebellious heir. 
 
 Nothing could be sadder than the last words which the Marquis 
 spoke to his son. “ I don’t suppose, Hampstead, that we shall ever 
 meet again in this world.” 
 
 “ Oh, father! ” 
 
 “ I don’t think Mr. Spicer knows how bad I am.” 
 
 “ Will you have Sir James down from London? ” 
 
 “ No Sir James can do me any good, I fear. It is ill ministering 
 to a mind diseased.” 
 
 “ Why, sir, should you have a mind diseased? With few men 
 can things be said to be more prosperous than with you. Surely 
 this affair of Fanny’s is not of such a nature as to make you feel 
 that all things are bitter round you.” 
 
 “ It is not that.” 
 
 “ What then ? I hope I have not been a cause of grief to you?” 
 
 “ No, my boy;—no. It irks me sometimes to think that I should 
 have trained you to ideas which you have taken up too violently. 
 But it is not that.” 
 
 “ My mother-? ” 
 
 “ She has set her heart against me,—against you and Fanny. I 
 feel that a division has been made between my two families. Why 
 should my daughter be expelled from my own house? Why should 
 I not be able to have you here, except as an enemy in the camp ? 
 Why am I to have that man take up arms against me, whom I have 
 fed in idleness all his life ? ” 
 
 “ I would not let him trouble my thoughts.” 
 
 “ When you are old and weak you will find it hard to banish 
 thoughts that trouble you. As to going, where am I to go to ? ” 
 
 “ Come to Hendon.” 
 
 And leave her here with him, so that all the world shall say 
 that I am running away from my own wife? Hendon is your 
 house now, and this is mine;—and here I must stay till my time 
 has come.” 
 
 This was very sad, not as indicating the state of his father’s 
 health, as to which lie was more disposed to take the doctor’s 
 opinion than that of the patient, but as showing the infirmity of his 
 father’s mind. He had been aware of a certain weakness in his 
 father’s character,—a desire not so much for ruling as tor seeming 
 
THE IRREPRESSIBLE CROCKER. m 
 
 to rule all that were around him. The Marquis had wished to bo 
 thought a despot even when he had delighted in submitting himself 
 to the stronger mind of his first wife. Now he felt the chains that 
 were imposed upon him, so that they galled him when he could not 
 throw them off. All this was very sad to Hampstead; but it did 
 not make him think that liis father’s health had in truth been 
 seriously affected. 
 
 CHAPTER NXIII. 
 
 THE IRREPRESSIBLE CROCKER. 
 
 Hampstead remained nearly a fortnight down at Trafford, return¬ 
 ing to Hendon only a few days before Christmas. Crocker, the 
 Post Office clerk, came back to his duties at the same time, but, as 
 as the custom with him, stole a day more than belonged to him, 
 and thus incurred the frowns of Mr. Jerningham and the heavy 
 wrath of the great ^olus. The boluses of the Civil Service are 
 necessarily much exercised in their minds by such irregularities. 
 To them personally it matters not at all whether one or another 
 young man may be neglectful. It may be known to such a one 
 that a Crocker may be missed from his seat without any great 
 injury,—possibly with no injury at allto the Queen’s service. 
 There are Crockers whom it would be better to pay for their absence 
 than their presence. This iEolus thought it was so with this- 
 Crocker. Then why not dismiss Crocker, and thus save the waste 
 ot public money ? But there is a necessity,—almost a necessity,— 
 that the Crockers of the world should live. They have mothers or 
 perhaps even wives, with backs to be clothed and stomachs to bo 
 fed, or perhaps with hearts to be broken. There is, at any rate, a 
 dislike to proceed to the ultimate resort of what may be called the 
 capital punishment of the Civil Service. To threaten, to frown, to 
 scold, to make a young man’s life a burden to him, are all within 
 the compass of an official iEolus. You would think occasionally 
 that such a one was resolved to turn half the clerks in his office 
 out. into the streets,—so loud are the threats. In regard* to 
 individuals he. often is resolved to do so at the very next fault. 
 But when the time comes his heart misgives him. Even an iEolus 
 is subject.to mercy, and at last his conscience becomes so callous to 
 his first imperative duty of protecting the public service, that it 
 grows to be a settled thing with him, that though a man’s life is to 
 be made a burden to him, the man is not to be actually dismissed. 
 But there are men to whom you cannot make their life a burden,— 
 men upon whom no frowns, no scoldings, no threats operate at all; 
 and men unfortunately sharp enough to perceive what is that 
 ultimate decision to which their iEolus had been brought. Such a 
 one was our Crocker, who cared very little for the blusterings. On 
 this occasion he had remained away for the sake of having an 
 
112 
 
 MARION FAY, 
 
 additional day with the Braeside Harriers, and when he pleaded a 
 bilious headache no one believed him for an instant. It was in 
 vain for iEolus to tell him that a man subject to health so precarious 
 was altogether unfitted for the Civil Service. Crocker had known 
 beforehand exactly what was going to be said to him, and had 
 discounted it at its exact worth. Even in the presence of Mr. 
 Jerningham he spoke openly of the day’s hunting, knowing that 
 Mr. Jerningham would prefer his own ease to the trouble of 
 renewed complaint. “If you would sit at your desk now that you 
 have come back, and go on with your docketing, instead of making 
 everybody else idle, it would be a great deal better,” said Mr. 
 Jerningham. 
 
 “ Then my horse took the wall in a fly, and old Amblethwaite 
 crept over afterwards,” continued Crocker, standing with his back 
 to the fire, utterly disregarding Mr. Jerningham’s admonitions. 
 
 On his first entrance into the room Crocker had shaken hands 
 with Mr. Jerningham, then with Bobbin and Geraghty, and at last 
 he came to Roden, with whom he would willingly have struck up 
 terms of affectionate friendship had it been possible for him to do 
 so. He had resolved that it should be so, but when the moment 
 came his courage a little failed him. He had made himself very 
 offensive to Roden at their last interview, and could see at a glance 
 that Roden remembered it. As far as his own feelings were 
 concerned such “ tiffs,” as he called them, went for nothing. He 
 had, indeed, no feelings, and was accustomed to say that he liked 
 the system of give and take,—meaning that he liked being 
 impudent to others, and did not care how impudent others might 
 be to him. This toughness and insolence are as sharp as needles 
 to others who do not possess the same gifts. Roden had learned to 
 detest the presence of the young man, to be sore when he was even 
 spoken to, and yet did not know how to put him down. You 
 may have a fierce bull shut up. You may muzzle a dog that will 
 bite. You may shoot a horse that you cannot cure of biting and 
 tearing. But you cannot bring yourself to spend a morning in 
 hunting a bug or killing a flea. Crocker had made himself a 
 serious annoyance even to Lord Hampstead, though their presence 
 together had only been for a very short time. But Roden had to 
 pass his life at the same desk with the odious companion. 
 Absolutely to cut him, to let it be known all through the office 
 that they two did not speak, was to make too much of the matter. 
 But yet it was essentially necessary for his peace that some step 
 should be taken to save himself from the man’s insolence. On the 
 present occasion he nodded his head to Crocker, being careful not 
 to lay the pen down from his fingers. “ Ain’t you going to give us 
 your hand, old fellow ? ” said Crocker, putting on his best show of 
 courage. 
 
 “I don’t know that I am,” said Roden. “Perhaps some of 
 these days you may learn to make yourself less disagreeable.” 
 
 “I’m sure I’ve always meant to be very friendly, especially 
 with you,” said Crocker; “ but it is so hard to get what one says 
 taken in the proper sense.” 
 
After this not a wrd was spoken between the two all the 
 morning. This happened on a Saturday,—Saturday, the 20th of 
 December, on which day Hampstead was to return to his own 
 house. Punctually at one Crocker left his desk, and with a comic 
 bow of mock courtesy to Mr. Jerningham, stuck liis hat on the side 
 of his head, and left the office. His mind, as he took himself home 
 to his lodgings, was full of Roden’s demeanour towards him. Since 
 he had become assured that his brother clerk was engaged to 
 marry Lady Frances Trafford,he was quite determined to cultivate 
 an enduring and affectionate friendship. But what steps should he 
 take to recover the ground which he had lost ? It occurred to him 
 now that while he was in Cumberland he had established quite an 
 intimacy with Lord Hampstead, and he thought that it would be 
 well to use Lord Hampstead’s acknowledged good-nature for re¬ 
 covering the ground which he had lost with his brother clerk. 
 ****** 
 
 At about three o’clock that afternoon, when Lady Frances was 
 beginning to think that the time of her brother’s arrival was near 
 at hand, the servant came into the drawing-room, and told her 
 that a gentleman had called, and was desirous of seeing her. 
 “ What gentleman ? ” asked Lady Frances. “ Has he sent his 
 name ? ” 
 
 “N o, my lady; but he says,—he says that he is a clerk from the 
 Post Office.” Lady Frances was at the moment so dismayed that 
 she did not know what answer to give. There could be but one 
 Post Office clerk who should be anxious to see her, and she had felt 
 from the tone of the servant’s voice that he had known that it was 
 her lover who had called. Everybody knew that the Post Office 
 clerk was her lover. Some immediate answer was necessary. She 
 quite understood the pledge that her brother had made on her 
 behalf; and, though she had not herself made any actual promise, 
 she felt that she w T as bound not to receive George* Eoden. But yet 
 she could not bring herself to turn him away from the door, and so 
 to let the servant suppose that she was ashamed to see him to 
 whom she had given the promise of her hand. “ You had better 
 show the gentleman in,” she said at last, with a voice that almost 
 trembled. A moment afterwards the door was opened, and Mr. 
 Crocker entered the room! 
 
 She had endeavoured in the minute which had been allowed her 
 to study the manner in which she should receive her lover. As she 
 heard the approaching footsteps, she prepared herself. She had 
 just risen from her seat, nearly risen, when the strange man 
 appeared. It has to be acknowledged that she was grievously 
 disappointed, although she had told herself that Roden ought not 
 to have come to her. What woman is there will not forgive her 
 lover for coming, even though he certainly should not have come ? 
 What woman is there will fail to receive a stranger with hard looks 
 when a stranger shall appear to her instead of an expected lover? 
 “Sir?” she said, standing as he walked up the room and made a 
 low bow to her as he took his position before her. 
 
Crocker was dressed up to the eyes, and wore yellow kid gloves. 
 “ Lady Frances,” he said, “ I am Mr. Crocker, Mr. Samuel Crocker, 
 of the General Post Office. You may not perhaps have heard of 
 me from my friend, Mr. Eoden ? ” 
 
 “ No, indeed, sir.” 
 
 “ You might have done so, as we sit in the same room and at 
 the same desk. Or you may remember meeting me at dinner at 
 your uncle’s castle in Cumberland.” 
 
 “ Is anything,—anything the matter with Mr. Eoden ? ” 
 
 “ Not in the least, my lady. I had the pleasure of leaving him 
 in very good health about two hours since. There is nothing at all 
 to occasion your ladyship the slightest uneasiness.” A dark frown 
 came across her brow as she heard the man talk thus freely of her 
 interest in George Eoden’s condition. She no doubt had betrayed 
 her own secret as far as there was a secret; but she was not on 
 that account the less angry because he had forced her to do so. 
 
 “ Has Mr. Eoden sent you as a messenger ? ” she asked. 
 
 “ No, my lady; no. That would not be at all probable. I am 
 sure he would very much rather come with any message of his own.” 
 At this he sniggered most offensively. “ I called with a hope of 
 seeing your brother, Lord Hampstead, with whom I may take the 
 liberty of saying that I have a slight acquaintance.” 
 
 “ Lord Hampstead is not at home.” 
 
 “ So the servant told me. Then it occurred to me that as I had 
 come all the way down from London for a certain purpose, to ask a 
 little favour from his lordship, and as I was not fortunate enough 
 to find his lordship at home, I might ask the same from your lady¬ 
 ship.” 
 
 “ There can be nothing that I can do for you, sir.” 
 
 “ You can do it, my lady, much better than any one else in the 
 world. You can be more powerful in this matter even than his 
 lordship.” 
 
 “ What can it be ? ” asked Lady Frances. 
 
 “ If your ladyship will allow me I will sit down, as the story I 
 have to tell is somewhat particular.” It was impossible to refuse 
 him the use of a chair, and she could therefore only bow as he 
 seated himself. “ I and George Eoden, my lady, have known each 
 other intimately for these ever so many years.” Again she bowed 
 her head. “ And I may say that we used to be quite pals. When 
 two men sit at the same desk together they ought to be thick as 
 thieves. See what a cat and dog life it is else! Don’t you think so, 
 my lady.” 
 
 “ I know nothing of office life. As I don’t think that I can help 
 you, perhaps you wouldn’t mind—going away ? ” 
 
 “ Oh, my lady, you must hear me to the end, because you are 
 just the person who can help me. Of course as you two are situated 
 he would do anything you were to bid him. Now he has taken it 
 into his head to be very huffy with me.” 
 
 “ Indeed I can do nothing in the matter,” she said, in a tone of 
 deep distress. 
 
THE IRREPRESSIBLE CROCKER. 
 
 145 
 
 “ If you would only just tell him that I have never meant to 
 offend him! I am sure I don’t know what it is that has come up. 
 It may bo that I said a word in joke about Lord Hampstead, only 
 that there really could not have been anything in that. Nobody 
 could have a more profound respect for his "lordship’s qualities 
 than I have, and I may say the same for your ladyship most 
 sincerely. I have always thought it a great feather in Boden’s cap 
 that he should be so closely connected,—more than closely, I may 
 say,—with your noble family.” 
 
 What on earth was she to do with a man who would go on 
 talking to her, making at every moment insolent allusions to the 
 most cherished secret of her heart! “ I must beg you to go away 
 and leave me, sir,” she said. “My brother will be here almost 
 immediately.” 
 
 This had escaped from her with a vain idea that the man would 
 receive it as a threat,—that he would think probably that her 
 brother would turn him out of the house for his insolence. In this 
 she was altogether mistaken. He had no idea that he was insolent. 
 “ Then perhaps you will allow me to wait for his lordship,” he said. 
 
 ‘ Oh dear, no! He may come or he may not. You really can¬ 
 not wait. You ought not to have come at all.” 
 
 “ But f° r the sake of peace, my lady ! One word from your fair 
 
 lips-” Lady Frances could endure it no longer. She got up 
 
 from her seat and walked out of the room, leaving Mr. Crocker 
 planted in his chair. In the hall she found one of the servants, 
 whom she told to “ take that man to the front door at once.” The 
 servant did as he was bid, and Crocker was ushered out of the house 
 without any feeling on his part that he had misbehaved himself. 
 
 Crocker had hardly got beyond the grounds when Hampstead 
 did in truth return. The first words spoken between him and 
 his sister of course referred to their father’s health. “He is 
 unhappy rather than ill,” said Hampstead. 
 
 “ Is it about me ? ” she asked. 
 
 “ No; not at all about you in the first instance.” 
 
 “What does that mean?” 
 
 “ It is not because of you; but from what others say about you.” 
 
 “ Mamma ? ” she asked. 
 
 “ Yes; and Mr. Greenwood.” 
 
 “ Does he interfere ? ” 
 
 “ I ftrci afraid lie does;—not directly with my father, but 
 through her ladyship, who daily tells my father what the stupid 
 old man says. Lady Kingsbury is most irrational and harassing. 
 I have always thought her to be silly, but now I cannot keep 
 myself from feeling that she misbehaves herself grievously. She 
 does everything she can to add to his annoyance.” 
 
 “ That is very bad.” 
 
 “It is bad. fie can turn Mr. Greenwood out of the house if 
 Mr. Greenwood becomes unbearable. But he cannot turn his wife 
 out.” 
 
 “ Could he not come here ? ” 
 
 h 
 
HG 
 
 MAUION FAY. • 
 
 • + amafraid , no ^—without bringing her too. She 1m folrpn if 
 m o ei stupid head that you and I are disgracing the family" As 
 for me she seems to think that I am actually robbing her own 
 •f t S S eir I would do anything for them or even for her 
 
 If I could comfort her; but she is determined to CkTpon L as 
 
 -Poir plpa!^ er SayS that wiU worr ? him *to his grave.” 
 
 “ We can run away, but he cannot. I became verv arnrrv when 
 
 mZ'andlold 0 wjt ?if lad f hi P a ? d pestilential old eta gj" 
 
 n thcm both pretty much what I thought. I have the 
 
 C0D “Can they hurt ^V> Te tW ° Mtt “ “ * 
 
 'V tIje k ' ast —except in this, that they can teach those 
 b“stat Sf Mr a p a “ eilem f' W uld ^ ^o had my 
 
 sHp also are^oZngtm" enW ° 0d ’ andI “ USt Uw sa * ker lad ^ 
 
 Croe I ke^ aS ‘‘T 0 hVt n wW r T^ nn fn tha h t ,^° f tory was tokl aboufc 
 clerk from the Post Office wanted to see me! ”™ 1 " aS t0ld that a 
 “And then that brute Crocker was shown in ? ” asked Hamt>- 
 
 S lGcICL* 
 
 “ Do you really know him ?” 
 
 mthei think so - Don,t ** — 
 
 “ ti ot ln the lea ? k But lie told me that he had been there ” 
 
 He never would leave me. He absolutely drove me out of the 
 country because he would follow me about when we were hunting 
 He insulted me so grievously that I had to turn tail and run away 
 from him. What did he want of me?” J 
 
 “ To intercede for him with George Roden.” 
 
 “He is an abominable man, irrepressible, so thick-skinned that 
 you cannot possibly get at him so as to hurt him. It is of no use 
 telling him to keep his distance, for he does not in the least know 
 what you mean. I do not doubt that he has left the house with 
 a conviction that he has gained a sincere friend in you.” 
 
 * * * * * ’ * 
 
 It was now more than a fortnight since Marion Fay had dined 
 
 at Hendon, and Hampstead felt that unless he could succeed in 
 carrying on the attack which he had commenced, any little begin- 
 mg of a friendship which lie had made with the Quaker would be 
 obliterated by the length of time. If she thought about him at all 
 she must think that he was very indifferent to let so long a time 
 pass by without any struggle on his part to see her again. There 
 had been no word of love spoken. He had been sure of that. But 
 still there had been something of affectionate intercourse which she 
 could not have failed to recognize. What must she think of him 
 it he allowed that to pass away without any renewal, without an 
 attempt at carrying it further ? When she had bade him go in out 
 of the cold there had been something in her voice which had made 
 him feel that she was m truth anxious for him. Now more than a 
 
147 
 
 MRS. IIODEN’S ELOQUENCE. 
 
 fortnight had gone, and there had been no renewal! “ Fanuv ” he 
 
 said, “how would it be if we were to ask those Quakers to dine 
 here on Christmas Day ? ” 
 
 “ It would be odd, wouldn’t it, as they arc strangers, and dined 
 liere so lately ? , 
 
 “ People like that do not stand on ceremony at all. I don’t see 
 
 why they shouldn t come. I could say that you want to make their 
 acquaintance. 
 
 “ Would you ask them alone ? ” 
 
 In that he felt that the great difficulty lay. The Fays would 
 hardly come without Mrs. Eoden, and the Eodcns could not be 
 
 other” ° ne d ° eSn t always ask the same People to meet each 
 
 It would be \eiy odd, and I don’t think they’d come 
 JLady Frances, gravely. Then after a pause she went on. “ I 
 John, that there is more in it than mere dinner company ” 
 
 “ Certainly there is,” he said boldly“ much more in it.” 
 
 You are not in love with the Quaker’s daughter ? ” 
 
 “I rather think I am. When I have seen her three or four 
 times more, I shall be able to find out. You may be sure of this 
 that I mean to see her three or four times more, and at any rate 
 one ot the times must be before I go down to Gorse Hall.” Then 
 of course she knew the whole truth. He did, however, give up the 
 idea as to the Christmas dinnerparty, having arrived at the belief 
 after turning the matter over in his mind, that Zacharv Fay would 
 not bring his daughter again so soon. * J 
 
 ” said 
 fear. 
 
 CHAPTEE XXIV. 
 mrs. roden’s eloquence. 
 
 On Sunday Hampstead was nervous and fidgety. He had at one 
 time thought that it would be the very day for him to go to 
 Holloway. He would be sure to find Mrs. Eoden at home after 
 church, and then, if he could carry things to the necessary length 
 he might also see Zachary Fay. But on consideration it appeared 
 to him that Sunday would not suit his purpose. George Eoden 
 would be there, and would be sadly in the way. And the Quaker 
 hrmself would be m the way, as it would be necessary that he 
 should have some preliminary interview with Marion before any- 
 thmg could be serviceably said to her father. He was driven 
 therefore, to postpone his visit. Nor would Monday do, as he knew 
 enough of the manners of Paradise Eow to be aware that on Monday 
 Mis. Vincent would certainly be there. It would be his obiect if 
 things could be made to go pleasantly, first to see Mrs. Eoden for a 
 lew minutes, and then to spend as much of the afternoon as might 
 be possible with Marion Fay. He therefore fixed on the Tuesday 
 tor his purpose, and having telegraphed about the country for his 
 
148 
 
 MARION FAY,\ 
 
 horses, groom, and other appurtenances, he went down to Leighton 
 on the Monday, and consoled himself with a day’s hunting with the 
 staghounds. 
 
 On his return his sister spoke to him very seriously as to her 
 own affairs. <f Is not this almost silly, John, about Mr. Koden not 
 coming here ? ” 
 
 “Not silly at all, according to my ideas.” 
 
 “ All the world knows that we are engaged. The very servants 
 have heard of it. That horrid young man who came from the Post 
 Office was aware of it.” 
 
 “ What has all that to do with it ? ” 
 
 “ If it has been made public in that way, what can be the object 
 of keeping us apart ? Mamma no doubt told her sister, and Lady 
 Persiflage has published it everywhere. Her daughter is going to 
 marry a duke, and it has crowned her triumph to let it be known 
 that I am going to marry only a Post Office clerk. I don’t begrudge 
 her that in the least. But as they have talked about it so much, 
 they ought, at any rate, to let me have my Post Office clerk.” 
 
 “ I have nothing to say about it one way or the other,” said 
 Hampstead. “ I say nothing about it, at any rate now.” 
 
 “ What do you mean by that, John ? ” 
 
 “ When I saw how miserable you were at Trafford I did my 
 best to bring you away. But I could only bring you here on an 
 ■express stipulation that you should not meet George Eoden while 
 you were in my house. If you can get my father’s consent to your 
 meeting him, then that part of the contract will be over.” 
 
 “ I don’t think I made any promise.” 
 
 “ I understand it so.” 
 
 “ I said nothing to papa on the subject,—and I do not remember 
 that I made any promise to you. I am sure I did not.” 
 
 “ I promised for you.” To this she was silent. “ Are you going 
 to ask him to come here ? ” 
 
 “ Certainly not. But if he did come, how could I refuse to see 
 liim ? I thought that he was here on Saturday, and I told Richard 
 to admit him. I could not send him away from the door.” 
 
 “I do not think he will come unless lie is asked,” said Hamp¬ 
 stead. Then the conversation was over. 
 
 On the following day, at two o’clock, Lord Hampstead again 
 •started for Holloway. On this occasion he drove over, and left his 
 trap and servant at the “ Duchess of Edinburgh.” He was so well 
 known in the neighbourhood now as hardly to be able to hope to 
 enter on the domains of Paradise Row without being recognized. 
 He felt that it was hard that his motions should be watched, telling 
 kimself that it was one of the evils belonging to an hereditary 
 nobility; but he must accept this mischief as he did others, and he 
 walked up the street trying to look as though he didn’t know 
 that his motions were being watched first from Number Fifteen as 
 he passed it, and then from Number Ten ojjposite, as he stood at 
 Mrs. Roden’s door. 
 
 Mrs. Roden was at home, and received him, of course, with her 
 
MRS. BODEN’S ELOQUENCE. UO 
 
 raost gracious smile; but her heart sank within her as she saw him, 
 for she felt sure that he had come in pursuit of Marion Fay. “It 
 is very kind of you to call,” she said. “ I had heard from George 
 that you had gone down into the country since we had the pleasure 
 of dining with you.” 
 
 Yes; my father has been unwell, and I had to stay with him 
 a few days or I should have been here sooner. You got home all 
 of you quite well ? ” 
 
 “ Oh yes.” 
 
 “ Miss Fay did not catch cold ? ” 
 
 “Not at all;—though I fear she is hardly strong.” 
 
 “ She is not ill, I hope ? ” 
 
 “ Oh no ; not that. But she lives here very quietly, and I doubt 
 whether the excitement of going out is good for her.” 
 
 “ There was not much excitement at Hendon Hall, I think,” ho 
 said, laughing. 
 
 ‘‘ Not for you, but for her perhaps. In appreciating our own 
 condition we are so apt to forget what is the condition of others ! 
 To Mai ion Fay it was a strange event to have to dine at your 
 house, and strange also to receive little courtesies such as yours. 
 It is hard for you to conceive how strongly the nature of such a 
 girl may be effected by novelties. I have almost regretted. Lord 
 Hampstead, that I should have consented to take her there.” 
 
 " Has she said anything ? ” 
 
 “Oh no; there was nothing for her to say. You are not to 
 suppose that any harm has been done.” 
 
 “What harm could have been done?” he asked. Of what 
 nature was the harm of which Mrs. Roden was speaking? Could 
 it be that Marion had made any sign of altered feelings; had 
 declared in any way her liking or disliking; had given outward 
 testimony of thoughts which would have been pleasant to him,—or 
 perhaps unpleasant,—had he known them ? 
 
 “No harm, of course,” said Mrs. Roden;—“only to a nature 
 such as hers all excitement is evil.” 
 
 “I cannot believe that,” he said, after a pause. “Now and 
 then in the lives of all of us there must come moments of excite¬ 
 ment which cannot be all evil. What would Marion say if I were 
 to tell her that I loved her ? ” 
 
 “I hope you will not do that, my lord.” 
 
 “ Why should you hope so ? What right have you to hope so ? 
 If I do love her, is it not proper that I should tell her ? ” 
 
 “ But it would not be proper that you should love her.” 
 
 “There, Mrs. Roden, I lake the liberty of declaring that you 
 are altogether in the wrong, and that you speak without duo 
 consideration.” 
 
 “ Do I, my lord ? ” 
 
 “ I think so. Why am I not to be allowed the ordinary privilege 
 of a man, that of declaring my passion to a woman when I meet 
 one who seems in all things to fulfil the image of perfection which I 
 have formed for myself,—when I see a girl that I fancy I can love ? ” 
 
150 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 
 “ All, there is the worst! It is only a fancy.” 
 
 “I will not he accused in that way without defending myself. 
 Let it he fancy or what not, I love Marion Fay, and I have come 
 here to tell her so. If I can make any impression on her I shall 
 come again and tell her father so. I am here now because I think 
 that you can help me. If you will not, I shall go on without your 
 help.” 
 
 “ What can I do ? ” 
 
 “ Go to her with me now, at once. You say that excitement is 
 had for her. The excitement will he less if you will come with me 
 to her house.” 
 
 Then there was a long pause in the conversation, during which 
 Mrs. Roden was endeavouring to determine what might be her 
 duty at this moment. She certainly did not think that it would 
 be well that Lord Hampstead, the eldest son of the Marquis of 
 Kingsbury, should marry Marion Fay. She was quite sure that 
 she had all the world with her there. Were any one to know that 
 she had assisted in arranging such a marriage, that any one would 
 certainly condemn her. That would assuredly he the case, not 
 only with the young lord’s family, not only with others of the 
 young lord’s order, but with all the educated world of Great 
 Britain. How could it he that such a one as Marion Fay should be 
 a fitting wife for such a one as Lord Hampstead ? Marion Fay had 
 undoubtedly great gifts of her own. She was beautiful, intelligent, 
 sweet-minded, and possessed of natural delicacy,—so much so that 
 to Mrs. Roden herself she had become as dear almost as a daughter • 
 but it was impossible that she should have either the education or 
 the manners fit for the wife of a great English peer. Though her 
 manners might be good and her education excellent, they were not 
 those required for that special position. And then there was cause 
 for other fears. Marion’s mother and brothers and sisters had all 
 died young. The girl herself had hitherto seemed to escape the 
 scourge under which they perished. But occasionally there would 
 rise to her cheeks a bright colour, which for the moment would 
 cause Mrs. Roden’s heart to sink within her. Occasionally there 
 would be heard from her not a cough, but that little preparation 
 for coughing which has become so painfully familiar to the ears 
 of those whose fate it has been to see their beloved ones gradually 
 fade from presumed health. She had already found herself con¬ 
 strained to say a word or two to the old Quaker, not telling him 
 that she feared any coming evil, but hinting that change of air 
 would certainly be beneficial to such a one as Marion. Actin° - 
 under this impulse, he had taken her during the inclemency of the 
 past spring to the Isle of Wight. She was minded gradually to 
 go on with.this counsel, so as if possible to induce the father to 
 send his girl out of London for some considerable portion of the 
 year. If this were so, how could she possibly encourage Lord 
 Hampstead in his desire to make Marion his wife ? 
 
 And then, as to the girl herselt, could it be for her happiness 
 that she should be thus lifted into a strange world, a world that 
 
MBS. BODEN’S ELOQUENCE. 
 
 151 
 
 would be hard and ungracious to her, and in which it might bo 
 only too probable that the young lord should see her defects when 
 it would be too late for either of them to remedy the evil that had 
 been done? She had thought something of all this before, having 
 recognized the possibility of such a step as this after what she had 
 seen at Hendon Hall. She had told herself that it would be well 
 at any rate to discourage any such idea in Marion’s heart, and had 
 spoken jokingly of the gallantry of men of rank. Marion had 
 smiled sweetly as she had listened to her friend’s words, and had at 
 once said that such manners were at any rate pretty and becoming 
 in one so placed as Lord Hampstead. There had been something- 
 in this to make Mrs. Eoden almost fear that her words had been 
 taken as intending too much,—that Marion had accepted them as 
 a caution against danger. Not for worlds would she have induced 
 the girl to think that any danger was apprehended. Hut now the 
 danger had come, and it behoved Mrs. Eoden if possible to prevent 
 the evil. “ Will you come across with me now ? ” said Hampstead, 
 having sat silent in his chair while these thoughts were passing 
 through the lady’s mind. 
 
 “ I think not, my lord.” 
 
 “Why not, Mrs. Eoden? Will it not be better than that I 
 should go alone ? ” 
 
 “ I hope you will not go at all.” 
 
 “ I shall go,—certainly. I consider myself bound by all laws 
 of honesty to tell her what she has done to me. She can then 
 judge what may be best for herself.” 
 
 “ Do not go at any rate to-day, Lord Hampstead. Let me beg¬ 
 at least as much as that of you. Consider the importance of the 
 step you will be taking.” 
 
 “ I have thought of it,” said he. 
 
 " Marion is as good as gold.” 
 
 “ I know she is.” 
 
 “ Marion, I say, is as good as gold; but is it likely that any 
 girl should remain untouched and undazzled by such an offer as 
 you can make her ? ” 
 
 “ Touched I hope she may be. As for dazzled,—I do not 
 believe in it in the least. There are eyes which no false lights can 
 dazzle.” 
 
 " But if she were touched, as would no doubt be the case,” said 
 Mrs. Eoden, “ could it be well that you with such duties before 
 you should marry the daughter of Zachary Fay? Listen to me 
 a moment,” she continued, as he attempted to interrupt her. “ I 
 know what you would say, and I sympathize with much of it; but 
 it cannot be well for society that classes should be mixed together 
 suddenly and roughly.” 
 
 “ What roughness would there be ? ” he asked. 
 
 “As lords and ladies are at present, as dukes are, and duchesses, 
 and such like, there would be a roughness to them in having 
 Marion Fay presented to them as one of themselves. Lords have 
 married low-born girls, I know, and the wives have been contented 
 
152 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 with a position which has almost been denied to them, or only 
 grudgingly accorded. I have known something of that, my lord, 
 and have felt—at any rate I have seen—its bitterness. Marion 
 Fay would fade and sink to nothing if she were subjected to such 
 contumely. To be Marion Fay is enough for her. To be your 
 wife, and not to be thought fit to be your wife, would not be half 
 enough.” 
 
 “ She shall be thought fit.” 
 
 “You can make her Lady Hampstead, and demand that she 
 shall be received at Court. You can deck her with diamonds, and 
 cause her to be seated high in honour according to your own rank. 
 But could you induce your father’s wife to smile on her?” In 
 answer to this he was dumb. “Do you think she would be con- 
 tented if your father’s wife were to frown on her? ” 
 
 “ My father’s wife is not everybody.” 
 
 “She would necessarily be much to your wife. Take a week, 
 my lord, or a month, and think upon it. She expects nothing 
 from you yet, and it is still in your power to save her from un¬ 
 happiness.” 
 
 “ I would make her happy, Mrs. Roden.” 
 
 “ Think about it;—think about it.” 
 
 “ And I would make myself happy also. You count my feelings 
 as being nothing in the matter.” 
 
 “Nothing as compared with hers. You see how plainly I deal 
 with you. Let me say that for a time your heart will be sore;— 
 that you do in truth love this girl so as to feel that she is necessary 
 to your happiness. Do you not know that if she were placed beyond 
 your reach you would recover from that sting ? The duties of the 
 world would still be open to you. Being a man, you would still 
 have before you many years for recovery before your youth had 
 departed from you. Of course you would find some other woman, 
 and be happy with her. For her, if she came to shipwreck in this 
 venture, there would be no other chance.” 
 
 “ T would make this chance enough for her.” 
 
 “ So you think; but if you will look abroad you will see that 
 the perils to her happiness which I have attempted to describe are 
 not in vain. I can say no more, my lord, but can only beg that you 
 will take some little time to think of it before you put the thing 
 out of your own reach. If she had once accepted your love I know 
 that you would never go back.” 
 
 “ Never.” 
 
 “ Therefore think again while there is time.” He slowly dragged 
 liimsejf up from his chair, and left her almost without a word at 
 parting. She had persuaded him—to take another week. It was 
 not that he doubted in the least his own purpose, but he did not 
 know how to gainsay her as to this small request. In that frame 
 of mind which is common to young men when they do not get all 
 that they want, angry, disappointed, and foiled, he went downstairs, 
 and opened the front door,—and there on the very steps he met 
 Marion Fay. 
 
MRS. RODEN’S ELOQUENCE. 153. 
 
 “ Marion/’ lie said, pouring all the tenderness of liis heart into 
 his voice. 
 
 “ My lord ? ” 
 
 “ Come in, Marion,—for one moment.” Then she followed him 
 into the little passage, and there they stood. “ I had come over to 
 ask you how you are after our little party.” 
 
 “ I am quite well;—and you ? ” 
 
 "I have been away with my father, or I should have come 
 sooner.” 
 
 “Nay;—it was not necessary that you should trouble yourself.” 
 
 “ It is necessary;—it is necessary; or I should be troubled very 
 much. I am troubled.” She stood there looking down on the 
 ground as though she were biding her time, but she did not speak 
 to him. “ She would not come with me,” he said, pointing up the 
 stairs on which Mrs. Eoden was now standing. “ She has told me 
 that it is bad that I should come; but I will come one day soon.” 
 He was almost beside himself with love as he was speaking. The 
 girl was so completely after his own heart as he stood there close 
 to her, tilled with her influences, that he was unable to restrain 
 himself. 
 
 “Come up, Marion dear,” said Mrs. Eoden, speaking from the 
 landing. “ It is hardly fair to keep Lord Hampstead standing in 
 the passage.” 
 
 “ It is most unfair,” said Marion. “ Good day, my lord.” 
 
 “ I will stand here till you come down to me, unless you will 
 speak to me again. I will not be turned out while you are here. 
 Marion, you are all the world to me. I love you with my whole, 
 whole heart. I had come here, dear, to tell you so;—but she has 
 delayed me. She made me promise that I would not come again 
 for a week, as though weeks or years could change me ? Say on© 
 word to me, Marion. One word shall suffice now, and then I will 
 go. Marion, can you love me ? ” 
 
 “ Come to me, Marion, come to me,” said Mrs. Eoden. “ Do not 
 answer him now.” 
 
 “ No,” said Marion, looking up, and laying her hand gently on 
 the sleeve of his coat. “I will not answer him now. It is too 
 sudden. I must think of words to answer such a speech. Lord 
 Hampstead, I will go to her now.” 
 
 “ But I shall hear from you.” 
 
 “ You shall come to me again, and I will tell you.” 
 
 “ To-morrow ? ” 
 
 “ Nay; but give me a day or two. On Friday I will be ready 
 with my answer.” 
 
 “ You will give me your hand, Marion.” She gave it to him, 
 and he covered it with kisses. “ Only have this in your mind, fixed 
 as fate, that no man ever loved a woman more truly than I love 
 you. No man was ever more determined to carry out his purpose. 
 
 I am in your hands. Think if you cannot dare to trust yourself 
 into mine.” Then he left her, and went back to the “ Duchess of 
 Edinburgh,” not thinking much of the eyes which might be looking 
 at him. 
 
151 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 CHAPTER XXY. 
 
 Marion’s views aeout marriage. 
 
 When Lord Hampstead slmt the door behind him, Marion went 
 slowly up the stairs to Mrs. Roden, who had returned to her draw¬ 
 ing-room. When she entered, her friend was standing near the 
 door, with anxiety plainly written on her face,—with almost more 
 than anxiety. She took Marion by the hand and, kissing her, led 
 her to the sofa. “ I would have stopped him if I could,” she said. 
 
 “ Why should you have stopped him ? ” 
 
 “ Such things should be considered more.” 
 
 “ He had made it too late for considering to be of service. I 
 knew, I almost knew, that he would come.” 
 
 “ You did ? ” _ „ 
 
 “ I can tell myself now that I did, though I could not say it 
 even to myself before.” There was a smile on her face as she spoke, 
 and, though her colour was heightened, there was none of that 
 peculiar flush which Mrs. Roden so greatly feared to see. Nor was 
 there any special excitement in her manner. There was no look 
 either of awe or of triumph. She seemed to take it as a matter of 
 course, quite as much at least as any Lady Amaldina could have 
 done, who might have been justified by her position in expecting 
 that some young noble eldest son would fling himself at her feet. 
 
 “And are you ready with your answer?” Marion turned her 
 eyes towards her friend, but made no immediate reply. “ My darling 
 girl—for you in truth are very dear to me,—much thought should 
 be given to such an appeal as that before any answer is made.” 
 
 “ I have thought.” 
 
 “ And are you ready ? ” 
 
 “ I think so. Dear Mrs. Roden, do not look at me like that. If 
 I do not say more to tell you immediately it is because I am not 
 perhaps quite surenot sure, at any rate, of the reasons I may 
 have to give. I will come to you to-morrow, and then I will tell 
 you.” 
 
 There was room then at any rate for hope! If the girl had not 
 quite resolved to grasp at the high destiny offered to her, it was still 
 her friend’s duty to say something that might influence her. 
 
 “ Marion, dear! ” 
 
 “Say all that you think, Mrs. Roden. Surely you know that I 
 know that whatever may come from you will come in love. I have 
 no mother, and to wdiom can I go better than to you to fill a 
 mother’s place ? ” 
 
 “ Dear Marion, it is thus I feel towards you. What I would 
 say to you I would say to my own child. There are great differ¬ 
 ences in the ranks of men.” 
 
 “ 1 have felt that.” 
 
 “ And though I do in my honest belief think that the best and 
 
15o 
 
 MABION'S VIEWS ABOUT MARRIAGE. 
 
 honestest of God’s creatures are not always to be found among 
 so-called nobles, yet I think that a certain great respect should be 
 paid to those whom chance has raised to high places.” 
 
 “ Do I not respect him ? ” 
 
 I hope so. But perhaps you may not show it best by loving 
 him.” 
 
 “ -As to that, it is a matter in which one can, perhaps, hardly 
 control oneself. If asked for love it will come from you like water 
 from a fountain. Unless it be so, then it cannot come at all.” 
 
 ei That surely is a dangerous doctrine for a young woman.” 
 
 . “ Young women, I think, are compassed by many dangers ” 
 said Marion; “ and I know but one way of meeting them.” 
 
 “ What way is that, dear ? ” 
 
 “ I will tell you, if I can find how to tell it, to-morrow.” 
 
 “ There is one point, Marion, on which I feel myself bound to 
 Tvarn you, as I endeavoured also to warn him. To him my words 
 seemed to have availed nothing; but you, I think, are more reason¬ 
 able. Unequal marriages never make happy either the one side 
 or the other.” 
 
 , “ I hope I may do nothing to make him unhappy.” 
 
 “ Unhappy for a moment you must make him for a month 
 perhaps, or for a year; though it were for years, what would that 
 be to his whole life ? ” 
 
 “ For years ? ” said Marion. “ No, not for years. Would it be 
 more than for days, do you think ? ” 
 
 “ I cannot tell what may bo the nature of the young man’s 
 heart;—nor can you. But as to that, it cannot be your duty to 
 take much thought. Of his lasting welfare you are bound to 
 think.” 
 
 “ Oh yes; of that certainly;—of that above all things.” 
 
 <c I mean as to this world. Of what may come afterwards to 
 one so little known we here can hardly dare to speak,—-or even 
 to think. But a girl, when she has been asked to marry a man, is 
 bound to think of his welfare in this life.” 
 
 “ I cannot but think of his eternal welfare also,” said Marion. 
 
 “ Unequal marriages arc always unhappy,” said Mrs. Koden, 
 repeating her great argument. 
 
 “ Always ? ” 
 
 “I fear so. Could you be happy if his great friends, his father, 
 and his stepmother, and all those high-born lords and ladies who 
 are connected with him,—could you be happy if they frowned 
 on you ? ” 
 
 “ What would their frowns be to me ? If he smiled I should be 
 happy. If the world were light and bright to him, it would cer¬ 
 tainly be light and bright to me.” 
 
 “ I thought so once, Marion. I argued with myself once just 
 as you are arguing now.” 
 
 “ Nay, Mrs. Bodcn, I am hardly arguing.” 
 
 “ It was just so that I spoke to myself, saying that the joy which 
 I took in a man s love would certainty be enough for my happiness 
 
156 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 But oh, alas! I fell to the ground. I will tell you now more of 
 myself than I have told any one for many a year, more even than 
 I have told George. I will tell you because I know that I can 
 trust your faith.” 
 
 “ Yes; you can trust me,” said Marion. 
 
 “I also married greatly; greatly, as the 'world’s honours are 
 concerned. In mere rank I stood as a girl higher perhaps than 
 you do now. But I was lifted out of my own degree, and in 
 accepting the name which my husband gave me I assured myself 
 that I would do honour to it, at any rate by my conduct. I did 
 it no dishonour;—but my marriage was most unfortunate.” 
 
 “ Was he good ? ” asked Marion. 
 
 “ He was weak. Are you sure that Lord Hampstead is strong ? 
 He was fickle-hearted. Can you be sure that Lord Hampstead will 
 be constant amidst the charms of others whose manners will be 
 more like his own than yours can be ? ” 
 
 “ I think he would be constant,” said Marion. 
 
 “Because you are ready to worship him who has condescended 
 to step down from his high pedestal and worship you. Is it 
 not so ? ” 
 
 “ It may be that it is so,” said Marion. 
 
 “ Ah, yes, my child. It may be that it is so. And then, think 
 of what may follow,—not only for him, but for you also; not only 
 tor you, but for him also. Broken hearts, crushed ambitions, 
 hopes all dead, personal dislikes, and perhaps hatred.” 
 
 “Not hatred; not hatred.” 
 
 “I lived to be hated;—and why not another?” Then she was 
 silent, and Marion rising from her seat kissed her, and went away 
 to her home. 
 
 She had very much to think of. Though she had declared that 
 she had almost expected this offer from her lover, still it could not 
 be that the Quaker girl, the daughter of Zachary Fay, Messrs. 
 Poyson and Littlebird’s clerk, should not be astounded by having 
 such an offer from such a suitor as Lord Hampstead. But in truth 
 the glory of the thing was not very much to her. It was something, 
 no doubt. It must be something to a girl to find that her own 
 personal charms have sufficed to lure down from his lofty perch 
 the topmost bird of them all. That Marion Avas open to some such 
 weakness may be acknowledged of her. But of the coronet, of the 
 diamonds, of the lofty title, and high seats, of the castle, and the 
 parks, and well-arranged equipages, of the rich dresses, of the 
 obsequious servants, and faAvning world that A\ r ould be gathered 
 around her, it may be said that she thought not at all. She had 
 in her short life seen one man Avho had pleased her ear and her 
 eye, and had touched her heart; and that one man had instantly 
 declared himself to be all her own. That made her bosom glow 
 Avith some feeling of triumph ! 
 
 That same evening she abruptly told the whole story to her 
 father. “ Father,” she said, “ Lord Hampstead was here to-day.” 
 
 “ Here, in this house ? ” 
 
MARION'S VIEWS ABOUT MARRIAGE. 157 
 
 “Not in this house. But I met him at our friend's, whom 
 l went to see, as is my custom almost daily.” 
 
 “ I am glad he came uot here,” said the Quaker. 
 
 “Why should you be glad?” To this the Quaker made no 
 answer. 
 
 “ His purpose was to have come here. It was to see me that 
 lie came.” 
 
 “ To see thee ? ” 
 
 • “Father, the young lord has asked me to be his wife.” 
 
 “ Asked thee to be his wife! ” 
 
 “ Yes, indeed. Have you not often heard that young men may¬ 
 be infatuated ? It has chanced that I have been the Cinderella for 
 his eyes.” 
 
 “ But thou art no princess, child.” 
 
 “ And, therefore, am unfit to mate with this prince. I could 
 not answer him at once, father. It was too sudden for me to find 
 the words. And the place was hardly fitting. But I have found 
 them now.” 
 
 “ What words, my child ? ” 
 
 “I will tell him with all respect and deference,—nay, I will tell 
 him with some love, for I do love him,—that it will become him to 
 look for his wife elsewhere.” 
 
 “ Marion,” said the Quaker, who was somewhat moved by those 
 things which had altogether failed with the girl herself; “ Marion 
 must it be so ? ” 
 
 “Father, it must certainly be so.” 
 
 “ And yet thou lovest him ? ” 
 
 “ Though I were dying for his love it must be so.” 
 
 “Why, my child, why ? As far as I saw the young man he is 
 good and gracious, of great promise, and like to be* true-hearted.” 
 
 “Good, and gracious, and true-hearted! Oh yes! And would 
 
 you have it that I should bring such a one as that to sorrow,_ 
 
 perhaps to disgrace ? ” 
 
 “Why to sorrow? Why to disgrace? Wouldst thou be more 
 likely to disgrace a husband than one of those painted Jezebels who 
 know no worship but that of their faded beauty ? Thou hast not 
 answered him, Marion ?” 
 
 “ No, father. He is to come on Friday for my answer.” 
 
 “ Think of it yet again, my child. Three days are no time for 
 considering a matter of such moment. Bid him* leave you for ten 
 days further.” 
 
 “ I am ready now,” said Marion. 
 
 “ And yet thou lovest him ! That is not true to nature, Marion. 
 
 I would not bid thee take a man’s hand because he is rich and 
 great if thou couldst not give him thy heart in return. I would 
 not have thee break any law of God or man for the glitter of gold 
 or tinsel of rank. But the good things of this world, if they be 
 come by honestly, are good. And the love of an honest man, if 
 thou lovest him thyself in return, is not of the less worth because 
 he stands high in wealth and in honour.” 
 
158 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 “ Shall I think nothing of him, father ? ” 
 
 “ Yea, verily; it will be thy duty to think of him, almost ex¬ 
 clusively of him,—when thou shalt be his wife.” 
 
 “ Then, father, shall I never think of him.” 
 
 “ AY ilt thou pay no heed to my words, so as to crave from him 
 further time for thought ? ” 
 
 “Not a moment. Father, you must not be angry with your 
 child for this. My own feelings tell me true. My own heart, and 
 my own heart alone, can dictate to me what I shall say to him. 
 There are reasons-” 
 
 “ What reasons ? ” 
 
 “There are reasons why my mother’s daughter should not 
 marry this man.” Then there came a cloud across his brow, and 
 he looked at her as though almost overcome by his anger. It 
 seemed as though he strove to speak; but he sat for a while in 
 silence. Then rising from his chair he left the room, and did not 
 see her again that night. 
 
 This was on a Tuesday; on the Wednesday he did not speak to 
 her on the subject. The Thursday was Christmas Day, and she 
 went to church with Mrs. Roden. Nor did he on that day alludo 
 to the matter; but on the evening she made to him a little request. 
 “ To-morrow, father, is a holiday, is it not, in the City ? ” 
 
 “So they tell me. I hate such tom-fooleries. When I was 
 young a man might be allowed to earn his bread on all lawful days 
 of the week. Now he is expected to spend the wages he cannot 
 earn in drinking and shows.” 
 
 “ Father, you must leave me here alone after our dinner. He 
 will come for his answer.” 
 
 “ And you will give it ? ” 
 
 “ Certainly, father, certainly. Do"not question me further, for it 
 must be as I told you.” Then he left her as he had done before; 
 but he did not urge her with any repetition of his request. 
 
 This was what occurred between Marion and her father; but 
 on the Wednesday she had gone to Mrs. Roden as she had promised, 
 and there explained her purpose more fully than she had before 
 been able to do. “ I have come, you see,” she said, smiling. “ I 
 might have told you all at once, for I have changed nothing of my 
 mind since first he spoke to me all so suddenly in the passage 
 downstairs.” 
 
 “ Are you so sure of yourself ? ” 
 
 “ Quite sure;—quite sure. Do you think I would hurt him ? ” 
 
 “No, no. You would not, I know, do so willingly.” 
 
 “ And yet I must hurt him a little. I hope it will hurt him just 
 a little.” Mrs. Roden stared at her. “ Oh, if I could make him 
 understand it all! If I could bid him be a man, so that it should 
 wound him only for a short time.” 
 
 “ What wound! ” 
 
 “ Did you think that I could take him, I, the daughter of a City 
 clerk, to go and sit in his halls, and shame him before all the 
 world, because he had thought fit to make me his wife? Never! ” 
 
MARION’S VIEWS ABOUT MARRIAGE. 15D 
 
 “ Marion, Marion S ” 
 
 . because he has made a mistake which has honoured me shall 
 I mistake also so as to dishonour him? Because he has not seen 
 the distance, shall I be blind to it ? He would have given himself 
 np for me. Shall I not be able to make a sacrifice ? To such o 
 one as lam to sacrifice myself is all that I can do in the world ” 
 
 “ Is it such a sacrifice ? ” 
 
 "Could it be that I should not love him? When such a one 
 comes, casting his pearls about, throwing sweet odours through the 
 air, whispering words which are soft-sounding as music in the 
 Jleavens, whispering them to me, casting them at me, turning on 
 me the laughing glances of his young eyes, how could I help to love 
 him ? Do you remember when for a moment he knelt almost at 
 my feet, and told me that I was his friend, and spoke to me of his 
 hearth ? Did you think that that did not move me?” 
 
 “ So soon, my childso soon ? ” 
 
 In a moment. Is it not so that it is done always ^” 
 
 “ Hearts are harder than that, Marion.” 
 
 > "Mine, I think, was so soft just then that the half of his sweet 
 Dungs would have ravished it from my bosom. But I feel for 
 myself that there are two parts in me. Though the one can melt 
 away, and pass altogether from my control, can gush like water 
 that runs out and cannot be checked, the other has something in it 
 of hard substance which can stand against blows, even from him ” 
 What is that something, Marion ? ” 
 
 " Nay, I cannot name it. I think it be another heart, of finer 
 substance, or it may be it is woman’s pride, which will suffer all 
 things rather than hurt the one it loves. I know myself No 
 words from him,—no desire to see his joy, as he would be joyful, 
 if I told him that I could give him all he asks,—no longing for all 
 his love could do for me, shall move me one tittle. He shall tell 
 himself to his dying day that the Quaker girl, because she loved 
 him, was true to his interests.” 
 
 i "My child;—my child!” said Mrs. Eoden, taking Marion in 
 iiGr arms. 
 
 ^ Ho you think that I do not know’,—that I have forgotten^ 
 Was it nothing to me to see my—mother die, and her little ones? 
 
 i-i 0 * i” 0 ? 1 [ n( l w tliat 1 am not ' as others are, free to wed, not a lord 
 like that, but even one of my own standing ? Mrs. Eoden, if I can 
 Eve till my poor father shall have gone before me, so that he may 
 not be left alone when the weakness of age shall have come upon 
 him, then, then I shall be satisfied to follow them. No dream of 
 lovmg hud ever crossed my mind. He has come, and without my 
 mmd, the dreain has been dreamed. I think fliat my lot will be 
 happier so, than if I had passed away without any feeling such as 
 that I have now. Perhaps he will not marry till I am gone.” 
 
 " Would that hurt you so sorely ? ” 
 
 It ought not. It shall not. It will be well that he should 
 marry, and I will not wish to cause him evil. He will have gone 
 away, and I shall hardly know of it. Perhaps they will not tell 
 
ICO 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 me.” Mrs. Eoden could only embrace her, 'sobbing, wiping her 
 -eyes with piteousness. “ But I will not begrudge'aught of the 
 sacrifice,” she continued. “ There is nothing, I think, sweeter than 
 to deny oneself all things for love. What are our lessons for but to 
 teach us that ? Shall I not do unto him as it would be well for me 
 that some such girl should do for my sake if I were such as he ? ” 
 
 “ Oh, Marion, you have got the better part.” 
 
 “ And yet,—and yet- I would that he should feel a little 
 
 because he cannot have the toy that has pleased his eye. What 
 was it that he saw in me, do you think ? As she asked the question 
 she cheered up wonderfully. 
 
 “ The beauty of your brow and eyes,—the softness of your 
 woman’s voice.” 
 
 “ Nay, but I think it was my Quaker dress. His eye, perhaps, 
 like things all of a colour. I had, too, new gloves and a new frock 
 when he saw me. How well I remember his coming,—how he 
 would glance round at me till I hardly knew whether ! was glad 
 that he should observe me so much,—or offended at his persistence. 
 I think that I was glad, though I told myself that he should not 
 have glanced at me so often. And then, when he asked us to go 
 <lown a to his house I did long,—I did long,—to win father’s consent 
 to the journey. Had he not gone-” 
 
 “ Do not think of it, Marion.” 
 
 “ That I will not promisebut I will not talk of it. Now, 
 dear Mrs. Eoden, let all then be as though it had never been. I do 
 not mean to mope, or to neglect my work, because a young lord has 
 crossed my path and told me that he loves me. I must send him 
 from me, and then I will be just as I have been alwavs.” Having- 
 made this promise she went away, leaving Mrs. Eoden much more 
 flurried by the interview than was she herself. When the Friday 
 came, holiday as it was, the Quaker took himself off to the City 
 after dinner, without another word as to his daughter’s lover. 
 
 CHAPTEE XXVI. 
 
 LORD HAMPSTEAD IS IMPATIENT. 
 
 Hampstead, when he was sent away from Paradise Eow, and bade 
 to wait till Friday for an answer, was disappointed, almost cross 
 and unreasonable in his feelings towards Mrs. Eoden. To Mrs’ 
 Eoden altogether he attributed it that Marion had deferred her 
 reply. Whether the delay thus enjoined told well or ill for his 
 hopes he could not bring himself to determine. As he drove him¬ 
 self home his mind was swayed now in one direction and now in 
 tne other. Unless she loved him somewhat, unless she thought it 
 possible that she should love him, she would hardly have asked for 
 time to think of it all. And yet, had she really have loved him 
 why should she have asked for time? He had done for her all 
 
LOUD HAMPSTEAD IS IMPATIENT. Kjl 
 
 have- tormentedhim by foolish dellyl^ not 
 
 that such things would no for nnthino- rri+if i aS vl thmIv of lier 
 he had put his coronet at hpv I<; was not that 
 
 he thought when he reminded Wmselfof alMW 1 1 1 T!r 0f that 
 her, and told himself anorilv ii-mf d ?* a J n ^ la, t he had done io$ 
 him. He was as arro^n? S v e not have tormented’ 
 
 young lord of them all_but c ., ^hatient of disappointment as any 
 
 lord that he thought ^ “ 
 
 soon L helad“ tmmed 0 to “ id to bis ***'. almost as 
 
 George ? ” asked^ady^ranees. 1U ° Uth 8peats ' “ Have you seen 
 
 office dntinglheX 80 I ° f C T Se ’ would be at 
 
 “ You need not be so sa“a|e 7i “me°7ohn Wh^’t 
 own business at Holloway 9 ” me, j oim. \V hat was your 
 
 « Ym?dkl?“ b Marion Fay t0 be “y wife.” 
 
 all bow U mSry juIthose°wf incytat ” 866 ” 18 faShi ° U for cs 
 
 QmkCt% 
 
 good I believe tLrotghly°° Tint 1 shTilY cei \ ain] /- That she is 
 I cannot say as yet.” ^ * She Is bonest > at aD y rate to me, 
 
 “ Not honest ? ” 
 
 “ What is it 0t John‘? 01 \vi Ck n h°cket, if you mean that.” 
 
 “Because I hie chosen to td/you^Ho f hei ' “r this Way ? ” 
 to. do this. thing, I would not dep it sec“f aTlon^? 
 
 v pan T eovr v . Vr. 
 
 were 
 
 I . , 0“ II ciu 
 
 she is honest till she has 
 
 » 
 
 ashamed of it. How can ihay that 
 answered me honestly ? ” 
 
 « None*•- a 7vet ] l a % S | he n mad + 6 ^ 0U ? ” she asked - 
 “I hire her better f1that!” l ° d t0 C0Ule agaiu another day 
 
 woman, and think ^hhllkplsihiih ® 1 ’' ’ Tl! | St because you’re a 
 know your own mffid aid ke Sng "Swm pretendin S not to 
 
 au«a awasa^a^^wss 
 
 dishonest.” cessaiy, and m some degree 
 
 16 r"'^ ian? 0ught she DOt t0 
 pappy m to‘slopIsftttlLlrlttroVr "J?' • f am not such a 
 
 because I ask hg Eut 
 
 M 
 
1G2 
 
 M Alt ION FAY. 
 
 of herself so as to have been able to tell me either to hope or not to 
 hope. She was as calm as a Minister in the House of Commons 
 answering a question; and she told me to wait till Friday just as 
 tho^e fellows do when they have to find out from the clerks in tho 
 office what it is they ought to say.” 
 
 “ You will go again on Friday ? ” she asked. 
 
 “ Of course I must. It is not likely that she should come to 
 me. And then if she says that she’d rather not, I must come home 
 once more with my tail between my legs.” 
 
 “ I do not think she will say that.” 
 
 “ How can you tell ? ” 
 
 “ It is the nature of a girl, I think,” said Lady Frances, “ to 
 doubt a little when she thinks that she can love, but not to doubt 
 at all when she feels that she cannot. She may be persuaded after¬ 
 wards to change her mind, but at first she is certain enough.” 
 
 “ I call that shilly-shally.” 
 
 “ Not at all. The girl I’m speaking of is honest throughout. 
 And Miss Fay will have been honest should she accept you now. It 
 is not often that such a one as you, John, can ask a girl in vain.” 
 
 “ That is mean,” he said, angrily. “ That is imputing falseness, 
 and greed, and dishonour to the girl I love. If she has liked some 
 fellow-clerk in her father’s office better than she likes me, shall she 
 accept me merely because I am my father’s son ? ” 
 
 “ It was not that of which I was thinking. A man may have 
 personal gifts which will certainly prevail with a girl young and 
 unsullied by the w r orld, as I suppose is your Marion Fay.” 
 
 “ Bosh,” he said, laughing. “ As far as personal gifts are con¬ 
 cerned, one fellow is pretty nearly the same as another. A girl has 
 to be good-looking. A man has got to have something to buy 
 bread and cheese w T ith. After that it is all a mere matter of 
 liking and disliking—unless, indeed, people are dishonest, which 
 they very often are.” 
 
 Up to this period of his life Lord Hampstead had never met 
 any girl whom he had thought it desirable to make his wife. It 
 was now two years since the present Marchioness had endeavoured 
 to arrange an alliance between him and her own niece, Lady 
 Amaldina Hauteville. This, though but two years had passed 
 since, seemed to him to have occurred at a distant period of his 
 life. Very much had occurred to him during those two years. His 
 political creed had been strengthened by the convictions of others, 
 especially by those of George Itoden, till it had included those 
 advanced opinions vdiich have been described. He had annoyed, 
 and then dismayed, liis father by his continued refusal to go into 
 Parliament. He had taken to himself ways of living of his own, 
 wdiich gave to him the manners and appearance of more advanced 
 age. At that period, two years since, his stepmother still conceived 
 high hopes of him, even though he would occasionally utter in her 
 presence opinions which seemed to be terrible. He was then not 
 of age, and there would be time enough for a woman of her tact 
 and intellect to cure all those follies. The best way of curing them, 
 
1G3 
 
 LORD HAMPSTEAD IS IMPATIENT. 
 
 ™l ld be , b T ar ^ an S iu g a marriage between the heir 
 to tho Marqmsate and the daughter of so distinguished a con- 
 
 " ve \ e . cr a ? lier brother-in-law, Lord Persiflage. Having this 
 b ^b object in view, she opened the matter with diplomatic caution 
 & ThJS .Lady Persiflage had at that moment™ to regard 
 
 nttu as ‘1 p j SSlble son-m-law, but.was alive to the 
 tact that Loid Hampstead possessed some superior advantages 
 It was possible that her girl should really love such a one as T?S 
 Hampstead,-hardly possible that thete sliouM be auyth?^ 
 romantic in a marriage with the heir of the Duke of Merioneth^ 
 s far as wealth and rank went there was enough in both com¬ 
 petitors. She whispered therefore to her girl the name of the 
 youngci aspirant,—aspirant as he might be hoped to be —and the 
 
 flio l VaS n ? fc °PP°sed to the idea. Only let there be no falling to 
 o giound between two stools; no starving for want of fodder 
 between two bundles of hay! Lord Llwddythlw had a Heady 
 begun to give symptoms. Ho doubt he was bald; no doubt lie 
 was pre-occupied with Parliament and the county. There was no 
 
 S, tbat llls Wlf ? ^ould have to encounter that touch of ridicule 
 which a young girl incurs when she marries a man altoeethpr 
 removed beyond the world of romance. But dukes are scarce and 
 the man of business was known to be a man of high honour. There 
 would be no gambling, no difficulties, no possible question of a 
 
 Eu"land-those politi ?,® . were , the grandest known in 
 
 a -+i tb ? S i ° f an 0 d Tor ^ Wld mg always to work for his 
 party without desiring any of those rewards which the “party” 
 
 Wishes to divide among as select a number as possible What Lord 
 
 Hampstead might turn cut to be, there waJas yet 
 
 He had already declared himself to be a Radical. He was fond of 
 
 °M be cards ^at be should to to 
 JNewmaiket. 1 lien, too, his father might live for five-and-twentv 
 
 BnTH^ er f S i tlie Duk i G ° f Merionet h w r as already nearly eighty^ 
 But Hampstead was as beautiful as a young Phoebus and the mb- 
 
 would mstantly become famous if only from their good looks alone 
 Cb + an< ?. wa ® Siven to Lady Amaldina, but only given on the 
 understanding that she must make very-quick work of her time 
 . Hampstead was coaxed down to Castle Hautboy for a month 
 in September, with an idea that the young lovers might b-> ^ 
 romantic as they pleased among the Lakes. Some little romance 
 
 hefmoHer tw* * - end ° f H le ,, first week Amaldina wisely told 
 ^ S e thing 7 0uldn t do. She would always be glad 
 
 t gard Hampstead as a cousin, but as to anything else 
 
 there must be an end of it. “ I shall some day give up my title 
 and abandon the property to Freddy. I shall then go to the United 
 States, and do the best I can there to earn my own bread ” This 
 
 P^Posed lover toth/girl he was expected 
 
 iio^ 7oVd P T firm Amaldl pa s eyes to the danger of her situa¬ 
 tion. Loid Llwddythlw was induced to spend two days in the 
 
 thi°wifl^?i h at Castle Ha ^ tb0 ^ and then the arrangements for 
 the Welsh alliance were completed. 
 
1G1 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 From that time forth a feeling of ill-will on the part of Lady 
 Kingsbury towards her stepson had grown and become strong from 
 month to month. She had not at first conceived any idea that 
 her Lord Frederic ought to come to the throne. That had come 
 gradually when she perceived, or thought that she perceived, that 
 Hampstead would hardly make a marriage properly aristocratic. 
 Hitherto no tidings of any proposed marriage had reached her ears. 
 She lived at last in daily fear, as any marriage would be the almost 
 sure forerunner of a little Lord Highgate. If something might 
 happen,—something which she had taught herself to regard as 
 beneficent and fitting rather than fatal,—something which might 
 ensure to her little Lord Frederic those prospects which he had 
 almost a right to expect, then in spite of all her sufferings Heaven 
 would have done something for her for which she might be 
 thankful. “What will her ladyship say when she hears of my 
 maid Marion ? ” said Hampstead to his sister on the Christmas Day 
 before his further visit to Holloway. 
 
 “ Will it matter much ? ” asked Lady Frances. 
 
 “ I think my feelings towards her are softer than yours. She 
 is silly, arrogant, harsh, and insolent to my father, and altogether 
 unprincipled in her expectations and ambitions.” 
 
 " What a character you give her! ” said his sister. 
 
 “ But nevertheless I feel for her to such an extent that I almost 
 think I ought to abolish myself.” 
 
 “ I cannot say that I feel for her.” 
 
 “ It is all for her son that she wants it; and I agree with her 
 in thinking that Freddy will be better fitted than I am for the 
 position in question. I am determined to marry Marion if I can 
 get her; but all the Traffords, unless it be yourself, will be broken¬ 
 hearted at such a marriage. If once I have a son of my own the 
 matter will be hopeless. If I were to call myself Snooks, and 
 refused to take a shilling from the property, I should do them no. 
 good. Marion’s boy would be just as much in their way as I am.” 
 
 “ What a way of looking at it! ” 
 
 “How my stepmother will hate her! A Quaker’s daughter! 
 A clerk at Pogson and Littlebird’s! Living at Paradise Eow! 
 Can’t you see her! Is it not hard upon her that we should both 
 go to Paradise Eow ? ” Lady Frances could not keep herself from 
 laughing. “ You can’t do her any permanent injury, because you 
 are only a girl; but I think she will poison me. It will end in her 
 getting Mr. Greenwood to give me some broth.” 
 
 “ John, you are too terrible.” 
 
 “ If I could be on the jury afterwards, I would certainly acquit 
 them both on the ground of extreme provocation.” 
 
 Early on the following morning he was in a fidget, having fixed 
 no hour for his visit to Holloway. It was not likely that she 
 should be out or engaged, but he determined not to go till after 
 lunch. All employment was out of the question, and he was rather 
 a trouble to his sister; but in the course of the morning there came 
 a letter which did for a while occupy his thoughts. The envelope 
 
WliD HAMPSTEAD 2k/ IMF ATJ EE T. 163 
 
 SeSto the iD “ liand h ° did n0t and aJ^rdly 
 
 “Right Honourable, 
 
 “ I wonder who this ass is,” said If tearing 
 nas Samuel Crocker, and the letter was as follows’ e aSS 
 
 “ Ileathcote Street, 
 
 “Mecklenburg Square, 
 
 “ My dear Lord Hampstead, “ CMstmas ^ 18 ~‘ 
 
 - ,i • r. h°P e I may be excused for addressing your lord shin 
 n this familiar manner. I take occasion of this happy day to writi 
 to* our lordship on a message of peace. Since I hit the honour of 
 meeting you at your noble uncle’s mansion Castle Hnutw t i 
 considered it one of the greatest delWifySTl^to^bl^S 
 boast of your acquaintance. You win not, I am s\™ fo^et ?h ? 
 ,‘ av f ’f™ fellow-sportsmen, and that we rode toge’the/on that 
 
 Force. I shall never forget IheTccasion 1 “o ttS 
 
 went over our rough country. To my mind there is no b™d S 
 union so strong as that of sport. bond of 
 
 ‘ U P strikes little Davy with his musical horn.’ 
 
 I am suie you will rGmombor t licit mv lord nnrl knn i • ? i 
 song to which it belongs. I remembS-’too^how,'as te were ridinl 
 home after the run, your lordship was talking all the wav about 
 
 our mutual friend, George Roden. b v ay about 
 
 _ He is a man for whom I have a most sincere regard both 
 hemg an excellent public servant, and as a friend of your lordshiot 
 It is quite a pleasure to see the way in which he devotes himself 
 to the service,—as I do also. When you have taker, tiff A 1111186 } 1 
 shilling you ought to earn it. Those are my princfples m T w/ 
 ^e have a couple of young fellows there whoseraly obt’cUt is td 
 fffi Jni °, Ugh the - d f/ anc eat their ^ches. I always tel them that 
 somTday?” 5 ai “ ‘ th61r ° Wa ' 1 su ® oso W understand me 
 
 “ But as X was saying to your lordship about Georue Jteden 
 there has something come up which I don’t quite understand’ 
 which seems to have turned him against me. Nothing has ev^ 
 given me so much pleasure as when I heard of his prospects as to 
 a certain matter-which your lordship will know what I mean 
 Nothing could be more flattering than the way I’ve wished him 
 ever so many times So I do also your lorfsWp an“ad shfrf 
 
 liie a Wn’t 1 s^hi^^s^ome^^op^e's^^But^a^clerk^in'ifll S° U 1 ^ 
 
 4ySu a^weU as h1s SentlemaD ’ Which 1 “ P roud to “ 
 
 But, as I was saying to your lordship, something seems to In vo 
 gone against him as to our mutual friendship °He sits t Z! 
 opposite and won’t speak a word to me, except^usl to amswer a 
 
1GG 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 question, and that hardly civil. He is as sweet as sugar to those” 
 fellows who ain’t at the same desk with him as I am,—or I should 
 think it was his future prospects were making him upsetting. 
 Couldn’t your lordship do something to make tilings ivp between 
 us again,—especially on this festive occasion? I’m sure your 
 lordship will remember how pleasant we were together at Castle 
 Hautboy, and at the hunt, and especially as we were riding homo 
 together on that day. I did take the liberty of calling at Hendon 
 Hall, when her ladyship was kind enough to see me. Of course 
 there was a delicacy in speaking to her ladyship about Mr. Roden, 
 which nobody could understand better than I do; but I think she 
 made me something of a promise that she* would say a word when 
 a proper time might come. 
 
 “ It could only have been a joke of mine; and I do joke some¬ 
 times, as your lordship may have observed. JBut I shouldn’t think 
 Roden would be the man to be mortally offended by anything of 
 that sort. Anyway, I will leave the matter in your lordship’s 
 hands, merely remarking that,—as your lordship may remember,—> 
 ‘ Blessed are the peacemakers, for theirs is the Kingdom of Heaven/ 
 
 “ I have the honour to be, 
 
 “ My dear Lord Hampstead, 
 
 “ Your lordship’s most obedient, 
 
 “ Very humble servant, 
 
 “ Samuel Crocker.” 
 
 Fretful and impatient as he was on that morning, it was im¬ 
 possible for Hampstead not to laugh at this letter. He showed it 
 to his sister, who, in spite of her annoyance, was constrained to 
 laugh also. “ I shall tell George to take him to his bosom at once,” 
 said he. 
 
 “ Why should George bo bothered with him? ” 
 
 “ Because George can’t help himself. They sit at the same desk 
 together, as Crocker has not forgotten to tell me a dozen times. 
 When a man perseveres in this way, and is thick-skinned enough 
 to bear all rebuffs, there is nothing he will not accomplish. I have 
 no doubt he will be riding my horses in Leicestershire before the 
 season is over.” An answer, however, was written to him in the 
 following words :—■ 
 
 “ Bear Mr. Crocker, 
 
 “ I am afraid I cannot interfere with Mr. Roden, who 
 doesn’t like to be dictated to in such matters. 
 
 “ Yours truly, 
 
 “ Hampstead.” 
 
 “ There,” said he; “ I do not think he can take that letter as a 
 mark of friendship.” 
 
 In this way the morning was passed till the time came for the 
 start to Holloway. Lady Frances, standing at the hall door as he 
 got into his trap, saw that the fashion of his face was unusually 
 serious. 
 
C 1G7 ) 
 
 CIIAPTEH XXVII. 
 
 THE QUAKERS ELOQUENCE. 
 
 When the Friday morning came in Paradise Ftow both father and 
 daughter, at No. 17, were full of thought as they came down to 
 breakfast. To each of them it was a day laden with importance. 
 The father’s mind had been full of the matter ever since the news 
 had been told to him. He had received Marion’s'positive assurance 
 that such a marriage was altogether impossible with something of 
 impatience till she had used that argument as to her own health, 
 which was so powerful with her. On hearing that he had said 
 nothing, but had gone away. Nor had he spoken a word on the 
 subject since. But his mind had been full of it. He had lost his 
 wife,—and all his little ones, as she had said; but he had declared 
 to himself with strong confidence that this child was to be spared 
 to him. He was a man whose confidence was unbounded in things 
 as to which he had resolved. It was as though he had determined, 
 in spite of Fate, in spite of God, that his Marion should live. And 
 she had grown up under his eyes, if not robust, by no means a. 
 weak creature. She did her work about the house, and never 
 complained. In his eyes she was very beautiful; but he saw 
 nothing in her colour which was not to him a sign of health. He 
 told himself that it was nothing that she, having seen so many die 
 in her own family, should condemn herself; but for himself he 
 repudiated the idea, and declared to himself that she should not 
 become an early victim. So thinking, he exercised his mind con¬ 
 stantly during those few days in considering whether there was any 
 adequate cause for the refusal which Marion had determined to give 
 this man. 
 
 He, in truth, was terribly anxious that this grand stroke of 
 fortune should be acknowledged and accepted. He wanted nothing 
 from the young lord himself,—except, perhaps/that he might be the 
 young lord’s father-in-law. Put he did want it all, long for it all, 
 pant for it all, on behalf of his girl. If all these good things came 
 in his girls way because of her beauty, her grace, and her merit, 
 why should they not be accepted ? Others not only accepted these 
 things for their daughters, but, hunted for them, cheated for them, 
 did all mean things in searching for them,—and had their tricks 
 and their lies regarded by the world quite as a matter of course,— 
 because it was natural that parents should be anxious for their 
 children. He had not hunted. He had not cheated. The thing 
 had come in his girl’s way. The man had found her to be the most 
 lovely, the most attractive, the most lovable among all whom he 
 had seen. And was this glory to be thrown away because she had 
 filled her mind with false fears ? Though she were to die, must 
 not the man take his chance with her, as do other husbands in 
 marrying other wives? 
 
IGS 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 He had been thinking of this, and of nothing but this, during 
 the days which had intervened since Lord Hampstead had been in 
 Paradise Row. He had not said a word to his daughter,—had 
 indeed not dared to say a word to her, so abhorrent to him was the 
 idea of discussing with her the probabilities of her own living or 
 dying. And ho was doubtful, too, whether any words coming from 
 him at the present might not strengthen her in her resolution. If 
 the man really loved her he might prevail. His words would be 
 stronger to overcome her than any that could be spoken by her 
 father. And then, too, if he really loved her, the one repulse would 
 not send him back for ever. It might, perhaps, be better that any 
 arguments from her father should be postponed till she should have 
 heard her lover’s arguments. But his mind was so filled with the 
 whole matter that he could not bring himself to assure himself 
 oertainly that his decision was the best. Though he was one who 
 i?arely needed counsel from others, on this occasion he did need it, 
 and now it was his purpose to ask counsel of Mrs. Roden before the 
 moment should have come which might be fatal to his hopes. 
 
 As this was the day immediately following Christmas, there was 
 no business for him in the City. In order that the weary holiday 
 might be quicker consumed, they breakfasted at No. 17 an hour 
 later than was usual. After breakfast he got through the morniim 
 as well as he could with his newspaper, and some record of stocks 
 and prices which he had brought with him from the City. So he 
 remained, fretful, doing nothing, pretending to read, but with his 
 mind fixed upon the one subject, till it was twelve o’clock, at which 
 hour he had determined to make his visit. At half-past one they 
 were to dine, each of them having calculated, without, however 
 a word having been spoken, that Lord Hampstead would certainly 
 not come till the ceremony of dinner would be over. Though the 
 matter was so vitally important to both of them, not a word con¬ 
 cerning it was spoken. 
 
 At twelve o’clock he took up his hat, and walked out. “ You 
 will be back punctually for dinner, father ? ” she asked. He made 
 his promise simply by nodding his head, and then left the room. 
 Five minutes afterwards he was closeted with Mrs. Roden in her 
 drawing-room. Having conceived the difficulty of leading up to 
 the subject gradually, he broke into it at once. “ Marion lias'told 
 thee that this young man will be here to-day?” She simply 
 assented. “ Hast thou advised her as to what she should say ? ” 
 
 “ She has not seemed to want advice.” 
 
 “ How should a girl not want advice in so great a matter ? ” 
 How, indeed ? But yet she has needed none.” 
 
 “ Has she told thee,” he asked, “ what it is in her mind to do ? ” 
 
 “ I think so.” 
 
 “ Has she said that she would refuse the man ? ” 
 
 “ Yes; that certainly was her purpose.” 
 
 “ And given the reasons?” he said, almost trembling as he 
 asked the question. 
 
 “ Yes, she gave her reasons.” 
 
THE QUAKER'S ELOQUENCE. ^ 
 
 . “,4 nd didst thou agree with lier ? ” Before she could reply to 
 this Mrs. Roden felt herself compelled to pause. When she thought 
 of that one strongest reason, fully as she agreed with it, she was 
 unable to tell the father of the girl that she did so. She sat looking 
 at him, wanting words with which she might express her full con¬ 
 currence with Marion without plunging a dagger into the other’s 
 heart. “ Then thou didst agree with her ? ” There was something 
 temble in the intensity and slowness of the words as he repeated 
 the question. 1 
 
 “On the whole I did,” she said. “I think that unequal 
 marriages are rarely happy.” ^ 
 
 That was all ? he asked. Then when she was again silent 
 lie made the demand which was so important to him. “ Did she 
 say aught of her health in discussing all this with thee*'? ” 
 
 “ She did, Mr. Fay.” 
 
 “ And thou ? ” 
 
 1 " 1 A ? subject, my friend, on which I could not speak to 
 
 liei. All that was said came from her. Her mind was so fully made 
 up, as I have said before, no advice from me could avail anything. 
 With some people it is easy to see that whether you agree with 
 them or differ from them it is impossible to turn them.” 
 
 But to me thou canst say whether thou hast agreed with her. 
 les; I know well that the subject is one difficult to talk of in a 
 father s hearing But there are things which should be talked of 
 though the heart should break.” After another pause he continued: 
 
 Is there, thmkest thou, sufficient cause in the girl’s health to bid 
 her sever herself from these delights of life and customary habits 
 which the Lord has intended for His creatures ? ” At every 
 •separate question he paused, but when she was silent he went on 
 with other questions. “ Is there that in her looks, is there that in 
 her present condition of life, which make it needful for thee her 
 friend, oi for me, her father, to treat her as though she were already 
 condemned by the hand of the Lord to an early grave ^ ” Then 
 again, looking almost fiercely into her face, he went on with his 
 examination, “ That is what thou art doing.” 
 
 “ Not I;—not I.” 
 
 ,, “t YeS f ^bou, my friend; thou, with all thy woman’s softness in 
 thy heart! It is what I shall do, unless I bring myself to tell her 
 that her fears are vain. To me she has said that that is her 
 reason It is not that she cannot love the man. Has she not said 
 as much to thee? ’ 
 
 “ Yes; truly.” 
 
 “ And art thou not assenting to it unless thou tell’st her that 
 her fancies are not only vain, but wrong? Though thou hast not 
 spoken the word, has not thy silence assented as fully as words 
 ■could do ? Answer me at any rate to that.” 
 
 “ It is so,” she said. 
 
 . “ Is it then necessary to condemn her ? Art thou justified in 
 tlnne own thoughts in bidding her regard herself as one doomed ? ” 
 Again there was a pause. What was she to say ? “ Thou art 
 
170 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 aware that in our poor household she does all that the strictest 
 economy would demand from an active mother of a family ? She 
 is never idle. If she suffers I do not see it. She takes her food, if 
 not with strong appetite, yet regularly. She is upright, and walks 
 with no languor. No doctor comes near her. If like others she 
 requires change of air and scene, what can give her such chance 
 as this marriage? Hast thou not heard that for girls of feeble 
 health marriage itself will strengthen them ? Is she such that thou 
 as her friend must bid her know that she must perish like a 
 blighted flower? Must I bid her to hem and stitch her own 
 winding-sheet ? It comes to that if no word be said to her to turn 
 her from this belief. She has seen them all die,—one after another, 
 —one after another, till the idea of death, of death for herself as 
 well as for them, has gotten hold of her. And yet it will be the 
 case that one in a family shall escape. I have asked among those 
 who know, and I have found that it 'is so. The Lord does not 
 strike them all, always. But if she thinks that she is stricken then 
 she will fall. If she goes forth to meet Death on the path, Death 
 will come half-way to encounter her. Dost thou believe of me that 
 it is because the man is a noble lord that I desire this marriage ? ” 
 
 “ Oh no, Mr. Fay.” 
 
 “ He will take my child away from me. She will then be but 
 little to me. What want 1 with lords, who for the few days of active 
 life that are left to me would not change my City stool for any seat 
 that any lord can give me ? But I shall know that she has had 
 her chance in the world, and has not been unnecessarily doomed— 
 to an early grave! ” 
 
 “ What would you have me do ? ” 
 
 “ Go to her, and tell her that she should look forward, with trust- 
 in God, to such a state of health as He may vouchsafe to give her. 
 Her thoughts are mostly with her God. Bid her not shorten His 
 mercies. Bid her not to tell herself that she can examine His 
 purposes. Bid her do in this as her nature bids her, and, if she 
 can love this man, give herself into his arms and leave the rest to 
 the Lord.” 
 
 “But he will be there at once.” 
 
 “ If he be there, what harm ? Thou canst go when he comes to 
 the door. I shall go to her now, and we shall dine together, and 
 then at once I will leave her. When you see me pass the window 
 then thou canst take thine occasion.” So saying, without waiting 
 for a promise, he left her and went back to his own house. 
 
 And Marion’s heart had been full of many thoughts that 
 morning,—some of them so trifling in their object, that she herself 
 would wonder at herself because that they should occupy her. 
 How should she be dressed to receive her lover ? In what words 
 first should she speak to him,—and in what sort ? Should she let 
 any sign of love escape from her ? Her resolution as to her great 
 purpose was so fixed that there was no need for further thought on 
 that matter. It was on the little things that she was intent. How 
 far might she indulge herself in allowing some tenderness h> 
 
THE QUAKER'S ELOQUENCE 
 
 17 L 
 
 escape lier ? How best might she save him from any great pain, 
 and yet show him that she was proud that he had loved her ? In 
 what dress she might receive him, in that would she sit at table 
 with her father. It was Christmas time, and the occasion would 
 justify whatever of feminine smartness her wardrobe possessed. 
 As she brought out from its recess "the rich silk frock, still all but 
 new, in which he had first seen her, she told herself that she would 
 probably have worn it for her father’s sake, had no lover been 
 coming. On the day before, the Christmas Day, she had worn it 
 at church. And the shoes with the pretty buckles, and the sober 
 but yet handsome morsel of lace which was made for her throat,—- 
 and which she had not been ashamed to wear at that memorable 
 dinner,—they were all brought out. It was Christmas, and her 
 father’s presence would surely have justified them all! And would 
 she not wish to leave in her lover’s eyes the memory of whatever 
 prettiness she might have possessed? They were all produced. 
 But when the moment came for arraying herself they were all re¬ 
 stored to their homes. She would be the simple Quaker girl as 
 she was to be found there on Monday, on Tuesday, and on Wednesday. 
 It would be better that he should know how little there was for 
 him to lose. 
 
 Zachary Fay ate his dinner almost without a word. She, 
 though she smiled on him and tried to look contented, found it 
 almost impossible to speak. She uttered some little phrases which 
 she intended to be peculiar to the period of the year; but she felt 
 that her father’s mind was intent on what was coming, and she 
 discontinued her efforts. She found it hardly possible to guess at 
 the frame of his mind, so silent had he been since first he had 
 yielded to her when she assured him of her purpose. But she had 
 assured him, and he could not doubt her purpose. If he were un¬ 
 happy for the moment it was needful that he should be unhappy. 
 There could be no change, and therefore it was well that he should 
 be silent. He had hardly swallowed his dinner when he rose from 
 his chair, and, bringing in his hat from tlio passage, spoke a word 
 to her before he departed. “ I am going into the City, Marion,” ho 
 said. “ I know it is well that I should be absent this afternoon. I 
 shall return to tea. God bless thee, my child.”^ 
 
 Marion, rising from her chair, kissed his lips and cheeks, and 
 accompanied him to the door. “ It w^ 1 ha all well, my father,” sho 
 said; “ it will be all well, and yi will be happy.” 
 
 About half-an-hour afterwards there came a knock at the door, 
 and Marion for a moment thought that her lover was already there. 
 But it was Mrs. Boden who came up to her in the drawing-room. 
 “ Am I in the way, Marion ? ” she asked. “ I will be gone in a 
 minute; but perhaps I can say a word first,” 
 
 “ Why should you be in the way ? ” 
 
 “ He is coming.” 
 
 “ Yes, I suppose so. He said that he would come. But what if 
 he come ? You and he are old friends.” 
 
 “ I would not be here to interrupt him. I will escape when wo- 
 hear the knock. Oh, Marion! ” 
 
-.172 
 
 MARION FAY . 
 
 “ What is it, Mrs. Boden ? Yon are sad, and something troubles 
 .you ? ” 
 
 “ Yes, indeed. There is something which troubles me sorely. 
 This lover of yours ? ” 
 
 “ It is fixed, dear friend ; fixed as fate. It does not trouble me. 
 It shall not trouble me. Why should it be a trouble ? Suppose 
 I had never seen him ! ” 
 
 “ But you have seen him, my child.” 
 
 “ Yes, indeed; and whether that be for good or evil, either to 
 him or to me, it must be accepted. Nothing now can alter that. 
 But I think, indeed, that it is a blessing. It will be something 
 to me to remember that such a one as he has loved me. And for 
 •him-” 
 
 “ I would speak now of you, Marion.” 
 
 “ I am contented.” 
 
 “It may be, Marion, that in this concerning your health you 
 should be altogether wrong.” 
 
 “ How wrong ? ” 
 
 “ What right have you or I to say that the Lord has determined 
 to shorten your days.” 
 
 “ Who has said so ? ” 
 
 “ It is on that theory that you are acting.” 
 
 “No;—not on that; not on that alone. Were I as strong as 
 are other girls,—as the very strongest,—I would do the same. Has 
 my father been with you ? ” 
 
 “ Yes, he has.” 
 
 “ My poor father! But it is of no avail. It would be wuono 
 and I will not do it. If I am to die, I must die. If I am to live^ 
 let me live. I shall not die certainly because I have resolved to 
 send this fine lover aw r ay. However weak Marion Fay may be, she 
 is strong enough not to pine for that.” 
 
 “If there be no need?” 
 
 “No need? What was it you said of unequal marriages9 
 What was the story that you told me of your own ? If I love this 
 man, of whom am I to think the most ? Could it be possible that 
 I should be to him what a wife ought to be to her husband ? Could 
 I stand nobly on his hearth-rug, and make his great guests 
 •welcome ? Should I be such a one that every day he should bless 
 the kind fortune which had given him such a w r oman to help him 
 to rule his house? How could I go from the littleness of these 
 chambers to walk through his halls without showing that I knew" 
 myself to be an intruder ? And yet I should be so proud that 
 I should resent the looks of all who told me by their faces that I 
 was so. He has clone wwong in allowing himself to love me. He 
 has done wrong in yielding to his passion, and telling me of his 
 love. I will be wiser and nobler than he. If the Lord will help 
 me, if my Saviour will be on my side, I will not do wrong. I did 
 mot think that you, Mrs. Boden, wmuld turn against me.” 
 
 “ Turn against thee, Marion ? I to turn against thee! ” 
 
 “ You should strengthen me.” 
 
MARION'S OBSTINACY. 
 
 1 r-rn» 
 
 I Or* 
 
 “ It seems to me that yon want no strength from others. It is 
 for your poor father that I would say a word.” 
 
 “ I would not have father believe that my health has aught to 
 do with it. You know,—you know what right I have to think that 
 I am fit to marry and to hope to be the mother of children. It 
 needs not that he should know. Let it suffice for him to be told 
 that I am not equal to this greatness. A word escaped me in 
 speaking to him, and I repent myself that I so spoke to him. But 
 tell him,—and tell him truly,—that were my days fixed here for 
 the next fifty years, were I sure of the rudest health, I would not 
 carry my birth, my manners, my habits into that young lord’s 
 house. How long would it be, Mrs. Boden, before he saw some- 
 little trick that would displease him? Some word would be 
 wrongly spoken, some garment would be ill-folded, some awkward 
 movement would tell the tale,—and then he would feel that he 
 had done wrong to marry the Quaker’s daughter. All the virtues; 
 under the sun cannot bolster up love so as to stand the battery of 
 one touch of disgust. Tell my father that, and tell him that I have 
 done well. Then you can tell him also, that, if God shall so choose 
 it, I shall live a strong old maid for many years, to think night and 
 day of his goodness to me,—of his great love.” 
 
 Mrs. Boden, as she had come across from her own house, had 
 known that her mission would fail. To persuade another against 
 one’s own belief is difficult in any case, but to persuade Marion Fay 
 on such a matter as this was a task beyond the eloquence of man 
 or woman. She had made up her mind that she must fail utterly 
 when the knock came at the door. She took the girl in her arms 
 and kissed her without further attempt. She would not even bid 
 her think of it once again, as might have been so easy at parting. 
 “ I will go into your room while he passes,” she said. As she did 
 so Lord Hampstead’s voice was heard at the door. 
 
 CIIAPTEB XXVIII. 
 maeion’s obstinacy. 
 
 Loud Hampstead drove himself very fast from Hendon Hall to the 
 “ Duchess of Edinburgh” at Holloway, and then, jumping out of 
 his trap, left it without saying a word to his servant, and walked 
 quickly up Paradise Bow till he came to No. 17. There, without 
 pausing a moment, lie knocked sharply at the door. Going on 
 such a "business as this, he did not care who saw him. There was 
 an idea present to him that he would be doing honour to Marion 
 Fay if he made it known to all the world of Holloway that he had 
 come there to ask her to be his wife. It was this feeling which had 
 made him declare his purpose to his sister, and which restrained 
 him from any concealment as to his going and coming. 
 
 Marion was standing alone in the middle of the room, with her 
 
174 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 
 two hands clasped together, but with a smile on her face. She had 
 considered much as to this moment, determining even the very 
 words that she would use. The words probably were forgotten, 
 but the purpose was all there. He had resolved upon nothing, had 
 considered nothing,—except that she should be made to understand 
 that, because of his exceeding love, he required her to come to him 
 as his wife. “Marion,” he said, “Marion, you know why I am 
 here! ” And he advanced to her, as though he would at once have 
 taken her in his arms. 
 
 “ Yes, my lord, I know.” 
 
 “ You know that I love you. I think, surely, that never love 
 was stronger than mine. If you can love me say but the one word, 
 and you will make me absolutely happy. To have you for my 
 wife is all that the world can give me now. Why do you go from 
 me? Is it to tell me that you cannot love me, Marion? Do not 
 say that, or I think my heart will break.” 
 
 She could not say that, but as he paused for her answer it was 
 necessary that she should say something. And the first word 
 spoken must tell the whole truth, even though it might be that the 
 word must be repeated often before he could be got to believe that 
 it was an earnest word. “ My lord,” she began. 
 
 “ Oh, I do hate that form of address. My name is John. 
 Because of certain conventional arrangements the outside people 
 call me Lord Hampstead.” 
 
 “ It is because I can be to you no more than one of the outside 
 people that I call you—my lord.” 
 
 “ Marion! ” 
 
 “ Only one of the outside people; —no more, though my gratitude 
 to you, my appreciation, my friendship for you may be ever so 
 strong. My father’s daughter must be just one of the outside 
 people to Lord Hampstead,—and no more.” 
 
 “ Why so ? Why do you say it ? Why do you torment me ? 
 Why do you banish me at once, and tell me that I must go home a 
 wretched, miserable man ? Why ?—why ?—why ? ” 
 
 “ Because, my lord-- ” 
 
 “ I can give a reason,—a good reason,—a reason wdiick I cannot 
 oppose, though it must be fatal to me unless I can remove it; a 
 reason to which I must succumb if necessary, but to which, Marion, 
 I will not succumb at once. If you say that you cannot love me 
 that will be a reason.” 
 
 If it were necessary that she should tell him a lie, she must do 
 so. It would have been pleasant if she could have made him 
 understand that she would be content to love him on condition that 
 he would be content to leave her. That she should continue to love 
 him, and that he should cease to love her,—unless, perhaps, just a 
 little, that had been a scheme for the future which had recom¬ 
 mended itself to her. There should be a something left which 
 should give a romance to her life, but which should leave him free 
 in all things. It had been a dream, in which she had much trusted, 
 but which, while she listened to the violence of his words, she 
 
MARION’S OBSTINACY. 
 
 17") 
 
 acknowledged to herself to be almost impossible. She must tell 
 the lie ;—but at the moment it seemed to her that there might be a 
 middle course. “ I dare not love you,” she said. 
 
 “ Dare not love me, Marion ? Who hinders you ? Who tells you 
 that you may not ? Is it your father ? ” 
 
 “No, my lord, no.” 
 
 “ It is Mrs. Roden.” 
 
 “ No, my lord. This is a matter in which I could obey no friend, 
 no father. I have had to ask myself, and I have told myself that 
 I do not dare to love above my station in life.” 
 
 ‘‘I am to have that bugbear again between me and my 
 happiness? ” 
 
 “ Between that and your immediate wishesyes. Is it not so 
 in all things ? If I,—even I,—had set my heart upon some one 
 below me, would not you, as my friend, have bade me conquer the 
 feeling? ” 
 
 “I have set my heart on one whom in the things of the world 
 I regard as my equal,—in all other things as infinitely my 
 superior.” 
 
 “ The compliment is very svreet to me, but I have trained 
 myself to resist sweetness. It may not be, Lord Hampstead. It 
 may not be. You do not know as yet how obstinate such a girl as 
 I may become when she has to think of another’s welfare,—and a 
 little perhaps, of her own.” 
 
 “ Are you afraid of me ? ” 
 
 “ Yes.” 
 
 “ That I should not love you ? ” 
 
 “ Even of that. When you should come to see in me that which 
 is not lovable you would cease to love me. You would be good to 
 me because your nature is good; kind to me because your nature 
 is kind. You would not ill-treat me because you are gentle, noble, 
 and forgiving. But that would not suffice for me. I should see it 
 in your eye, despite yourself,—and hear it in your voice, even 
 though you tried to hide it by occasional softness. I should eat my 
 own heart when I came to see that you despised your Quaker 
 wife.” 
 
 “ All that is nonsense, Marion.” 
 
 “ My lord! ” 
 
 “ Say the v T ord at once if it has to be said,—so that I may know 
 what it is that I have to contend with. For you my heart is so full 
 of love that it seems to be impossible that I should live w-ithout you. 
 If there could be any sympathy I should at once be happy. If there 
 be none, say so.” 
 
 “ There is none.” 
 
 “ No spark of sympathy in you for me,—for one who loves you 
 so truly?” When the question was put to her in that guise she 
 could not quite tell so monstrous a lie as would be needed for an 
 answer fit for her purpose. “ This is a matter, Marion, in which a 
 man has a right to demand an answer,—to demand a true answer.” 
 
 “ Lord Hampstead, it may be that you should perplex me sorely. 
 
MABION FAY. 
 
 270 
 
 It may be that you should drive me away from you, and beg yon 
 never to trouble me any further. It may be that you should force 
 me to remain dumb before you, because that I cannot reply to you 
 in proper words. But you will never alter my purpose. * If 
 you think well of Marion Fay, take her word when she gives it you. 
 I can never become your lordship’s wife.” 
 
 “ Never ? ” 
 
 “ Never S Certainly never! ” 
 
 “ Have you told me whyall the reason why ? ” 
 
 “ I have told you enough, Lord Hampstead.” 
 
 “ % heavens, no! You have not answered me the one question 
 that I have asked you. Fou have not given me the only reason 
 
 which I would take,-even for a while. Can you love me 
 
 Marion ? ” 
 
 “ If you loved me you would spare me,” she said. Then feeling 
 that such words utterly betrayed her, she recovered herself, and 
 went to work with what best eloquence was at her command to 
 cheat him out of the direct answer which he required. “I think,” 
 she said, “ you do not understand the workings of a girl’s heart in 
 such a matter. She does not dare to ask herself about her love, 
 when she knows that losing would avail her nothing. For what 
 purpose should I inquire into myself when the object of such 
 inquiry has already been obtained? Why should I trouble myself 
 to know whether this thing would be a gain to me or not, when 
 I am well aware that I can never have the gain ? ” 
 
 “ Marion, I think you love me.” She looked at him and tried 
 to smile,—tried to utter some half-joking word; and then as she 
 felt that she could no longer repress her tears, she turned her face 
 from him, and made no attempt at a reply. “Marion,” he said 
 again, “ I think that you love me.” 
 
 “ If you loved me, my lord, you would not torture me.” She 
 had seated herself now on the sofa, turning her face away from him 
 over her shoulder so that she might in some degree hide her tears. 
 He sat himself at her side, and for a moment or two got possession 
 of her hand: 
 
 “ Marion,” he said, pleading his case with all the strength of 
 words which was at his command, “ you know, do you not, that no 
 moment of life can be of more importance to me than this ? ” 
 
 “ Is it so, my lord ? ” 
 
 “ None can be so important. I am striving to get her for my 
 companion in life, who to me is the sweetest of all human beings. 
 To touch you as I do now is a joy to me, even though you have 
 made my heart so sad.” At the moment she struggled to get her 
 hand away from him, but the struggle was not at first successful. 
 
 “ You answer me with arguments which are to me of no avail at all. 
 They are, to my thinking, simply a repetition of prejudices to which 
 I have been all my life opposed. You will not be angry because 
 I say so ? ” 
 
 “ Oh no, my lord,” she said; “ not angry. I am not angry, but 
 indeed you must not hold me.” With that she extricated her hand, 
 
MARlvWS OBSTINACY . 177 
 
 to her llG all ° WCd t0 pass from llis S ras P as IlG continued his address 
 
 l)e rfofo ! hat ’ ] lia i V 7 e m y opinion and you have yours. Can it 
 o right that jou should hold to your own and sacrifice me who 
 
 WflmpT 8 -? 4 f mUCh 0f • vha V t f 1 want “yself,-if in truth you 
 0 -\ 0 me. Let your opinion stand against mine, and neutralize it. 
 
 Let mine stand against yours, and in that we shall be equal. Then 
 
 lGt ?Y i e 4 .^ e i ord ofa11 * If y° u love me, Marion, I think 
 that I have a right to demand that you shall be my wife ” 
 
 Ihere was something in this which she did not know how to 
 answerbut she did know, she was quite sure, that no word of 
 his, no tenderness either on his part or on her own, would induce 
 ner to yield an inch. It was her duty to sacrifice herself for him — 
 or reasons which were quite apparent to herself.-and she would 
 „ j i • foi tr ess of her inner purpose was safe, although he had 
 succeeded m breaking down the bulwark by which it had been her 
 puipose to guard it. He had claimed her love, and she had not 
 oeen strong enough to deny the claim. Let the bulwark go. She 
 a as bad at lying. Let her lie as she might, he had wit enough to 
 see through it. She would not take the trouble to deny her love 
 s lould he persist in saying that it had been accorded to him. But 
 
 XtW 1 <?nfi ght ri S T- Ceed at ^ m makiD S him understand that, 
 whether she loved him or no, she would not marry him. “ I cer¬ 
 tainly shall never be your wife,” she said. 
 
 “ And that is all ? ” 
 
 " What more, my lord ? ” 
 
 You can let me go, and never wish me to return ? ” 
 
 I can my lord Your return would only be a trouble to you 
 and a pain to me. Another time do not turn your eyes too often 
 on a young woman because her face may chance to please you. It 
 is well that you should marry. Go and seek a wife, with judgment 
 among your own people. When you have done that, then you may 
 
 her advfc^’ ^ Man ° n Fay that you have done well by following 
 
 “I will come again, and again, and again, and I will tell Marion 
 r a y that her counsels are unnatural and impossible. I will teach 
 
 her to know' that the man who loves her can seek no other wife •_ 
 
 that no other mode of living is possible to him than one in which 
 he and Marion Fay shall be joined together. I think I shall per¬ 
 suade her at last that such is the case. I think she will come to 
 know that all her cold prudence and worldly would-be wisdom can 
 oe of no avail to separate those who love each other. I think that 
 v hen she finds that her lover so loves her that he cannot live with¬ 
 out her, she will abandon those fears as to his future fickleness 
 ieise ^£ one of whose truth she will have assured her- 
 f , c Pk en he took her hand, and kneeling at her knee, he kissed 
 it before she was powerful enough to withdraw it. And so he left 
 her, without another word, and mounting on his vehicle, drove 
 himself home without having exchanged a single word at Holloway 
 with any one save Marion Fay. 
 
 N 
 
178 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 • She, when she was left alone, threw herself at full length on the 
 sofa and burst into an ecstasy of tears. Trust herself to him* 
 Yes, indeed. She would trust herself to him entirely, only in order 
 that she might have the joy, for one hour, of confessing her love to 
 him openly, let the consequences to herself afterwards be what they 
 might! As fo that future injury to her pride of which she had 
 spoken both to her father and also to her friend,—of which she had 
 said so much to herself in discussing this matter with her own 
 heart—as to that he had convinced her. It did not become her in 
 any way to think of herself in this matter. He certainly would be 
 able to twist her as he would if she could stand upon no surer rock 
 than her fears for her own happiness. One kiss from him would 
 be payment for it all. But all his love, all his sweetness, all his 
 truth, all his eloquence should avail nothing with her towards 
 overcoming that spirit of self-sacrifice by which she was dominated. 
 Though he should extort from her all her secret, that would be her 
 strength. Though she should have to tell him of her failing health, 
 —her certainly failing health,—though even that should be neces¬ 
 sary, she certainly would not be won from her purpose. It might 
 be sweet, she thought, to make him in all respects her friend of 
 friends; to tell him everything; to keep no fear, no doubt, no 
 aspiration a secret from him. “Love you, oh my dearest, thou 
 very pearl of my heart, love you indeed! Oh yes. Do you not 
 know that not even for an instant could I hide my love ? Are you 
 not aware, did you not see at the moment, that when you first 
 knelt at my feet, my heart had flown to you without an effort on 
 my part to arrest it ? But now, my beloved one, now we under¬ 
 stand each other. Now there need be no reproaches between us. 
 Now there need be no speaking of distrust. I am all yours;—only 
 it is not fit, as you know, dearest, that the poor Quaker girl should 
 become your wife. Now that we both understand that, why should 
 we be sad ? "Why should we mourn ? ” Why should she not succeed 
 in bringing things to such a pass as this; and if so, why should 
 life be unhappy either to him or to her ? 
 
 Thus she was thinking of it till she had almost brought herself 
 to a state of bliss, when her father returned to her. “ Father,” she 
 said, getting up and embracing his arm as he stood, “ it is all over.” 
 
 “ What is over?” asked the Quaker. 
 
 “He has been here.” 
 
 “ Well, Marion; and what has he said ? ” 
 
 “ What he said it is hardly for me to tell you. What I said,- 
 
 I would you could know it all without my repeating a word of it.” 
 
 “ Has he gone away contented ? ” 
 
 “Nay, not that, father. I hardly expected that. I hardly 
 hoped for that. Had he been quite contented perhaps I might not 
 have been so.” 
 
 “ Why should you not have both been made happy ? ” asked the 
 _ father. 
 
 “ It may be that we shall be so. It may be that he shall under¬ 
 stand.” 
 
MARION'S OBSTINACY . 
 
 179 
 
 “ Thou hast not taken his offer, then ? ” 
 
 “ Oh no! . No, father, no. I can never accept his offer. If that 
 be m your mind put it forth. You shall never see your Marion the 
 wife of any man, whether of that young lord or of another more 
 fitted to her. No one ever shall be allowed to speak to me as he 
 has spoken.” 
 
 . “ Why dost thou make thyself different from other girls ? ” he 
 said, angrily. 
 
 ** Oh, father, father! ” 
 
 It is lomance and false sentiment, than which nothing is more 
 odious to me. There is no reason why thou shouldst be different 
 from others. _ The Lord has not marked thee out as different from 
 other girls, either in His pleasure or His displeasure. It is wrono- 
 for thee to think it of thyself.” She looked up piteously into his 
 face, but said not a word. “ It is thy duty to take thyself from 
 His hands as He has made thee; and to give way to no vain ecstatic 
 terrors. If, as I gather from thy words, this young man be dear to 
 t_hee, and if, as I gather from this second coming of his thou art 
 dear to him, then I as thy father tell thee that thy duty calls thee 
 to him. It is not that he is a lord.” 
 
 “ Oh no, father.” 
 
 It is not, I say, that he is a lord, or that he is rich, or that he 
 is comely io the eyes, that I would have thee go to him as his wife. 
 It is because thou and he love each other, as it is the ordinance of 
 the Lord Almighty that men and women should do. Marriage is 
 honourable, and I, thy father, would fain see thee married. I believe 
 the young man to be good and true. I could give thee to him- lord 
 though he be, with a trusting heart, and think that in so disposing 
 of my child I had done well for her. Think of this, Marion, if it be 
 not already too late.” All this he had said standing, so that he 
 was abiC to leave the room without the ceremony of rising from his 
 chair. Without giving her a moment for reply, having his hand 
 on die lock of the door as he uttered the last words of his counsel 
 to her, he marched off, leaving her alone. 
 
 It may be doubted whether at the moment she could have found 
 words for reply, so full was her heart with the feelings that were 
 crowded there. But she was well aware that all her father’s words 
 could go for nothing. Of only one thing was she sure,—that no 
 counsel no eloquence, no love would ever induce her to become the 
 wife of Lord Hampstead. 
 
ISO 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 MRS. DEMIJOHN’S PARTY. 
 
 “ Mrs. Demijohn presents her compliments to Mr. Crocker, ancl 
 begs the honour of his company to tea at nine o’clock on Wednes¬ 
 day, 31st of December, to see the New Year in. 
 
 “ r.i.v.p. (Do come, C. D.) 
 
 “10, Paradise Row, Holloway. 
 
 ‘“29th December, 18—.” 
 
 This note was delivered to Crocker on his arrival at his office on 
 1 the morning of Saturday, the 27th. 
 
 It must be explained that Crocker had lately made the acquaint¬ 
 ance of Miss Clara Demijohn without any very formal introduction. 
 Crocker, with that determination which marked his character, in 
 pursuit of the one present purport of his mind to effect a friendly 
 reconciliation with George Roden, had taken himself down to Hol¬ 
 loway, and had called at No. 11, thinking that he might induce his 
 friend’s mother to act on his behalf in a matter appertaining to 
 peace and charity. Mrs. Roden had unhappily been from home, 
 but he had had the good fortune to encounter Miss Demijohn. 
 Perhaps it was that she had seen him going in and out of the house, 
 and had associated him with the great mystery of the young noble¬ 
 man ; perhaps she had been simply attracted by the easy air with 
 which he cocked his hat and swung his glovesor, perhaps it was 
 simply chance. But so it was that in the gloom of the evening she 
 met him just round the corner opposite to the “ Duchess of Edin¬ 
 burgh,” and the happy acquaintance was commenced. No doubt, 
 as in all such cases, it was the gentleman who spoke first. Let us, 
 at any rate, hope so for the sake of Paradise Row generally. Be 
 that as it may, before many minutes were over she had explained 
 to him that Mrs. Roden had gone out in a cab soon after dinner, 
 and that probably something was up at Wimbledon, as Mrs. Roden 
 never went anywhere else, and this was not the day of the week on 
 which her visits to Mrs. Vincent were generally made. Crocker, 
 who was simplicity itself, soon gave her various details as to his 
 own character and position in life. He, too, was a clerk in the Post 
 Office, and was George Roden’s particular friend. “Oh yes; he 
 knew all about Lord Hampstead, and was, he might say, intimately 
 acquainted with his lordship. He had been in the habit of meeting 
 his lordship at Castle Hautboy, the seat of his friend, Lord Persi¬ 
 flage, and had often ridden with his lordship in the hunting-field. 
 He knew all about Lady Frances and the engagement, and had had 
 the pleasure of making the acquaintance of her ladyship. He had 
 been corresponding lately with Lord Hampstead on the subject. 
 Nohe had not as yet heard anything of Marion Fay, the Quaker’s 
 daughter.” Then Clara had something to say on her side. She 
 quite understood that if she expected to be communicated with. 
 
3IHS. DEMI JOHN’S PARTY. 1S1 
 
 she also must communicate; and moreover, young Mr. Crocker was 
 y ns age, appearance, and sex, just suck a one as prompted her to 
 b ? communicative without loss of self-respect. What was the good 
 
 nn/nnv 1 ? Duffer * who was only an old widow with¬ 
 
 out any filends, and with very small means of existence ? She had 
 communicated her secrets to Mrs. Duffer simply from want of a 
 oetter pair of ears into which she could pour them. But here was 
 one m telling secrets to whom she could take delight, and who had 
 secrets of his own to give m return. It is not to be supposed that 
 
 onlv nG On S thof W fi^f 1 ai ’° Se gVe n fr ? m tlie illciclents of one meeting 
 ° M * P u tkat filst evening- Crocker could not leave the fair one 
 without making arrangements for a further interview and so the 
 matter grew. The intimacy between them was already of three 
 days standing when the letter of invitation above given reached 
 Ciockers hands. To tell the very truth, the proposed partv was 
 made up chiefly for Crocker’s sake. What is the good of havin' 
 a young man if you cannot show him to your friends 9 ° 
 
 pick vpCwclhT’’ d Mrs ' Demijohn t0 her niece : “ where did you 
 
 “ J Vhat questions you do ask, aunt! Pick him up, indeed' ” 
 
 'So you have-; picked him up, as you’re always ?a doincr 
 
 youvJgot®™.” 11 ' 0nIy y0U D6Ter kll0 ' T how t0 kee P ’em when 
 
 “ declare, aunt, your vulgarity is unbearable.” 
 
 1m not going to have any Crocker in my house” said the 
 old woman, unleg I know where he comes from. Perhaps he’s a 
 counter-skipper. He may be a ticket-of-leaye man for all you know ” 
 
 I shalf ha‘e “e youP 80 provofan S that 1 sometimes think 
 “ Where will you go to, my dear ? ” 
 
 To this question which had often been asked before, Clara 
 
 » y. n ? eces ® a . r { to make an y answer; but returned at once 
 to the inquiries which were not unnaturally made by the ladv 
 
 who stood to her in the place of a mother. “Mr. Crocker Aunt 
 Jemima, is a clerk m the Post Office, who sits at the same desk 
 with George Boden,* and is intimately acquainted both with Lord 
 Hampstead and with Lady Prances Trafford. He used to be 
 George Boden s bosom friend; but there has lately been some little 
 
 make h 7 ™ y T g mGn i 7 hlch wonld be so Peasant if we could 
 make it up. You have got to a speaking acquaintance with Mrs 
 
 a w q d v pe ^ aps lf you wil1 ask tbem they’ll come. I am sure 
 Mai ion hay will come, because you always get your money from 
 
 l°rlrV- "k 1 I wish I hud the cheek to ask Lord Lm “ 
 
 stead Haying heard all this, the old lady consented to receive 
 
 the Post 0ffice > au d also assented to the 
 other invitations, which were given. 
 
 e-reaf 1 °nlprf ?° U1 ‘ Se ’ his .compliments, and expressed the 
 j_,ieat pleasure he would have m “seeing the New Year in” in 
 
 As the old lady was much afflicted 
 ^vitli llieumatism, the proposition as coming from her would hay© 
 
*82 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 been indiscreet had she not known that her niece on snch occasions 
 was well able to act as her deputy. Mrs. Eoden also promised to 
 come, and with difficulty persuaded her son that it would be 
 gracious on his part to be so far civil to his neighbours. Had ho 
 known.that Crocker also would be there he certainly would not 
 have yielded; but Crocker, when at the office, kept the secret of 
 his engagement to himself. The Quaker also and Marion Fay were 
 to be there. Mr. Fay and Mrs. Demijohn had long known each 
 other in regard to matters of business, and he, for the sake of 
 Messrs. Pogson and Littlebird’s firm, could not refuse to drink a 
 cup of tea at their client’s house. A junior clerk from the same 
 counting-house, one Daniel Tribbledale by name, with whom Clara 
 had made acquaintance at King’s Court some two years since, was 
 also to be of the party, Mr. Tribbledale had at one time, among 
 all Clara’s young men, been the favourite. But circumstances had 
 occurred which had somewhat lessened her goodwill towards him. 
 Mr. Littlebird had quarrelled with him, and he had been refused 
 promotion. It was generally supposed at the present time in the 
 neighbourhood of Old Broad Street that Daniel Tribbledale was 
 languishing for the love of Clara Demijohn. Mrs. Duffer, of course, 
 was to be there, and so the list of friends for the festive occasion 
 was completed. 
 
 Mrs. Duffer was the first to come. Her aid, indeed, was required 
 for the cutting up of the cakes and arrangements of the cups and 
 saucers. The Quaker and his daughter were next, appearing 
 exactly at nine o’clock,—to do which he protested to be the best 
 sign of good manners that could be shown. “ If they want me 
 at ten, why do they ask me at nine ?” demanded the Quaker. 
 Marion was forced to give way, though she was by no means 
 anxious to spend a long evening in company with Mrs. Demijohn. 
 As to that seeing of the New Year in, it was quite out of the 
 question for the Quaker or for his daughter. The company alto¬ 
 gether came early. The only touch of fashion evinced on this 
 occasion was shown by Mr. Crocker. The Bodens, with Mr. Trib¬ 
 bledale at their heels, appeared not long after Mr. Fay, and then 
 the demolition of the Sally Lunns was commenced. “I declare 
 I think he means to deceive us,” whispered Clara to her friend, 
 Mrs. Duffer, when all the good tea had been consumed before 
 the young man appeared. “I don’t suppose he cares much for 
 tea,” said Mrs. Duffer; "they don’t now-a-days.” "It isn’t just 
 for the tea that a man is expected to come,” said Clara, indignantly. 
 It was now nearly ten, and she could not but feel that the evening 
 was going heavily. Tribbledale had said ono tender word to 
 her; but she had snubbed him, expecting Crocker to be there 
 almost at once, and he had retired silent into a corner. George 
 Piodcn had altogether declined to make himself agreeable—to 
 her; but as he was an engaged man, and engaged to a lady of 
 rank, much could not be expected of him. - Mrs. Poden and the 
 Quaker and Mrs. Demijohn did manage to keep up something of 
 conversation. Eoden from time to time said a few words’ to 
 
MUS. DEMIJOHN’S TARTY. 
 
 H3 
 
 Marion. Clara, who was repenting herself of her hardness to 
 young Tribbledale, was forced to put up with Mrs. Duffer. When 
 suddenly fliere came a thundering knock at the door, and Mr. 
 Crocker was announced by the maid, who had been duly instructed 
 beforehand as to all peculiarities in the names of the guests. 
 
 There was a little stir, as there always is when a solitary guest 
 comes in much after the appointed time. Of course there was 
 rebuke,—suppressed rebuke from Mrs. Demijohn, mild rebuke from 
 Mrs. Duffer, a very outburst of rebuke from Clara. But Crocker 
 was up to the occasion. “ Upon my word, ladies, I had no help for 
 it. I was dining with a few friends in the City, and I couldn’t get 
 away earlier. If my own ideas of happiness had been consulted I 
 should have been here an hour ago. Ah, Boden, how are you? 
 Though I know you live in the same street, I didn’t think of meet¬ 
 ing you.” Boden gave him a nod, but did not vouchsafe him a 
 w T ord. “How’s his lordship? I told you, didn’t I, that I had 
 heard from him the other day ? ” Crocker had mentioned more 
 than once at his office the fact that he had received a letter from 
 Lord Hampstead. 
 
 “ I don’t often see him, and very rarely hear from him,” said 
 Boden, without turning away from Marion, to whom he was at the 
 moment speaking. 
 
 “ If all our young nobleman were like Hampstead,” said Crocker, 
 who had told the truth in declaring that he had been dining 
 “ England would be a very different sort of place from what it is. 
 The most affable young lord that ever sat in the House of Peers.” 
 Then he turned himself towards Marion Fay, at whose identity ho 
 made a guess. He was anxious at once to claim her as a mutual 
 friend, as connected with himself by her connection with the lord 
 in question. But as lie could find no immediate excuse for intro¬ 
 ducing himself, he only winked at her. 
 
 “ Are you acquainted with Mr. Tribbledale, Mr. Crocker ? ” 
 asked Clara. 
 
 “Never had the pleasure as yet,” said Crocker. Then the 
 introduction was effected. “ In the Civil Service?” asked Crocker. 
 Tribbledale blushed, and of necessity repudiated the honour. “ I 
 thought, perhaps, you were in the Customs. You have something 
 of the H.M.S. cut about you.” Tribbledale acknowledged the 
 compliment with a bow. “ I think the Service is the best thing a 
 man can do with himself,” continued Crocker. 
 
 “ It is genteel,” said Mrs. Duffer. ' 
 
 “ And the hours so pleasant,” said Clara. “ Bank clerks have 
 always to be there by nine.” 
 
 “Is a young man to be afraid of that?” asked the Quaker, 
 indignantly. “Ten till four, with one hour for the newspapers and 
 another for lunch. See the consequence. I never knew a young 
 man yet from a public office who understood the meaning of a day’s 
 work.” 
 
 “ I think that is a little hard,” said Boden. If a man really 
 works, six hours continuously is as much as he can do with any 
 good to his employers or himself.” 
 
1 SI 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 “ Well done, Roden,” said Crocker. “ Stick up for Her Majesty's 
 shop.” Roden turned himself more round than before, and con¬ 
 tinued to address himself to Marion. • 
 
 “ Our employers wouldn’t think much of us,” said the Quaker, 
 
 if we didn’t do better for them than that in private offices. 1 say 
 that the Civil Service destroys a young man, and teaches him to 
 think that the bread of idleness is sweet. As far as I can see, 
 nothing is so destructive of individual energy as what is called > 
 public money. If Daniel Tribbledale would bestir himself he might 
 do very well in the world without envying any young man his seat 
 either at the Custom House or the Post Office.” Mr. Fay had 
 spoken so seriously that they all declined to carry that subject 
 further. . Mrs. Demijohn and Mrs. Duffer murmured their agree¬ 
 ment, thinking it civil to do so, as the Quaker was a guest. Trib¬ 
 bledale sat silent in his corner, awestruck at the idea of having 
 given rise to the conversation. Crocker winked at Mrs. Demijohn^ 
 and thrust his hands into his pockets as much as to say that he 
 could get the better of the Quaker altogether if he chose to 
 exercise his powers of wit and argument. 
 
 . Soon after this Mr. Fay rose to take his daughter away. “But ” 
 said Clara, with affected indignation, “ you are to see the Old Yca’r 
 out and the New Year in.” 
 
 “I have seen enough of the one,” said Mr. Fay, “and shall 
 see enough of the other if I live to be as near its close as I am to its 
 birth.” 
 
 “But there are refreshments coming up,” said Mrs. Demijohn 
 
 " 1 liave refreshed myself sufficiently with thy tea, madam. 1 
 rarely take anything stronger before retiring to my rest. Come 
 Marion, thou requirest to be at no form of welcoming the New 
 Year. Thou, too, wilt be better in thy bed, as thy duties call upon 
 thee to be early.” So sayipg, the Quaker bowed formally to each 
 person present, and took his daughter out with him under his arm. 
 Mrs. Roden and her son escaped almost at the same moment and 
 Mrs. Demijohn, having waited to take what she called just a 
 thimbleful of hot toddy, went also to her rest. 
 
 “ Here’s a pretty way of seeing the New Year in,” said Clara 
 laughing. ' 
 
 “ We are quite enough of us for the purpose,” said Crocker 
 “ unless we also are expected to go away.” But as he spoke he 
 mixed a tumbler of brandy and water, which he divided among 
 two smaller glasses, handing them to the two ladies present. 
 
 “ I declare,” said Mrs. Duffer, “ I never do anything of the kind 
 —almost never.” ’ 
 
 “ On such an occasion as this everybody does it,” said Crocker 
 
 “I hope Mr. Tribbledale will join us,” said Clara. Then the 
 bashful clerk came out of his corner, and seating himself at the 
 table piepared to do as he was bid. He made his toddy very weak 
 not because he disliked brandy, but guided by an innate spirit of 
 modesty which prevented him always from going more than half¬ 
 way when he was in company. 
 
MBS. DEMIJOHN’S PARTY. 
 
 185 
 
 Then the evening became very pleasant. “ Yon are quite sure 
 that he is really engaged to her ladyship?” asked Clara. 
 
 “ I wish I were as certainly engaged to you,” replied the polite 
 Crocker. 
 
 “ What nonsense you do talk, Mr. Crocker;—and before other- 
 people too. But you think he is?” 
 
 “ I am sure of it. Both Hampstead and she have told me so 
 much themselves out of their own mouths.” 
 
 “ My! ” exclaimed Mrs. Duffer. 
 
 “ And here’s her brother engaged to Marion Fay,” said Clara. 
 Crocker declared that as to this he was by no means so well 
 assured. Lord Hampstead in spite of their intimacy had told him 
 nothing about it. “ But it is so, Mr. Crocker, as sure as ever you 
 are sitting there. He has been coming here after her over and over 
 again, and was closeted with her only last Friday for hours. It 
 was a holiday, but that sly old Quaker went out of the way, so as 
 to leave them together. That Mrs. Eoden, though she’s as stiff 
 as buckram, knows all about it. To the best of my belief she got 
 it all up. Marion Fay is with her every day. It’s my belief there’s 
 something we don’t understand yet. She’s got a hold of them 
 young people, and means to do just what she likes with ’em.” 
 Crocker, however, could not agree to this. He had heard of Lord 
 Hampstead’s peculiar politics, and was assured that the young lord 
 was only carrying out his peculiar principles in selecting Marion 
 Fay for himself and devoting his sister to George Boden. 
 
 “ Not that I like that kind of thing, if you ask; me,” said Crocker. 
 “ I’m very fond of Hampstead, and I’ve always found Lady Frances 
 to be a pleasant and affable lady. I’ve no cause to speak other than 
 civil of both of them. But when a man has been born a lord, and 
 a lady a lady- A lady of that kind, Miss Demijohn.” 
 
 “ Oh, exactly;—titled you mean, Mr. Crocker ? ” 
 
 “ Quite high among the nobs, you know. Hampstead will be a 
 Marquis some of these days, which is next to a Duke.” 
 
 “ And do you* know him,—yourself ? ” asked Tribbledale with 
 a voice of awe. 
 
 “ Oh yes,” said Crocker. 
 
 “ To speak to him when you see him ? ” 
 
 “ I had a long correspondence with him about a week ago about 
 a matter which interested both of us very much.” 
 
 “And how does he address you?” asked Clara,—also with 
 something of awe. 
 
 “ f Dear Crocker; ’—just that. I always say ‘ My dear Lord 
 Hampstead,’ in return. I look upon ‘ Dear Hampstead ’ as a little 
 vulgar, you know, and I always think that one ought to be par¬ 
 ticular in these matters. But, as I was saying, when it comes to 
 marriage, people ought to be true to themselves. Now if I was a 
 Marquis,—I don’t know what I mightn’t do if I saw you, you know, 
 Clara.” “ Clara” pouted, but did not appear to have been offended 
 either by the compliment or by the familiarity. “But under any 
 other circumstances less forcible I would stick to my order.” 
 
1S6 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 “So would I,” said Mrs. Duffer. “Marquises ought to marry 
 marquises, and dukes dukes.” 
 
 “There it is! ” said Clara, “and now we must drink its health, 
 and I hope we may be all married to them we like best before it comes 
 round again.” This had reference to the little clock on the mantel¬ 
 piece, the hands of which had just crept round to twelve o’clock.” 
 
 “ I wish we might,” said Crocker, “ and have a baby in the 
 cradle too.” 
 
 “ Go away,” said Clara. 
 
 “ That would be quick,” said Mrs. Duffer. “ What do you say, 
 Mr. Tribbledale?” 
 
 “ Where my heart’s fixed,” said Tribbledale, who was just 
 becoming warm with the brandy-and-water, “ there ain’t' no hope 
 for this year, nor yet for the one after.” Whereupon Crocker 
 remarked that “ care killed a cat.” 
 
 ‘‘You just put on your coat and hat, and take me across to my 
 lodgings. See if I don’t give you a chance,” said Mrs. Duffer, who 
 was also becoming somewhat merry under the influences of the 
 moment. But she knew that it was her duty to do something for 
 her young hostess, and, true woman as she was, thought that this 
 was the best way of doing it. Tribbledale did as he was bid, though 
 he was obliged thus to leave his lady-love and her new admirer 
 together. “Do you really mean it?” said Clara, when she and 
 Crocker were alone. 
 
 “ Of course I do,—honest,” said Crocker. 
 
 “ Then you may,” said Clara, turning her face to him. 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 NEW YEAR’S DAY. 
 
 Crocker had by no means as yet got through his evening. Having 
 dined with his friends in the City, and “ drank tea ” with the lady 
 of his love, he was disposed to proceed, if not to pleasanter delights, 
 at any rate to those which might be more hilarious. Every 
 Londoner, from Holloway up to Gower Street, in which he lived 
 would be seeing the New Year in,—and beyond Gower Street down 
 in Holborn, and from thence all across to the Strand, especially in 
 the neighbourhood of Covent Garden and the theatres, there would 
 be a whole world of happy revellers engaged in the same way. On 
 such a night as this there could certainly be no need of going to 
 bed soon after twelve for such a one as Samuel Crocker. In Paradise 
 Row he again encountered Tribbledale, and suggested to that young 
 man that they should first have a glass of something at the “Duchess” 
 and then proceed to more exalted realms in a "hansom. “I did 
 think of walking there this fine starlight night,” said Tribbledale 
 mindful of the small stipend at which his services were at present 
 valued by Pogson and Littlebird. But Crocker soon got the better 
 
NEW YEARS DAY. 
 
 1S7 
 
 ■of all tills. “ I'll stand Sammy for this occasion/’ said he. “ The 
 New Year comes in only once in twelve months.” Then Tribbledale 
 went into “ The Duchess/’ and after that was as indifferent, while 
 his money lasted him, as was Crocker himself. “ I’ve loved that 
 girl for three years,” said Tribbledale, as soon as they had left “ The 
 Duchess ” and were again in the open air. 
 
 It was a beautiful night, and Crocker thought that they might 
 as well walk a little way. It was pleasant under the bright stars 
 to hear of the love adventures of his new friend, especially as ho 
 himself was now the happy hero. “ For three years ? ” he asked. 
 
 “ Indeed I have, Crocker.” That glass of hot wliiskey-and- 
 water, though it enhanced the melancholy tenderness of the young 
 man, robbed him of his bashfulness, and loosened the strings of his 
 tongue. “ For three years! And there was a time when she 
 worshipped the very stool on which I sat at the office. I don’t like 
 to boast.” 
 
 “ You have to be short, sharp, and decisive if you mean to get 
 a girl like that to travel with you.” 
 
 "I should have taken the ball at the hop, Crocker ; that’s what 
 I ought to have done. But I see it all now. She’s as fickle as she 
 is fairtickler, perhaps, if anything.” 
 
 “ Come, Tribbledale; I ain’t going to let you abuse her, you 
 know.” 
 
 “ I don’t want to abuse her. God knows I love her too well in 
 spite of all. It’s your turn now. I can see that. There’s a great 
 many of them have had their turns.” 
 
 “ Were there, now ? ” asked Crocker anxiously. 
 
 “ There was Pollocky;—him at the Highbury Gas Works. He 
 came after me. It was because of him she dropped me.” 
 
 “Was that going on for a marriage?” 
 
 “Bight ahead, I used to think. Pollocky is a widower with 
 live children.” 
 
 “ Oh Lord! ” 
 
 “ But he’s the head of all the gas, and has four hundred a year. 
 It wasn’t love as carried her on with him. I could see that. She 
 wouldn’t go and meet him anywhere about the City, as she did me. 
 I suppose Pollocky is fifty, if lie’s a day.” 
 
 “ And she dropped him also ? ” 
 
 “Or else it was he.” On receipt of this information Crocker 
 whistled. “ It was something about money,” continued Tribbledale. 
 “ The old woman wouldn’t part.” 
 
 “ There is money, I suppose ? ” 
 
 “ The old woman has a lot.” 
 
 “ And isn’t the niece to have it ? ” asked Crocker. 
 
 “No doubt she will; because there never was a pair more 
 loving. But the old lady will keep it herself as long as she is 
 here.” Then there entered an idea into Crocker’s head that if ho 
 could manage to make Clara his own, he might have power enough 
 to manage the aunt as well as the niece. They had a little more 
 whiskey-and-water at the Angel at Islington before they got into 
 
1SS 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 the cab which was to take them down to the Paphian Music-Hall 
 and after that Tribbledale passed from the realm of partial fact to 
 that of perfect poetry. “He would never ,” k ho said, “abandon 
 Clara Demijohn, though he should live to an age beyond that of 
 any known patriarch. He quite knew all that there was against 
 11 m. Crocker, he thought, might probably prevail. He rather 
 hoped that Crocker might prevailfor why should not so good a 
 fellow be made happy, seeing how utterly impossible it was that 
 lie, Daniel Tribbledale, should ever reach that perfect bliss in 
 dreaming of which he passed his miserable existence ? But as to 
 one thing he had quite made up his mind. The day that saw 
 Clara Demijohn a bride would most undoubtedly be the last of his 
 existence. 
 
 _ “Oh no, damme : you won’t,” said Crocker, turning round upon 
 him in the cab. 1 
 
 “ I shall! ” said Tribbledale with emphasis. “ And I’ve made 
 up my mind how to do it too. They’ve caged up the Monument 
 and you re so looked after on the Duke of York’s, that there isn’t a 
 chance But there’s nothing to prevent you from taking a header 
 at the Whispering Gallery of Saint Paul’s. You’d be more talked 
 ot that way, and the vergers would be sure to show the stains 
 made on the stones below. ‘ It was here young Tribbledale fell — 
 a clerk at Pogson and Littlebird’s, who dashed out his brains for 
 love on the very day as Clara Demijohn got herself married.’ I’m 
 
 of that disposition, Crocker, as I’d do anything for love*_anv- 
 
 timig.” Crocker was obliged to reply that he trusted lie’ might 
 never be the cause of such a fatal attempt at glorv; but he went on 
 to explain that in the pursuit of love a man ‘could not in anv 
 degree give way to friendship. Even though numberless lovers 
 might fall from the Whispering Gallery in a confused heap of 
 mangled bodies, he must still tread the path which was open to 
 him. These were his principles, and he could not abandon them 
 e 1 YCn , , sa ,k e °f Tribbledale. “ Nor would I have vou ” 
 
 shouted Tribbledale, leaning out over the door of the cab.‘ “I 
 would not delay you not for a day, not for an hour. Were to- 
 monow to be your bridal morning it would find me prepared My 
 only request to you is that a boy might be called Daniel after me 
 You might tell her it was an uncle or grandfather. She would 
 never trunk that m her own child was perpetuated a monument of 
 poor Daniel Tribbledale. ’ Crocker, as he jumped out of the cab 
 with a light step m front of the Paphian Hall, promised that in 
 this particular he would attend to the wishes of his friend 
 
 The performances at the Paphian Hall on that festive' occasion 
 need not be described here with accuracy. The New Year had 
 been seen well in with music, chancing, and wine. The seeing of' it 
 in was continued yet for an hour, till an indulgent policeman was 
 forced to interfere. It is believed that on the final ejection of our 
 two friends, the forlorn lover, kept steady, no doubt by the weight 
 y° 0 ’ ^id his way home to his own lodgings. The 
 exultant Crocker was less fortunate, and passed his night without 
 
NEW YEAR'S' DAY. 
 
 189 
 
 the accommodation of sheets and blankets somewhere in the 
 neighbourhood of Bow Street. The fact is important to us, as it 
 threatened to have considerable effect upon our friend’s position 
 at his office. Having been locked up in a cell during the night, 
 and kept in durance till he was brought on the following morning 
 before a magistrate, he could not w r ell be in his room at ten o’clock. 
 Indeed, when ho did escape from the hands of the Philistines, at 
 about two in the day, sick, unwashed and unfed, ho thought it 
 better to remain away altogether for that day. The great sin of 
 total absence would be better than making an appearance before 
 Mr. Jerningham in his present tell-tale condition. He well knew 
 his own strength and his own weakness. All power of repartee 
 would be gone from him for the day. Mr. Jerningham would 
 domineer over him, and iEolus, should the violent god be pleased 
 to send for him, would at once annihilate him. So he sneaked 
 home to Gower Street, took a hair of the dog that bit him, and 
 then got the old woman who looked after him to make him some 
 tea and to fry a bit of bacon for him. In this ignominious way he 
 passed New Year’s Day,—at least so much of it as was left to him 
 after the occurrences which have been described. 
 
 But on the next morning the great weight of his troubles fell 
 upon him heavily. In his very heart of hearts he was afraid of 
 iEolus. In spite of his “ brummagem ” courage the wrath of the 
 violent god was tremendous to him. He knew what it was to 
 stand with his hand on the lock of the door and tremble before he 
 dared to enter the room. There was something in the frown of the 
 god which was terrible to him. There was something worse in the 
 god’s smile. He remembered how he had once been unable to 
 move himself out of the room when the god had told him that he 
 need not remain at the office, but might go home and amuse him¬ 
 self just as he pleased. Nothing crushes a young man so much as 
 an assurance that his presence can be dispensed with without loss 
 to any one. Though Crocker had often felt the mercies of iEolus, 
 and had told himself again and again that the god never did in 
 truth lift up his hand for final irrevocable punishment, still he 
 trembled as he anticipated the dread encounter. 
 
 When the morning came, and while he was yet in his bed, he 
 struggled to bethink himself of some strategy by which he might 
 evade the evil hour. Could he have been sent for suddenly into 
 Cumberland ? But in this case he would of course have telegraphed 
 to the Post Office on the preceding day. Could he have been taken 
 ill with a fit,—so as to make his absence absolutely necessary, say 
 for an entire week ? He well knew that they had a doctor at the 
 Post Office, a crafty, far-seeing, obdurate man, who would be with 
 him at once and would show him no mercy. He had tried these 
 schemes all round, and had found that there were none left with 
 which iEolus was not better acquainted than was he himself. 
 There was nothing for it but to go and bear the brunt. 
 
 Exactly at ten o’clock he entered the room, hung his hat up on 
 the accustomed peg, and took his seat on the accustomed chair 
 
ISO 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 before any one spoke a word to him. Roden on the opposite seat 
 took no notice of him. “ Bedad, he’s here anyhow this morning,”' 
 whispered Geraghty to Bobbin, very audibly. “ Mr. Crocker,” said 
 Mr. Jerningham, “you were absent throughout the entire day 
 yesterday. Have you any account to give of yourself?” There 
 was certainly falsehood implied in this question, as Mr. Jerningham 
 knew very well what had become of Crocker. Crocker’s mis¬ 
 adventure at the police office had found its way into the newspapers* 
 and had been discussed by iEolus with Mr. Jerningham. I am 
 afraid that Mr. Jerningham must have intended to tempt the 
 culprit into some false excuse. 
 
 “I was horribly ill,” said Crocker, without stopping the pen 
 with which he was making entries in the big book before him. 
 This no doubt was true, and so far the trap had been avoided. 
 
 “ What made you ill, Mr. Crocker ? ” 
 
 “ Headache.” 
 
 “ seems to me, Mr. Crocker, you’re more subject to such 
 attacks as these than any young man in the office.” 
 
 “ I always was as a baby,” said Crocker, resuming something 
 of his courage. Could it be possible that Hlolus should not have 
 heard of the day’s absence ? 
 
 ' There is ill-health of so aggravated a nature,” said Mr. 
 Jerningham, “as to make the sufferer altogether unfit for the 
 Civil Service.” 
 
 “ I'm happy to say I’m growing out of them gradually,” said 
 Crocker. Then Geraghty got up from his chair and whispered the 
 whole truth into the sufferer’s ears. “ It was all in the Pall Mall 
 yesterday, and iEolus knew it before he went away.” A sick 
 qualm came upon the poor fellow as though it were a repetition 
 of yesterday’s sufferings. But still it was necessary that he should 
 say something. “New Year’s Day comes only once a year, I 
 suppose.” 
 
 " It was only a few weeks since that you remained a day behind 
 your time when you were on leave. But Sir Boreas has taken the 
 matter up, and I have nothing to say to it. No doubt Sir Boreas 
 will send for you.” Sir Boreas Bodkin was that great Civil servant 
 in the General Post Office whom men were wont to call iEolus. 
 
 It was a wretched morning for poor Crocker. He was not sent 
 for till one o’clock, just at the moment when he was going to eat 
 bis lunch! That horrid sickness, the combined result of the 
 dinner in the City, of Mrs. Demijohn’s brandy, and of the many 
 whiskies which followed, still clung to him. The mutton-chop 
 and porter which he had promised himself would have relieved 
 him; but now he was obliged to appear before the god in all his 
 weakness. Without a word he followed a messenger who had 
 summoned him, with his tail only tco visibly between his legs. 
 iEolus was writing a note when he was ushered into the room, and 
 did not condescend to arrest himself in the progress merely because 
 Crocker was present. iEolus well knew the effect on a sinner of 
 having to stand silent and all alone in the presence of an offended 
 deity. 
 
NEW YE AW 8 DAY. 
 
 19 E 
 
 “ So, Mr. Crocker,” said iEolus at last, looking up from his 
 completed work; “ no doubt you saw the Old Year out on 
 Wednesday night.” The jokes of the god were infinitely worse to 
 bear than his most furious blasts. “ Like some other great men,” 
 continued .ZEolus, “ you have contrived to have your festivities 
 chronicled in the newspapers.” Crocker found it impossible to 
 utter a word. “ You have probably seen the Pall Mall of yesterday, 
 and the Standard of this morning ? ” 
 
 “ I haven’t looked at the newspaper, sir, since-” 
 
 “ Since the festive occasion,” suggested JEolus. 
 
 “ Oh, Sir Boreas-” 
 
 “Well, Mr. Crocker; what is it that you have to say for your¬ 
 self?” 
 
 “ I did dine with a few friends.” 
 
 “ And kept it up tolerably late, I should think.” 
 
 “ And then afterwards went to a tea-party,” said Crocker. 
 
 “ A tea-party! ” 
 
 “ It was not all tea,” said Crocker, with a whine. 
 
 “I should think not. There was a good deal besides tea, I 
 should say.” Then the god left off to smile, and the blasts began 
 to blow. “Now, Mr. Crocker, I should like to know what you 
 think of yourself. After having read the accounts of your appear¬ 
 ance before the magistrate in two newspapers, I suppose I may 
 take it for granted that you were abominably drunk out in the 
 streets on Wednesday night.” It is very hard for a young man 
 to have to admit under any circumstances that he has been 
 abominably drunk out in the streetsso that Crocker stood dumb 
 before his accuser. “I choose to have an answer, sir. I must 
 either have your own acknowledgment, or must have an official 
 account from the police magistrate.” 
 
 “ I had taken something, sir.” 
 
 “ Were you drunk ? If you will not answer me you had better 
 go, and I shall know how- to deal with you.” Crocker thought 
 that he had perhaps better go and leave the god to deal with him. 
 He remained quite silent. “ Your personal habits would be nothing 
 to me, sir,” continued iEolus, “ if you were able to do your work 
 and did not bring disgrace on the department. But you neglect 
 the office. You are unable to do your work. And you do bring 
 disgrace on the department. IIow long is it since you remained 
 awav a day before ? ” 
 
 “ I was detained down in Cumberland for one day, after my 
 leave of absence.” 
 
 “Detained in Cumberland! I never tell a gentleman, Mr. 
 Crocker, that I do not believe him,—never. If it comes to that 
 with a gentleman, he must go.” This was hard to bear; but yet 
 Crocker was aware that he had told a fib on that occasion in 
 reference to the day’s hunting. Then Sir Boreas took up his pen 
 and again had recourse to his paper, as though the interview was 
 over. Crocker remained standing, not quite knowing what he was 
 expected to do. “ It’s of no use your remaining there,” said Sir 
 
,302 
 
 GABION FAY. 
 
 P° f rcaS * ,Whereupon Crocker retired, and, with his tail still 
 
 ~ - r dtS£ 
 
 rSSKS ] S r » represented^ T 
 
 Sn,S Tre d -f Cert¥nIy be di “ d on this occasion Eoden too 
 
 thought that it was now over with tho nrvPr»i»fnno+ > ’ 
 
 as far as the Queen’s service was concerned, and coutd not^bS^hi’ 
 Irom shaking hands with the unhappy wretch as tm l™!5o GT 1 ,1 
 f melancholy | good-bye. “Good aftSnoon”saidMr Je?nSan 
 to him severely, not condescending to shake hands with Mm at ah 
 ut Mi. Jerningham heard the last words which the end had 
 spoken on the subject, and was not therefore called upon to be 
 
 m P y SusTld said. 1 n6Ver SaW " P0OT devil Iook 80 sick m 
 “He must have been very bad, Sir Boreas.” 
 xJiiOlus was fond of a good dinnor him^plf on/i i in d .1 
 
 for convivial offences. Indeed for Ml “s he ha^syS^ 
 No man less prone to punish ever livnrl p n t r s } m Patny. 
 
 with inveterate offenders ? ioMs wfnldteltf^haif someth 
 
 tX:Z 0 ^ ttei m w» 4^^?^ 
 
 “ And what then, Sir Boreas ? ” 
 
 . ^ suppose hell sleep it oif by to-morrow TTnvo o i ++ 
 written to him,-to frighten him, you'know After Ml New v®??’ 
 Bay only does come once a year” Mr JernM^m w- Y ?? rs 
 received instructions, went back to his room ^dismissed Crocker 
 
 <1 
 
 Sir, 
 
 ff 
 
 iscaSH £ S=s 
 
 alternative but to bring y 0 nr name imrlpviw ■ sl a .^ avo 110 
 of my Lord the PostmasSenS Sen ° US ^deration 
 
 “I am, sir, 
 
 /c <. “ Y °nr obedient servant, 
 
 (Signed) “Boreas Bodkin.” 
 
 clerks. tlie Same enveI °P e was 3 shOTt note from one of his brother 
 
 
 Bear Crocker, 
 
 Jeminghanfbids'mn telpou.—^ours'truly^ * Cn t ‘ M “- **- 
 
 <c Bart Boeein ” 
 
 Thus Crocker got through his troubles on this occasion. 
 
( 193 ) 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 miss demijohn’s ingenuity. 
 
 On the day on which Crocker was going through his nnro-ofnw of 
 the Post Office, a letter reached Lady Kingsbury at Trafford Park" 
 which added much to the troubles and annoyances felt by different 
 Q t er ubers family there. It was an anonymous letter and the 
 
 reader,—who m regard to such mysteries should never be kept a 
 moment in ignorance,—may as well be told at once that the letter 
 was written by that enterprising young lady, Miss Demijohn. The 
 letter was written on New Year’s Day, after the party,-perhaps in 
 consequence of the party, as the rash doings of some of the vounVer 
 members of the Trafford family were mlde speSy K" S o 
 
 as folforre-- U 7 W Said 0n tha ‘ ocoasiou - T ^ le letter ran 
 
 " My Lady Marchioness, 
 
 . . f ^ conce ive it to be my duty as a well-wisher of the family 
 
 entanS™ think S t te ^ son ’ rd Hampstead, has become 
 
 entangled, m what I think to be a dangerous way with a voting 
 
 woman living in a neighbouring street to this.” The “neighbouring” 
 
 sti eet was of course a stroke of cunning on the part of Miss Dpmi 
 
 John “ She lives at No. 17, Paradise Bow, Holloway and her name 
 
 is Marion Pay She is daughter to an old Quaker, who is clerkto 
 
 Pogson and Littlebird, King’s Court, Great Broad Street, and isn’t 
 
 Pov^oTuf] 11 any p0Sltl0Dtc [entertain such hopes as these. He may 
 have a little money saved, but what’s that to the likes of your ladv- 
 sh! P and his lordship the Marquis ? Some think she is pretty T 
 
 1 d ° n ? likG SUch Cunnin S Of what I P tell yo J 
 lad 3 ship there isn t any manner of doubt. His lordship was there 
 
 peacoT ^ tllG gM is going abont ^ P*oud as a 
 
 , ■« “ ^ s . ^at d ouP a regular Paradise Eow conspiracy and though 
 the Quaker has lent himself to it, he ain’t at the bottom Next 
 door but two to the Fays there is a Mrs. Eoden living who has got 
 a son,.a stuck-up fellow and a clerk in the Post Office. I believe 
 there isn’t a bit of doubt but he has been and got himself engagld 
 to another of your ladyship’s noble family. As to that, all Holloway 
 
 +i kl !i g ° / * believe tliere is a ’bus-driver up and down 
 
 the road as doesn’t know it. It’s my belief that Mrs. Eoden is the 
 
 doing of it all. She has taken Marion Fay by the hand just as 
 though she were her own, and now she has got the young lord and 
 .ne young lady right into her mashes. If none of ’em isn’t married 
 yet it won’t be long so unless somebody interferes. If you don’t 
 believe me do you send to the ‘ Duchess of Edinburgh ’at the 
 corner and you’ll find that they know all about it. * th 
 
 ‘ Now > Lad ? Marchioness, I’ve thought it my duty to tell 
 
 o 
 
MARION FAY. 
 
 191 
 
 you all this because I don’t like to see a noble family put upon. 
 There isn’t nothing for me to get out of it myself. But I do it just 
 
 as one of the family’s well-wishers, 
 very respectful, 
 
 Therefore I sign myself your 
 
 “ A Well-Wisher. 
 
 
 The young lady had told her story completely as far as her 
 object was concerned, which was simply that of making mischief. 
 But the business of anonymous letter-writing was one not new to 
 her hand. It is easy, and offers considerable excitement to the 
 minds of those "whose time hangs heavy on their hands. 
 
 The Marchioness, though she would probably have declared 
 beforehand that anonymous letters were of all things the most con¬ 
 temptible, nevertheless read tins more than once with a great deal 
 of care. And she believed it altogether. As to Lady Frances, of 
 course she knew the allegations to be true. Seeing that the writer 
 was so well acquainted with the facts as to Lady Frances, why 
 should she be less well-informed in reference to Lord Hampstead ? 
 Such a marriage as this with the Quaker girl was exactly the sort 
 of match which Hampstead would bo pleased to make. Then she 
 was especially annoyed by the publicity of the whole affair. That 
 Holloway and the drivers of the omnibuses, and the “ Duchess Ol 
 Edinburgh,” should know all the secrets of her husband’s family,~ 
 should be able to discuss the disgrace to which “ her own darlings ’ ; 
 would be subjected, was terrible to her. But perhaps the sting 
 that went sharpest to her heart was that which came from the fact 
 that Lord Hampstead was about to be married at all. Let the wife 
 be a Quaker or what not, let her be as low as any woman that 
 could be found within the sound of Bow Bells, still, if the marriage 
 ceremony were once pronounced over them, that woman’s son would 
 become Lord Highgate, and would be heir to all the wealth and 1 ! 
 the titles of the Marquis of Kingsbury,—to the absolute exclusion 
 of the eldest-born of her own darlings. 
 
 She had had her hopes in the impracticability of Lord Hampstead. 
 Such men as that, she had told herself, were likely to keep themselves 
 altogether free of marriage. He would not improbably, she thought, 
 entertain some abominable but not unlucky idea that marriage in 
 itself was an absurdity. At any rate, there was hope as long as he 
 could be kept unmarried. Were he to marry and then have a son, 
 even though he broke his neck out hunting next day, no good 
 would come of it. In this condition of mind she thought it well to 
 show the letter to Mr. Greenwood before she read it to her husband. 
 Lord Kingsbury was still very ill,—so ill as to have given rise to 
 much apprehension; but still it would be necessary to discuss this 
 letter with him, ill as he might be. Only it should be first discussed 
 with Mr. Greenwood. 
 
 Mr. Greenwood’s face became flatter, and his jaw longer, and his 
 eyes more like gooseberries as he read the letter. He had gradually 
 trained himself to say and to hear all manner of evil things about 
 Lady Frances in the presence of the Marchioness. He had, too, 
 
MISS DEMIJOHN’S INGENUITY 
 
 195 
 
 accustomed himself to speak of Lord Hampstead as a great obstacle 
 which it would be well if the Lord would think proper to take out 
 of the way. He had also so far followed the lead of his patroness 
 as to be deep if not loud in his denunciations of the folly of the 
 Marquis. The Marquis had sent him word that he had better look 
 out for a new home, and without naming an especial day for his 
 dismissal, had given him to understand that it would not be con¬ 
 venient to receive him again in the house in Park Lane. But the 
 Marquis had been ill when he had thus expressed his displeasure,— and 
 was now worse. It might be that the Marquis himself would never 
 again visit Park Lane. As no positive limit had been fixed for Mr. 
 Greenwood’s departure from Trafford Park, there he remained,— 
 and there he intended to remain for the present. As he folded up 
 the letter carefully after reading it slowly, he only shook his head. 
 
 “ Is it true, I wonder ? ” asked the Marchioness. 
 
 “ There is no reason why it should not be.” 
 
 “That’s just what I say to myself. We know it is true about 
 Fanny. Of course there’s that Mr. Eoden, and the Mrs. Eoden. 
 When the writer knows so much, there is reason to believe the rest.” 
 
 “A great many people do tell a great many lies,” said Mr. 
 Greenwood. 
 
 “I suppose there is such a person as this Quaker,—and that 
 there is such a girl ? ” 
 
 “ Quite likely.” 
 
 “If so, why shouldn’t Hampstead fall in love with her? Of 
 course he’s always going to the street because of his friend Eoden.” 
 
 “ Not a doubt. Lady Kingsbury.” 
 
 “What ought we to do?” To this question Mr. Greenwood 
 was not prepared with an immediate answer. If Lord Hampstead 
 chose to get himself married to a Quaker’s daughter, how could it 
 be helped? “His father would hardly have any influence over 
 him now.” Mr. Greenwood shook his head. “ And yet he must be 
 told.” Mr. Greenwood nodded his head. “Perhaps something 
 might be done about the property.” 
 
 “He wouldn’t care two straws about settlements,” said Mr. 
 Greenwood. 
 
 “He doesn’t care about anything he ought to. If I were to 
 write and ask him, would he tell the truth about this marriage ? ” 
 
 “ He wouldn’t tell the truth about anything,” said Mr. Green¬ 
 wood. 
 
 The Marchioness passed this by, though she knew it at the 
 moment to be calumny. But she was not unwilling to hear calumny 
 against Lord Hampstead. “ There used to be ways,” she said, “ in 
 which a marriage of that kind could be put on one side after¬ 
 wards.” 
 
 “ You must put it on one side before, now-a-days, if you mean 
 to do it at all,” said the clergyman. 
 
 “ But how ?—how ? ” 
 
 “If he could be got out of the way.” 
 
 “ How out of the way ? ” 
 
MARION FAY. 
 
 IDG 
 
 “ Well;—that’s what I don’t know. Suppose he could be mads 
 to go out yachting, and she be married to somebody else when lie’s 
 at sea! ” Lady Kingsbury felt that her friend was but little good 
 at a stratagem. But she felt also that she was not very good 
 herself. She could wish; but wishing in such matters is very vain. 
 She had right on her side. She was quite confident as to that. 
 There could be no doubt but that “ gods and men ” would desire 
 to see her little Lord Frederic succeed to the Marquisate rather 
 than this infidel Bepublican. If this wretched Itadical could be 
 kept from marrying there would evidently be room for hope, 
 because there was the fact,—proved by the incontestable evidence 
 of Burke’s Peerage,—that younger sons did so often succeed. But 
 if another heir were to be born, then, as far as she was aware, 
 Burke’s Peerage promised her nothing. “ It’s a pity he shouldn’t 
 break his neck out hunting,” said Mr. Greenwood. 
 
 “ Even that wouldn’t be much if he were to be married first,” 
 said the Marchioness. 
 
 Every day she went to her husband for half-an-hour before her 
 lunch, at which time the nurse who attended him during the day 
 was accustomed to go to her dinner. He had had a physician down 
 from London since his son had visited him, and the physician had 
 told the Marchioness that though there was not apparently any 
 immediate danger, still the symptoms w T ere such as almost to pre¬ 
 clude a hope of ultimate recovery. When this opinion had been 
 pronounced, there had arisen between the Marchioness and the 
 chaplain a discussion as to whether Lord Hampstead should be 
 once again summoned. The Marquis himself had expressed no 
 such wish. A bulletin of a certain fashion had been sent three or 
 four times a week to Hendon Hall purporting to express the 
 doctor’s opinion of the health of their noble patient; but the 
 bulletin had not been scrupulously true. Neither of the two con¬ 
 spirators had wished to have Lord Hampstead at Trafford Park. 
 Lady Kingsbury was anxious to make the separation complete 
 between her own darlings and their brother, and Mr. Greenwood 
 remembered, down to every tittle of a word and tone, the insolence 
 of the rebuke which he had received from the heir. But if Lore! 
 Kingsbury were really to be dying, then they would hardly dare to 
 keep his son in ignorance. 
 
 <f I’ve got something I’d better show you,” she said, as she 
 seated herself by her husband’s sofa. Then she proceeded to read 
 to him the letter, without telling him as she did so that it was 
 anonymous. When he had heard the first paragraph he demanded 
 to know the name of the writer.- “ I’d better read it all first,” said 
 the Marchioness. And she did read it all to the end, closing it, 
 however, without mentioning the final “ Well-Wisher.” “ Of course 
 it’s anonymous,” she said, as she held the letter in her hand. 
 
 “ Then I don’t believe a word of it,” said the Marquis. 
 
 “ Very likely not; but yet it sounds true.” 
 
 “ I don’t think it sounds true at all. Why should it be true ? 
 There is nothing so wicked as anonymous letters.” 
 
MISS DEMIJOHN’S INGENUITY. 
 
 197 
 
 That 
 
 If it 
 
 l t true about Hampstead it’s true at any rate of Fanny 
 
 <n, 1n T, man /^ e ? fr °™ Holloway, and Paradise Eow and the 
 
 stM ( nfn° f i Ef in ni rsh ' Where Fanny goes for her lover, Hamp¬ 
 stead is likely to follow. ‘ Birds of a feather flock together.’ ” P 
 
 sick lord° n * y ° U Speak ° f my cllildren iu that way,” said the 
 
 .. "What can I do? Is it not true about Fanny? If you wish 
 In Jj 1 T tG ampstead and ask him all about it.” In order 
 r)ostt?m? e f Ti m J he misery of the moment he assented to this pro- 
 I he letter being anonymous had to his thinking been 
 disgraceful, and therefore he had disbelieved it. And having 
 nduced himself to disbelieve the statements made, he had been 
 drawn into expressing,—or at any rate to acknowledging by his 
 ? Dce ’ a con viction that such a marriage as that proposed with 
 
 iTTmvllF W °? d 1)0 very base. Her ladyship felt therefore that 
 if Lord Hampstead could be got to acknowledge the engagement 
 
 something would have been done towards establishing a quarrel 
 between the father and the son. 8 1 
 
 the room ^ man g ° ne yet? ” he asked aS hl ’ s wife rose to Ieave 
 “ Has what man gone ? ” 
 
 “ Mr. Greenwood.” 
 
 °J S i ko Vi Ic - ke have gone? Tt Iias never been expected 
 .hat lie should go by this time. I don’t see why he should go at 
 
 in London^ A 0 H tliat would not again require his services up 
 
 „ oi ° ”* Th Ann aS J + kn0W i ^ at 1S a11 that haS been Said ab °nt 
 
 f n Tbe P°°i n} an turned himself on his sofa angrily, but did 
 departure m ° ment glve any furtber instructions as to the chaplain’s 
 
 “He wants to know why you have not gone,” Lady Kingsbury 
 said to the clergyman that afternoon. & y 
 
 , Wher e am I to go to?” whined the unfortunate one. “Does 
 he mean to say that I am to be turned out into the road at a 
 
 1 Can i approve of wliat La dy Frances is 
 aom & . I haven t had any orders as to going. If I am to go I 
 
 suppose he will make some arrangement first.” Lady Kingsbury 
 
 no n As i?v e f C ° U i ld t0 C “ h i m ’ and explained tbat there was 
 
 bl ? lm mediate departure. Perhaps the Marquis 
 
 might not think of it again for another week or two; and there was 
 no knowing in what condition they might find themselves. 
 
 Her ladyship s letter to her stepson was as follows ; and by 
 re turn of post her stepson’s answer came 
 
 il My dear Hampstead, 
 
 Tidings have reached your father that you have 
 engaged yourself to marry a girl, the daughter of a Quaker named 
 y, lvmg at No ; 17, Paradise Eow. He, the Quaker, is represented 
 as being a clerk m a counting-house in the City. Of the girl your 
 father lias heard nothing, but can only imagine that she should be 
 such as her position would make probable. He desires me to ask 
 
198 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 you whether there is any truth in the statement. You will observe 
 that I express no opinion myself whether it be true or false, 
 whether proper or improper. After your conduct the other day I 
 should not think of interfering myself; but your father wishes me 
 to ask for his information. 
 
 " Yours truly, 
 
 "Clara Kingsbury.” 
 
 Hampstead’s answer was very short, but quite sufficient for the 
 purpose 
 
 "My dear Lady Kingsbury, 
 
 “ I am not engaged to marry Miss Fay,—as yet. I think 
 that I may be some day soon. 
 
 “ Yours affectionately, 
 
 “ Hampstead.” 
 
 By the same post he wrote a letter to his father, and that shall 
 also be shown to the reader. 
 
 "My dear Father, 
 
 “ I have received a letter from Lady Kingsbury, asking 
 me as to a report of an engagement between me and a young lady 
 named Marion Fay. I am sorry that her writing should be evidence 
 that you are hardly yet strong enough to write yourself. I trust 
 that it may not long be so. 
 
 " Would you wish to see me again at Trafford ? I do not like 
 to go there without the expression of a wish from you; but I hold 
 myself in readiness to start whenever you may desire it. I had 
 hoped from the last accounts that you were becoming stronger. 
 
 “ I do not know how you may have heard anything of Marion 
 Fay. Had I engaged myself to her, or to any other young lady, I 
 should have told you at once. I do not know whether a young 
 man is supposed to declare his own failures in such matters, when 
 he has failed,—even to his father. But, as I am ashamed of 
 nothing in the matter, I will avow that I have asked the young 
 lady to be my wife, but she has as yet declined. I shall ask her 
 again, and still hope to succeed. 
 
 “ She is the daughter of a Mr. Fay who, as Lady Kingsbury 
 says, is a Quaker, and is a clerk in a house in the City. As he is 
 in all respects a good man, standing high for probity and honour 
 among those who know him, I cannot think that there is any draw¬ 
 back. She, I think, has all the qualities which I would wish to find 
 in the woman whom I might hope to make my wife. They live 
 at No. 17, Paradise Bow, Holloway. Lady Kingsbury, indeed, is 
 right in all her details. 
 
 “ Pray let me have a line, if not from yourself, at any rate 
 dictated by you, to say how you are. 
 
 “ Your affectionate son, 
 
 " Hampstead.” 
 
KING'S COURT , OLD BROAD STREET. 
 
 199 
 
 
 It was impossible to keep the letter from Lady Kingsbury. It 
 thus became a recognized fact by the Marquis, by the Marchioness, 
 and by Mr. Greenwood, that Hampstead was going to marry the 
 Quaker’s daughter. As to that pretence of a refusal, it went for 
 nothing, even with the father. Was it probable that a Quaker’s 
 daughter, the daughter of a merchant’s clerk out of the City, should 
 refuse to become a Marchioness? The sick man was obliged to 
 express anger, having been already made to treat the report as 
 incredible because of the disgrace which would accompany it, if 
 true. Had he been left to himself he would have endeavoured to 
 think as little about it as possible. Not to quarrel with his two 
 eldest children was the wish that was now strongest at his heart. 
 But his wife recalled the matter to him at each of the two daily 
 visits which she made. “ What can I do ? ” he was driven to ask 
 on the third morning. 
 
 “ Mr. Greenwood suggests-,” began his wife, not intending 
 
 to irritate him, having really forgotten at the moment that no 
 suggestion coming from Mr. Greenwood could be welcome to him. 
 
 “ D- Mr. Greenwood,” he shouted, lifting himself up erect 
 
 from the pillows on his sofa. The Marchioness was in truth so 
 startled by the violence of his movement, and by the rage expressed 
 on his haggard face, that she jumped from her chair with un¬ 
 expected surprise. “ I desire,” said the Marquis, “ that that man 
 shall leave the house by the end of this month.” 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 king’s court, old broad street. 
 
 Hampstead received the letter from Lady Kingsbury, and answered 
 it on Saturday, the 3rd of January, having at that time taken no 
 active steps in regard to Marion Fay after the rejection of his suit 
 on the day following Christmas. Eight days had thus elapsed, and 
 he had done nothing. He had done nothing, though there was not 
 an hour in the day in which he was not confirming his own resolve 
 to do something by which he might make Marion Fay his own. 
 He felt that he could hardly go to the girl again immediately after 
 the expression of her resolution. At first he thought that he 
 would write to her, and did sit down to the table for that purpose ; 
 but as he strove to produce words which might move her, he told 
 himself that the w r ords which he might speak would be better. 
 Then he rode half-way to Holloway, with the object of asking aid 
 from Mrs.Roden; but he returned without completing his purpose, 
 telling himself that any such aid, even if it could be obtained, 
 would avail him nothing. In such a contest, if a man cannot 
 succeed by his own doing, surely he will not do so by the assistance 
 of any one else; and thus he was in doubt. 
 
 After having written to Lady Kingsbury and his father he 
 
200 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 reflected that, in his father’s state of health, he ought to go again 
 to Trafford Park. If it were only for a day or for an hour he 
 ought to see his father. He knew that he was not wanted by his 
 stepmother. He knew also that no desire to see him had reached 
 him from the Marquis. He was afraid that the Marquis himself 
 did not wish to see him. It was almost impossible for him to take 
 his sister to the house unless an especial demand for her attend¬ 
 ance was made; and ho could not very well leave her alone tor 
 any lengthened period. Nevertheless he determined to make a 
 rapid run into Shropshire, with the intention of returning the 
 following day, unless he found the state of his fathers health so 
 bad as to make it expedient that he should remain. He intended 
 to hunt on the Monday and the Tuesday, travelling from London 
 to Leighton and back. But he would leave London by the night 
 mail train from Paddington on Wednesday evening so as to reach 
 Trafford Park House on the following morning between four and 
 five. It was a journey which he had often made before m the 
 same manner, and to which the servants at Trafford weie veil 
 accustomed. Even at that time in the morning he would walk to 
 the Park from the station, which was four miles distant, leaving 
 his luggage, if he had any, to be sent for on the following morning, 
 but he would usually travel without luggage, having all things 
 necessary for his use in his own room at Trafford. . . 
 
 It had hitherto been his custom to acquaint his sister with Ins 
 manoeuvres on these occasions, having never been free in his 
 correspondence with his stepmother. He had written 01 telegraphed 
 to Lady Prances, and she had quite understood that his instructions, 
 whatever they might be, were to be obeyed. But Lady Frances 
 was no longer a resident at Trafford Park, and he therefore 
 telegraphed to the old butler, who had been a servant m the family 
 from a period previous to his own birth. This telegram he sent 
 on the Monday, as follows :— ft Shall be at Trafford Thursday 
 morning, 4.30 a.m. Will walk over. Let Dick be up.. Have room 
 ready. Tell my father.” He fixed Wednesday night for his 
 journey, having made up his mind to devote a portion of the 
 Wednesday morning to the business which he had on hand in 
 reference to Marion Fay. 
 
 It was not the proper thing, he thought, to go to a girl s hither 
 for permission to ask the girl to be his wife., before the girl had 
 herself assented; but the circumstances in this case were peculiar. 
 It had seemed to him that Marion’s only reason for rejecting him 
 was based on disparity in their social condition,—which to his 
 thinking was the worst reason that could be given.. It might be 
 that the reason had sprung from some absurd idea originating with 
 the Quaker father; or it might be that the Quaker father would 
 altogether disapprove of any such reason. At any rate lie would 
 be o-iad to know whether the old man was for him or against lnm. 
 Ancl with the object of ascertaining this, he determined that lie 
 would pay a visit to the office in King’s Court on the Wednesday 
 morning. He could not endure the thought of leaving London,— 
 
201 
 
 KING'S COURT, OLD BROAD STREET. 
 
 
 it might be for much more than the one day intended,—without 
 making some effort in regard to the object which was nearest his 
 liea r t 
 
 Early in the day he walked into Messrs. Pogson and Littlebird s 
 office, and saw Mr. Tribbledale seated on a high stool behind a 
 huge desk, which nearly filled up the whole place. He was rather 
 struck by the smallness and meanness of Messrs. Pogson and 
 Littlebird’s premises, which, from a certain nobility belonging to 
 the Quaker’s appearance, he would have thought. to be spacious 
 and important. It is impossible not to connect ideas alter this 
 fashion. Pogson and Littlebird themselves carried in their own 
 names no flavour of commercial grandeur. Had they been only 
 known to Hampstead by their name, any small mercantile retreat 
 at the top of the meanest alley in the City might have sufficed for 
 them. But there was something in the demeanour of Zachary Fay 
 which seemed to give promise ot one of those palaces of trade which 
 are now being erected in every street and lane devoted in the City 
 to business. Nothing could be less palatial than Pogson and 
 Littlebird’s counting-house. Hampstead had entered it from a 
 little court, which it seemed to share with one other equally 
 unimportant tenement opposite to it, by a narrow low passage. 
 Here he saw two doors only, through one of which he passed, as it 
 was open, having noticed that the word “ Private ’ was written on 
 the other. Here he found himself face to face with Tribbledale and 
 with a little boy who sat at Tribbledale’s right hand on a stool 
 equally high. Of these two, as far as he could see, consisted the 
 establishment of Messrs. Pogson and Littlebird. “ Could I see Mi. 
 
 Fay ? ” asked Hampstead. 
 
 “Business?” suggested Tribbledale. . 
 
 “ Not exactly. That is to say, my business is private. 
 
 Then there appeared a face looking at him over a screen about 
 five feet and a half high, which divided off from the small apart¬ 
 ment a much smaller apartment, having, as Hampstead now 
 regarded it, the appearance of a cage. In this cage, small as it was, 
 there was a desk, and there were two chairs; and here Zachary Fay 
 carried on the business of his life, and transacted most of those 
 affairs appertaining to Messrs. Pogson and Littlebird which could 
 be performed in an office. Messrs. Pogson and Littlebiid them¬ 
 selves, though they had a room of their own, to which that door 
 marked “Private” belonged, were generally supposed to be 
 walking on ’Change as British merchants should do, or making 
 purchases of whole ships’ cargoes in the Docks, or discounting bills, 
 the least of which would probably represent £10,000. The face 
 which looked over the barrier of the cage at Lord Hampstead was 
 of course that of Zachary Fay. “ Lord Hampstead! he said, with 
 
 surprise. . T . . 
 
 “Oh, Mr. Fay, how do you do? I have something 1 want to 
 
 say to you. Could you spare me five minutes ? ” 
 
 The Quaker opened the door of the cage and asked Lord 
 Hampstead to walk in. Tribbledale, who had heard and recognized 
 
 I 
 
202 
 
 MAB10N FAY. 
 
 the name, stared hard at the young nobleman,—at his friend 
 Crocker’s noble friend, at the lord of whom it had been asserted 
 positively that he was engaged to marry Mr. Fay’s daughter. The 
 boy, too, having heard that the visitor was a lord, stared also. 
 Hampstead did as he was bid, but remembering that the inhabitant 
 of the cage had at once heard what had been said in the office, felt 
 that it would be impossible for him to carry on his conversation 
 about Marion without other protection from the ears of the world. 
 “ It is a little private what I have to say,” remarked Hampstead. 
 
 The Quaker looked towards the private room. “ Old Mr. 
 Pogson is there,” whispered Tribbledale. “ I heard him come in a 
 quarter of an hour ago.” 
 
 “ Perhaps thou wouldst not mind walking up and down the 
 yard,” said the Quaker. Hampstead of course walked out, but on 
 looking about him found that the court was very small for the 
 communication which he had to make. Space wuuld be required, 
 so that he might not be troubled by turning when he was in the 
 midst of his eloquence. Half-a-dozen steps would carry him the 
 whole length of King’s Court; and who could tell his love-story in 
 a walk limited to six steps ? 
 
 “ Perhaps we might go out into the street ? ” he suggested. 
 
 “ Certainly, my lord,” said the Quaker. “ Tribbledale, should 
 any one call before I return, and be unable to wait for five minutes, 
 I shall be found outside the court, not above fifty yards either to 
 the right or to the left.” Hampstead, thus limited to a course not 
 exceeding a hundred yards in one of the most crowded thorough¬ 
 fares of the City, began the execution of his difficult task. 
 
 “ Mr. Fay,” he said, “ are you aware of what has passed between 
 me and your daughter Marion ? ” 
 
 “ Hardly, my lord.” 
 
 “ Has she told you nothing of it ? ” 
 
 “ Yea, my lord; she has in truth told me much. She has told 
 me no doubt all that it behoves a father to hear from a daughter in 
 such circumstances. I live on such terms with my Marion that 
 there are not many secrets kept by either of us from the other.” 
 
 “ Then you do know ? ” 
 
 “I know that your lordship tendered to her your hand,— 
 honestly, nobly, and truly, as I take it.” 
 
 “With perfect honesty and perfect truth most certainly.” 
 
 “ And I know also that she declined the honour thus offered her.” 
 
 “ She did.” 
 
 “Is this you, Zachary? How are you this morning?” This 
 came from a stout, short, red-faced man, wdio stoq>ped them, stand¬ 
 ing in the middle of the pavement. 
 
 “Well, I thank thee, Mr. Gruby. At this moment I am 
 particularly engaged. That is Jonathan Gruby,” said the Quaker 
 to his companion as soon as the stout man had walked on; “ one of 
 the busiest men in the City. You have heard probably of Gruby 
 and Inderwald.” 
 
 Hampstead had ncyer heard of Gruby and Inderwald, and 
 
KING'S COUNT, OLD LUO AD ST KELT. 
 
 203- 
 
 wished that the stout man had been minding his business at that 
 moment. “ But as to Miss Fay/’ he said, endeavouring to continue 
 to tell his love-story. 
 
 “ Yes, as to Marion. I hardly do know what passed between 
 you tu r o, not having heard the reasons she gave thee.” 
 
 “ No reasons at all;—nothing worth speaking of between persons 
 who know anything of the world,” 
 
 “ Did she tell thee that she did not love thee, my lord ?—because 
 that to my thinking would be reason enough.” 
 
 “ Nothing of the kind. I don’t mean to boast, but I don’t see 
 wdiy she should not like me well enough.” 
 
 “ Nor in sooth do I either.” 
 
 “ What, Zachary; you walking about at this busy time of the 
 day ? ” 
 
 “ I am walking about. Sir Thomas. It is not customary with 
 me, but I am walking about.” Then he turned on his heel, moved 
 almost to dudgeon by the interruption, and walked the other way. 
 “Sir Thomas Bolster, my lord; a very busy sort of gentleman, but 
 one who has done well in the world.—Nor in sooth do I either; but 
 this is a matter in which a young maiden must decide for herself. 
 I shall not bid her not to love thee, but I cannot bid her to do so.” 
 
 “ It isn’t that, Mr. Fay. Of course I have no right to pretend 
 to any regard from her. But as to that there has been no question.” 
 
 “ What did she say to thee ? ” 
 
 “ Some trash about rank.” 
 
 _ " Nay, my lord, it is not trash. I cannot hear thee speak so of 
 thine own order without contradiction.” 
 
 “ Am I to be like a king in the old days, who was forced to 
 marry any ugly old princess that might be found for him, even 
 though she w r ere odious to him ? I will have nothing to do with 
 rank on such terms. I claim the right to please myseif, as do other 
 men, and I come to you as father to the young lady to ask from 
 you your assistance in winning her to be my wife.” At this 
 moment up came Tribbledale running from the office. 
 
 “ There is Cooke there,” said Tribbledale, with much emphasis 
 in his voice, as though Cooke’s was a very serious affair; “ from 
 Pollock and Austen’s.” 
 
 “ Is not Mr. Pogson within ? ” 
 
 “ He went out just after you. Cooke says that it’s most im¬ 
 portant that he should see some one immediately.” 
 
 “ Tell him that he must w r ait yet five minutes longer,” said 
 Zachary Fay, frowning. Tribbledale, awestruck as he bethought 
 himself how great were the affairs of Pollock and Austen, retreated 
 back hurriedly to the court. 
 
 “ You know what I mean, Mr. Fay,” continued Lord Hampstead. 
 
 " I know well what thou meanest, my lord. I think I know 
 what thou meanest. Thou meanest to offer to my girl not only 
 high rank and great wealth, but, which should be of infinitely more 
 value to her, the heart and the hand of an honest man. I believe 
 thee to be an honest man, my lord.” 
 
204 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 "In this matter, Ml*. Fay, at any rate, I am.” 
 
 “ In all matters as I believe; and how should I, being such a 
 one as I am, not be willing to give my girl to such a suitor as thee? 
 And what is it now ? ” he shrieked in his anger, as the little boy off 
 the high stool came rushing to him. 
 
 “ Mr. Pogson has just come back, Mr. Fay, and he cays that he 
 can’t find those letters from Pollock and Austen anywhere about 
 the place. He wants them immediately, because he can’t tell the 
 prices named without seeing them.” 
 
 “ Lord Hampstead,” said the Quaker, almost white with rage, 
 u I must pray thee to excuse me for five minutes.” Hampstead 
 promised that he would confine himself to the same uninteresting 
 plot of ground till the Quaker should return to him, and then 
 reflected that there were certain reasons upon which he had not 
 calculated against falling in love with the daughter of a City clerk. 
 
 “ We will go a little further afield,” said the Quaker, when he 
 returned, “ so that we may not be troubled again by those imbeciles 
 in the court. It is little, however, that I have to say to thee further. 
 Thou hast my leave.” 
 
 “ I am glad of that.” 
 
 “ And all my sympathies. But, my lord, I suppose I had better 
 tell the truth.” 
 
 “ Oh, certainly.” 
 
 “ My girl fears that her health may fail her.” 
 
 “ Her health! ” 
 
 " It is that as I think. She has not said so to me openly; but 
 I think it is that. Her mother died early,—and her brothers and 
 her sisters. It is a sad tale, my lord.” 
 
 “ But need that hinder her ? ” 
 
 " I think not, my lord. But it must be for thee to judge. As 
 far as I know she is as fit to become a man’s wife as are other girls. 
 Her health has not failed her. She is not robust, but she does her 
 work in looking after my household, such as it is, well and punctu¬ 
 ally. I think that her mind is pervaded with vain terrors. Now 1 
 have told thee all, placing full confidence in thee as in an honest 
 man. There is my house. Thou art welcome to go there if it 
 seemeth thee good, and to deal with Marion in this matter as thy 
 love and thy judgment may direct thee.” Having said this he 
 returned hurriedly to King’s Court as though he feared that Trib- 
 bledale or the boy might again find him out. 
 
 So far Hampstead had succeeded; but he was much troubled 
 in his mind by what he had heard as to Marion’s health. Not that 
 it occurred to him for a moment that such a marriage as he con¬ 
 templated would be undesirable because his Marion might become 
 ill. He was too thoroughly in love to entertain such an idea. 
 Nor is it one which can find ready entrance into the mind of 
 a young man who sees a girl blooming with the freshness and 
 beauty of youth. It would have seemed to him, had he thought 
 about it at all, that Marion’s health was perfect. But he was 
 afraid of her obstinacy, and he felt that this objection might bo 
 
MB. GREENWOOD BECOMES AMBITIOUS. 205 . 
 
 more binding on her than that which she put forward in reference 
 to his rank. He went back, therefore, to Hendon Hall only half- 
 satisfied,—sometimes elated, but sometimes depressed. He would, 
 however, go and discuss the matter with her at full length as soon 
 as he should have returned from Shropshire. He would remain 
 there only for one day,—though it might be necessary for him to 
 repeat the journey almost immediately,—so that no time might be 
 lost in using his eloquence upon Marion. After what had passed 
 between him and the Quaker, he thought that he was almost 
 justified in assuring himself that the girl did in truth love him. 
 
 “ Give my father my kindest love,” said Lady Frances, as her 
 brother was about to start for the train. 
 
 “ Of course I will.” 
 
 “ And tell him that I will start at a moment’s notice whenever 
 he may wish to see me.” 
 
 “ In such case of course I should take you.” 
 
 “ And be courteous to her if you can.” 
 
 “I doubt whether she will allow me. If she abuses you or 
 insults me I must answer her.” 
 
 “ I wouldn’t.” 
 
 “ You would be more ready than I am. One cannot but answer 
 her because she expects to hear something said in return. I shall 
 keep out of her way as much as possible. I shall have my break¬ 
 fast brought to me in my own room to-morrow, and shall then 
 remain with my father as much as possible. If I leave him at all I 
 shall get a walk. There will only be the dinner. As to one thing 
 I have quite made up my mind. Nothing shall drive me into 
 having any words with Mr. Greenwood;—unless, indeed, my father 
 were to ask me to speak to him.” 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 MR. GREENWOOD BECOMES AMBITIOUS. 
 
 Mr. Greenwood was still anxious as to the health of the Rector of 
 Appleslocombe. There might be even yet a hope for him; but his 
 chance, he thought, would be better with the present Marquis—ill- 
 disposed towards him as the Marquis was—than with the heir. 
 The Marquis was weary of him, and anxious to get rid of him,— 
 was acting very meanly to him, as Mr. Greenwood thought, having 
 offered him £1000 as a final payment for a whole life’s attention. 
 The Marquis, who had ever been a liberal man, had now, perhaps 
 on his death-bed, become unjust, harsh, and cruel. But he was 
 weak and forgetful, and might possibly be willing to save his 
 money and get rid of the nuisance of the whole affair by surrender¬ 
 ing the living. This was Mr. Greenwood’s reading of the circum 
 stances as they at present existed. But the Marquis could not 
 dispose of the living while the Rector was still alive; nor could he 
 
-203 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 even promise it, to any good effect, without his son’s assent. That 
 Lord Hampstead would neither himself so bestow his patronage or 
 allow it to be so bestowed, Mr. Greenwood was very sure. There had 
 been that between him and Lord Hampstead which convinced him 
 that the young man w T as more hostile to him even than the father. 
 Thq Marquis, as Mr. Greenwood thought, had insulted him of late ; 
 —but Lord Hampstead, young as he was, had also been insolent; 
 and what was worse, he had insulted Lord Hampstead. There had 
 been something in the young lord’s eye which had assured him of 
 the young lord’s contempt as well as dislike. If anything could be 
 done about the living it must be done by the Marquis. The Marquis 
 w T as very ill; but it was still probable that the old rector should 
 die first. He had been given to understand that the old rector 
 could hardly live many weeks. 
 
 Mr. Greenwood understood but little of the young lord’s charac¬ 
 ter. The Marquis, no doubt, he knew well, having lived with him 
 for many years. When he supposed his patron to be fretful and 
 irascible because of his infirmities, but to be by nature forgiving, 
 unreasonable, and weak, he drew an easy portrait, which was like 
 the person portrayed. But in attributing revenge, or harshness, 
 or pride of power to Lord Hampstead he was altogether wrong. As 
 regarded Appleslocombe and other parishes, the patronage of which 
 would some day belong to him, Lord Hampstead had long since 
 made up his mind that he would have nothing to do with them, 
 feeling himself unfit to appoint clergymen to ministrations in a 
 Church to which he did not consider himself to belong. All that 
 he would leave to the Bishop, thinking that the Bishop must know 
 more about it than himself. Was his father, however, to make any 
 request to him with reference to Appleslocombe especially, he would 
 no doubt regard the living as bestowed before his father’s death. 
 But of all this Mr. Greenwood could understand nothing. He felt, 
 however, that as the Marquis had given him cause for anger, so 
 had the young lord given him cause for hatred as well as anger. 
 
 Daily, almost hourly, these matters were discussed between Lady 
 Kingsbury and the chaplain. There had come to be strong sympathy 
 between them as far as sympathy can exist where the feelings are 
 much stronger on the one side than on the other. The mother of 
 the “darlings” had allowed herself to inveigh very bitterly against 
 her husband’s children by his former marriage, and at first had 
 been received only half-way by her confidential friend. But of late 
 her confidential friend had become more animated and more bitter 
 than herself, and had almost startled her by the boldness of his 
 denunciations. She in her passion had allowed herself more than 
 
 once to express a wish that her stepson-were dead. She had 
 
 hardly in truth meant as much as she implied,—or meaning it had 
 hardly thought of what she meant. But the chaplain, taking the 
 words from her lips, had repeated them till she was almost terrified 
 by their iniquity and horror. He had no darlings to justify him! 
 No great injury had been done to him by an unkind fortune i 
 Great as were the sin of Lord Hampstead and his sister, they could 
 
MB. GREENWOOD BECOMES AMBITIOUS. 
 
 207 
 
 bring no disgrace upon him ! And yet there was a settled purpose 
 of hatred in his words which frightened her, though she could not 
 bring herself to oppose them. She in her rage had declared that 
 it would be well that Lord Hampstead should break his neck out 
 hunting or go down in his yacht at sea; and she had been gratified 
 to find that her friend had sanctioned her ill wishes. But when Mr. 
 Greenwood spoke as though something might possibly be done to 
 further those wishes, then she almost repented herself. 
 
 She had been induced to say that if any power should come to 
 her of bestowing the living of Appleslocom.be she would bestow 
 it on Mr. Greenwood. Were Lord Hampstead to die before the 
 Marquis, and were the Marquis to die before the old rector, such 
 power would belong to her during the minority of her eldest son. 
 There had, therefore, been some meaning in the promise; and the 
 clergyman 'had referred to it more than once or twice. “ It is 
 most improbable, you know, Mr. Greenwood/' she had said very 
 seriously. He had replied as seriously that such improbabilities 
 were of frequent occurrence. “ If it should happen I will do so," 
 she had answered. But after that she had never of her own accord 
 referred to the probability of Lord Hampstead’s death. 
 
 From day to day there grew upon her a feeling that she had 
 subjected herself to domination, almost to tyranny, from Mr. 
 Greenwood. The man whom she had known intimately during 
 her entire married life now appeared to assume different proportions 
 and almost a different character. He would still stand before her 
 with his flabby hands hanging listlessly by his side, and with eyes 
 .apparently full of hesitation, and would seem to tremble as though 
 he feared the effect of his own words; but still the words that fell 
 from him were felt to be bonds from which she could not escape. 
 When he looked at her from his lack-lustre eyes, fixing them upon 
 her for minutes together, till the minutes seemed to be hours, she 
 became afraid. She did not confess to herself that she had fallen 
 into his power; nor did she realize the fact that it was so; but 
 without realizing it she was dominated, so that she also began to 
 think that it would be well that the chaplain should be made to 
 leave Trafford Park. He, however, continued to discuss with her 
 all family matters as though his services were indispensable to her; 
 and she was unable to answer him in such a way as to reject his 
 confidences. 
 
 The telegram reached the butler as to Hampstead’s coming on 
 the Monday, and was, of course, communicated at once to Lord 
 Kingsbury. The Marquis, who was now confined to his bed, 
 expressed himself as greatly gratified, and himself told the news to 
 his wife. She, however, had already heard it, as had also the 
 chaplain. It quickly went through the whole household, in which 
 among the servants there existed an opinion that Lord Hampstead 
 ought to have been again sent for some days since. The doctor 
 had hinted as much to the Marchioness, and had said so plainly 
 to the butler. Mr. Greenwood had expressed to her ladyship his 
 belief that the Marquis had no desire to see his son, and that the 
 
208 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 son certainly had no wish to pay another visit to Trafford. “ He 
 cares more about the Quaker’s daughter than anything else,” he 
 had said,—“ about her and his hunting. He and his sister consider 
 themselves as separated from the whole of the family. I should 
 leave them alone if I were you.” Then she had said a faint word 
 to her husband, and had extracted from him something that was 
 supposed to be the expression of a wish that Lord Hampstead 
 should not be disturbed. Now Lord Hampstead was coming with¬ 
 out any invitation. 
 
 “Going to walk over, is he, in the middle of the night ? ” said 
 Mr. Greenwood, preparing to discuss the matter with the Mar¬ 
 chioness^ There was something of scorn in his voice, as though he 
 were taking upon himself to laugh at Lord Hampstead for having 
 chosen this way of reaching his father’s houser. 
 
 “ He often does that,” said the Marchioness. 
 
 “ It’san odd way of coming into a sick house,—to disturb it in 
 the middle of the night. Mr. Greenwood, as he spoke, stood 
 looking at her ladyship severely. 
 
 “ D° w am 11° help it ? I don’t suppose anybody will be dis¬ 
 turbed at all. He’ll come round to the side door, and one of the 
 servants will be up to let him in. He always does things differently 
 from anybody else.” 
 
 “ One would have thought that when his father was dying- >y 
 
 “ Don’t say that, Mr. Greenwood. There’s nothing to make you 
 say that. The Marquis is very ill, but nobody has said that he’s 
 so bad as that.” Mr. Greenwood shook his head, but did not move 
 from the position in which he was standing. “ I suppose that on 
 this occasion Hampstead is doing what is right.” 
 
 “ I doubt whether he ever does what is right. I am only think¬ 
 ing that if anything should happen to the Marquis, how very bad 
 it would be for you and the young lords.” 
 
 “ Won’t you sit down, Mr. Greenwood?” said the Marchioness, 
 to whom the presence of the standing chaplain had become almost 
 intolerable. 
 
 The man sat down,—not comfortably in Ms chair, but hardly 
 more than on the edge of it, so as still to have that air of restraint 
 which had annoyed his companion. “As I was saying, if anything 
 should happen to my lord it would be very sad for your ladyship 
 and for Lord Frederic, and Lord Augustus, and Lord Gregory.” 
 
 “ We are all in the hands of God,” said her ladyship, piously. 
 
 “Yes;—we are all in the hands of God. But it is the Lord’s 
 intention that we should all look out for ourselves, and do the best 
 we can to avoid injustice, and cruelty, and,—and—robbery.” 
 
 “ I do not think there will be any robbery, Mr. Greenwood.” 
 
 “ Would it not be robbery if you and their little lordships should 
 be turned at once out of this house ? ” 
 
 “ It would be his own;—Lord Hampstead’s—of course. I should 
 have Slocombe Abbey in Somersetshire. As far as a house goes, 
 I should like it better than this. Of course it is much smaller;—* 
 but what comfort do I ever have out of a house like this ? ” 
 
MB. GREENWOOD BECOMES AMBITIOUS. 
 
 203 
 
 
 That’s true enough. But why ? ” 
 llicie is no good in talking about it, Mr. Greenwood.” 
 
 I cannot help talking about it. It is because Lady Trances 
 lias broken up the family by allowing herself to be engaged to a 
 yovmg man beneath her own station in life” Here he shook his head 
 as he always did when he spoke of Lady Prances. “ As for Lord’ 
 
 Hampstead I look upon it as a national misfortune that he should 
 outlive his father.” 
 
 “ What can we do ? ” 
 
 “ Well, my lady, it is hard to say. What will my feelings be, 
 sliould anything happen to the Marquis, and should I be left to the 
 tender mercies of his eldest son? I should have no claim upon 
 
 L ° rc L Ha ? PSte ? d a , shilling. As h 0 is an infidel, of course he 
 would not want a chaplain. Indeed I could not reconcile it to my 
 conscience to remain' with him. I should be cast out penniless 
 having devoted all my life, as I may say, to his lordship’s service.”' 
 lie has offered you a thousand pounds.” 
 
 “A thousand pounds, for the labours of a whole life’ And 
 what assurance shall I have of that ? I don’t suppose he has ever 
 dreamed of putting it into his will. And if he has, what will a 
 thousand pounds do for me ? You can go to Slocombe Abbey. But 
 
 WaS T g00 2 Promised, will be closed against 
 me. The Marchioness knew that this was a falsehood, but did not 
 dare to tell him so. The living had been talked about between 
 them till it was assumed that he had a right to it. “If the voun°- 
 
 man were out of the w r ay,” he continued, “there would be some 
 chance for me. 
 
 , ca P no ^ P 11 ^ 0l ^ the way,” said the Marchioness. 
 
 And some chance for Lord Frederic and his brothers.” 
 iou need not tell me of that, Mr. Greenwood.” 
 
 “ But one has to look the truth in the face. It is for your sake 
 that I have been anxious,—rather than my own. You must own 
 that. She would not own anything of the kind. “I suppose 
 there was no doubt about the first marriage ? ” 
 
 Is one at all,” said the Marchioness, terrified. 
 
 “ Though it was thought very odd at the time. It ought to be 
 looked to, I think. Iso stone ought to be left unturned.” 
 
 wood ” ll6re 1S n0tilil3g to be bo P ed for in that direction, Mr. Green- 
 
 . . P 0ll sht to be looked to ; —that’s all. Only think what it will 
 
 b<3 “ 1 ? a I! ri es, and has a son before anything is—is settled.” 
 
 io this Lady Kingsbury made no answer; and after a pause Mr. 
 Greenwood turned to his own grievances. “I shall make bold ” 
 he said to see the Marquis once again before Lord Hampstead 
 comes down. He cannot but acknowledge that I have a great right 
 to be anxious. I do not suppose that any promise would be sacred 
 in Ins son s eyes, but I must do the best I can.” To this her lady¬ 
 ship would make no answer, and they parted, not in the best 
 humour with each other. 
 
 That was on the Monday. On the Tuesday Mr. Greenwood, 
 
210 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 having asked to bo allowed an interview, crept slowly into the sick 
 man’s room. "I hope your lordship find yourself better this 
 morning ? ” The sick man turned in his bed, and only made some 
 
 feeble grunt in reply “I hear that Lord Hampstead is coming 
 down to-morrow, my lord.” 
 
 • Sll ? 1 ir d n0t COm ?, ? ” . Tliere mnst have been something 
 
 m the tone of Mr. Greenwood’s voice which had grated against the 
 SiCK man s ears, or he would not have answered so sulkily. 
 
 Oh no, my lord. I did not mean to say that there was any 
 reason why his lordship should not come. Perhaps it might have 
 been better had he come earlier.” b 
 
 “ It wouldn’t have been at all better.” 
 
 nothing 0 ?^ ” St meant t0 make the remark ' Iord J there was 
 
 Nothing at all,” said the sick man. “ Was there anything else 
 you wished to say, Mr. Greenwood ? ” * b 
 
 The nurse all this time was sitting in the room, which the 
 
 min^my' t lm.d b ^’\Ta“h 0 ed tabIe - “ C ° uM We b * a ^ 
 
 “ I thi nk we could,” said the sick man. 
 
 me Lo5d^gsbuiy W, ’ P ° intS WWCh are ° f “ mUch importanoe to 
 
 •n -u ain ^t well enough to talk business, and I won’t do it Mr 
 Eoberts wiH be here to-morrow, and you can see him.” 
 
 , f y- J 5 >b ® 1 2® was a m an of business, or agent to the property 
 
 hked ^ U /T’ and wkom Mr - Greenwo ° d especially dis^ 
 
 l~? d * Mr ; Gieenwood being a clergyman was, of course, supposed 
 
 1 • e a gentleman, and regarded Mr. Eoberts as being much beneath 
 himself. It was not customary for Mr. Eoberts to dine at the house 
 and he was therefore regarded by the chaplain as being hardly 
 more than an upper servant. It was therefore very grievous to 
 him to be told that he must discuss his own private affairs and 
 make his renewed request as to the living through Mr. Eoberts. It 
 was evidently intended that he should have no opportunity of dis¬ 
 cussing his private affairs. Whatever the Marquis might offer him 
 he must take; and that, as far as he could see, without any P ow“ 
 of lediess on his side. If Mr. Eoberts were to effer him a thousand 
 
 TrnffirA *p C ? n ? accept tlie cheque and depart with it from 
 Tiafford Park shaking off from his feet the dust which such in¬ 
 gratitude would forbid him to carry with him. 
 
 He was in the habit of walking daily for an hour before sunset 
 moving very slowly up and down the driest of Croads near the 
 
 thatin d en - Gra 17hlS hands clasped behind his back, believin" 
 tkat m doing so he was consulting his health, and maintaining that 
 
 bodily vigour which might be necessary to him for thTperfomance 
 parochial duties at Appleslocombe. Now when he had left 
 the bed-room of the Marquis he went out of the front door and 
 
 wTs C fuli e of°wintl7w) ^- a som ® what looker pace than usual.’ He 
 mentT 11 S ™ ath >'“ d bls P asslon S a ™ s °me alacrity to his move- 
 ments. He was of course incensed against the Marquis: but his 
 
211 
 
 
 LIKE THE FOOIi CAT P TIIE ADAGE. 
 
 anger burnt hottest against Lord Hampstead. In this he was 
 altogether unreasonable, for Lord Hampstead had said nothin® 1 
 and done nothmg that could injure his position. Lord Hampstead 
 
 S 1 ® 1 Sr i im Vertovs, despised him, but had been anxious 
 that the Marquis should be liberal in the mode of severing a con¬ 
 nection which had lasted so long. But to Mr. Greenwood himself 
 it was manifest that all his troubles came from the iniquities of his 
 patrons two elder children; and he remembered at every moment 
 that Lord Hampstead had insulted him when they were both 
 together. He was certainly not a man to forgive an enemv, or to 
 lose any opportunity for revenge which might come in his way. 
 
 Certainly it would be good if the young man could be got to 
 break Ins neck out huntingor good if the yacht could be made 
 to founder, or go to pieces on a rock, or come to any other fatal 
 marmme misfortune. But these were accidents which he personally 
 could have no power to produce. Such wishing was infantine, and 
 ht only for a weak woman, such as the Marchioness. If anything 
 were to be done it must be done by some great endeavour; and 
 the endeavour must come from himself. Then he reflected how far 
 the Marchioness would certainly be in his power, if both the Marquis 
 and his eldest son were dead. He did believe that he had obtained 
 great influence over her. That she should rebel against him was 
 of course on the cards. But he was aware that within the last 
 month, since the date, indeed, at which the Marquis had threatened 
 to turn him out of the house, he had made considerable progress 
 in imposing himself upon her as a master. He gave himself in ! 
 this respect much more credit than was in truth due to him. Lady 
 Kmgsbury, though she had learnt to fear him, had not so subjected 
 herself to his influence as not to be able to throw him otf should 
 a time come at which it might be essential to her comfort to do so 
 But he had misread the symptoms, and had misread also the fret- 
 ±l i?? 0 i er 3m P atie hce. He now assured himself that if anything 
 could be done he might rely entirely on her support. After all that 
 she had said to him, it would be impossible that she should throw 
 him over. Thinking of all this, and thinking also how expedient 
 it was that something should be done, he returned to the house 
 when he had taken the exact amount of exercise which he supposed 
 necessary for his health. x ^ 
 
 CHAPTEK XXXIY. 
 
 LIKE THE POOR CAT i’ THE ADAGE, 
 
 Wishing will do nothing. If a man has sufficient cause for action 
 he should act. Letting I dare not wait upon I would, Like the 
 poor cat l the adage,’’ never can produce results. Cherries will 
 ot fall into your mouth without picking. “ If it were done when 
 tis done then twere well it were done quickly.” If grapes hang 
 
212 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 too high what is the use of thinking of them? Nevertheless,_ 
 
 "W here there s a will there’s a way.” But certainly no way will 
 be found amidst difficulties, unless a man set himself to work 
 seriously to look for it. With such self-given admonitions, counsels, 
 and tags of old quotations as these, Mr. Greenwood w T ent to work 
 with himself on Monday night, and came to a conclusion that if 
 anything were to be done it must be done at once. 
 
 Then came the question—what was the thing to be done, and 
 what at once meant ? When a thing has to be done which requires 
 a special summoning of resolution, it is too often something which 
 ought not to be done. To virtuous deeds, if they recommend 
 themselves to us at all, we can generally make up our minds more 
 easily. It was pleasanter to Mr. Greenwood to think of the thing 
 as something in the future, as something which might possibly 
 get itself done for him by accident, than as an act the doing of 
 which must fall into his own hands. Then came the “ cat i’ the 
 adage,” and the when ’tis done then ’twere well,” and the rest 
 of it. Thursday morning, between four and five o’clock, when it 
 would be pitch dark, with neither star nor moon in the heavens, 
 when Lord Hampstead would certainly be alone in a certain spot,' 
 unattended and easily assailable;—would Thursday morning be 
 the fittest time for any such deed as that which lie had now in 
 truth began to contemplate ? 
 
 When the thing presented itself to him in this new form, he 
 recoiled from it. It cannot be said that Mr. Greenwood was a man 
 of any strong religious feelings. He had been ordained early in 
 life to a curacy, having probably followed, in choosing his profession, 
 the bent given to him by his family connections, and had thus 
 from circumstances fallen into the household of his present patron’s 
 uncle. From that to this he had never performed a service in a 
 church, and his domestic services as chaplain had very soon 
 become nothing. The old Lord Kingsbury had died very soon 
 afterwards, and Mr. Greenwood’s services had been continued 
 rather as private secretary and librarian than as domestic chaplain. 
 He had been crafty, willing, and, though anxious, he had been able 
 to conceal his anxiety in that respect, and ready to obey when he 
 found it necessary. In this manner he had come to his present 
 condition of life, and had but few of the manners or feelings of 
 a clergyman about him. He was quite willing to take a living 
 if it should come in his way,—but to take it with a purpose that 
 the duties should be chiefly performed by a curate. He was not a 
 religious man; but when he came to look the matter in the face, 
 not on that account could he regard himself as a possible murderer 
 without terrible doubts. 
 
 As he thought of it his first and prevailing fear did not come 
 from the ignominious punishment which is attached to, and which 
 generally attends, the crime. He has been described as a man 
 flabby in appearance, as one who seemed to tremble in his shoes 
 when called upon for any special words, as one who might be 
 supposed to be devoid of strong physical daring. But the true 
 
LIKE the pooh cat r the adage. 213 
 
 character of the man was opposed to his outward bearing. Courage 
 is a virtue of too high a nature to be included among his gifts • but 
 he had that command of Ins own nerves, that free action of blood 
 iound Ins heart, that personal audacity coming from self-confidence 
 which is often taken to represent courage. Given the fact that lie 
 
 — °f U fi° f the wa fy he COuld g0 t0 work t0 Prepare 
 
 put lnm out of the way without exaggerated dread of the 
 
 consequences as far as this world is concerned. He trusted much 
 
 nll^ 8 ^ possible that he could so look through 
 
 a .,f be concomitant incidents of such an act as that he contemplated 
 without allowmg one to escape him which might lead to detection 
 
 Sis C m the oth° k f, tho ™ tter > be thought, as to be sure whether 
 ™ 00 r th ? ? th P 0t m -, ght or mi 8 bt not be safe. It might be that 
 } ft? P Iot , wer e Possible, and that the attempt must therefore 
 be abandoned. These, at any rate, were not the dangers which 
 made him creep about m dismay at his own intentions. 
 
 J er “ dangers of which he could not shake off the 
 dread. Whether he had any clear hope as to eternal bliss in 
 
 thmioff 1 f 1 may b ? doubted. He probably drove from his mind 
 n°it g +hf ° n t ? e snbjeot ’ no . fc oaring to investigate his own belief. 
 It is the piactice of many to have their minds utterly callous in 
 that respect To suppose that such men think this or think the 
 
 fpv ? as f } lture re; W^s and punishments is to give them credit 
 foi a condition of mind to which they have never risen Such 
 a one was probably Mr. Greenwood; but nevertheless he feared 
 
 idea respecting Lord Hampstead presented 
 
 Pltf ? h P T as as is S0me h °e^o to a child, sime half- 
 belief m a spectre to a nervous woman, some dread of undefined 
 
 evil to an imaginative but melancholy man. He did not think that 
 by meditating such a deed, by hardening his heart to the necessary 
 resolution, by steeling himself up to its perpetration, he would 
 bimg himseif into a condition unfitted for a life of bliss. His 
 thoughts did not take any such direction. But though there might 
 
 pumsb ^ e . nt 1 5 1 . *bis world,—even though there were to be 
 no other world m which punishment could come,—still something 
 of evil would surely fall upon him. The conviction of the world 
 
 that e he e olWd f K am I ?! 6 l 11 g ° ne ? that direction - It was thus 
 that he allowed himself to be cowed, and to be made to declare 
 
 p?f S 6 i f fn gam f a “ d + f Sam 1 tha J, tlie P ro J' e ct must be abandoned. 
 
 • w? ? a L 1 ada S e succeeded so far on the Tuesday 
 
 m getting the better of his scruples, that he absolutely did form a 
 plot He did not as yet quite see his way to that secur-v which 
 would be 1 indispensable ;-but he did form a plot. Then came the 
 bitter reflection that what he would do would be done for the 
 benefit of others rather than his own. What would Lord Frederic 
 know of his benefactor when he should come to the throne—as in 
 such case he would do—as Marquis of Kingsbury ? Lord Freeh ric 
 would give him no thanks, even were lie to know it,-which of 
 eourse could. never be the case. And why had not that woman 
 assisted him,-she who had instigated him to the doing of the 
 
211 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 deed ? “ For Banquo’s issue have I filed my mind,” he said to 
 himself over and over again, not, however, in truth thinking of the 
 deed with any of the true remorse to which Macbeth was a prey. 
 The “ filing of his mind ” only occurred to him because the words 
 were otherwise apt. Would she even be grateful when she should 
 tell herselfas she surely would do,—that the deed had been done 
 by the partner of her confidences ? 
 
 When he thought of the reward which was to come to him in 
 payment of the intended deed, something like a feeling of true 
 conscience did arise within him. Might it not be the case that even 
 he, callous as he was to most things, should find himself unable 
 to go down to Appleslocombe and read himself in, as the phrase 
 goes, as rector and pastor of the parish ? He thought of this as he 
 lay in his bed, and acknowledged to himself that his own audacity 
 would probably be insufficient to carry him through such a struggle. 
 But still on the morning when he rose he had not altogether 
 rejected the idea. The young man had scorned him and had 
 insulted him, and was hateful to him. But still why should he be 
 the Macbeth, seeing that the Lady Macbeth of the occasion was 
 untrue to him? In all this he was unaware how very little his 
 Lady Macbeth had really meant when she had allowed herself in 
 his presence to express wishes as to her stepson’s death. 
 
 He thought he saw his plan. The weapon was there ready 
 to his hand;—a weapon which he had not bought, which could 
 not be traced to him, which would certainly be fatal if used with 
 the assurance of which he was confident. And there would be 
 ample time for retreat. But still as he arranged it all in his mind 
 he legalded it all not as a thing fixed, but as a thing which was 
 barely possible. It was thus that it might be done, had the Lady 
 Macbeth of the occasion really shown herself competent to such a 
 task. Why should he trouble himself on such a matter ? Why 
 should he file his mind for Banquo’s issue ? Yet he looked at the 
 pistol and at the window as he prepared to go up to her ladyship’s 
 room before lunch on the Wednesday morning. It certainly could 
 be done, he said to himself, telling himself at the same time that 
 all that had been passing in his own mind was no more than a 
 vague speculation. A man is apt to speculate on things which 
 have no reality to him, till they become real. 
 
 He had assumed the practice of going to her ladyship’s sitting- 
 room upstairs without a special summons, latterly to her ladyship’s 
 great disgust. When her quarrel had first become strong with 
 Lady Frances she had no doubt received comfort from his support. 
 But now she had become weary of him, and had sometimes been 
 almost dismayed by the words he spoke to her. At half-past twelve 
 punctually she went down to her husband’s room, and it was now 
 customary with the chaplain to visit her before she did so. She 
 had more than once almost resolved to tell him that she preferred 
 to be left alone during the morning. But she had not as yet 
 assumed the courage to do this. She was aware that words had 
 iallen from her in her anger which it was possible he might use 
 
LIKE THE POOR CAT T THE ADAGE. 215 
 
 against her, were she to subject herself to his displeasure. “ Lord 
 Hampstead will be here at half-past four—what you may call the 
 middle of the night—to-morrow morning. Lady Kingsbury,” said 
 he, repeating an assertion which he had already made to her two 
 or three times. As he did so he stood in the middle of the room, 
 looking down upon her with a gaze under which she had often 
 suffered, but which she did not in the least understand. 
 
 “ Of course I know he’s coming.” 
 
 “ Don’t you think it a very improper time, with a sick man in 
 the house ? ” 
 
 “ He won’t disturb his father.” 
 
 “ I don’t know. There will be the opening and the shutting of 
 the door, and the servant will be going about the passages, and 
 there will be the bringing in of the luggage.” 
 
 “ He won’t have any luggage.” Mr. Greenwood had been aware 
 of this; but it might be well that he should affect ignorance. 
 
 "It is like everything else that he does,” he said, being anxious 
 to induce the stepmother to speak ill of her stepson. But the bent 
 of her mind had been turned. She was not conscious of the cause 
 which had produced the change, but she was determined to speak 
 no further evil, of her stepchildren before Mr. Greenwood. “I 
 suppose there is nothing to be done ? ” said Mr. Greenwood. 
 
 “ What should there be to be done ? If you do remain here I 
 wish you would sit down, Mr. Greenwood. You oppress me by 
 standing up in that way in the middle of the room.” 
 
 “I do not wonder that you should be oppressed,” he said, 
 seating himself, as was his wont, on the edge of a chair. “ I am 
 oppressed, I know. No one ever says a word to comfort me. What 
 am I to do if anything should happen ? ” 
 
 “ Mr. Greenwood, what is the use of all this ? ” 
 
 " What would you think, Lady Kingsbury, if you had to live 
 all the rest of your life on an income arising from a thousand 
 pounds ?” 
 
 “ It isn’t my fault. What’s the good of your coming to me with 
 all that. ? I have had nothing to do with the arrangement which 
 Lord Kingsbury has made with you. You know very well that I 
 do not dare even to mention your name to him, lest he should order 
 that you should be turned out of the house.” 
 
 “ Turned out of the house! ” he said, jumping off his chair on 
 to his legs with an alacrity which was quite unusual to him. 
 
 “ Turned out of the house ?—as if I were a dog! No man alive 
 would stand such language.” 
 
 “You know very well that I’ve always stood your friend,” said 
 the Marchioness, alarmed by the man’s impetuosity. 
 
 “ And you tell me that I’m to be turned out of the house! ” 
 
 “ I only say that it would be better not to mention your name 
 to him. I must go now, because he will be waiting for me.” 
 
 “ He doesn’t care a straw for you; not a straw.” 
 
 “ Mr. Greenwood! ” 
 
 “He cares only for his son and daughterfor the son and 
 
216 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 daughter of his first 'wife; for those two ignoble young persons 
 who, as you have said so often, are altogether unworthy of their 
 name.” 
 
 “ Mr. Greenwood, I cannot admit this.” 
 
 “Have you not said it over and over again? Have you not 
 declared how good a thing it would be that Lord Hampstead should 
 die ? You cannot go back from all that, Lady Kingsbury.” 
 
 “I must go now, Mr. Greenwood,” she said, shuffling out of the 
 room. He had altogether frightened her, and, as she went down¬ 
 stairs, she determined that at whatever cost she must save herself 
 from further private conversation with the chaplain. 
 
 Mr. Greenwood, when he was thus left alone, did not at once 
 leave the room. He had reseated himself, and there he remained 
 still gazing as though there had been some one for him to gaze at, 
 and still seated on the edge of his chair as though there were some 
 one to see the affected humility of his position. But in truth the 
 gazing and the manner of sitting had become so customary to him 
 that they were assumed without thought. His mind was now full 
 of the injury done to him by the Marchioness. She had made him 
 her confidant; she had poured her secret thoughts into his ears; 
 she had done her best to inspire him with her hatred and her 
 desires;—and now, when she had almost taught him to be the 
 minister of her wishes, she turned upon him, and upbraided him 
 and deserted him! Of course when he had sympathized with her 
 as to her ill-used darlings he had expected her to sympathize with 
 him as to the hardships inflicted upon him. But she cared nothing 
 for his hardships, and was anxious to repudiate the memory of all 
 the hard words which she had spoken as to her husband’s children. 
 It should not be so! She should not escape from him in this 
 manner! When confidences have been made, the persons making 
 them must abide the consequences. When a partnership has been 
 formed, neither partner has a right to retreat at once, leaving the 
 burden of all debts upon the other. Had not all these thoughts, 
 and plottings, which had been so heavy on his mind since that 
 telegram had come, which had been so heavy on his soul, been her 
 doing ? Had not the idea come from her ? Had there not been an 
 unspoken understanding between them that in consequence of 
 certain mutual troubles and mutual aspirations there should be a 
 plan of action arranged between them? Now she was deserting 
 him! Well;—he thought that he could so contrive things that she 
 should not do so with impunity. Having considered all this he 
 got up from' his chair and slowly walked down to his own room. 
 
 He lunched by himself, and then sat himself down with a 
 novel, as was his wont at that hour of the day. There could be 
 no man more punctual in all his daily avocations than Mr. Green¬ 
 wood. After lunch there always came the novel; but there was 
 seldom much of it read. He would generally go to sleep, and would 
 remain so, enjoying perfect tranquillity for the best part of an hour. 
 Then he would go out for his constitutional walk, after which he 
 would again take up the novel till the time came for her ladyship’s 
 
LIKE TEE POOR CAT T THE ADAGE. 211 
 
 tea. On this occasion he did not read at all, but neither did he at 
 once sleep There had been that on his mind which, even though 
 it had not been perfected, banished sleen from him for some 
 minutes. There was no need of any further conversation as to 
 sa ety or danger. The deed, whether it would or could not have 
 been done m the manner he had premeditated, certainly would not 
 be done now. Certainly not now would he file his mind for 
 "lecp U ° S 1SSUe * a ^ er half-an-hour of silent meditation he did 
 
 When he arose and went out for a walk he felt that his heart 
 was light within him. He had done nothing by which he had 
 compromised himself. He had bound himself to no deed As he 
 walked up and down the road he assured himself that he had never 
 ready thought of doing it. Ho had only speculated as to the pro- 
 bability —winch is so common for men to do as to performances 
 which they had no. thought of attempting. There was a great 
 buiden gone from him. Had he desired to get rid of Lord Hamp¬ 
 stead, it was m that way that he would have done it:—and he 
 would so have done it that he would never have been suspected of 
 the deed. He had never intended more than that. As he returned 
 to the house he assured himself that he had never intended any- 
 thmg more. And yet there was a great burden gone from him. 
 
 At five o clock a message was brought to him that her ladyship, 
 finding herself to be rather unwell, begged to be excused from 
 asking him up to tea.. The message was brought by the butler 
 ^lmself, with a suggestion that he should have tea in his own room. 
 
 I think I will, Harris,* ho said, " just take a cup. By-the-bye, 
 Hairis, have you seen my lord to-day ? ” Harris declared that he 
 had seen his lordship, in a tone of voice which implied that he at 
 any rate had not been banished from my lord’s presence. “ And 
 how do you find.him?” Harris thought that the Marquis was a 
 little move like himself to-day than he had been for the fi^st three 
 days. That s right. I am very glad to hear that. Lord Hamp¬ 
 stead s coming to-morrow will be a great comfort to him.” 
 
 • i ^ 3I l deed J sa id Harris, who was quite on Lord Hampstead’s 
 side m the family quarrels. He had not been pleased with the idea 
 ot the lioden marriage, which certainly was unfortunate for the 
 daughter of a Marquis; but he was by no means inclined to take 
 part against the heir to the family honours. 
 
 n ,, d were coming at a little more reasonable hour in the 
 
 day said Mr. Greenwood with a smile. But Harris thought that 
 the. time of the day would do very well. It was the kind of thing 
 
 • -f r rlfi ! ordshi P ver y often did, and Harris did not see any harm 
 in it., 1 his Harris said with his hand on the lock of the door, 
 
 the'ch^ilain ^ WaS n °^ ailX30lls ^ or a prolonged conversation with 
 
218 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXY. 
 
 LADY FRANCES SEES HER LOVER. 
 
 On the Monday in that week, Monday, the 5 th of January, on 
 ■which day Hampstead had been hunting and meditating the attack 
 which he subsequently made on Zachary Fay, in King’s Court — 
 His. A incent had paid a somewhat unusually long visit in Paradise 
 Eow. As the visit was always made on Monday, neither had Clara 
 Demijohn or Mrs. Duffer been very much surprised; but still it had 
 been observed that the brougham had been left at the'“ Duchess of 
 ^dmbuigh foi an hour beyond the usual time, and a few remarks 
 veie made. ‘She is so punctual about her time generally,” Clara 
 nad said. But Mrs. Duffer remarked that as she had exceeded the 
 hour usually devoted to her friend’s company she had probably 
 found it quite as well to stay another. « They don’t make half- 
 hours many of those yards, you know,” said Mrs. Duffer. And so 
 
 explained^ ^ allowe(i to pass as having been sufficiently 
 
 But there had in truth been more than that in Mrs. Vincent’s 
 prolonged visit to her cousin. There had been much to be dis¬ 
 cussed, and the discussion led to a proposition made that eveniu- 
 by Mrs. Roden to her son by which the latter was much surnrisecf 
 She was desirous of starting almost immediately for Italy, and was 
 anxious that he should accompany her. If it were to be so ho was 
 quite alive to the expediency of going with her. “But what is it, 
 mother he asked, when she had requested his attendance without 
 giving the cause which rendered the journey necessary. Then she 
 paused as though considering whether she would comply with his 
 request, and tell him that whole secret of his life which she had 
 hitherto concealed from him. " Of course, I will not press you,” 
 
 he said, “if you think that you cannot trust me.” 
 
 “ Oh, George, that is unkind.” 
 
 “ What else am I to say ? Is it possible that I should start 
 suddenly upon such a journey, or that I should see you doing so 
 without asking the reason why? Or can I suppose, if you do 
 
 not tell me, out that there is some reason why you should not 
 ri LiSu mo . 
 
 . “ know I trust you. No mother ever trusted a son more 
 
 implicitly. 1 ou ought to know that. It is not a matter of trusting. 
 There may be secrets to which a person shall be so pledged that she 
 cannot tell them to her dearest friend. If I had made a promise 
 would you not have me keep it ? ” 
 
 Promises such as that should not be exacted, and should not 
 oe made. 
 
 But if they have been exacted and have been made ? Do as I 
 ask you now, and it is probable that everything will be clear to 
 you before wo return, or at any rate as clear to you as it is to me.” 
 
LADY FRANCES SEES HER LOVER. 
 
 219 
 
 After this, with a certain spirit of reticence which was peculiar 
 with him, he made up his mind to do as his mother would have 
 him without asking further questions. He set himself to work 
 immediately to make the necessary arrangements for his journey 
 with as much apparent satisfaction as though it were to be done on 
 his own behalf. It was decided that thsr start on the next 
 
 Friday, travel through France and by the tunnel of the Mont Cenis 
 to Turin, and thence on to Milan. Of what further there was to 
 befall them he knew nothing at this period. 
 
 It was necessary in the first place that he should get leave of 
 absence from Sir Boreas, as to which he professed himself to be 
 in much doubt, because he had already enjoyed the usual leave of 
 absence allowed by the rules of the office. But on this matter he 
 found iEolus to be very complaisant. “ What, Italy ? ” said Sir 
 Boreas. “ Very nice when you get there, I should say, but a bad 
 time of year for travelling. Sudden business, eh ?—To go with your 
 mother! It is bad for a lady to go alone. How long? You don’t 
 know ? Well! come back as soon as you can; that’s all. You 
 couldn’t take Crocker with you, could you ? ” For at this time 
 Crocker had already got into further trouble in regard to imper¬ 
 fections of handwriting. He had been promised absolution as to 
 some complaint made against him on condition that he could read 
 a page of his own manuscript. But he had altogether failed in the 
 attempt. Itoden didn’t think that he could carry Crocker to Italy, 
 but arranged his own affair without that impediment. 
 
 But there was another matter which must be arranged also. It 
 was now six weeks since he had walked with Lord Hampstead 
 half-way back from Holloway to Hendon, and had been desired by 
 his friend not to visit Lady Frances while she was staying at 
 Hendon Hall. The reader may remember that he had absolutely 
 refused to make any promise, and that there had consequently been 
 some sharp words spoken between the two friends. There might, 
 he had then said, arise an occasion on which he should find it im¬ 
 possible not to endeavour to see the girl he loved. But hitherto, 
 though he had refused to submit himself to the demand made upon 
 him, he had complied with its spirit. At this moment, as it seemed 
 to him, a period had come in which it was essential to him that he 
 should visit her. There had been no correspondence between them 
 since those Konigsgraaf days in consequence of the resolutions 
 which she herself had made. Now, as he often told himself, they 
 were as completely separated as though each had determined never 
 again to communicate with the other. Months had gone by since 
 a word had passed between them. He was a man patient, retentive, 
 and by. nature capable of enduring such a trouble without loud 
 complaint; but he did remember from day to day how near they 
 were to each other, and he did not fail to remind himself that he 
 could hardly expect to find constancy in her unless he took some 
 means of proving to her that he was constant himself. Thinking 
 of all this, he determined that he would do his best to see her 
 before he started for Italy. Should he fail to be received at Hendon 
 
MARION FAY. 
 
 SakeW e s n attemp? Uld ^ BU ‘ ^ W °“ ld g ° t0 tho bouse 
 
 m T hars . da y morning the day on which Hampstead arrived at 
 Tiaffoid Park, he went down from London, and knocking at the 
 door asked at once for Lady Frances. Lady Frances was at home 
 and alone ; alone altogether, haying no companion with her in tho 
 house during her brother’s absence. The servant who opened the 
 door, the same who had admitted poor Crocker and had understood 
 iotv much his young mistress had been dismayed when the Post 
 
 Mother Post Offlc? a ‘ °nce to show 
 
 tnis otnei Post Office clerk into the house, although he nrobahlv 
 
 understood well the difference between the two comers. P « I’llJ 0 
 
 and see, lie said, leaving George Eoden to sit or stand in the hall 
 
 as he liked best. Then the man, with a sagacity which certainly 
 
 did him credit, made a roundabout journey through the house so 
 
 waf to^rrJ^f 11 ! 11 ^ in i th lM 1 i! might nofc know that his mistress 
 vas to be leached merely by the opening of a single door “ A 
 
 gentleman m the hall ? ” said Lady Frances. 
 
 Mr. Eoden, my lady,” said the man. 
 
 Show him in ” said Lady Frances, allowing herself hist a 
 ^.consideration,-a moment so short fhat she trusted 
 that no hesitation had been visible. And yet she had doubted 
 much. She had been very clear in explaining to her brothel that 
 Aie had made no promise. She had never pledged herself to anv 
 one that she would deny herself to her lover should he come to 
 
 f+? not . adm it to herself that even her brother 
 
 even her father had a right to demand from her such a pledge' 
 Put she knew what were her brother’s wishes on this matter and 
 
 S IT thG f0r them * Slie knew also how much she 
 
 wed to him. Put she too had suffered from that long silence 
 She had considered that a lover whom she never saw and from 
 , 10 m she never heard, was almost as bad as no lover at all she 
 had beaten her feathers against her cage as she tho-no-ht Af +1 • 
 cruel separation. She hadtold herself It 'the short d?stence°wh?ch 
 separated Hendon from Holloway. She perhaps had reflected that 
 ad the man been as true to her as was she to him, he would not 
 
 fcor OW brotW Se Lw ft deterr °? by , the “j™ctions W e«her n °of 
 
 iatner or mother. Now, at any rate, when her lover was at flip 
 door she could not turn him away. It had all to be though/of 
 
 admi th0Ught of ?° inickly that the order for her fover’s 
 
 bfen felt Then FnTIf ‘“ m ? St V 1 ? 01 ?* a P ause which could have 
 tvwi ti i ln k , f a ™ mute 'lover was in the room with her 
 pomIT t ! le ckro ? lc i er of such scenes declare that they were iii 
 first word 1 tlT S before a wor(i was s P oken between them? The 
 longHhas been™ 8 SP Came & ™ her ' “ 0h ’ Ge °rge, 
 
 “ It has been long to me.” 
 
 ‘‘ Pnt at last you have come ? ” 
 
 ■ Hid you expect me sooner? Had you not agreed with TTnmv> 
 stead and your father that I was not to come?” Hamp ' 
 
 ) 
 
LADY FRANCES SEES HER LOVER. 
 
 221 
 
 “ Never mind. You are here now. Poor papa, you know, is 
 very ill. Perhaps I may have to go down there. John is there 
 now.” 
 
 “ Is he so ill as that ? ” 
 
 “ John went last night. We do not quite know how ill he is. 
 He does not write, and we doubt whether we get at the truth. I 
 was very nearly going with him; and then, sir, you would not have 
 seen me—at all.” 
 
 “ Another month, another six months, another year, would have 
 made no difference in my assurance of your truth to me.” 
 
 “ That is a very pretty speech for you to make.” 
 
 “ Nor I think in yours for me.” 
 
 " I am bound, of course, to be just as pretty as you are. But 
 why have you come now ? You shouldn’t have come when John 
 had left me all alone.” 
 
 “ I did not know that you were here alone.” 
 
 “ Or you would not have come, perhaps ? But you should not 
 have come. Why did you not ask before you came ? ” 
 
 “Because I should have been refused. It would have been 
 refused; would it not ? ” 
 
 “ Certainly it would.” 
 
 “ But as I wish to see you specially-” 
 
 “ Why specially ? I have wanted to see you always. Every 
 day has been a special want. It should have been so with you 
 also had you been as true as I am. There should have been" no 
 special times.” 
 
 “ But I am going-” 
 
 “ Going! Where are you going ? Not for always ! You are 
 leaving Holloway, you mean, or the ’ Post Office.” Then he ex¬ 
 plained to her that as far as he knew the journey would not be for 
 long. He was not leaving his office, but had permission to absent 
 himself for a time, so that he might travel with his mother as far 
 as Milan. “Nay,” said he, laughing, “ why I am to do so I do not 
 in the least know. My mother has some great Italian mystery of 
 which she has never yet revealed to me any of the circumstances. 
 All I know is that I was born in Italy.” 
 
 “ You an Italian ? ” 
 
 “ I did not say that. There is an old saying that you need not 
 be a horse .because you were born in a stable. Nor do I quite 
 know that I was born in Italy, though I feel sure of it. Of my 
 father I have never known anything,—except that he was certainly 
 a bad husband to my mother. There are circumstances which do 
 make me almost sure that I was born in Italy; but as my mother 
 has been unwilling to talk to me of my earliest days, I have never 
 chosen to ask her. Now I shall perhaps know it all.” 
 
 Of what else passed between them the reader need learn no 
 details. To her the day was one of exceeding joy. A lover in 
 China, or waging wars in Zululand or elsewhere among the distant 
 regions, is a misfortune. A lover ought to be at hand, ready at the 
 moment, to be kissed or scolded, to wait upon you, or, so much 
 
MARION FAY. 
 
 222 
 
 sweeter still, to be waited upon, just as the occasion may serve. 
 But the lover in China is better than one in the next street or the 
 next parish,—or only a few miles off by railway,—whom you may 
 not see. The heart recognizes the necessity occasioned by distance 
 with a sweet softness of tender regrets, but is hardened by mutiny, 
 or crushed by despair in reference to stern parents or unsuitable 
 pecuniary circumstances. Lady Frances had been enduring the 
 sternness of parents, and had been unhappy. Now there had come 
 a break. She had seen what ho was like, and had heard his voice, 
 and been reassured by his vows, and had enjoyed the longed-for 
 opportunity of repeating her own. “Nothing, nothing, nothing 
 can change me! ” How was he to be sure of that while she had no 
 opportunity of telling him that it was so ? “ No time;—nothing 
 that papa can say, nothing that John can do, will have any effect. 
 As to Lady Kingsbury, of course you know that she has thrown 
 me off altogether.” It was nothing to him, he said, who might 
 have thrown her off. Having her promise, he could bide his time. 
 Not but that he was impatient; but that he knew that when so 
 much was to be given to him at last, it behoved him to endure all 
 things rather than to be faint of heart. And so they parted. 
 
 She, however, in spite of hgr joy, had a troubled spirit when ho 
 ■was gone. She had declared to her brother that she was bound by 
 no promise as to seeing or not seeing her lover, but yet she was. 
 aware how much she owed to him, and that, though she had not 
 promised, he had made a promise on her behalf, to her father. But 
 for that promise she would never have been allowed to be at Hendon 
 Hall. Her brother had made all his arrangements so as to provide 
 for her a home in which she might be free from the annoyances 
 inflicted upon her by her stepmother; but had done so almost with 
 a provision that she should not see George Boden. She certainly 
 had done nothing herself to infringe that stipulation; but George 
 Boden had come, and she had seen him. She might have refused 
 him admittance, no doubt; but then again she thought that it 
 would have been impossible to do so. How could she have told 
 the man to deny her, thus professing her indifference for him in 
 regard to whom she had so often declared that she was anxious 
 that all the world should know that they were engaged to marry 
 each other ? It would have been impossible 'for her not to see 
 him; and yet she felt that she had been treacherous to her brother, 
 to whom she owed so much! 
 
 One thing seemed to her to be absolutely necessary. She must 
 write at once and tell him what had occurred. Thinking of this 
 she sat down and wrote so that she might despatch her letter by 
 that post;—and what she wrote is here given. 
 
 “My dear John, 
 
 “ I shall be so anxious to get news from Trafford, and to 
 hear how you found papa. I cannot but think that were he very 
 ill somebody would have let us know the truth. Though Mr. 
 Greenwood is cross-grained and impertinent, he would hardlv 
 have kept us in the dark. 
 
LADY FRANCES SEES HER LOVER. 
 
 223 
 
 “ Now I liaye a piece of news to tell you which I hope will not 
 make you very angry. It was not my doing, and I do not know 
 how I could have helped it. Your friend, George Roden, called 
 to-day and asked to see me. Of course I could have refused. He 
 was in the hall when Richard announced him, and I suppose I 
 could have sent out word to say that I was not at home. But 
 I think you will feel that that was in truth impossible. How is 
 one to tell a lie to a man when one feels towards him as I do about 
 George ? Or how could I even let the servants think that I would 
 treat him so badly ? Of course every one knows about it. I want 
 every one to know about it, so that it may be understood that I am 
 not in the least ashamed of what I mean to do. 
 
 " And when you hear why he came I do not think that you 
 can be angry even with him. He has been called upon, for some 
 reason, to go at once with his mother to Italy. They start for 
 Milan to-morrow, and he does not at all know when he may return. 
 He had to get leave at the Post Office, but that Sir Boreas whom 
 he talks about seems to have been very good-natured about giving 
 it. He asked him whether he would not take Mr. Crocker with 
 him to Italy; but that of course was a joke. I suppose they do 
 not like Mr. Crocker at the Post Office any better than you do. 
 Why Mrs. Roden should have to go he does not understand. All 
 he knows is that there is some Italian secret which he will hear all 
 about before he comes home. 
 
 “ Now I really do think that you cannot be surprised that he 
 should have come to see me when he is going to take such a 
 journey as that. What should I have thought if I had heard that 
 lie had gone without saying a word to me about it ? Don’t you 
 think that that would have been most unnatural ? I should have 
 almost broken my heart when I heard that he had started. 
 
 “ I do hope, therefore, that you will not be angry with either of 
 us. But yet I feel that I may have brought you into trouble with 
 papa. I do not care in the least for Lady Kingsbury, who has no 
 right to interfere in the matter at all. After her conduct every¬ 
 thing, I think, is over between us. But I shall be indeed sorry if 
 papa is vexed; and shall feel it very much if he says anything to 
 you after all your great kindness to me. 
 
 “ Your affectionate sister, 
 
 “ Fanny.” 
 
 " I have done one other thing to-day,” said George Roden, when 
 he was explaining to his mother on Thursday evening all the 
 preparations he had made for their journey. 
 
 “ What other thing ? ” she asked, guessing accurately, however, 
 the nature of the thing of which he was about to speak. 
 
 “ I have seen Lady Frances Roden.” 
 
 “ I thought it probable that you might endeavour to do so.” 
 
 “ I have done more than endeavour on this occasion. I went 
 down to Hendon Hall, and was shotvn into the drawing-room, I am 
 sorry for Hampstead’s sake, but it was impossible for me not to do so.” 
 
221 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 “ Why sorry for his sake ? ” she asked. 
 
 “ Because he had pledged himself to his father that I should 
 not do so. He clearly had no right to make such a pledge. I 
 could not bind myself to an assurance by keeping which I might 
 seem to show myself to be indifferent. A girl may bind herself by 
 such a promise, but hardly a man. Had I made the promise I 
 almost think I must have broken it. I did not make it, and there¬ 
 fore I have no sin to confess. But I fear I shall have done him 
 a mischief with his father.” 
 
 “ And what did she say, George ? ” 
 
 “ Oh; just the old story, mother, I suppose. What she said 
 was what I knew just as well before I went there. But yet it was 
 necessary that I should hear what she had to say;—and as 
 necessary, I think, that she should hear me.” 
 
 “ Quite as necessary, I am sure,” said his mother, kissing his 
 forehead. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXYI. 
 
 ME. GEEENWOOD’s FEELINGS. 
 
 On that Wednesday night Mr. Greenwood did not sleep much. It 
 may be doubted whether he once closed his eyes in slumber. He 
 had indeed been saved from the performance of an act which now 
 seemed to him to be so terrible that he could hardly believe that 
 he had in truth contemplated it; but yet he knew,—he knew that 
 it for some hours had been the purpose of his mind to do it! He 
 struggled to make himself believe that it had in truth been no 
 more than a speculation, that there had been no formed purpose, 
 that he had only amused himself by considering how he could do 
 such a deed without detection, if the deed were to be done. He 
 had simply been thinking over the blunders of others, the blindness 
 of men who had so bungled in their business as to have left easy 
 traces for the eyes and intelligence of the world outside, and had 
 been assuring himself how much better he could manage if the 
 necessity of such an operation w r ere to come upon him. That was 
 all. No doubt he hated Lord Hampstead,—and had cause to do so. 
 It was thus that he argued with himself. But his hatred had 
 surely not carried him to the intention of murder! 
 
 There could have been no question of real murder; for why 
 should he have troubled himself either with the danger or with the 
 load which it would certainly have imposed on his conscience ? 
 Much as he hated Lord Hampstead, it was no business of his. It 
 was that Lady Macbeth upstairs, the mother of the darlings, who 
 had really thought of murder. It was she who had spoken openly 
 of her great desire that Lord Hampstead should cease to live. Had 
 there been any real question of murder it would have been for her 
 to meditate, for her to think, for her to plot;—surely not for him ! 
 
225 
 
 MR. GREENWOOD'S FEELINGS. 
 
 Certainly, certainly lie had contemplated no such deed as that with 
 the object of obtaining for the comfort of his old age the enjoyment 
 of the living of Appleslocombe ! He told himself now that had he 
 in truth committed such a crime, had he carried out the plot which 
 had formed itself in his brain only as a matter of speculation > 
 though he might not have been detected, yet he would have been 
 suspected; and suspicion would have been as destructive to his 
 hopes as detection. Of course all that had been clear enough to him 
 throughout liis machinations; and therefore how could 1m really 
 have intended it? He had not intended it. It had only been one 
 of those castles in the air which the old build as well as the young 
 —which are no more than the “ airy fabrics ” of the brain! 
 
 It was thus he struggled to drive from his mind and from his 
 eyes the phantom of the terrible deed. But that he did not 
 succeed was made evident to himself by the hot clammy drops of 
 sweat which came out upon his brow, by his wakefulness through¬ 
 out the livelong night, by the carefulness with which his ears 
 watched for the sound of the young man’s coming, as though it 
 were necessary that he should be made assured that the murder 
 had m truth not been done. Before that hour had come he found 
 himself to be shaking even in his bed; to be drawing the clothes 
 aiound him to dispel the icy cold, though the sweat still stood upon 
 his brow; to be hiding his eyes under the bed-clothes in order that he 
 might not see something which seemed to be visible to him through 
 the utmost darkness of the chamber. At any rate he had done 
 nothing! Let his thoughts have been what they might he had 
 soiled neither his hands nor his conscience. Though everything 
 that he had ever done or ever thought were known, he was free 
 fiom all actual ciime. She had talked of death and thought of 
 murder. He had only echoed her words and her thoughts, meaning 
 nothing,—as a man is bound to do to a woman. Why then could 
 he not sleep ? Why should he be hot and shiver with cold by turns ^ 
 Why should horrid phantoms perplex him in the dark ? He was 
 sure he had never meant it. What must be the agony of those who 
 do mean, of those who do execute, if such punishment as this were 
 awarded to one who had done no more than build a horrid castle in 
 the an . Did she sleep; he wondered,—she who had certainly 
 done more than build a castle in the air; she who had wished and 
 longed, and had a reason for her wishing and her longnm? 
 
 At last he heard a footfall on the road, which passed but some 
 
 i eW ±/?i S d ! stan i llls winc, ow, . a quick, cheery, almost running 
 footfall, a step full of youth and life, sounding crisp on the hard 
 frozen ground, and he knew that the young man whom he hated 
 had come. _ Though he had never thought of murdering him,—as 
 ho told lnmself,—yet he hated him. And then his thoughts 
 although in opposition to his own wishes,—which were intent upon 
 sleep, if sleep would only come to him,—ran away to the building 
 ot other castles. How would it have been now now at this 
 moment, if that plan, which he had never really intended to carry 
 out, which had only been a speculation, had been a true plan and 
 
 Q 
 
22G 
 
 MARION FAY . 
 
 been truly executed ? How would it have been with them all now 
 at Trafford Park ? The Marchioness would have been at any rate 
 altogether satisfied;—bnt what comfort would there have been in 
 that to him ? Lord Frederic would have been the heir to a grand 
 title and to vast estates;—bnt how would he have been the better 
 for that ? The old lord who was lying there so sick in the next 
 room might probably have sunk into his grave with a broken heart. 
 The Marquis had of late been harsh to him; but there did come to 
 him an idea at the present moment that he had for thirty years 
 eaten the sick man’s bread. And the young man would have been 
 sent without a moment’s notice to meet his final doom! Of what 
 nature that might have been, the wretched man lying there did not 
 dare even to make a picture in his imagination. It was a matter 
 which he had sedulously and successfully dismissed from all his 
 thoughts. It was of the body lying out there in the cold, not of the 
 journey which the winged soul might make, that he unwillingly 
 drew a picture to himself. He conceived how he himself, in the 
 prosecution of the plan which he had formed, would have been 
 forced to have awakened the house, and to tell of the deed, and to 
 assist in carrying the body to what resting-place might have been 
 found for it. There he would have had to enact a part of which he 
 had, a few hours since, told himself that he would be capable, 
 but in attempting which he was now sure that he would have 
 succumbed to the difiiculties of the struggle. Who would have 
 broken the news to the father? Who would have attempted to 
 speak the first word of vain consolation ? Who would have flown 
 to the lady’s door upstairs and have informed her that death was 
 in the house—and have given her to understand that the eldest of 
 her darlings was the heir ? It would have been for him to do it 
 all; for him with a spirit weighed down to the ground by that 
 terrible burden with which the doing of such a deed would have 
 loaded it. He would certainly have revealed himself in the 
 struggle! 
 
 But why should he allow his mind to be perplexed with such 
 thoughts? No such deed had been done. There had been no 
 murder. The young man was there now in the house, light¬ 
 hearted after his walk; full of life and youthful energy. Why 
 should he be troubled with such waking dreams as these ? Must 
 it be so with him always, for the rest of his life, only because he 
 had considered how a thing might best be done ? He heard a foot¬ 
 step in a distant passage, and a door closed, and then again all was 
 silent. Was there not cause to him for joy in the young man’s 
 presence? If his speculations had been wicked, was there not 
 time to turn for repentance,—for repentance, though there was so 
 little for which repentance were needed? Nevertheless the night 
 was to him so long, and the misery connected with the Trafford 
 name so great, that he told himself that he would quit the place as 
 soon as possible. He would take whatever money were offered 
 to him and go. How would it have been with him had he really 
 done the deed, when he found himself unable to sleep in the house 
 
MR GREENWOOD'S FEELINGS. 
 
 227 
 
 in which he would not quite admit to himself that he had even 
 contemplated it? 
 
 On the next morning his breakfast was brought to him in his 
 own room, and he inquired from the servant after Lord Hampstead 
 •and his purposes. The servant thought that his lordship meant to 
 remain on that day and the next. So he had heard Harris, the 
 butler, say. His lordship was to see his father at eleven o’clock that 
 morning. The household bulletin respecting the Marquis had that 
 morning been rather more favourable than usual. The Marchioness 
 had not yet been seen. The doctor would probably be there by 
 twelve. This was the news which Mr. Greenwood got from the 
 servant who waited upon him. Could he not escape from the 
 house during the period that the young lord would be there, with¬ 
 out seeing the young lord ? The young lord was hateful to him— 
 more hateful than ever. He would, if possible, get himself carried 
 into Shrewsbury, and remain there on some excuse of visiting a 
 friend till the young lord should have returned to London. He 
 ■could not tell himself why, but he felt that the sight of the young 
 lord would be oppressive to him. 
 
 But in this he was prevented by an intimation that was given 
 to him early in the day, before he had made preparations for his 
 going, that Lord Hampstead wished to see him, and would wait 
 upon him in his own room. The Marquis had expressed himself 
 grateful to his son for coming, but did not wish to detain him at 
 Trafford. “ Of course it is very dull for you, and I think I am 
 better.” 
 
 “I am so glad of that;—but if you think that I am of any 
 ■comfort to you I shall be delighted to stay. I suppose Fanny 
 would come down if I remain here. ” 
 
 Then the Marquis shook his head. Fanny, he thought, had 
 better be away. “ The Marchioness and Fanny would not be happy 
 in the house together,—unless, indeed, she has given up that young 
 man.” Hampstead could not say that she had given up the young 
 man. “ I do hope she never sees him,” said the Marquis. Then 
 his son assured him that the two had never met since Fanny had 
 gone to Hendon Hall. And he was rash enough to assure his 
 father that there would be no such meeting while his sister was his 
 guest. At that moment George Boden was standing in the drawing¬ 
 room at Hendon Hall with Lady Frances in his arms. 
 
 After that there arose a conversation between the father and 
 son as to Mr. Greenwood. The Marquis was very desirous that the 
 man who had become so objectionable to him should quit the 
 house. “ The truth is,” said the Marquis, “ that it is he who makes 
 all the mischief between me and your stepmother. It is he that 
 makes me ill. I have no comfort while he is here, making plots 
 against me.” If they two had only known the plot which had 
 been made! Hampstead thought it reasonable that the man 
 should be sent away, if only because his presence was disagreeable. 
 Why should a man be kept in the house simply to produce annoy¬ 
 ance ? But there must be the question of compensation. He did not 
 
228 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 think that £1000 was sufficient. Then the Marquis was unusually 
 difficult of persuasion in regard to money. Hampstead thought 
 that an annuity of £300 a year should be settled on the poor clergy¬ 
 man. The Marquis would not hear of it. The man had not 
 performed even the slight duties which had been required of him. 
 The books had not even been catalogued. To bribe a man, such as 
 that, by £300 a year for making himself disagreeable would be 
 intolerable. The Marquis had never promised him anything. He 
 ought to have saved his money. At last the father and son came 
 to terms, and Hampstead sent to prepare a meeting with the 
 chaplain. 
 
 Mr. Greenwood was standing in the middle of the room when 
 Lord Hampstead entered it, rubbing his fat hands together. 
 Hampstead saw no difference in the man since their last meeting, 
 but there was a difference. Mr. Greenwood’s manner was at first 
 more submissive, as though he were afraid of his visitor; but 
 before the interview was over he had recovered his audacity. “ My 
 father has wished me to see you,” said Hampstead. Mr. Greenwood 
 went on rubbing his hands, still standing in the middle of the room. 
 “ He seems to think it better that you should leave him.” 
 
 “ I don’t know why he should think it better;—but, of course, I 
 will go if he bids me.” Mr. Greenwood had quite made up his 
 mind that it would be better for him also that he should go. 
 
 “ There will be no good in going into that. I think we might 
 as well sit down, Mr. Greenwood.” They did sit down, the 
 chaplain as usual perching himself on the edge of a chair. “ You 
 have been here a great many years.” 
 
 “ A great many, Lord Hampstead;—nearly all my life;—before 
 you were born, Lord Hampstead.” Then, as he sat gazing, there 
 came before his eyes the phantom of Lord Hampstead being carried 
 into the house as a corpse while he himself was struggling beneath 
 a portion of the weight. 
 
 “ Just so; and though the Marquis cannot admit that there 
 is any claim upon him-” 
 
 “ No claim, Lord Hampstead! ” 
 
 “ Certainly no claim. Yet he is quite willing to do something 
 in acknowledgment of the long connection. His lordship thinks 
 
 that an annuity of £200 a year-” Mr. Greenwood shook his 
 
 head, as though he would say that that certainly would not satisfy 
 him. Hampstead had been eager to secure the full £300 for the 
 wretched, useless man, but the Marquis had declared that ho 
 would not burden the estate with a charge so unnecessarily large. 
 <f I say,” continued Hampstead, frowning, “ that his lordship has 
 desired me to say that you shall receive during your life an 
 annuity of £200.” It certainly was the fact that Lord Hampstead 
 could frown when he was displeased, and that at such moments 
 he would assume a look of aristocratic impatience which was at 
 variance with his professed political theories. Mr. Greenwood 
 again shook his head. “I do not think that I need say anythin^ 
 farther,” continued the young lord. “ That is my father’s decision! 
 
MR. GREENWOOD'S FEELINGS. 
 
 229 
 
 He presumes ^hat you would prefer the annuity to the immediate 
 payment of a*thousand pounds.” Here the shaking of the head 
 became more violent. “I have only in addition to ask you when it 
 will suit you to leave Trafford Park.” Lord Hampstead, when he 
 had left his father, had determined to use his blandest manner 
 in communicating these tidings to the chaplain. But Mr. Green¬ 
 wood was odious to him-. The way in which the man stood on the 
 floor and rubbed his hands together, and sat on the edge of his 
 chair, and shook his head without speaking a word, were disgusting 
 to him. If the man had declared boldly his own view of what was 
 due to him, Hampstead would have endeavoured to be gracious 
 to him. As it was he was anything but gracious, as he asked the 
 ehajflain to name the day on which he would be prepared to leave 
 the house. 
 
 u You mean to say that I am to be*——turned out.” 
 
 “It is some months since you were told that my father no 
 longer required your services.” 
 
 “ I am to be turned out,—like a dog,—after thirty years! ” 
 
 “ I cannot contradict you when you say so, but I must ask you 
 to name a day. It is not as though the suggestion were now made 
 to you for the first time.” Mr. Greenwood got up from the edge 
 of the chair, and again stood in the middle of the room. Lord 
 Hampstead felt himself constrained also to stand. “ Have you any 
 answer to make to me ? ” 
 
 “ No; I have not,” said the chaplain. 
 
 “ You mean that you have not fixed upon a day ? ” 
 
 “I shan’t go with £200 a year,” said the chaplain. “It’s 
 unreasonable ; it’s brutal! ” 
 
 “ Brutal! ” shouted Lord Hampstead. 
 
 “ I shan’t stir till I’ve seen the Marquis himself. It’s out of 
 the question that he should turn me out in this way. How am 
 I to live upon £200 a year ? I always understood that I was to 
 have Appleslocombe.” 
 
 “No such promise was ever made to you,” said Lord Hamp¬ 
 stead, very angrily. “No hint of such a thing has ever been made 
 except by yourself.” 
 
 “ I always understood it,” said Mr. Greenwood. “ And I shall 
 not leave this till I’ve had an opportunity of discussing the matter 
 with the Marquis himself. I don’t think the Marquis would ever 
 have treated me in this way,—only for you, Lord Hampstead.” 
 
 This was intolerable. What was he to do with the abominable 
 man ? It would be very disagreeable, the task of turning him out 
 while the Marquis was still so ill, and yet it was not to be endured 
 that such a man should be allowed to hold his position in the house 
 in opposition to the will of the owner. It was, he felt, beneath 
 him to defend himself against the charge made—or even to defend 
 his father. “ If you will not name a day, I must,” said the young- 
 lord. The man remained immovable on his seat except that he 
 continued to rub his hands. " As I can get no answer I shall have 
 to instruct Mr. Roberts that you cannot be allowed to remain here 
 
230 
 
 M Alt ION FAY. 
 
 after the last day of the month. If you have any jeeling left to 
 you you will not impose upon us so unpleasant a duty while my 
 father is ill.” With this he left the room, while Mr. Greenwood 
 was still standing and rubbing his hands. 
 
 Two hundred pounds a year! He had better go and take it. 
 He was quite aware of that. But how was he to live upon £200,— 
 he who had been bedded and boarded all his life at the expense of 
 another man, and had also spent £300 ? But at the moment this 
 was not the thought uppermost in his mind. Would it not have 
 been better that he should have carried out that project of his ? 
 Only that he had been merciful, this young lord would not have 
 been able to scorn him and ill-treat him as he had done. There 
 were no phantoms now. Now he thought that he could have 
 carried his share of the corpse into the house without flinching. 
 
 CHAPTEB XXXVII. 
 
 "that would be disagheeable.” 
 
 Things at Trafford on that day and on the next were very un¬ 
 comfortable. No house could possibly be more so. There were 
 four persons who, in the natural course of things, would have 
 lived together, not one of whom would sit down to table with any 
 other. The condition of the Marquis, of course, made it impossible 
 that he should do so. He was confined to his room, in which he 
 would not admit Mr. Greenwood to come near him, and where his 
 wife’s short visits did not seem to give him much satisfaction. 
 Even with his son he was hardly at his ease, seeming to prefer the 
 society of the nurse, with occasional visits from the doctor and Mr. 
 Boberts. The Marchioness confined herself to her own room, in 
 which it was her intention to prevent the inroads of Mr. Greenwood 
 as far as it might be possible. That she should be able to exclude 
 him altogether was more than she could hope, but much, she 
 thought, could be done by the dint of headaches, and by a resolution 
 never to take her food downstairs. Lord Hampstead had declared 
 his purpose to Harris, as well as to his father, never again to sit 
 down to table with Mr. Greenwood. “ Where does he dine ? ” he 
 asked the butler. “ Generally in the family dining-room, my lord,” 
 said Harris. “ Then give me my dinner in the breakfast parlour!” 
 “Yes, my lord,” said the butler, who at once resolved to regard 
 Mr. Greenwood as an enemy of the family. In this manner Mr. 
 Greenwood gave no trouble, as he had his meat sent to him in his 
 own sitting-room. But all this made the house very uncomfortable. 
 
 In the afternoon Mr. Boberts came over from Shrewsbury, and 
 saw Lord Hampstead. “I knew he would make himself’dis¬ 
 agreeable, my lord,” said Mr. Boberts. 
 
 “ How did you know it ? ” 
 
 “ Things creep out. He had made himself disagreeable to his 
 
“THAT WOULD BE DISAGREEABLE .” 231 
 
 lordship for some months past; and then we heard that he was 
 talking of Appleslocombe as though he were certain to he sent 
 there.” 
 
 “ My father never thought of it.” 
 
 , “ I didn’t think he did. Mr. Greenwood is the idlest human 
 being that ever lived, and how could he have performed the duties 
 of a parish ? ” 
 
 “ He asked my father once, and my father flatly refused him.” 
 
 “Perhaps her ladyship-,” suggested Mr. Roberts, with some 
 
 hesitation. 
 
 “ ^ any rate he is not to have Appleslocombe, and he must be 
 made to go. How is it to be done?” Mr. Roberts raised his 
 eyebrows. “ I suppose there must be some means of turning an 
 objectionable resident out of a house.” 
 
 “The police, of course, could carry him out—with a magis¬ 
 trate’s order. He would have to be treated like any other vagrant.” 
 
 “ That would be disagreeable.” 
 
 “Very disagreeable, my lord,” said Mr. Roberts. "My lord 
 should be saved from that if possible.” 
 
 " How if we gave him nothing to eat ? ” said Lord Hampstead. 
 
 “ That would be possible; but it would be troublesome. What 
 if he resolved to remain and be starved ? It would be seeing which 
 would hold out the longer. I don’t think my lord would have the 
 heart to keep him twenty-four hours without food. We must try 
 and save my lord from what is disagreeable as much as we can.” 
 Lord Hampstead was in accord as to this, but did not quite see 
 his way how to effect it. There were still, however, more than 
 three weeks to run before the day fixed for the chaplain’s exit, and 
 Mr. Roberts suggested that it might in that time be fully brought 
 home to the man that his £200 a year would depend on his going. 
 “Perhaps you’d better leave him to me, my lord,” said Mr. 
 Roberts; “ and I shall deal with him better when you’re not here.” 
 
 . When the time came for afternoon tea, Mr. Greenwood, per¬ 
 ceiving that no invitation came to him from the Marchioness, sent 
 a note up to her asking for the favour of an interview. “ He had 
 a few words to say, and would be much obliged to her if she would 
 allow him to come to her.” On receiving this she pondered for 
 some time before she could make up her mind as to what answer 
 she should give. She would have been most anxious to do as she 
 had already heard that Lord Hampstead had done, and decline to 
 meet him at all. She could not analyze her own feelings about the 
 man, but had come during the last few days to hold him in horror. 
 It was as though something of the spirit of the murderer had 
 shown itself to her in her eyes. She had talked glibly, wickedly, 
 horribly of the death of the man who had seemed to stand in her 
 way. She had certainly wished for it. She had taught herself to 
 think, by some ultra-feminine lack of logic, that she had really 
 been injured in that her own eldest boy had not been born heir to 
 his father’s titles. She had found it necessary to have some 
 recipient for her griefs. Her own sister, Lady Persiflage, had given 
 
232 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 her no comfort, and then she had sought for and had received 
 encouragment from her husband’s chaplain. But in talking of 
 Lord Hampstead’s death she had formed no plan. She had only 
 declared in strong language that if, by the hand of Providence, 
 such a thing should be done, it would be to her a happy chance. 
 She had spoken out where another more prudent than she would 
 perhaps only have wished. But this man had taken up her words 
 with an apparently serious purpose which had frightened her; and 
 then, as though he had been the recipient of some guilty secret, he 
 had laid aside the respect which had been usual to him, and had 
 assumed a familiarity of co-partnership which had annoyed ancl 
 perplexed her. She did not quite understand it all, but was con¬ 
 scious of a strong desire to be rid of him. But she did not dare 
 quite as yet to let him know that such was her purpose, and she 
 therefore sent her maid down to him with a message. “ Mr. Green¬ 
 wood wants to see me,” she said to the woman. “Will you tell 
 him with my compliments that I am not very well, and that I 
 must beg him not to stay long.” 
 
 “ Lord Hampstead has been a-quarrelling with Mr. Greenwood, 
 my lady,—this very morning,” said the maid. 
 
 “ Quarrelling, Walker ? ” 
 
 “ Yes, my lady. There has been ever so much about it. My 
 lord says as he won’t sit down to dinner with Mr. Greenwood on no 
 account, and Mr. Koberts has been here, all about it. He’s to be 
 turned away.” 
 
 “ Who is to be turned away ? ” 
 
 “ Mr. Greenwood, my lady. Lord Hampstead has been about 
 it all the morning. It’s for that my lord the Marquis has sent for 
 him, and nobody’s to speak to him till he’s packed up everything, 
 and taken himself right away out of the house.” 
 
 “Who has told you all that, Walker?” Walker, however, 
 would not betray her informant. She answered that it was being 
 talked of by everybody downstairs, and she repeated it now only 
 because she thought it proper that “ my lady ” should be informed 
 of what was going on. “ My lady ” was not sorry to have received 
 the information even from her maid, as it might assist her in her 
 conversation with the chaplain. 
 
 On this occasion Mr. Greenwood sat down without being asked. 
 “ I am sorry to hear that you are so unwell, Lady Kingsbury.” 
 
 “ I have got one of my usual headachesonly it’s rather worse 
 than usual.” 
 
 “I have something to say which I am sure you will not be 
 surprised that I should wish to tell you. I have been grossly 
 insulted by Lord Hampstead.” 
 
 “ What can I do ? ” 
 
 “ Well;—something ought to be done.” 
 
 “ I cannot make myself answerable for Lord Hampstead, Mr. 
 Greenwood.” 
 
 “No; of course not. He is a young man for whom no one 
 would make himself answerable. He is headstrong, violent, and 
 
“ THAT WOULD BE DISAGREEABLE .” 233 
 
 most uncourteous. He has told me very rudely that I must leave 
 the house by the end of the month.” 
 
 “ I suppose the Marquis had told him.” 
 
 “ I don’t believe it. Of course the Marquis is ill, and I could 
 bear much from him. But I won’t put up with it from Lord 
 Hampstead.” 
 
 “ What can I do ?” 
 
 "Well;—after what has passed between us, Lady Kings¬ 
 bury-” He paused, and looked at her as he made this appeal. 
 
 She compressed her lips and collected herself, and prepared for the 
 fight which she felt was coming. He saw it all, and prepared 
 himself also. “ After what has passed between us, Lady Kings¬ 
 bury,” he said, repeating his words, “ I think you ought to be on 
 mv side.” 
 
 v « I don’t think anything of the kind. I don’t know what you 
 mean about sides. If the Marquis says you’re to go, I can’t keep 
 you.” 
 
 “ I’ll tell you what I’ve done, Lady Kingsbury. I have refused 
 to stir out of this house till I’ve been allowed to discuss the matter 
 with his lordship; and I think you ought to give me your 
 countenance. I’m sure I’ve always been true to you. When you 
 have unburdened your troubles to my ears I have always been 
 sympathetic. When you have told me what a trouble this young- 
 man has been to you, have not I always,—always,—always taken 
 your part against him ? ” He almost longed to tell her that he 
 had formed a plan for ridding her altogether of the obnoxious 
 young man; but he could not find the words in which to do this. 
 “ Of course I have felt that I might depend upon you for assistance 
 and countenance in this house.” 
 
 “ Mr. Greenwood,” she said, “ I really cannot talk to you about 
 these things. My head is aching very badly, and I must ask you 
 to go.” 
 
 “ And that is to be all ? ” 
 
 “ Don’t you hear me tell you that I cannot interfere ? ” Still he 
 kept that horrid position of his upon the chair, staring at her with 
 his large, open, lustreless eyes. Mr. Greenwood, I must ask you 
 to leave me. As a gentleman you must comply with my request.” 
 
 “ Oh,” he said; “ very well! Then I am to know that after 
 thirty years’ faithful service all the family has turned against me. 
 
 I shall take care-” But he paused, remembering that were he 
 
 to speak a word too much, he might put in jeopardy the annuity 
 which had been promised him; and at last he left the room. 
 
 Of Mr. Greenwood no one saw anything more that day, nor did 
 Lord Hampstead encounter him again before he returned to 
 London. Hampstead had arranged to stay at Trafiord during the 
 following day, and then to return to London, again using the 
 night mail train. But on the next morning a new trouble fell 
 upon him. He received his sister’s letter, and learned that George 
 Koden had been with her at Hendon Hall. He had certainly 
 pledged himsolf that there should be no such meeting, and had 
 
234 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 foolishly renewed this pledge only yesterday. When he read the 
 letter he was vexed, chiefly with himself. The arguments which 
 she had used as to Eoden’s coming, and also those by which she 
 had excused herself for receiving him, did seem to him to be 
 reasonable. When the man was going on such a journey it was 
 natural that he should wish to see the girl he loved; and natural 
 that she should wish to see him. And he was well aware that 
 neither of them had pledged themselves. It was he only who had 
 given a pledge, and that as to the conduct of others who had 
 refused to support him in it. Now his pledge had been broken 
 and he felt himself called upon to tell his father of what had 
 occurred. “ After all that I told yon yesterday,” he said, “ George 
 Eoden and Fanny have met each other.” Then he attempted to 
 make the best excuse he could for this breach of the promise which 
 he had made. 
 
 “ What’s the good ? ” said the Marquis. “ They can’t marry 
 each other. I wouldn’t give her a shilling if she were to do such 
 a thing without my sanction.” Hampstead knew very well that, 
 in spite of this, his father had made by his will ample provision 
 for his sister, and that it was very improbable that any alteration 
 in this respect would be made, let his sister’s disobedience be what 
 it might. But the Marquis seemed hardly to be so much affected 
 as he had expected by these tidings. “ Whatever you do,” said the 
 Marquis, “ don't let her ladyship know it. She would be sure 
 to come down to me and say it was all my fault; and then she 
 would tell me what Mr. Greenwood thought about it,” The pooi; 
 man did not know how little likely it was that she would ever 
 again throw Mr. Greenwood in his teeth. 
 
 Lord Hampstead had not as yet even seen his stepmother, but 
 had thought it no more than decent to send her word that he would 
 wait upon her before he left the house. All domestic troubles he 
 knew to be bad. For his stepmother’s sake, and for that of his 
 sister and little brothers, he would avoid as far as might be possible 
 any open rupture. He therefore went to the Marchioness before 
 he ate his dinner. “My father is much better,” he said; but his 
 stepmother only shook her head, so that there was before him the 
 task of recommencing the conversation. “ Dr. Spicer says so.” 
 
 “I am not sure that Mr. Spicer knows much about it.” 
 
 “ He thinks so himself.” 
 
 “He never tells me what he thinks. He hardly tells me anv- 
 thmg.” J 
 
 “He is not strong enough for much talking.” 
 
 “He will talk to Mr. Eoberts by the hour together. So I hear 
 that I am to congratulate you.” This she said in a tone which was 
 clearly intended to signify both condemnation and ridicule. 
 
 “I am not aware of it,” said Hampstead with a smile. 
 
 “ I suppose it is true about the Quaker lady ?” 
 
 “I can hardly tell you, not knowing what you may have heard 
 I here can be no room for congratulation, as the lady has not 
 accepted the offer I have made her.” The Marchioness laughed 
 
03J- 
 
 “ THAT WOULD BE DISAGREEABLE” 235 
 
 incredulously,—with a little affected laugh in which the incredulity 
 was sincere .—“ I can only tell you that it is so.” 
 
 u No doubt you will try again ? ” 
 
 “ No doubt.” 
 
 “ Young ladies in such circumstances are not apt to persevere- 
 in their severity. Perhaps it may be supposed that she will givo 
 way at last.” 
 
 “ I cannot take upon myself to answer that, Lady Kingsbury. 
 The matter is one on which I am not particularly anxious to talk. 
 Only as you asked me I thought it best just to tell you the facts.” 
 
 “I am sure I am ever so much obliged to you. The young 
 lady’s father is-” 
 
 “ The young lady’s father is a clerk in a merchant’s office in the 
 City.” 
 
 “ So I understand,—and a Quaker ? ” 
 
 “ And a Quaker.” 
 
 “ And I believe he lives at Holloway.” 
 
 “Just so.” 
 
 “ In the same street with that young man whom Fanny has— 
 lias chosen to pick up.” 
 
 “ Marion Fay and her: father live at No. 17, Paradise Bow, 
 Holloway; and Mrs. Eoden and George Eoden live at No. 10.” 
 
 “ Exactly. We may understand, therefore, how you became 
 acquainted with Miss Fay.” 
 
 “ I don’t think you can. But if you wish to know I will tell 
 you that I first saw Miss Fay at Mrs. Eoden’s house.” 
 
 “ I suppose so.” 
 
 Hampstead had begun this interview with perfect good humour; 
 but there had gradually been growing upon him that tone of 
 defiance which her little speeches to him had naturally produced. 
 Scorn would always produce scorn in him, as would ridicule and 
 satire produce the same in return. “ I do not know why you 
 should have supposed so, but such was the fact. Neither had 
 George Eoden or my sister anythiug to do with it. Miss Fay is 
 a friend of Mrs. Eoden, and Mrs. Eoden introduced me to the young 
 lady.” 
 
 “ I am sure we are all very much obliged to her.” 
 
 “ I am, at any rate,—or shall be if I succeed at last.” 
 
 “ Poor fellow! It will be very piteous if you too are thwarted 
 in love.” 
 
 “ I’ll say good-bye, my lady,” said he, getting up to leave her. 
 
 “ You have told me nothing of Fanny.” 
 
 “ I do not know that I have anything to tell.” 
 
 “ Perhaps she also will be jilted.” 
 
 “ I should hardly think so.” 
 
 “ Because, as you tell me, she is not allowed to see him.” There 
 was a thorough disbelief expressed in this which annoyed him. It 
 was as though she had expressed her opinion that the lovers were 
 encouraged to meet daily in spite of the pledge which had been 
 given. And then the pledge had been broken; and there would be 
 
O'" 
 
 MAlt ION FAY. 
 
 23G 
 
 •a positive lie on his part if he were now to leave her with the idea 
 that they had not met. “You must find it hard to keep them 
 apart, as they are so near.” 
 
 “ I have found it too hard, at any rate.” 
 
 “ Oh, you have ? ” 
 
 “ They did meet yesterday.” 
 
 “ Oh, they did. Directly your back was turned ? ” 
 
 “ He was going abroad, and be came; and she has written to 
 tell me of it. I say nothing of myself. Lady Kingsbury; but I 
 do not think you can understand how true she can be.—and he 
 
 til SO ** 
 
 “ That is your idea of truth.” 
 
 “ That is my idea of truth, Lady Kingsbury; which, as I said 
 before, I am afraid I cannot explain to you. I have never meant 
 to deceive you ; nor have they.” 
 
 “ I thought a promise was a promise,” she said. Then he left 
 her, condescending to make no further reply. On that night he 
 went back to London, with a sad feeling at his heart that his 
 journey down to Trafford had done no good to any one. He had, 
 however, escaped a danger of which he had known nothing. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII. 
 
 “ I DO.” 
 
 Lord Hampstead did not reach his house till nearly six on the 
 •following morning, and, having been travelling two nights out of 
 three, allowed himself the indulgence of having his breakfast in 
 bed. While he was so engaged his sister came to him, very 
 penitent for her fault, but ready to defend, herself should he be too 
 severe to her. “ Of course I am very sorry because of what you 
 had said. But I don’t know how I am to hell) myself. It would 
 have looked so very strange.” 
 
 “ It was unfortunate—that’s all.” 
 
 “Was it so very unfortunate, John? ” 
 
 “ Of course I had to tell them down there.” 
 
 " Was papa angry ? ” 
 
 “ He only said that if you chose to make such a fool of yourself, 
 he would do nothing for you—in the way of money.” 
 
 “ George does not think of that in the least.” 
 
 “ People must eat, you know.” 
 
 “ Ah; that would make no difference either to him or to me. 
 YVe must wait, that’s all. I do not think it would make me 
 Ainliappy to wait till I died, if he only were content to wait also. 
 But was paj3a so very angry ? ” 
 
 “He wasn’t so very angry,—only angry. I was obliged to tell 
 him; but I said as little to him as possible because he is ill. Some¬ 
 body else made herself disagreeable.” 
 
“ i do:’ 
 
 237 
 
 “ Did you tell lier ? ” 
 
 was determined to tell her; so that she should not turn 
 lound upon me afterwards and say that I had deceived her T lnrl 
 made a promise to my father.” ' 
 
 “ Oh, John, I am so sorry.” 
 
 “There is no use in crying after spilt milk. A promise to my 
 
 father she would of course take as a promise to her, and it would 
 have been flung m my face.” 
 
 “ She will do so now.” 
 
 2 h . ^ e f, ’ kut I can fight the battle better, having told her 
 everything. 43 
 
 “ Was she disagreeable ? ” 
 
 “ Abominable! She mixed you up with Marion Fay, and really 
 showed more readiness than I gave her credit for in what she said 
 Of course she got the better of me. She could call me a liar and a 
 lOOl to my face, and I could not retaliate. But there’s a row in the 
 house which makes everything wretched there.” 
 
 “ Another row ? ” 
 
 “ You are forgotten in this new row—and so am I. George 
 Roden and Marion Fay are nothing in comparison with poor Mi- 
 Greenwood. He has been committing horrible offences, and is to 
 be turned out. He swears he won’t go, and my father is determined 
 he shall. Mr. Koberts has been called in, and there is a question 
 whether Harris shall not put him on gradually diminished rations- 
 till he be starved into surrender. He’s to have £200 a year if he 
 goes, but he says that it is not enough for him ” 
 
 “ Would it be much ? ” 
 
 t j k e Itkes to have everything of the very best 
 
 I do not think it would. He would probably have to go to prison 
 or else hang himself. 1 
 
 “ Won’t it be rather hard upon him ? ” 
 
 “ 1 tlnuk . ii; J^ 11 ; . 1 don,t know what it is that makes the 
 governor so hard to him. I begged and prayed for another hun¬ 
 dred a year as though he were the dearest friend I had in the 
 world; but I couldn’t turn the governor an inch. I don't think I 
 ever disliked any one so much in the world as I do Mr. Greenwood ” 
 “ Not Mr. Crocker ? ” she asked. 
 
 i Cm f ei : 1 1 l° Ye Crocker, in comparison. There is a 
 
 delightful pachydermatousness about Crocker which is almost 
 heroic. But I hate Mr. Greenwood, if it be in my nature to hate 
 any one. It is not only that he insults me, but he looks at me as 
 though he would take me by the throat and strangle me if he could. 
 j3ut still I will ciclcl the other hundred, ctyctir out of my own pocket 
 because I think he is being treated hardly. Only I must do it on 
 the sly.” 
 
 “ But Lady Kingsbury is still fond of him ? ” 
 
 “ d rather think not. I fancy he has made himself too free with 
 ner, and lias offended her. However, there he is shut up all alone 
 and sweating that he won t stir out of the house till something’ 
 better is done for him.” 
 
238 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 There 'were two matters now on Lord Hampstead’s mind to 
 which he gave his attention, the latter of which, however, was 
 much the more prominent in his thoughts. He was anxious to 
 take his sister down to Gorse Hall, and there remain for the rest of 
 the hunting season, making such short runs up to Holloway as he 
 might from time to time find to be necessary. No man can have a 
 string of hunters idle through the winter without feeling himself to 
 be guilty of an unpardonable waste of property. A customer at an 
 eating-house wfill sometimes be seen to devour the last fragments 
 of what has been brought to him, because he does not like to 
 abandon that for which he must pay. So it is with the man who 
 hunts. It is not perhaps that he wants to hunt. There are other 
 employments in life which would at the moment be more to his 
 taste. It is his conscience which prompts him,—the feeling that 
 he cannot forgive himself for intolerable extravagance if he does 
 not use the articles with -which he has provided himself. You can 
 neglect your billiard-table, your books, or even your wine-cellar,— 
 because they eat nothing. But your horses soon eat their heads 
 off their own shoulders if you pass weeks without getting on their 
 backs. Hampstead had endeavoured to mitigate for himself this 
 feeling of improvidence by running up and down to Aylesbury; 
 but the saving in this respect was not sufficient for his conscience, 
 and he was therefore determined to balance the expenditure of the 
 year by a regular performance of his duties at Gorse Hall. But 
 the other matter was still more important to him. He must see 
 Marion Fay before he went into Northamptonshire, and then he 
 would learn how soon he might run up with the prospect of seeing 
 her again. The distance of Gorse Hall and the duty of hunting 
 would admit of certain visits to Holloway. “ I think I shall go to 
 Gorse Hall to-morrow,” he said to his sister as soon as he had come 
 down from his room. 
 
 “ All right; I shall be ready. Hendon Hall or Gorse Hall—or 
 any other Hall, will be the same to me now.” Whereby she pro¬ 
 bably intended to signify that as George Koden -was on his way to 
 Italy all parts of England were indifferent to her. 
 
 “ But I am not quite certain,” said he. 
 
 “ What makes the doubt ? ” 
 
 “ Holloway, you know, has not been altogether deserted. The 
 sun no doubt has set in Paradise Bow, but the moon remains.” At 
 this she could only laugh, while he prepared himself for his excursion 
 to Holloway. 
 
 He had received the Quaker’s permission to push his suit with 
 Marion, but he did not flatter himself that this would avail him 
 much. He felt that there was a strength in Marion which, as it 
 would have made her strong against her father had she given away 
 her heart without his sanction, so would it be but little moved by 
 any permission coming from him. And there was present to the 
 lover’s mind a feeling of fear which had been generated by the 
 Quaker’s words as to Marion’s health. Till he had heard some¬ 
 thing of that story of the mother and her little ones, it had not 
 
“I DO.” 
 
 239 
 
 occurred to him that the girl herself was wanting in any gift of 
 physical well-being. She was beautiful in his eyes, and he had 
 thought of nothing further. Now an idea had been put into his 
 head which, though he could hardly realize it, was most painful to 
 him. He had puzzled himself before. Her manner to him had 
 been so soft, so tender, so almost loving, that he could not but 
 hope, could hardly not think, that she loved him. That, lovhm 
 him, she should persist in refusing him because of her condition of 
 life, seemed to him to be unnatural.. He had, at any rate, been 
 confident that, were there nothing else, he could overcome that 
 objection. Her heart, if it were really given to him, would not be 
 able to suppoit itself in its opposition to him upon such a ground 
 of severance as that. He thought that he could talk her out of so 
 absurd an argument. But in that other argument there might be 
 something that she would cling to with persistency. 
 
 But the Quaker himself had declared that there was nothing in 
 it, “As far as I know,” the Quaker had said, “she is as fit to 
 become a man’s wife as any other girl.” He surely must have 
 known had there been any real cause. Girls are so apt to take 
 fancies into their heads, and then will sometimes become so obsti¬ 
 nate in their fancies! In this way Hampstead discussed the matter 
 with himself, and had been discussing it ever since he had walked 
 up and down Broad Street with the Quaker. But if she pleaded 
 her health, he had what her own father had said to use as an argu¬ 
 ment with which to convince her. If she spoke again of his rank, 
 he thought that on that matter his love might be strong enough as 
 an argument against her,—or perhaps her own. 
 
 He found no trouble in making his way into her presence. She 
 had heard of his visit to King’s Court, and knew that he would 
 come. She had three things which she had to tell him, and she 
 would tell them all very plainly if all should be necessary. The 
 first was that love must have nothing to do in this matter,—but 
 only duty. The second, which she feared to be somewhat weak,— 
 which she almost thought would not of itself have been strong 
 enough,—was that objection as to her condition in life which she 
 had urged to him before. She declared to herself that it would bo 
 strong enough both for him, and for her, if they would only guide 
 themselves by prudence. But the third—that should be a rock to 
 her if it were necessary; a cruel rock on which she must be ship- 
 WTecked, but against which his bark should surely not be dashed 
 to atoms. If he would not leave her in peace without it she would 
 tell him that she was fit to be no man’s wife. 
 
 If it came to that, then she mu§t confess her own love. She 
 acknowledged to herself that it must be so. There could not be 
 between them the tenderness necessary for the telling of such a tale 
 without love, without acknowledged love. It would be better that 
 it should not be so. If he would go and leave her to dream of 
 hhn,—there might be a satisfaction even in that to sustain her 
 during what was left to her of life. She would struggle that it 
 should be so. But if his love were too strong, then must he know 
 
MARION FAY. 
 
 2-iU 
 
 it all. She had learned from her father something of what had 
 passed at that interview in the City, and was therefore ready to 
 receive her lover when he came. “ Marion/’ he said, “ you expected 
 me to come to you again ? ” 
 
 “ Certainly I did.” 
 
 “ Of course I have come. I have had to go to my father, or I 
 should have been here sooner. You know that I shall come asain 
 and again till you will say a word to me that shall comfort me.” 
 
 “ I knew that you would come again, because you were with 
 father in the City.” 
 
 “ l went to ask his leave,—and I got it.” 
 
 “It was hardly necessary for you, my lord, to take that 
 trouble.” 
 
 “But I thought it was. When a man wishes to take a girl 
 away from her own home, and make her the mistress of his, it is 
 customary that he shall ask for her father’s permission. 
 
 “ It would have been so, had you looked higher,—as you should 
 have done.” 
 
 . “ It was so in regard to any girl that I should wish to make my 
 wife. Whatever respect a man can pay to any woman, that is due 
 to my Marion.” She looked at him, and with the glance of her eye 
 went all the love of her heart. How could she say those words to 
 him, full of reason and prudence and wisdom, if he spoke to her 
 like this ? “ Answer me honestly. Do you not know that if you 
 were the daughter of the proudest lord living in England you would 
 not be held by me as deserving other usage than that which I think 
 to be your privilege now ? ” 
 
 “I only meant that father could not but feel that you were 
 honouring him.” 
 
 “ I will not speak of honour as between him and me or between 
 me and you. With me and your father honesty was concerned. 
 He has believed me, and has accepted me as his son-in-law. With 
 us, Marion, with us two, all alone as we are here together, all in all 
 to each other as I hope we are to be, only love can be brought in 
 question. Marion, Marion! ” Then he threw himself on his knees 
 before her, and embraced her as she was sitting. 
 
 “ No, my lord—no; it must not be.” But now he had both her 
 hands in his, and was looking into her face. Now was the time to 
 speak of duty,—and to speak with some strength, if what she might 
 say was to have any avail. 
 
 “ It shall not be so, my lord.” Then she did regain her hands, 
 and struggled up from the sofa on to her feet. “ I, too, believe in 
 your honesty. I am sure of it, as I am of my own. But you do 
 not understand me. Think of me as though I were your sister.” 
 
 “ As my sister ? ” 
 
 “ What would you have your sister do if a man came to her 
 then, whom she knew that she could never marry? Would you 
 liave her submit to his embrace because she knew him to be 
 honest ? ” 
 
 “ Not unless she loved him.” 
 
“/ DO” 
 
 241 
 
 «It would have nothing to do with it. Lord Hampstead.” 
 Nothing, Marion! ” 
 
 . “.Nothing, my lord. You will think that I am giving myself 
 nil’s if I speak of my duty.” b J 
 
 “ Your father has allowed me to come.” 
 
 t yZT J 11 !? f uty > P? doubt. Had he bade me never to see you, 
 
 t f iat ^ at woul d have sufficed. But there are other duties 
 than that,—a duty even higher than that.” 
 
 “ What duty, Marion ? 
 
 wife Tha ” Whi ° h 1 0 ' TC t0 y0Ut If 1 had I )romised to be your 
 “ Do promise it.” 
 
 “Had 1 so promised, should I not then have been bound to 
 think first of your happiness ? ” 
 
 “ You would have accomplished it, at any rate.” 
 
 • ^ cann °t b e your wife I do not owe it you the less to 
 
 tll * 1 n+i 0 - f a11 that you are wdhng to do for me,—and I 
 
 will think of it. I am grateful to you.” 
 
 “ Do you love me F ” 
 
 . , “ Let , me speak, Lord Hampstead. It is not civil in you to 
 interrupt me in that way. I am thoroughly grateful, and I will 
 
 not show my gratitude by doing that which I know would ruin 
 you. 
 
 “ Do you love me ? ” 
 
 “Not if I loved you with all my heart,’’-and she spread out 
 hei aims as though to assure herself how she did love him with all 
 
 ner very soul,—“ would I for that be brought even to think of doin°- 
 the thing that you ask me.” ° 
 
 “ Marion! ” 
 
 r, W , e a fP utterly unfit for each other.” She had 
 made hei first declaration as to duty, and now she was going on as 
 to that second profession which she intended should be, if possible 
 the last. lou are as high as blood and wealth and great friends 
 can make you. I am nothing. You have called me a lady.” 
 
 It God ever made one, you are she.” 
 
 “ He has made me better. He has made me a woman. But 
 others would not call me a lady. I cannot talk as they do, sit as 
 they do, act as they do,-even think as they do. I know iyself 
 
 » W A lU P 0 * V -f T e make myseIf the wife of such a man as 
 
 y ou \ , s Sdie said this tnere came a flush across her face, and a 
 
 fire m her eye, and, as though conquered by her own emotion, she 
 sank again upon the sofa. 
 
 “ Do you love me, Marion ? ” 
 
 x ( mi said, standing once more erect upon her feet. 
 
 There shall be no shadow of a lie between us. I do love you 
 Lord Hampstead. I will have nothing to make me blush in mv 
 own esteem when I think of you. How should it be other than 
 that a girl such as I should love such a one as you when you ask 
 me with words so sweet! ” J 
 
 Then, Marion, you shall be my own.” 
 
 1 
 
 R 
 
 (C 
 
212 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 Oh yes, I must now be yours—while I am alive. You have 
 so far conquered me.” As he attempted to take her in his arms 
 she retreated from him; but so gently that her very trentleness 
 repressed him. . “ If never loving another is to be yours —if to 
 pray for you night and day as the dearest one of all is to be 
 yours—if to remind myself every hour that all my thoughts are 
 due to you, it to think of you so that I may console myself with 
 knowing that one so high and so good has condescended to.regard 
 me,—if that is to be yours,—then I am yours; then shall I surely 
 be yours while I live. But it must be only with my thoughts only 
 with my prayers, only with all my heart.” ' y 
 
 “ Marion, Marion ! ” Now again he was on his knees before her 
 but hardly touching her. ' 
 
 <( aiwi .* s .y° ur Lord Hampstead,” she said, trying to smile. 
 
 All this is your doing, because you would not let a poor girl say 
 simply what she had to say.” * 
 
 - ;; “g of it shall be true,—except that you loye me. That 
 
 is all that I can remember. That I will repeat to you daily till you 
 have put your hand m mine, and call yourself my wife.” J 
 
 “ AoriSS 1 Wl11 never d°” she exclaimed, once again standing. 
 As God hears me now I will never say it. It would be wrong — 
 
 and I will never say it.” In thus protesting she put forth her little 
 hands clenched fast, and then came again the flush across her brow 
 ana her eyes for a moment seemed to wander, and then, failing in 
 
 strength to carry her through it all, she fell back senseless on the 
 sola. 
 
 Lord Hampstead, finding that he alone could do nothin^ to aid 
 her, was forced to ring the bell, and to give her over to the care of 
 the woman, who did not cease to pray him to depart. “I can’t 
 do nothing, my lord, while you stand over her that way.” 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 AT GOESE HALL. 
 
 IIamfstead, when he was turned out into Paradise Row walked 
 once or twice up the street, thinking what he might best do next 
 legardless ot the eyes at No. 10 and No. 15;—knowing that No. 11 
 was absent, where alone he could have found assistance had "the 
 inhabitant been there. As far as he could remember he had never 
 seen a woman faint before. The way in which she had fallen 
 through from his arms on to the sofa when he had tried to sustain 
 li er i been dread ful to him; and almost more dreadful the idea 
 that the stout old woman with whom he had left her should be 
 more powerful than he to help her. He walked once or twice up 
 and down, thinking what he had best now do, while Clara Demijohn 
 was lost m wonder as to what could have happened at No. 17. It 
 y as quite intelligible to her that the lover should come in the- 
 

 AT GOUSE IIALL , 
 
 243 
 
 fathers absence and be entertained,—for a whole afternoon if it 
 might be so ; though she was scandalized by the audacity of the 
 girl who had required no screen of darkness under the protection 
 °f which her lover’s presence might be hidden from the inquiries 
 of neighbours. All that, however, would have been intelligible, 
 ihere is so much honour in having a lord to court one that perhaps 
 it is well to have him seen. But why was the lord walking up and 
 down the street with that demented air ? 
 
 It was now four o’clock, and Hampstead had heard the Quaker 
 say that lie never left his office till five. It would take him nearly 
 an hour to come down m an omnibus from the City. Nevertheless 
 Hampstead could not go till lie had spoken to Marion’s father. 
 The 1 e was the Duchess of Edinburgh,” and he could no doubt 
 
 Bnt to g Gfc through two hours at the “ Duchess 
 ot Edinburgh” would, he thought, be beyond his powers To 
 consume the time with walking might be better. He started off 
 therefore, and tramped along the road till he came nearly to 
 I mchley, and then back again. It was dark as he returned, and he 
 fancied that he could wait about without being perceived. “ There 
 
 is a S ain ' ^ ara * who had in the mean time gone over to 
 Mrs. Duffer. What can it all mean ? ” 
 
 “ B ’ s belief h e’s quarrelled with her,” said Mrs. Duffer. 
 
 I ben he d never wander about the place in that way. There’s 
 
 old Zachary just come round the corner. Now we shall see what 
 he does. 
 
 Fainted, has she ? ” said Zachary, as they walked together up 
 to the house. “ I never knew my girl do that before. Some of 
 them can faint just as they please; but that’s not the way with 
 Marion. Hampstead protested that there had been no affectation 
 on this occasion; that Marion had been so ill as to frighten him 
 and that, though he had gone out of the house at the Oman’s 
 bidding, he had found it impossible to leave the neighbourhood till 
 he should have learnt something as to her condition. “ Thou shalt 
 hear all I can tell thee, my friend,” said the Quaker, as they entered 
 the house together. 
 
 Hampstead was shown into the little parlour, while the Quaker 
 went up to inquire after the state of his daughter. “ No ; thou 
 canst not well see her,” said he, returning, “ as she has taken 
 heiself to her bed. That she should have been excited by what 
 passed between you is no more than natural. I cannot tell thee 
 now when thou mayst come again; but I will write thee word from 
 my office to-morrow.” Upon this Lord Hampstead would have 
 promised to call himself at King’s Court on the next dav, had not 
 the Quaker declared himself in favour of writing rather than of 
 speaking.. The post, he said, was very punctual; and on the next 
 evening his lordship would certainly receive tidings as to Marion. 
 
 Ot course I cannot say what we can do about Georse Hall till 
 I hear from Mr. Fay,” said Hampstead to his sister when he 
 reached home. “ Everything must depend on Marion Fav.” That 
 his sister should have packed all her things in vain seemed to him 
 
211 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 to be nothing while Marion’s health was in question; but when the 
 Quaker’s letter arrived the matter was at once settled. They would 
 start for Gorse Hall on the following day, the Quaker’s letter 
 having been as follows :— 
 
 “ My Lord, 
 
 “ I trust I may be justified in telling thee that there is not 
 much to ail my girl. She was up to-day, and about the house 
 before I left her, and assured me with many protestations that I 
 need not take any special steps for her comfort or recovery. Nor 
 indeed could I see in her face anything which could cause me to 
 do so. Of course I mentioned thy name to her, and it was natural 
 that the colour should come and go over her cheeks as I did so. I 
 think she partly told me what had passed between you two, but 
 only in part. As to the future, when I spoke of it, she told me that 
 there was no need of any arrangement, as everything had been said 
 that needed speech. But I guess that such is not thy reading of 
 the matter; and that after what has passed between thee and me 
 I am bound to offer to thee an opportunity of seeing her again 
 shouldst thou wish to do so. But this must not be at once. It 
 will certainly be better for her and, may be, for thee also that she 
 should rest awhile before she be again asked to see thee. I would 
 suggest, therefore, that thou shouldst leave her to her own thoughts 
 for some weeks to come. If thou will’st write to me and name a 
 day some time early in March I will endeavour to bring her round 
 so far as to see thee when thou comest. 
 
 “ I am, my lord, 
 
 “ Thy very faithful friend, 
 
 “ Zachary Fay.” 
 
 It cannot be said that Lord Hampstead was by any means 
 satisfied with the arrangement which had been made for him, but 
 he was forced to acknowledge to himself that he could not do better 
 than accede to it. He could of course write to the Quaker, and 
 write also to Marion; but he could not w T ell show himself in 
 Paradise Eow before the time fixed, unless unexpected circum¬ 
 stances should arise. He did send three loving words to Marion— 
 “ his own, own, dearest Marion,” and sent them under cover to her 
 father, to whom he wrote, saying that he would be guided by the 
 Quaker’s counsels. “ I will write to you on the first of March,” he 
 said, “but I do trust that if in the mean time anything should 
 happen,—if, for instance, Marion should be ill,—you will tell me at 
 once as being one as much concerned in her .health as you are 
 yourself.” 
 
 He was nervous and ill at ease, but not thoroughly unhappy. 
 She had told him how dear he was to her, and he would not have 
 been a man had he not been gratified. And there had been no 
 word of objection raised on any matter beyond that one absurd 
 objection as to which he thought himself entitled to demand that 
 his wishes should be allowed to prevail. She had been very deter- 
 

 AT GORSE HALL. 
 
 245 
 
 mined ; how absolutely determined lie was not probably himself 
 awaie. She had, however, made him understand that her convic- 
 
 ™ w g i But this bad been as to apoint on which he- 
 
 dnl not doubt that he was right, and as to which her own father 
 
 was altogether on his side. After hearing the strSUTotesta 
 tion of her affection he could not think that she would be finally 
 
 ! dm 'rSuiii +i ie reasons for be J obduracy were so utterly valued 
 "V ^ st 1 i t » e ^ e were va S lTe fears about her health. Why had 
 
 pecuhS' briehtnSl Z , 'f h - hiS ? WlieGce bad co ^ e tbat 
 pecuiiai brightness of complexion which would have charmed him 
 
 “?f/fghtened him? A dim dread of E ShT Dg ™ at wa“ 
 
 not mtelhgible to him pervaded him, and robbed him of a portion 
 
 of the triumph which had come to him from her avowal. 
 
 * * * * * * 
 
 ^ fbe days went on at Gorse Hall his triumph became strono-er 
 
 - ca . rs ’ aiir | 1,10 time did not pass unpleasantly with him 
 \onng Lord Hairtboy came to hunt with him, bringing his sister 
 
 condurt^f'wi’ t? after - a fe F days Vivian found them. The 
 conduct of Lady Frances in reference to George Roden was no 
 
 doubt very much blamed, but the disgrace did not loom so large in 
 
 AmaldTna wa^tbf aS J U ° f her sister the Marchioness. 
 m/e- r l,r, lt; t i uf f 0re ’ f lffered to amuse herself, even as the 
 
 nearivemi 1 ltiv f1 k t't| fn Tt d ’^ e o en thoush the host were himself 
 free shblos fL t- ke u' 14 sul i ed y0 ™g Ha utboy very well to have 
 
 Ss own tto f ete h !f hOrSeS ' an h°“ aSI0 “ aIly an extra m °unt when 
 b fnH “fn t steedswe ™ “sufficient for the necessary amount of 
 hunting to be performed. Vivian, who had the liberal allowance 
 of a pnvate secretary to a Cabinet Minister to fall back upon, had 
 
 S hunS-ln h l S ,°7-r S !° ‘7 7° Dg them they got a gfeat’deal 
 . n which Lady Amaldma would have taken a con- 
 
 spicuous part had not Lord Llwddythlw entertained strong opinions 
 
 as to the expediency of ladies riding to hounds. “ He is so absurdly 
 
 stnct, you know, she said to Lady Frances. 
 
 . “ f think he is quite right,” said the other. “ I don’t believe in 
 girls trying to do all the things that men do.” 
 
 t r bat ^ Jbe difference in jumping just over a hedge or two ? 
 
 tohl you d ? Wnrisht ty raun y- Would you do anything Mr. Eoden 
 
 “ Anything on earth,—except jump over the hedges. But our 
 temptations are not likely to be in that way.” 
 
 ^ I think it very hard because I almost never see Llwddythlw.” 
 
 (t - but you will when you are married.” 
 
 i r! 1 ! fi° n,t b f. lieve I shallunless I go and look at him from 
 behind the grating m the House of Commons. You know we have 
 settled upon August.” 
 
 “ I bad not heard it.” 
 
 You don’fknow at IaSt ' But thea 1 had to ^ et DaTid - 
 
 “^o special modern David.” 
 
 “ 0llr - Davicl is not very modern. He is Lord David Powell, and 
 
240 
 
 MAIIION FAY. 
 
 my bi other that is to be. X held, to persuade him to do something 
 instead of his brother, and I had to swear that we couldn’t ever bo 
 married unless he would consent. I suppose Mr. Roden could get 
 married any day he pleased.” Nevertheless Lady Amaldina was 
 better than nobody to make the hours pass when the men are away 
 hunting. 
 
 But at last there came a grand day, on which the man of busi¬ 
 ness was to come out hunting himself. Lord Llwddythlw had 
 come into the neighbourhood, and was determined to have a day’s 
 pleasure. Gorse Hall was full, and Hautboy, though his sister was 
 very eager in beseeching him, refused to give way to his future 
 magnificent brother-in-law. “ Do him all the good in the world,” 
 said Hautboy, “ to put up at the pot-house. He’ll find out all 
 about whiskey and beer and gin, and know exactly how many beds 
 the landlady makes up.” Lord Llwddythlw, therefore, slept at a 
 neighbouring hotel, and no doubt did turn his spare moments to 
 some profit. 
 
 Lord Llwddythlw was a man who had always horses, though he 
 very rarely hunted; who had guns, though he never fired them ; 
 and fishing-rods, though nobody knew were they were. He kept up 
 a great establishment, regretting nothing in regard to it except the 
 necessity of being sometimes present at the festivities for which it 
 was used. On the present occasion he had been enticed into 
 Northamptonshire no doubt with the purpose of laying some first 
 bricks, or opening some completed institution, or eating some 
 dinner,—on any one of which occasions he would be able to tell the 
 neighbours something as to the constitution of their country. Then 
 the presence of his lady-love seemed to make this a fitting occasion 
 for, perhaps, the one day’s sport of the year. He came to Gorse 
 Hall to breakfast, and then rode to the meet along with the open 
 carriage in which the two ladies were sitting. “ Llwddythlw,” said 
 his lady-love, “ I do hope you mean to ride.” 
 
 “ Being on horseback, Amy, I shall have no other alternative.” 
 
 Lady Amaldina turned round to her friend, as though to ask 
 whether she had ever seen such an absurd creature in her life, 
 “ You know what I mean by riding, Llwddythlw,” she said. 
 
 “ I suppose I do. You want me to break my neck.” 
 
 “ Oh, heavens ! Indeed I don’t.” 
 
 “ Or, perhaps, only to see me in a ditch.” 
 
 leant have that pleasure,” she said, “ because you won’t 
 allow me to hunt.” 
 
 “ I have taken upon myself no such liberty as even to ask you 
 not to do so. I have only suggested that tumbling into ditches, 
 however salutary it may be for middle-aged gentlemen like myself 
 is not a becoming amusement for young ladies.” 
 
 . “ Llwddythlw,” said Hautboy, coming up to his future brother- 
 
 in-law, “ that’s a tidy animal of yours.” 
 
 I don t quite know what tidy means as applied to a horse, my 
 boy; but if it’s complimentary, I am much obliged to you.” 
 
 It means that I should like to have the riding of him for the 
 rest of the season.” 
 
AT GO USE IIALL. 
 
 217 
 
 But wliat shall I do for ruyself if you take my tidy horse ? ” 
 
 “ You’ll be up in Parliament, or down at Quarter Sessions, or 
 doing your duty somewhere like a Briton.” 
 
 “ I hope I may do my duty not the less because I intend to 
 keep the tidy horse myself. When I am quite sure that I shall not 
 want him any more, then I’ll let you know.” 
 
 There was the usual trotting about from covert to covert, and 
 the usual absence of foxes. The misery of sportsmen on these days 
 is sometimes so great that we wonder that any man, having ex¬ 
 perienced the bitterness of hunting disappointment, should ever go 
 out again. On such occasions the huntsman is declared among 
 private friends to be of no use whatever. The master is an absolute 
 muff. All honour as to preserving has been banished from the 
 country. The gamekeepers destroy the foxes. The owners of 
 ■coverts encourage them. “ Things have come to such a pass,” says 
 Walker to Watson, “ that I mean to give it up. There’s no good 
 keeping horses for this sort of thing.” All this is very sad, and the 
 only consolation comes from the evident delight of those who take 
 pleasure in trotting about without having to incur the labour and 
 peril of riding to hounds. 
 
 At two o’clock on this day the ladies went home, having been 
 driven about as long as the coachmen had thought it good for their 
 horses. The men of course went on, knowing that they could not 
 in honour liberate themselves from the toil of the day till the last 
 ■covert shall have been drawn at half-past three o’clock. It is 
 certainly true as to hunting that there are so many hours in which 
 the spirit is vexed by a sense of failure, that the joy when it does 
 come should be very great to compensate the evils endured. It is 
 not simply that foxes will not dwell in every spinney, or break as 
 soon as found, or always run when they do break. These are the 
 minor pangs. But when the fox is found, and will break, and does 
 run, when the scent suffices, and the hounds do their duty, when 
 the best country which the Shires afford is open to you, when your 
 best horse is under you, when your nerves are even somewhat above 
 the usual mark,—even then there is so much of failure! You are 
 on the wrong side of the wood, and getting a bad start are never 
 with them for a yard; or your horse, good as he is, won’t have 
 that bit of water; or you lose your stirrup-leather, or your way; 
 or you don’t see the hounds turn, and you go astray with others 
 as blind as yourself; or, perhaps, when there comes the run of 
 the season, on that very day you have taken a liberty with your 
 chosen employment, and have lain in bed. Look back upon your 
 hunting lives, brother sportsmen, and think how few and how far 
 between the perfect days have been. 
 
 In spite of all that was gone this was one of those perfect days 
 to those who had the pleasure afterwards of remembering it. 
 
 “ Taking it all in all, I think that Lord Llwddthylw had the 
 best of it from first to last,” said Vivian, when they were again 
 talking of it in the drawing-room after they had come in from theii 
 wine. 
 
248 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 “To think that yon should be such a hero !” said Lady Amal- 
 dma, much gratified. “ I did’nt believe you would take so much 
 trouble about such a thing.” 
 
 “ ft was what Hautboy called the tidiness of the horse.” 
 
 “ By George, yes; I wish you’d lend him to me. I got my 
 brute hi between two rails, and it took me half-an-hour to smash 
 a way through. I never saw anything of it after that.” Poor 
 Hautboy almost cried as he gave this account of his own misfortune. 
 
 . lou .fF e Jbe onl J fellow I saw try them after Crasher,” said 
 
 0I \ his head ’ and 1 should think he must 
 b e there still. I don t know where Hampstead got through.” 
 
 , kn0W wlier e I’ve b een,” said Hampstead, wiio had, in 
 
 truth, led the way over the double rails which had so confounded 
 Crasher and had so perplexed Hautboy. But when a man is too 
 forward to be seen, he is always supposed to be somewhere behind, 
 
 I hen there was an opinion expressed by Walker that Tolley boy 
 the huntsman, had on that special occasion stuck very well to liis 
 hounds, to which Watson gave his cordial assent. Walker and 
 Watson had both been asked to dinner, and during the day had 
 ecn heard to express to each other all that adverse criticism as to 
 the affairs of the hunt m general which appeared a few lines back. 
 Walker and Watson were very good fellows, popular in the hunt 
 and of all men the most unlikely to give it up 
 
 When that run was talked about afterwards, as it often was, it 
 vas always admitted that Lord Llwddythhv had been the hero of 
 
 ? ut n i°f e ever heard him talk of it. Such a trifle was. 
 altogetliei beneath Ins notice. 
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 
 POOR WALKER. 
 
 That famous run took place towards the end of February at 
 which tnne Hampstead was counting all the hours till he should 
 Spin be allowed to show himself in Paradise Row. He had in 
 the mean time written one little letter to the Quaker’s daughter:— 
 
 onl y write because I cannot keep myself 
 quiet without telling you how well I love you. Pray do not believe 
 that because I am away I think of you less. I am to see you I 
 hope, on Monday the 2nd of March. If you would write me but 
 one word to say that you will be glad to see me! 
 
 “ Always your own, 
 
 “ H.” 
 
 thnff 10 Ti d tl l is 1 10 her father, and the sly old Quaker told her 
 *T at ^ A ou J d not be courteous in her not to send some word of 
 ieply. As the young lord, he said, had been permitted by him.. 
 
AT GOIiSE IIALL. 2 19 
 
 her father to pay his addresses to her, so much was due to-him 
 J\hy should his girl lose this grand match? Why should 
 ni.’> daughter not become a happy and a glorious wife seeing tint 
 hut beauty and her grace had entirely won this young lord’s heart 9 
 
 She wroteback t0 him,-" I shall be'happy lo see 
 3 ou when you come, whatever day may suit you. But alas' T 
 can only say what I hays said.-Yet I am thin " MaSon ” She 
 had intended not to be tender, and yet she had thought herself 
 bound to tell him that all that she had said before was true " 
 
 It was after this that Lord Llwddytlilw distinguished himself 
 so much so that Walker and Watson did nothing"but talk )S 
 
 l ™ a11 f tke n ® xt „ cla y- “IJ’s those quiet fellows that make the best 
 nish after all said Walker, who had managed to get altogether 
 to the bottom of his horse during the run, and had hardly seen the 
 end of it quite as a man wishes to see it. * le 
 
 The day but one after this, the last Friday in Febrmrv 
 be the last of Hampstead’s hunting, at any 7 rate until aftlr his' 
 proposed visit to Holloway. He, and Lady Frances with him 
 intended to return to London on the next day, and then as far as' 
 he was concerned, the future loomed before him as a Meat 
 Had Marion been the highest lady in the landfand h?d he Zne 
 f ' s position and rank been hardly entitled to ask for her love hr 
 could not have been more anxious, more thoughtful or occasionally 
 more down-hearted. But tins latter feeling- would “ay to inv 
 when he remembered the words with which she had decltared her 
 loae. ISo assurance could have been more perfect, or more devoted 
 She had coyed him nothing as far as words are concSned and he 
 
 a M bU ‘ ‘Y her ful1 " OTds ^ad come from 
 
 11 neai t. But, alas! I can only say what I have said ” Tint 
 
 of course had been intended to remove all hope. But if she loved 
 
 hmi as she said she did, would he not be able to teach her that 
 
 everything. should be made to give way to love ? It was Z 
 
 that his mind was filled, as day after day he prepared himVif fn 
 
 hm hunting, and day after 4 did hif bWh^^kee^glo tt 
 
 arom^hS^xpresL^themselves^to’be’Kill^fliope^hGimberle 6 
 
 ass? 
 
 in 
 
 bo espeoiSlVkeen, when a So'“ofstrivingto ’ 1 cxIel’InTgoing 
 
 -t 'aCyf 
 
 exercised, and had in the" ofcS Sg 
 
.■250 
 
 MARION FAY .: 
 
 agreed with themselves that certain heroes who were comin" from 
 one of the neighbouring hunts should not be allowed to carry off 
 the honours of the day. J 
 
 On this occasion they both breakfasted at Gorse Hall which 
 was not uncommon with them, as the hotel—or pot-house, as 
 Hautboy called it, was hardly more than a hundred yards distant 
 Walker was peculiarly exuberant, and had not been long in the 
 house before he confided to Hautboy in a whisper their joint inten¬ 
 tion that £f those fellows” were not to be allowed to have it all 
 their own way. “ Suppose you don’t find after all, Mr. Walker?” 
 saM Lady Amaldma, as the gentlemen got up from breakfast, and 
 loaded themselves with sandwiches, cigar-cases, and sherry-flasks 
 
 ‘ 1 W01 i t believe anything so horrible,” said Walker. 
 
 ^ should cut the concern,’ said Watson, “ and take to stagging 
 in Surrey This was supposed to be the bitterest piece of satire 
 that could be uttered in regard to the halcyon country in which 
 their operations were carried on. 
 
 -Tolleyboy will see tp that,” said Walker. “ Wo haven’t had a 
 blank yet and I don’t think he’ll disgrace himself on such a day as 
 his. dhen they all started, in great glee, on their hacks, their 
 hunteis having been already sent on to Gimberley Green. 
 
 The main part of the story of that day’s sport, as far as we’re 
 concerned with it, got itself told so early in the day that readers 
 need not be kept long waiting for the details. Tolleyboy soon 
 relieved these impetuous riders from all dangers as to a blank. At 
 the first covert drawn a fox was found immediately, and without 
 any ot those delays, so perplexing to some and so comforting to 
 others, made away for some distant home of his own. It is, 
 perhaps, on such occasions as these that riders are subjected to the 
 worst perils of the hunting field. There comes a sudden rush 
 when men have not cooled themselves down by the process of 
 riding here and there and going through the usual preliminary 
 prefaces to a run. They are collected in crowds, and the horses 
 are more impatient even than their riders. No one on that occasion 
 could have been more impatient than W T alker,—unless it was the 
 steed upon which Walker was mounted. There was a crowd of 
 men standing in a lane at the corner of the covert,—of men who 
 had only that moment reached the spot,—when at about thirty 
 yams from them a tox crossed the lane, and two or three leading 
 hounds close at his brush. One or two of the strangers from the 
 enemy s country occupied a position close to, or rather in the very 
 entrance of, a little hunting gate which led out of the lane into the 
 held opposite. Between the lane and the field there was a fence 
 which was not “ rideable! ” As is the custom with lanes, the 
 load way had been so cut down that there was a bank altogether 
 precipitous about three feet high, and on that a hedge of trees and 
 stakes and roots which had also been cut almost into the con¬ 
 sistency of a wall. The gate was the only place,—into which these 
 enemies had thrust themselves, and in the possession of which they 
 did not choose to hurry themshlves, asserting as they kept'their places 
 
POOR WALKER. 
 
 251 
 
 that it would bo well to give the fox a minuto. The assertion in 
 the interests of hunting might have been true. A sportsman who 
 could at such a moment have kept his blood perfectly cool, might 
 have remembered his duties well enough to have abstained from 
 pressing into the field in order that the fox might have his fair 
 chance. Hampstead, however, who was next to the enemies, was 
 not that cool hero, and bade the strangers move on, not failing to 
 thrust his horse against their horses. Next to him, and a little 
 to the left, was the unfortunate Walker. To his patriotic spirit it 
 was intolerable that any stranger should be in that field before one 
 of their own hunt. What he himself attempted, what he wished 
 to do, or whether any clear intention was formed in his mind, no 
 one ever knew. But to the astonishment of all who saw it the 
 horse got himself half-turned round towards the fence, and 
 attempted to take it in a stand. The eager animal did get himself 
 up amidst the thick wood on the top of the bank, and then fell 
 headlong over, having entangled his feet among the boughs. Had 
 his rider sat loosely he would probably have got clear of his horse. 
 But as it was they came down together, and unfortunately the 
 horse was uppermost. Just as it happened Lord Hampstead made 
 his way through the gate, and was the first who dismounted to give 
 assistance to his friend. In two or three minutes there was a crowd 
 round, with a doctor in the midst of it, and a rumour was going 
 about that the man had been killed. In the mean time the enemies 
 were riding well to the hounds, with Tolleyboy but a few yards 
 behind them, Tolleyboy having judiciously remembered a spot at 
 which he could make his way out of the covert into field without 
 either passing through the gate or over the fence. 
 
 The reader may as well know at once that Walker was not 
 killed. He was not killed, though he was so crushed and mauled 
 with broken ribs and collar-bone, so knocked out of breath and 
 stunned and mangled and squeezed, so pummelled and pounded 
 and generally misused, that he did not come to himself for many 
 hours, and could never after remember anything of that day’s per¬ 
 formances after eating his breakfast at Gorse Hall. It was a week 
 before tidings went through the Shires that he was likely to live at 
 all, and even then it was asserted that he had been so altogether 
 smashed that he would never again use any of his limbs. On the 
 morning after the hunt his widowed mother and only sister were 
 down with him at the hotel, and there they remained till they 
 were able to carry him away to his own house. “ Won’t I? ” was 
 almost the first intelligible word he said when his mother suggested 
 to him, her only son, that now at least he would promise to 
 abandon that desperate amusement, and would never go hunting 
 any more. It may be said in praise of British surgery generally 
 that Walker was out again on the first of the following November. 
 
 But Walker with his misfortunes and his heroism and his 
 recovery would have been nothing to us had it been known from 
 the first to all the field that Walker had been the victim. Tho 
 accident happened between eleven and twelve,—probably not much 
 
252 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 before twelve. But the tidings of it were sent up by telegraph 
 from some neighbouring station to London in time to be inserted in 
 one of the afternoon newspapers of that day; and the tidings as 
 sent informed the public that Lord Hampstead while hunting that 
 morning had fallen with his horse at the corner of Gimberley Green, 
 1 Hat the animal had fallen on him,—and that he had been crushed 
 to death. Had the false information been given in regard to 
 Walker it might probably have excited so little attention that the 
 world would have known nothing about it till it learned that the 
 poor fellow had not been killed. But, having been given as to a 
 young nobleman, everybody had heard of it before dinner-time that 
 evening. Lord Persiflage knew it in the House of Lords, and Lord 
 Llwddythlw had heard it in the House of Commons. There was 
 not a club which had not declared poor Hampstead to be an 
 excellent fellow, although he was a little mad. The Montressors 
 had already congratulated themselves on the good fortune of little 
 Loid Frederic; and the speedy death of the Marquis was 
 prophesied, as men and women were quite sure that he would not 
 be able m his present condition to bear the loss of his eldest son 
 I he news was telegraphed down to Trafford Park by the family 
 lawyer,—with an intimation, however, that, as the accident had 
 >con so lecent, no absolute credence should yet be given as to its 
 fatal result. '‘Sad fall probably,” said the lawyer in his telegram 
 but x don t believe the rest. Will send again when I hear the 
 1 ruth. At nine o’clock that evening the truth was known in- 
 London, and before midnight the poor Marquis had been relieved! 
 Irom Ins terrible affliction. But for three hours it had been 
 supposed at Trafford Park that Lord Frederic had become the heir 
 to his father s title and his father’s property. 
 
 .. . ^j°f e in W was afterwards made as to the person by whom 
 Ibis false intelligence had been sent to the newspaper, but nothing 
 certain was ever asserted respecting it. That a general rumour 
 maci prevailed tor a time among many who were out that Lord 
 Hampstead had been the victim, was found to have been the case, 
 lie had been congratulated by scores of men who had heard that 
 lie had fallen. When Tolleyboy was breaking up the fox, and 
 wondering why so few men had ridden through the hunt with him 
 lie was told that Lord Hampstead had been killed, and had 
 dlopped his bloody knife out of his hands. But no one would own 
 as to having sent the telegram. Suspicion attached itself to an 
 attorney from Kettering who had been seen in the early part of the 
 day but it could not be traced home to him. Official inquiry was 
 made; but as it was not known who sent the message, or to what 
 address, or from wdiat post town, or even the wording of the 
 message, official information was not forthcoming. It is & probable 
 that Sir Boreas at the Post Office did not think it proper to tell 
 everybody all that he knew. It was admitted that a great iniurv 
 had been done to the poor Marquis, but it was argued on the other 
 side that the injury had been quickly removed. 
 
 There had, however, been three or four hours at Trafford Park, 
 
POOR WALKER . 
 
 253 
 
 during which, feelings had been excited which afterwards gave rise 
 to bitter disappointment. The message had come to Mr. Green¬ 
 wood, of whose estrangement from the family the London solicitor 
 had not been as yet made aware. He had been forced to send the 
 tidings into the sick man’s room by Harris, the butler, but he had 
 himself carried it up to the Marchioness. “ I am obliged to come,” 
 he said, as though apologizing when she looked at him with angry 
 eyes because of his intrusion. “ There has been an accident.” He 
 was standing, as he always stood, with his hands hanging down by 
 his side. But there was a painful look in his eyes more than she 
 had usually read there. 
 
 “What accident—what accident, Mr. Greenwood? Why do 
 you not tell me ? ” Her heart ran away at once to the little beds 
 in which her darlings were already lying in the next room. 
 
 “ It is a telegram from London.” 
 
 From London—a telegram! Then her boys were safe. “ Why 
 ■do you not tell me instead of standing there ? ” 
 
 “ Lord Hampstead-■ ” 
 
 “ Lord Hampstead! What has he done ? Is he married ? ” 
 
 “He will never be married.” Then she shook in every limb, 
 and clenched her hands, and stood with open mouth, not daring to 
 question him. “ He has had a fall, Lady Kingsbury.” 
 
 “A fall!” 
 
 “ The horse has crushed him.” 
 
 “ Crushed him! ” 
 
 “ I used to say it would be so, you know. And now it has come 
 to pass.” 
 
 “ Is he-? ” 
 
 “Dead? Yes, Lady Kingsbury, he is—dead.” Then he gave 
 her the telegram to read. She struggled to read it, but the words 
 were too vague, or her eyes too dim. “Harris has gone in with 
 the tidings. I had better read the telegram, I suppose, but I 
 thought you’d like to see it. I told you how it would be, Lady 
 Kingsbury; and now it has come to pass.” He stood standing a 
 minute or two longer, but as she sat hiding her face, and unable to 
 speak, he left the room without absolutely asking her to thank him 
 for his news. 
 
 As soon as he was gone she crept slowly into the room in which 
 her three boys were sleeping. A door from her own chamber 
 opened into it, and then another into that in which one of the 
 nurses slept. She leaned over them and kissed them all; but she 
 knelt at that on which Lord Frederic lay, and woke him with her 
 warm embraces. “Oh, mamma, don’t,” said the boy. Then he 
 shook himself, and sat up in his bed. “ Mamma, when is Jack 
 coming ? ” he said. • Let her train them as she would, they would 
 always ask for Jack. “ Go to sleep, my darling, my darling, my 
 darling! ” she said, kissing him again and again. “ Trafford,” she 
 said, whispering to herself, as she went back to her own room, trying 
 the sound of the title he would have to use. It had been all arranged 
 in her own mind how it was to be, if such a thing should happen. 
 
254 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 ‘Go down;’ she said to her maid soon afterwards, “ and ask 
 Mrs. Crawley whether his lordship would wish to see me.” Mrs. 
 Crawley was the nurse. But the maid brought back word that 
 m} lord did not wish to see “my lady.” For three hours he 
 lay stupefied in his sorrow; and for three hours she sat alone, 
 almost in the dark. We may doubt whether it was all triumph' 
 IIoi dailing had got what she believed to be his due; but the 
 memory that she had longed for it,—almost prayed for it,—must 
 have dulled her joy. 
 
 . There was no such regret with Mr. Greenwood. It seemed to 
 linn that Fortune, Fate, Providence, or what not, had only done its 
 duty. lie believed that he had in truth foreseen and foretold the 
 death of the pernicious young man. But would the young man’s 
 death be now of any service to him ? Was it not too late'? Had 
 
 they not all quarrelled with him? Nevertheless he had been 
 avenged. 
 
 So it was at Trafford Park for three hours. Then there came a 
 postboy galloping on horseback, and the truth was known. Lady 
 lingsomy went again to her children, but this time she did not 
 kiss them. A gleam of glory had come there and had passed 
 away^;—but yet there was something of relief. 
 
 Why had he allowed himself to be so cowed on that moraine ? 
 That was Mr. Greenwood’s thought. * 
 
 The poor Marquis fell into a slumber almost immediately, and 
 
 on the next morning had almost forgotten that the first telegram 
 had come. ° 
 
 CHAPTER XLI. 
 
 FALSE TIDINGS. 
 
 But there was another household which the false tidings of Lore 
 Hampstead s death reached that same night. The feelings excitec 
 a, Tiafford had been very keen,—parental agony, maternal hope 
 disappointment, and revenge; but in that other household ther< 
 v as suffering quite as great. Mr. Fay himself did not devote mucl 
 time during the day either to the morning or the evening news 
 papers. Had he been alone at Messrs. Pogson and Littlebird’s In 
 would have heard nothing of the false tidings. But sitting in hit 
 -™ 100 *’ ^ r ; Pogson read the third edition of the Eveninc 
 t {y Cl t lser ’- n an ,f saw J lle statement, given with many details 
 Me, said the statement, “have sent over to the office of oui 
 contemporary, and have corroborated the facts,” Then the ston 
 was repeated Pushing liis way through a gate at Gimberley Green 
 johI Hampstead s horse had tumbled down, and all the field had 
 lidden over him. He had been picked up dead, and his body had 
 been carried home to Gorse Hall. Now Lord Hampstead’s name 
 had become familiar in King’s Court. Tribbledale had told how 
 
FALSE TIDINGS. 
 
 255 - 
 
 the young lord had become enamoured of Zachary Fay's daughter, 
 and was ready to marry her at a moment’s notice. The taie hacl 
 been repeated to old Littlebird by young Littlebird, and at last 
 even to Mr. Pogson himself. There had been, of course, much 
 doubt in King’s Court as to the very improbable story. But some 
 inquiries had been made, and there was now a general belief in its 
 truth. When Mr. Pogson read the account of the sad tragedy he 
 paused a moment to think what he would do, then opened his door 
 and called for Zachary Fay. They who had known the Quaker 
 long always called him Zachary, or Friend Zachary, or Zachary 
 Fay. “ My friend,” said Mr. Pogson, “ have you read this yet ? ” 
 and he handed him the paper. 
 
 “ I never have much time for the newspaper till I get home at 
 night,” said the clerk, taking the sheet that was offered him. 
 
 “ You had better read it, perhaps, as I have heard your name' 
 mentioned, I know not how properly, with that of the young lord. 
 Then the Quaker, bringing his spectacles down from his forehead 
 over his eyes, slowly read the paragraph. As he did so Mr. Pogson 
 looked at him carefully. But the Quaker showed very little 
 emotion by his face. “ Does it concern you, Zachary ? ” 
 
 “ I know the young man, Mr. Pogson. Though he be much out 
 of my own rank, circumstances have brought him to my notice. 
 I shall be grieved if this bo true. With thy permission, Mr. 
 Pogson, I will lock up my desk and return home at once.” To 
 this Mr. Pogson of course assented, recommending the Quaker to 
 put the newspaper into his pocket. 
 
 Zachary Fay, as he walked to the spot where he was wont to 
 find the omnibus, considered much as to what he might best do 
 when he reached home. Should he tell the sad tidings to his girl, 
 or should he leave her to hear it when further time should have 
 confirmed the truth. To Zachary himself it seemed too probable 
 that it should be true. Hunting to him, in his absolute ignorance 
 of what hunting meant, seemed to be an occupation so full of 
 danger that the wonder was that the hunting world had not already 
 been exterminated. And then there was present to him a feeling, 
 as there is to so many of us, that the grand thing which Fortune 
 seemed to offer him was too good to be true. It could hardly be 
 that he should live to see his daughter the mother of a future 
 British peer! He had tried to school himself not to wish it, telling 
 himself that such wishes were vain, and such longings wicked; he 
 had said much to himself as to the dangers of rank and titles and 
 wealth for those who were not born to them. He had said some¬ 
 thing also of that family tragedy which had robbed his own life of 
 most of its joys, and which seemed to have laid so heavy a burden 
 on his girl’s spirit. Going backwards and forwards morning and 
 evening to his work, he had endeavoured to make his own heart 
 acknowledge that the marriage was not desirable; but he had 
 failed;—and had endeavoured to reconcile the failure to his 
 conscience by telling himself falsely that he as a father had been 
 anxious only for the welfare of his child. Now he felt the blow 
 
•256 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 terribly on her account, feeling sure that his girl’s heart had been 
 given to the young man; but he felt it also on his own. It mi-ht 
 e, nevertheless, that the report would prove untrue. Had the 
 matter been one m which he was not himself so deeply interested 
 e would certainly have believed it to be untrue, lie being a man 
 bj his nature not prone to easy belief. It would, however be 
 viser, he said to himself as he left the omnibus at the “ Duchess o f ' 
 Edinburgh to say nothing as yet to Marion. Then he out the 
 paper carefully into his breast coat pocket, and considered ^how he 
 might best hide his feelings as to the sad news But all this wa? 
 
 The story had already found its way down to Paradise 
 to?-**- Demi J ohn was as greedy of news as her neighbours 
 
 ioimvd 11 d nn G +f 1>alJ SG1?d r °? nd v cornsr for a halfpenny evening 
 + * . 0n this occasion she did so, and within two minutes of 
 
 the time m which the paper had been put into her hands exc aimed 
 
 to her niece almost with ecstasy, « Clara, what do you think 9 That 
 
 'if 
 
 tobP a ^ f m °M 0f exi ' ltation * ^ry that had been supposed 
 to be awaiting Marion Fay was almost too much for the enduraneo 
 
 of any neighbour. Since it had become an ascertained fact tint 
 orcl Hampstead had admired the girl, Marion’s popularity in the 
 Bow had certainly decreased. Mrs. Duffer believed her no longer 
 
 " n anC J S °i me ’ Clara liad always thought her to be pert • Mrs 
 Demijohn had expressed her opinion that the man was 1 an ’idiot 
 nnd the landlady at the “ Duchess of Edinburgh ” had wittilv 
 asserted that“ young marquises were not to be caught with chaff.” 
 There w r as no doubt a sense of relief in Clara Demijohn’s mind 
 when she heard that this special young marquis had been trampled 
 -o d f atil m tlie hunting field, and carried home a corpse. ^ 
 
 „1 ^ aust g° and tell the poor girl,” said Clara, immediately 
 f 1 ^ J 1 eaYe 1 lt , alone, said the old woman. " There will be plenty 
 ,, f * her, let alone you.” But such occasions occur so rarely that 
 it does not do not to take advantage of them. In ordinary lifb 
 events are bo unfrequent, and when they do arrive they give^uch 
 a flavour Or salt to hours which are generally tedious tint Qnddnn 
 misfortunes come as godsends.-almo^t even when?hef happen to 
 ourselves. Even a funeral gives a tasteful break to the “S 
 ??J r . usn[d occupations, and small-pox in the next street is a 
 
 em n nt ’ a Clara soon got P osse ssion of the newspaper 
 and with it m her hand ran across the street to No. 17 Miss Fov 
 
 irL a e t pa°iE)ur? nd “ & minute 0r two came down to Miss Demijohn 
 
 It was only during the minute or two that Clara began to think 
 how she should break the tidings to her friend or in anv w vt 
 
 hod h rni ie i faCt th ?i th , e "tidings” would require breaking. She 
 Inad mshed acioss the street with the important paper in her hand 
 
 proud of the fact that she had something great to tell. But during 
 
FALSE TIDINGS. 
 
 257 
 
 that minute or two it did occur to her that a choice of words was 
 needed for such an occasion. “ Oh, Miss Fay/’ she said, “ have you 
 heard ?” 
 
 “ Heard what ? ” asked Marion. 
 
 “ I do not know how to tell you, it is so terrible! I have only 
 just seen it in the newspaper, and have thought it best to run over 
 and let you know.” 
 
 “ Has anything happened to my father? ” asked the girl. 
 
 ‘It isn’t your father. This is almost more dreadful, because he 
 is so young.” Then that bright pink hue spread itself over Marion’s 
 face; but she stood speechless with her features almost hardened 
 by the resolution which she had already formed within her not to 
 betray the feelings of her heart before this other girl. The news, 
 let it be what it might, must be of him! There was no one else 
 “ so young,” of whom it was probable that this young woman would 
 speak to her after this fashion. She stood silent, motionless, 
 conveying nothing of her feelings by her face,—unless one might 
 have read something from the deep flush of her complexion. “I 
 don’t know how to say it,” said Clara Demijohn. “There; you 
 had better take the paper and read for yourself. It’s in the last 
 column but one near the bottom. ‘ Fatal Accident in the Field f ’ 
 You’ll see it.” 
 
 Marion took the paper, and read the words through without 
 faltering or moving a limb. Why would not the cruel young- 
 woman go and leave her to her sorrow ? Why did she stand there 
 looking at her, as though desirous to probe to the bottom the sad' 
 secret of her bosom ? She kept her eyes still fixed upon the paper, 
 not knowing where else to turn them—for she would not look into 
 her tormentor’s face for pity. “ Ain’t it sad ? ” said Clara Demi¬ 
 john. 
 
 Then there came a deep sigh. “ Sad,” she said, repeating the 
 word; “sad! Yes, it’s sad. I think, if you don’t mind. I’ll ask 
 you to leave me now. Oh yes; there’s the newspaper.” 
 
 “ Perhaps you’d like to keep it for your father.” Here Marion 
 shook her head. “Then I’ll take it back to aunt. She’s hardly 
 looked at it yet. When she came to the paragraph, of course, she 
 read it out; and I wouldn’t let her have any peace till she gave it 
 me to bring over.” 
 
 “I wish you’d leave me,” said Marion Fay. 
 
 Then with a look of mingled surprise and anger she left the 
 room, and returned across the street to No. 10. “ She doesn’t 
 
 seem to me to care a straw about it,” said the niece to her aunt; 
 
 “ but she got up just as highly tighty as usual and asked me 
 to go away.” 
 
 When the Quaker came to the door, and opened it with his 
 latch-key, Marion was in the passage ready to receive him. Till she 
 had heard the sound of the lock she had not moved from the room, 
 hardly from the position, in which the other girl had left her. She 
 had sunk into a chair which had been ready for her, and there she 
 had remained thinking over it. “ Father,” she said, laying her 
 
 s 
 
258 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 hand upon his arm as she went to meet him, and looking up into 
 his face ;—“ father ? ” 
 
 “ My child! ” 
 
 “ Have you heard any tidings in the City ? ” 
 
 “ Have you heard any, Marion ? ” 
 
 “ Is it true, then ? ” she said, seizing both his arms as though to 
 support her. 
 
 “ Who knows ? Who can say that it he true till further tidings 
 shall come ? Come in, Marion. It is not well that we should 
 discuss it here.” 
 
 “ Is it true ? Oh, father;—oh, father; it will kill me.” 
 
 “ Nay, Marion, not that. After all, the lad was little more 
 than a stranger to thee.” 
 
 “ A stranger ? ” 
 
 “ How many weeks is it since first thou saw’st him ? And how 
 often ? But two or three times. I am sorry for him;—if it be 
 true; if it be true! I liked him well.” 
 
 “ But I have loved him.” 
 
 “ Nay, Marion, nay; thou shouldst moderate thyself.” 
 
 “I will not moderate myself.” Then she disengaged herself 
 from his arm. “I loved him,—with all my heart, and all my 
 strength; nay, with my whole soul. If it be so as that paper says, 
 then I must die too. Oh, father, is it true, think you ? ” 
 
 He paused a while before he answered, examining himself what 
 it might be best that he should say as to her welfare. As for 
 himself, he hardly knew what he believed. These papers were 
 always in search of paragraphs, and would put in the false and 
 true alike,—the false perhaps the sooner, so as to please the taste 
 of their readers. But if it were true, then how bad would it be to 
 give her false hopes! “ There need be no ground to despair,” he 
 said, “ till we shall hear again in the morning.” 
 
 “ I know he is dead.” 
 
 “Not so, Marion. Thou canst know nothing. If thou wilt 
 bear thyself like a strong-hearted girl, as thou art, I will do this for 
 thee. I will go across to the young lord’s house at Hendon at 
 once, and inquire there as to his safety. They will surely know if 
 aught of ill has happened to their master.” 
 
 So it was done. The poor old man, after his long day’s labour, 
 without waiting for his evening meal, taking only a crust with him 
 in his pocket, got into a cab on that cold November evening, and 
 had himself driven by suburban streets and lanes to Hendon Hall. 
 Here the servants were much surprised and startled by the 
 inquiries made. They had heard nothing. Lord Hampstead and 
 his sister were expected home on the following day. Dinner was to 
 be prepared for them, and fires had already been lighted in the 
 rooms. “ Dead! ” “ Killed out hunting! ” “ Trodden to death in 
 the field!” Not a word of it had reached Hendon Hall. Never¬ 
 theless the housekeeper, when the paragraph was shown to her 
 believed every word of it. And the servants believed it. Thus 
 the poor Quaker returned home with but very little comfort. 
 
FALSE TIDINGS . 
 
 259 
 
 Marion’s condition during that night tvas very sad, though she 
 struggled to bear up against her sorrow in compliance with her 
 father’s instructions. There was almost nothing said as she sat by 
 him while he ate his supper. On the next morning, too, she rose 
 to give him his breakfast, having fallen asleep through weariness 
 a hundred times during the night, to wake again within a minute 
 or two to the full sense of her sorrow. “ Shall I know soon ? ” she 
 said as he left the house. 
 
 “ Surely some one will know,” he said; “ and I will send thee 
 word.” 
 
 But as he left the house the real facts had already been made 
 known at the “ Duchess of Edinburgh.” One of the morning 
 papers had a full, circumstantial, and fairly true account of the 
 whole matter. “It was not his lordship at all,” said the good- 
 natured landlady, coming out to him as he passed the door. 
 
 “ Not Lord Hampstead ? ” 
 
 “ Not at all.” 
 
 “ He was not killed ? ” 
 
 “ It wasn’t him as was hurt, Mr. Fay. It was another of them 
 young, men—one Mr. Walker; only son of Watson, Walker, and 
 Warren. And whether he be dead or alive nobody knows; but 
 they do say there wasn’t a whole bone left in his body. It’s all 
 here, and I was agoing to bring it you. I suppose Miss Fay did 
 take it badly ? ” 
 
 “ I knew the yonng man,” said the Quaker, hurrying back to 
 his own house with the paper,—anxious if possible not to declare 
 to the neighbourhood that the young lord was in truth a suitor for 
 his daughter’s hand. “ And I thank thee, Mrs. Grimley, for thy 
 care. The suddenness of it all frightened my poor girl.” 
 
 “ That’ll comfort her up,” said Mrs. Grimley cheerily. “From 
 all we hear, Mr. Fay, she do have reason to be anxious for this 
 young lord. I hope he’ll be spared to her, Mr. Fay, and show 
 himself a true man.” 
 
 Then the Quaker returned with his news,—'which was accepted 
 by him and by them all as trustworthy. “ Now my girl will be 
 happy again ? ” 
 
 “ Yes, father.” 
 
 “ But my child has told the truth to her old father at last.” 
 
 ** Had I told you any untruth ? ” 
 
 “No, indeed, Marion.” 
 
 “ I said that I am not fit to be his wife, and I am not. Nothing 
 
 is changed in all that. But when I heard that he was- BuC 
 
 lather, we will not talk of it now. How good you have been to me 
 I shall never forget,—and how tender! ” 
 
 “ Who should be soft-hearted if not a father ? ” 
 
 “ They are not all like you. But you have been always good 
 and gentle to your girl. How good and how gentle we cannot 
 always see;—can we ? But I have seen it now, father.” 
 
 As he went into the City, about an hour after his proper time, 
 he allowed his heart to rejoice at the future prospects of his girl ! 
 

 200 MABION FAY, 
 
 He did now believe that there would be a marriage between her and 
 her noble lover. She had declared her love to him,—to him, her 
 father, and after that she would surely do as they would have her. 
 Something had reached even his ears of the coyness of girls, and it 
 was not displeasing to him that his girl had not been at once ready 
 to give herself with her easy promise to her lover. How strong she 
 had looked, even in the midst of her sufferings, on the previous 
 evening! That she should be weaker this morning, less able to 
 restrain her tears, more prone to tremble as he spoke to her, was 
 but natural. The shock of the grief will often come after the 
 sorrow is over. He knew that, and told himself that there need be 
 nothing,—need not at least be much,—to fear. 
 
 But it was not so with Marion as she lay all the morning con¬ 
 vulsed almost with the violence of her emotions. Her own 
 weakness was palpable to herself, as she struggled to regain her 
 breath, struggled to repress her sobs, struggled to move about the 
 house, and be as might be any other girl. “ Better just lie thee 
 down till thy father return, and leave me to bustle through the 
 work,” said the old Quaker woman who had lived with them 
 through all their troubles. Then Marion yielded, and laid herself 
 on the bed till the hour had come in which her father might be 
 expected. 
 
 CHAPTER XLII. 
 
 NEVER, NEVER TO COME AGAIN. 
 
 The trouble to Hampstead occasioned by the accident was consider¬ 
 able, as was also for the first twenty-four hours his anxiety and 
 that of his sister as to the young man’s fate. He got back to Gorse 
 Hall early in the day, as there was no more hunting after the killing 
 of that first fox. There had been a consultation as to the young 
 man, and it had been held to be best to have him taken to the inn 
 at which he had been living, as there would be room there for any 
 of his friends who might come to look after him. But during the 
 whole of that day inquiries were made at Gorse Hall after Lord 
 Hampstead himself, so general had been the belief that he was the 
 victim. From all the towns around, from Peterborough, Oundle, 
 Stilton, and Thrapstone, there came mounted messengers, with 
 expressions of hope and condolence as to the young lord’s broken 
 bones. 
 
 And then the condition of their poor neighbour was so critical 
 that they found it to be impossible to leave Gorse Hall on the next 
 day, as they had intended. He had become intimate with them, 
 and had breakfasted at Gorse Hall on that very morning. In one 
 Way Hampstead felt that he was responsible, as, had he not been 
 in the way, poor Walker’s horse would have been next to the gate, 
 and would not have attempted the impossible jump. They were 
 
 
NEVER, NEVER TO CONE AGAIN. 2 C1 
 
 <’° P ? $? the j° l T ne y tin the Monday. “ Will go bv tho 
 J.dO train, said Hampstead in his telegram who in sinII ° 
 
 ? alters mangled body, was still determined to se'e 1 [£ ? 
 day. On the Saturday morning it became bnnwn*Tn ! °n that 
 sister that the false report had been S t ™T * h and hls 
 then they had 
 
 every one who Imew them, to the Souh l to 
 
 London, to Mr. Eoberts, and to the housekeeper at HenSmi! 1 
 Telegrams were also sent by Lady Amaldim to i « ' 
 
 aud especially to Lord Llwddvthlw S to ^ ady Per siflage, 
 Civil Service aenerallv IP?, t w Vlvian sent oth ers to the 
 
 know the truth at the Pandemonium 3 ??????'<? / t , Tei ' y,K " ,J ' 
 telegrams been sent from the SSce at oSbeSv En? T* 
 was one for which Hampstead demanded priority wrifW it?• th ,? 
 and himself giving it into the hands 
 
 the daughter of the Gimberley grocer who L rirmin-^ lady 
 the occasion perfectly. S ' no doubt understood 
 
 „ Tf tr “ To + f^ 011 Fa ^’ 17 > Paradise Kow, Holloway 
 Monday.” ° hBrt Sba11 be at N °- ^ 4 three on 
 
 I wonder whether they heard it down at Trafford ” said T.adv 
 Amaldma to Lady Frances. On this subject they were intaned 
 before the day was over, as a long message came from Mr Roberts 
 
 n compliance with the instructions from the Marquis. “Because 
 to bear ? ” Kl What 8 ternbIe disappointment my aunt will have 
 
 " Ho not say anything so horrible,” said Lady Frances 
 
 • u 1 a ! wayS l00k u , pon Aunt Clara “ though she were not ouite 
 in hei light senses about her own children. She thinks a P-root 
 injury is done her because her son is not the h , w! f 
 moment she will have believed that it was so ” This ° r a 
 
 ?oSus°s f the matter Which 
 
 just' beforifdi'nncr. 
 
 hour to ask after the condition of poor Walker. At first ttetiS 
 bad been gloomy enough. The doctor had only been able to sfv 
 that he needn t die because of his broken bones. Then late in the 
 
 of aX°ng^ e hZ nT Tt e SUrge0 “ fr T Lob don who gave someftlng 
 ot a stiongei hope. The young man s consciousness had come back 
 
 T ? him, and he had expressed an appreciation for brandy and wat^r 
 
 It was this fact which had seemed so promising to yoimg Lord 
 
 Hautboy. On the Saturday there came Mrs. Walker and Miss 
 
 and before the Sunday evening it was told how the patient 
 
 opportunity^ ‘‘I ° f aSain °» the 
 
 opportunity. I always knew he was a brick/’ said Hautbov as 
 
 thing/ ,eated t ie S ° 1X " because he always would ride at every- 
 
2G2 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 “ I don't think he’ll ever ride again at the fence just out of 
 Gimberley Wood,” said Lord Hampstead. They were all able to 
 start on the Monday morning without serious concern, as tho 
 accounts from the injured man’s bed-room were still satisfactory. 
 That he had broken three ribs, a collar-bone, and an arm seemed 
 to be accounted as nothing. Nor was there much made of the 
 scalp wound on his head, which had come from a kick the horse 
 gave him in the struggle. As his brains were still there, that did 
 not much matter. His cheek had been cut open by a stake on 
 which he fell, but the scar, it was thought, would only add to his 
 glories. It was the pressure of the horse which had fallen across 
 his body which the doctors feared. But Hautboy very rightly 
 argued that there couldn’t be much danger, seeing that he had 
 recovered his taste for brandy and water. “ If it wasn’t for that,” 
 said Hautboy, “ I don’t think I’d have gone away and left him.” 
 
 Lord Hampstead found, when he reached home on the Monday 
 morning, that his troubles were not yet over. The housekeeper 
 came out and wept, almost with her arms round his neck. The 
 groom, and the footman, and the gardener, even the cowboy him¬ 
 self, flocked about him, telling stories of the terrible condition in 
 which they had been left after the coming of the Quaker on the 
 Friday evening. “ I didn’t never think I’d ever see my lord again,” 
 said the cook solemnly. “I didn’t a’most hope it,” said the house¬ 
 maid, “ after hearing the Quaker gentleman read it all out of the 
 newspaper.” Lord Hampstead shook hands with them all, and 
 laughed at the misfortune of the false telegram, and endeavoured 
 to be well pleased with everything, but it occurred to him to think 
 what must have been the condition of Mr. Fay’s house that night, 
 when he had come across from Holloway through the darkness 
 and rain to find out for his girl what might be the truth or false¬ 
 hood of the report which had reached him. 
 
 At 3.0 punctually he was in Paradise Eow. Perhaps it was 
 not unnatural that even then his advent should create emotion. 
 As he turned down from the main road the very potboy from “ Tho 
 Duchess ” rushed up to him, and congratulated him on his escape. 
 “ I have had nothing to escape,” said Lord Hampstead, trying to 
 pass on. But Mrs. Grimley saw him, and came out to him. “ Oh, 
 my lord, we are so thankful;—indeed we are.” 
 
 " You are very good, ma’am,” said the lord. 
 
 “ And now, Lord ’Ampstead, mind and be true to that dear 
 young lady who was well-nigh heart-broke when she heard as it 
 were you who was smashed up.” 
 
 He was hurrying on, finding it impossible to make any reply to 
 this, when Miss Demijohn, seeing that Mrs. Grimley had been bold 
 enough to address the noble visitor to their humble street, 
 remembering how much she had personally done in the matter, 
 having her mind full of the important fact that she had been the 
 first to give information on the subject to the Bow generally, 
 thinking that no such appropriate occasion as this would ever 
 again occur for making personal acquaintance with the lord, 
 
NEVER, NEVER TO COME AGAIN. 
 
 2G3 
 
 ruslied out from her own house, and seized the young man’s hand 
 before he was able to defend himself. “ My lord,” she said, “ my 
 lord, we were all so depressed when we heard of it.” 
 
 “ Were you, indeed ? ” 
 
 “ All the Eow was depressed, my lord. But I was the first who 
 knew it. It was I who communicated the sad tidings to Miss Fay. 
 It was, indeed, my lord. I saw it in the Evening Tell-Tale, and 
 went across with the paper at once.” 
 
 “ That was very good of you.” 
 
 “ Thank’ee, my lord. And, therefore, seeing you and knowing 
 you,—for we all know you now^in Paradise Bow-” 
 
 “ Do you now ? ” 
 
 “ Every one of us, my lord. Therefore I thought I’d just make 
 bold to come out and introduce myself. Here’s Mrs. Duffer. I 
 hope you’ll let me introduce you to Mrs. Duffer of No. 17. Mrs. 
 Duffer, Lord Hampstead. And oh, my lord, it will be such an 
 honour to the Eow if anything of that kind should happen.” 
 
 Lord Hampstead, haying with his best grace gone through the 
 ceremony of shaking hands with Mrs.^Duffer, who had come up to 
 him and Clara just at the step of the Quaker’s house, was at last 
 allowed to knock at the door. Miss Fay would be with him in a 
 minute, said the old woman as she showed him into the sitting- 
 room upstairs. 
 
 Marion, as soon as she heard the knock, ran for a moment to 
 her own bed-room. Was it not much to her that he was with her 
 again, not only alive, but uninjured, that she should again hear his 
 voice, and see the light of his countenance, and become aware once 
 more of a certain almost heavenly glory which seemed to surround 
 her when she was in his presence ? She was aware that on such 
 occasions she felt herself to be lifted out of her ordinary prosaic 
 life, and to be for a time floating, as it were, in some upper air; 
 among the clouds, indeed;—alas, yes; but among clouds which 
 were silver-lined; in a heaven which could never be her own, but 
 in which she could dwell, though it were but for an hour or two, in 
 ecstasy,—if only he would allow her to do so without troubling her 
 with further prayer. Then there came across her a thought that 
 if only she could so begin this interview with him that it might 
 seem to be an occasion of special joy,—as though it were a thanks¬ 
 giving because he had come back to her safe,—she might, at any 
 rate for this day, avoid words from him -which might drive her again 
 to refuse his great request. He already knew that she loved him, 
 must know of what value to her must be his life, must understand 
 how this had come at first a terrible, crushing, killing sorrow, and 
 then a relief which by the excess of its joy must have been almost 
 too much for her. Could she not let all that be a thing acknow¬ 
 ledged between them, which might be spoken of as between dearest 
 friends, without any allusion for the present to that request which 
 could never be granted ? 
 
 But he, as he waited 'there a minute or two, was minded to 
 make quite another use of the interview. He was burning to take 
 
264 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 her in his arms as his own, to press his lips to hers and know that 
 she returned his caress, to have the one word spoken which would 
 alone suffice to satisfy the dominating spirit of the man within him. 
 Had she acceded to his request, then his demand would have been 
 that she should at once become his wife, and he would not have 
 rested at peace till he had reduced her months to weeks. He 
 desired to have it all his owm way. He had drawn her into his 
 presence as soon almost as he had seen her. He had forced upon 
 her his love. He had driven her to give him her heart, and to 
 acknowledge that it was so. Of course he must go on with his 
 triumph over her. She must be his altogether, from the crown of 
 her head to the soles of her feet,—and that without delay. His 
 hunting and his yacht, his politics and his friendships, were 
 nothing to him without Marion Fay. When she came into the 
 room, his heart was in sympathy with her, but by no means his 
 miud. 
 
 “My lord,” she said, letting her hand lie willingly between the 
 pressure of his two, “ you may guess w r hat we suffered wdien wo 
 heard the report, and how we felt when we learnt the truth.” 
 
 “ You got my telegram ? I sent it as soon as I began to under¬ 
 stand how foolish the people had been.” 
 
 “ Oh yes, my lord. It was so good of you! ” 
 
 “ Marion, will you do something for me ? ” 
 
 “ What shall I do, my lord ? ” 
 
 “ Don’t call me ‘ my lord.’ ” 
 
 “ But it is proper.” 
 
 “ It is most improper, and abominable, and unnatural.” 
 
 “ Lord Hampstead! ” 
 
 “ I hate it. You and I can understand each other, at any rate.” 
 
 “ I hope so.” 
 
 “ I hate it from everybody. I can’t tell the servants not to do 
 it. They wouldn’t understand me. But from you! It seems 
 always as though you were laughing at me.” 
 
 “ Laugh at you! ” 
 
 “ You^may if you like it. What is it you may not do with me ? 
 If it were really a joke, if you were quizzing, I shouldn’t mind it.” 
 He held her hand the whole time, and she did not attempt to with¬ 
 draw it. What did her hand signify? If she could only so 
 manage with him on that day that he should be satisfied to be 
 happy, and not trouble her with any request! “ Marion,” he said, 
 drawing her towards him. 
 
 “ Sit down, my lord. Well. I won’t. You shan’t be called ' my 
 lord ’ to-day, because I am so happy to see you;—because you have 
 had so great an escape.” 
 
 “ But I didn’t have any escape.” 
 
 ! If only she could keep him in this way! If he would only talk 
 to her about anything but his passion! “It seemed to me so, of 
 course. Father was broken-hearted about it. He was as bad as I. 
 Think of father going down without his tea to Hendon Hall, and 
 driving the poor people there all out of their wits.” 
 
2G5 
 
 NEVER, NEVER TO COME AGAIN. 
 
 “Everybody was out of bis wits.” 
 
 “ I was,” she said, bobbing her head at him. She was just so 
 far from him, she thought, as to be safe from any impetuous move¬ 
 ment. “ And Hannah was nearly as bad.” Hannah was the old 
 woman. “ You may imagine we had a wretched night of it.” 
 
 “ And all about nothing,” said he, falling into her mood in the 
 moment. “ But think of poor Walker.” 
 
 “ Yes, indeed! I suppose he has friends, too, who loved him, as 
 —as some people love you. But he is not going to die ? ” 
 
 “ I hope not. Who is that young woman opposite who rushed 
 out to me in the street? She says she brought you the news 
 first.” 
 
 “ Miss Demijohn.” 
 
 “ Is she a friend of yours ? ” 
 
 “No,” said Marion, blushing as she spoke the word very firmly. 
 
 “ I am rather glad of that, because I didn’t fall in love with her. 
 She introduced me to ever so many of the neighbours. The land¬ 
 lady of the public-house was one, I think.” 
 
 “I am afraid they have offended you among them.” 
 
 “ Not in the least. I never take offence except when I think 
 people mean it. But now, Marion, say one word to me.” 
 
 “ I have said many words. Have I not said nice words ? ” 
 
 “Every word out of your mouth is like music to me. But 
 there is one word which I am dying to hear.” 
 
 “ What word?” she said. She knew that she should not have 
 asked the question, but it was so necessary for her to put off the 
 evil if it were only for a moment. 
 
 “ It is whatever word you may choose to use when you speak to 
 me as my wife. My mother used to call me John; the children 
 call me Jack ; my friends call me Hampstead. Invent something 
 sweet for yourself. I always call you Marion because I love the 
 sound so dearly.” 
 
 “ Every one calls me Marion.” 
 
 * “No! I never did so till I had told myself that, if possible, you 
 should be my own. Do you remember when you poked the fire for 
 me at Hendon Hall ? 
 
 “ I do;—I do. It was wrong of me; was it not;—when I hardly 
 knew you ? ” 
 
 “ It was beyond measure good of you; but I did not dare to 
 call you Marion then, though I knew your name as well as I do 
 now, Marion! I have it here, written all round my heart.” What 
 could she say to a man who spoke to her after this fashion ? It 
 was as though an angel from heaven were courting her! If only 
 she could have gone on listening so that nothing further should 
 come of it! “ Find some name for me, and tell me that it shall be 
 written round your heart.” 
 
 “ Indeed it is. You know it is, Lord Hampstead.” 
 
 “ But what name ? ” 
 
 “ Your friend ;—your friend of friends.” 
 
 “ It will not do. It is cold.” 
 
2GG 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 “ Then it is untrue to her from whom it comes. Do you think 
 that my friendship is cold for you ? ” 
 
 She had turned towards him, and was sitting before him with 
 her face looking into his, with her hands clasped as though in 
 assurance of her truth;—when suddenly he had her in his arms 
 and had pressed his lips to hers. In a moment she was standing 
 in the middle of the room. Though he was strong, her strength 
 was sufficient for her. “ My lord ! ” she exclaimed. 
 
 “ Ah, you are angry with me ? ” 
 
 “ My lord, my lord,—I did not think you would treat me like 
 that.” 
 
 “ But, Marion; do you not love me?” 
 
 “ Have I not told you that I do ? Have I not been true and 
 honest to you ? Do you not know it all ? ” But in truth he did 
 not know it all. “ And now I must bid you never, never to come 
 
 again.” 
 
 “But I shall come. I will come. I will come always. You 
 will not cease to love me ? ” 
 
 “ No;—not that—I cannot do that. But you must not come. 
 You have done that which makes me ashamed of myself.” At that 
 moment the door was opened, and Mrs. Boden came into the room. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIII, 
 
 DI CEINOLA. 
 
 The reader must submit to have himself carried back some weeks,— 
 to those days early in January, when Mrs. Boden called upon her 
 son to accompany her to Italy. Indeed, he must be carried back a 
 long way beyond that; but the time during which he need be so 
 detained shall be short. A few pages will suffice to tell so much of 
 the early life of this lady as will be necessary to account for her 
 residence in Paradise Bow. 
 
 Mary Boden, the lady whom we have known as Mrs. Boden, was 
 left an orphan at the age of fifteen, her mother having died when 
 she was little more than an infant. Her father was an Irish clergy¬ 
 man with no means of his own but what he secured from a small 
 living; but his wife had inherited money amounting to about 
 eight thousand pounds, and this had descended to Mary when her 
 father died. The girl was then taken in charge by a cousin of her 
 own, a lady ten years her senior who had lately married, and whom 
 we have since met as Mrs. Vincent, living at Wimbledon. Mr. 
 Vincent had been well connected and w T ell-to-do in the world, and 
 till he died the household in which Mary Boden had been brought 
 up had been luxurious as well as comfortable. Nor did Mr. Vin¬ 
 cent die till after his wife’s cousin had found a husband for herself. 
 Soon afterwards he was gathered to his fathers, leaving to his 
 widow a comfortable, but not more than a comfortable, income. 
 
DI ClilNOLA. 
 
 2(j7 
 
 The year before his death he and his wife had gone into Italy 
 rather on account of his health than far pleasure, and had thci* 
 settled themselves at Verona for a winter,—a winter which even¬ 
 tually stretched itself into nearly a year, at the close of which Mr. 
 Vincent died. But before that event took place Mary Boden had 
 become a wife. 
 
 At Verona, at first at the house of her own cousin,—which was 
 of course her own home,—and afterwards in the society of the place 
 to which the Vincents had been made welcome,—Mary met a young 
 man who was known to all the world as the Duca di Crinola. No 
 young man more beautiful to look at, more charming in manners, 
 more ready in conversation, was then known in those parts of Italy 
 than this young nobleman. In addition to these good gifts, he was 
 supposed to have in his veins the very best blood in all Europe. 
 It was declared on his behalf that he was related to the Bourbons 
 and to the Hapsburgh family. Indeed there was very little of the 
 best blood which Europe had produced in the last dozen centuries 
 of which some small proportion was not running in his veins. He 
 was, too, the eldest son of his father, who, though he possessed the 
 most magnificent palace in Verona, had another equally magnifi¬ 
 cent in Venice, in which it suited him to live with his Duchessa. 
 As the old nobleman did not come often to Verona, and as the 
 young nobleman never went to Venice, the father and son did not 
 see much of each other, an arrangement which was supposed to 
 have its own comforts, as the young man was not disturbed in the 
 possession of his hotel, and as the old man was reported in Verona 
 generally to be arbitrary, hot-tempered, and tyrannical. It was 
 therefore said of the young Duke by his friends that he was nearly 
 as well off as though he had no father at all. 
 
 But there were other things in the history of the young Duke 
 which, as they became known to the Vincents, did not seem to be 
 altogether so charming. Though of all the palaces in Verona that 
 in which he lived was by far the most beautiful to look at from the 
 outside, it was not supposed to be furnished in a manner conform¬ 
 able to its external appearance. It was, indeed, declared that the 
 rooms were for the most part bare; and the young Duke never 
 gave the lie to these assertions by throwing them open to his friends. 
 It was said of him also that his income was so small and so pre¬ 
 carious that it amounted almost to nothing, that the cross old Duke 
 at Venice never allowed him a shilling, and that he had done every¬ 
 thing in his power to destroy the hopes of a future inheritance. 
 Nevertheless, he was beautiful to look at in regard to his outward 
 attire, and could hardly have been better dressed had he been able 
 to pay his tailor and shirt-maker quarterly. And he was a man of 
 great accomplishments, who could talk various languages, who 
 could paint, and model, and write sonnets, and dance to perfection. 
 And he could talk of virtue, and in some sort seem to believe in 
 it,—though he would sometimes confess of himself that Nature had 
 not endowed him with the strength necessary for the performance 
 01 all the good things which he so thoroughly appreciated. 
 
•20S 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 Sncli as lie was lie entirely gained the affection of Mary Roden 
 It is unnecessary here to tell the efforts that were made by Mrs* 
 Vincent to prevent the marriage. Had she been less austere she 
 might, perhaps, have prevailed with the girl. But as she began by 
 pointing out to her cousin the horror of giving herself, who had 
 been born and bred a Protestant, to a Roman Catholic,—and also of 
 bestowing her English money upon an Italian,—all that she said 
 was without effect. The state of Mr. Vincent’s health made it 
 impossible for them to move, or Mary might perhaps have been 
 earned back to England. When she was told that the man was 
 poor, she declared that there was so much the more reason why her 
 money should be given to relieve the wants of the man she loved 
 It ended in their being married, and all that Mr. Vincent was able 
 to accomplish was to see that the marriage ceremony should be 
 performed after the fashion both of the Church of England and of 
 the Church of Rome. Mary at the time was more thantwenty-one 
 and was thus able, with all the romance of girlhood, to pour her 
 eight thousand pounds into the open hands of her thrice-noble and 
 thrice-beautiful lover. 
 
 The Duchino with his young Duchessina went their way re¬ 
 joicing, and left poor Mr. Vincent to die at Verona. Twelve months 
 afterwards the widow had settled herself at the house at Wimble¬ 
 don, from which she had in latter years paid her weekly visits to 
 Paradise Row, and tidings had come from the young wife which 
 were not altogether satisfactory. The news, indeed, which declared 
 that a young little Duke had been born to her was accompanied by 
 expressions of joy which the other surrounding incidents of her life 
 were not permitted at the moment altogether to embitter Her 
 baby, her well-born beautiful baby, was for a few months allowed 
 do be a joy to her, even though things were otherwise very sorrow¬ 
 ful. But things were very sorrowful. The old Duke and the old 
 Duchess would not acknowledge her. Then she learned that the 
 quarrel between the father and son had been carried to such a 
 pitch that no hope of reconciliation remained. Whatever was left 
 of family property was gone as far as any inheritance on the part 
 of the elder son was concerned. He had himself assisted in making- 
 over to a second brother all right that he possessed in the pro- 
 perty belonging to the family. Then tidings of horror accumu 
 lated itself upon her and her baby. Then came tidings that her 
 husband had been already married when he first met her —which 
 tidings did not reach her till he had left her alone, somewhere up 
 among the Lakes, for an intended absence of three days After 
 that day she never saw him again. The next she heard* of him 
 was from Italy, from whence he wrote to her to tell her that she 
 was an angel, and that he, devil as he was, was not fit to appear 
 m her presence. Other things had occurred during the fifteen 
 months m which they had lived together to make her believe at 
 any rate the truth of this last statement. It was not that she 
 <ceased to love him, but that she knew that he was not fit to bo 
 loved. WTien a woman is bad a man can generally get quit of her 
 
DI CRINOLA. 
 
 2C9' 
 
 from his heartstrings; but a 'woman has no such remedy. She 
 can continue to love the dishonoured one without dishonour to 
 herself,—and does so. 
 
 Among other misfortunes was the loss of all her money. There 
 she was, in the little villa .on the side of the lake, with no income,— 
 and with statements floating about her that she had not, and never 
 had had, a husband. It might well be that after that she should 
 caution Marion Fay as to the imprudence of an exalted marriage. 
 But there came to her assistance, if not friendship and love, in the 
 midst of her misfortunes. Her brother-in-law-if she had a hus¬ 
 band or a brother-in-law, came to her from the old Duke with 
 teims of surrender; and there came also a man of business, a 
 lawyer from Venice, to make good the terms if they should be 
 accepted Though money was very scarce with the family or the 
 power of raising money, still such was the feeling of the old noble¬ 
 man m her misfortunes that the entire sum which had been given 
 up to his eldest son should be restored to trustees for her use and 
 for the benefit of her baby, on condition that she should leave Italy 
 and consent to drop the title of the Di Crinola family. As to that 
 question of a former marriage, the old lawyer declared that he was 
 unable to give any certain information. The reprobate had no 
 doubt gone through some form of a ceremony with a girl of low 
 birth at Venice. It very probably was not a marriage. The young 
 Duchmo, the brother, declared his belief that there had been nS 
 such marriage. But she, should she cling to the name, could not 
 make her title good to it without obtaining proofs which they had 
 not been able to find. No doubt she could call herself Duchess 
 Had she means at command she might probably cause herself to be 
 received as such. But no property would thus be affected,—nor 
 
 hv 0l lil mi tlle /° UnSe J s ? n L° f his ri 8’ ht t0 cal1 himself also 
 
 by the title. Tne offer made to her was not ungenerous. The 
 
 family owed her nothing, but were willing to sacrifice nearly half 
 
 of all they had with the object of restoring to her the money of 
 
 which the profligate had robbed her,-which he had been enabled 
 
 to take from her by ner own folly and credulity. In this terrible 
 
 emergency oi her life, Mrs. A mcent sent over to her a solicitor from 
 
 London, between whom and the Italian man of business a bargain 
 
 was struck The young wife undertook to drop her husband’s 
 
 name, and to drop it also on behalf of her boy. Then the eight 
 
 t lousand pounds was repaid, and Mrs. Boden, as she afterwards 
 
 called herself, went back to Wimbledon and to England with her 
 Da by. 
 
 So far the hfe of George Boden’s mother had been most un¬ 
 fortunate. After that, for a period of sixteen years time went with 
 her, if not altogether, happily, at least quietly and comfortably 
 Then there came a.subject of disruption. George Boden took upon 
 himself to have opinions of his own; and would not hold his peace 
 m the presence of Mrs. Vincent, to whom those opinions were most 
 unacceptable. And they were the more unacceptable because the 
 mothei s tone of mind had always taken something of the bent 
 
-270 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 which appeared so strongly afterwards in her son. George at any 
 rate could not he induced to be silent; nor,—which was worse,— 
 could he after reaching his twentieth year be made to go to church 
 with that regularity which was necessary for the elder lady’s peace 
 of mind. He at this time had achieved for himself a place in the 
 office ruled over by our friend Sir Boreas, and had in this way 
 become so much of a man as to be entitled to judge for himself. 
 In this way there had been no quarrel between Mrs. Yincent and 
 Mrs. Boden, but there had come a condition of things in which it 
 had been thought expedient that they should live apart. Mrs. 
 Eoden had therefore taken for herself a house in Paradise Eow, 
 and those weekly inter-visitings had been commenced between her 
 and her cousin. 
 
 Such had been the story of Mrs. Boden’s life, till tidings were 
 received in England that her husband was dead. The information 
 had been sent to Mrs. Vincent by the younger son of the late old 
 Duke, who was now a nobleman well known in the political life of 
 his own country. He had stated that, to the best of his belief, his 
 brother’s first union had not been a legal marriage. He thought it 
 right, he had said, to make this statement, and to say that as far as 
 he was concerned he was willing to withdraw that compact upon 
 which his father had insisted. If his sister-in-law wished to call 
 herself by the name and title of Di Crinola, she might do so. Or if 
 the young man of whom he spoke as his nephew wished to be known 
 as Duca di Crinola he would raise no objection. But it must be 
 remembered that he had nothing to offer to his relative but the 
 barren tender of the name. He himself had succeeded to but very 
 little, and that which he possessed had not been taken from his 
 brother. 
 
 Then there were sundry meetings between Mrs. Yincent and 
 Mrs. Eoden, at wdiich it was decided that Mrs. Eoden should go to 
 Italy with her son. Her brother-in-law had been courteous to her, 
 and had offered to receive her if she would come. Should she wish 
 to use the name of Di Crinola, he had promised that she should be 
 called by it in his house; so that the world around might know 
 that she w T as recognized by him and his wife and children. She 
 determined that she would at any rate make the journey, and that 
 the would take her son with her. 
 
 George Eoden had hitherto learnt nothing of his father or his 
 family. In the many consultations held between his mother and 
 Mrs. Yincent it had been decided that it would be better to keep 
 him in the dark. Why fill his young imagination with the glory 
 of a great title in order that he might learn at last, as might too 
 probably be the case, that he had no right to the name,—no right 
 to consider himself even to be his father’s son ? She, by her folly, 
 —so she herself acknowledged,—had done all that was possible to 
 annihilate herself as a woman. There was no name which she 
 could give to her son as certainly as her own. This, which had 
 been hers before she had been allured into a mock marriage, would 
 at any rate not be disputed. And thus he had been kept in ignor- 
 
DI CItINOLA. 
 
 271 
 
 ance of his mother’s story. Of course he had asked. It was no 
 more than natural that he should ask. But when told that it was 
 for his mother’s comfort that he should ask no more, he had assented 
 with that reticence which was peculiar to him. Then chance had 
 thrown him into friendship with the young English nobleman, and 
 the love of Lady Frances Trafford had followed. 
 
 Ilis mother, when he consented to accompany her, had almost 
 promised him that all mysteries should be cleared up between them 
 before their return. In the train, before they reached Airis, a 
 question was asked and an answer given which served to Yell much 
 of the truth. As they came down to breakfast that morning, earlv 
 m the dark January morning, he observed that his mother was 
 dressed in deep mourning. It had always been her custom to 
 wear black raiment. He could not remember that he had ever 
 seen on her a coloured dress, or even a bright ribbon. And she 
 "was not now dressed quite as is a widow immediately on the death 
 of her husband. It was now a quarter of a century since she had 
 seen the man who had so ill-used her. According to the account 
 which she had received, it was twelve months at least since he had 
 died in one of the Grecian islands. The full weeds of a mourning 
 widow would ill have befitted her condition of mind, or her imme¬ 
 diate purpose. But yet there was a speciality of blackness in her 
 garments which told him that she had dressed herself with a pur¬ 
 pose as of mourning. “ Mother,” he said to her in the train, “ you 
 are in mourning,—as for a friend ? ” Then when she paused he 
 asked again, “ May I not be told for whom it is done ? Am I not 
 right in saying that it is so ? ” 
 
 " It is so, George.” 
 
 “ For whom, then ? ” 
 
 They two were alone in the carriage, and why should his ques¬ 
 tion not be answered now ? But it had come to pass that there 
 was a horror to her in mentioning the name of his father to him. 
 “ George,” she said, “ it is more than twenty-five years since I saw 
 your father.” 
 
 “ Is he dead-only now ? ” 
 
 “ It is only now,—only the other day—that I have heard of his 
 death.” 
 
 “ Why should not I also be in black ? ” 
 
 “ I had not thought of it. But you never saw him since he had 
 you in his arms as a baby. You cannot mourn for him in heart.” 
 
 “ Do you ? ” 
 
 “ It is hard to say for what we mourn sometimes. Of course I 
 loved him once. There is still present to me a memory of what I 
 loved,—of the man who won my heart by such gifts as belonged to 
 him; and for that I mourn. He was beautiful and clever, and he 
 charmed me. It is hard to say sometimes for what we mourn.” 
 
 “ Was he a foreigner, mother ? ” 
 
 “ Yes, George. He was an Italian. You shall know it all soon 
 now. But do not you mourn. To you no memories are left. Were 
 it not for the necessity of the present moment, no idea of a father 
 
272 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 should ever be presented to you” She vouchsafed to tell him 
 no more at that moment, and he pressed her with no further 
 questions. 
 
 CHAPTEB XLIY. 
 
 “ I WILL COME BACK AS I WENT.” 
 
 While Lord Hampstead’s party were at Gorse Hall, some weeks 
 before poor Walker’s accident, there came a letter from George 
 Boden to Lady Frances, and she, when she reached Hendon Hall, 
 found a second. Both these letters, or parts of them, shall be here 
 given, as they will tell all that need be added to what is already 
 known of the story of the man, and will explain to the reader the 
 cause and manner of action which he adopted. 
 
 “ Rome, 
 
 “ January 30th, 18 —. 
 
 ‘'Dearest Fanny, 
 
 “I wonder whether it will seem as odd to you to 
 receive a letter from me written at Borne as it is to me to write it. 
 Our letters hitherto have been very few in number, and have only 
 declared that in spite of obstacles we shall always love each other. 
 I have never before had anything in truth to tell you; but now 
 I have so much that I do not know how to begin or how to go on 
 with it. But it must be written, as there is much that will interest 
 you as my dearest friend, and much also that will concern yourself 
 should you ever become my wife. It may be that a point will 
 arise as to which you and your friends,—your father, for instance, 
 and your brother,—will feel yourselves entitled to have a voice in 
 deciding. It may be quite possible that your judgment, or, at any 
 rate, that of your friends, may differ from my own. Should it be 
 so I cannot say that I shall be prepared to yield; but I will, at any 
 rate, enable you to submit the case to them with all fairness. 
 
 “ I have told you more than once how little I have known of 
 my own family,—that I have known indeed nothing. My mother 
 has seemed to me to be perversely determined not to tell me all 
 that which I will acknowledge I have thought that I ought to 
 know. But with equal perversity I have refrained from asking- 
 questions on a subject of which I think I should have been told 
 everything without questioning. And I am a man 'not curious 
 by nature as to the past. I am more anxious as to what I may 
 do myself than as to what others of my family may have done 
 before me. 
 
 “ When, however, my mother asked me to go with her to Italy,, 
 it was manifest that her journey had reference to her former life. 
 1 knew from circumstances which could not be hidden from me,— 
 from her knowledge, for instance, of Italian, and from some relics 
 which remained to her of her former life,—that she had lived for 
 

 
 I WILL COME BACK AS I WENT” 
 
 273 
 
 some period in this country. As my place of birth had never been 
 mentioned to me I could not but guess that I had been born in 
 Italy, and when I found that I was going there I felt certain that 
 J must learn some portion of the story of which I had been kept 
 in ignoiance. Now I have learnt it all as far as my poor mother 
 know s it herself; and as it will concern you to know it too I must 
 endeavour to explain to you all the details. Dearest Fanny I do 
 trust that when you have heard them you will think neither worse 
 of me on that account,—nor better. It is as to the latter that I am 
 really in fear. I wish to believe that no chance attribute could 
 make me stand higher in your esteem than I have come to stand 
 already by my own personal character.” 
 
 Then he tolcl her,—not, perhaps, quite so fully as the reader 
 has heard it told in the last chapter,—the story of his mother’s 
 marriage and of his own birth. Before they had reached Borne, 
 where the Duca di Crinola at present lived, and where he was at 
 present a member of the Italian Cabinet, the mother had told her 
 son all that she knew, having throughout the telling of the story 
 unconsciously manifested to him her own desire to remain in 
 obscurity, and to bear the name which had been hers for five-and- 
 twenty years; but at the same time so to manage that he should 
 return to England bearing the title to which by his birth she 
 believed him to be entitled. When in discussing this he explained 
 to her that it would be still necessary for him to earn his bread as 
 * a clerk in the Post Office in spite of his high-sounding nobility and 
 explained to her the absurdity of his sitting in Mr. Jerning ham’s 
 room at the desk with young Crocker, and calling himself at the 
 same time the Duca di Crinola, she in her arguments exhibited a 
 weakness which he had hardly expected from her. She spoke 
 vaguely, but with an assurance of personal hope, of Lady Frances 
 of Lord Hampstead, of the Marquis of Kingsbury, and of Lord 
 Persiflage,—as though by the means of these noble personages the 
 Duca* di Crinola might be able to live in idleness. Of all this Boden 
 could say nothing in this first letter to Lady Frances. But it was 
 to this that he alluded when he hoped that she would not think 
 better of him because of the news which he sent her. 
 
 “ At present,” he wrote, continuing his letter after the telling 
 °* .k e are staying with my uncle, as I presume I am 
 
 entitled to call him. He is very gracious, as also are his wife and 
 the young ladies who are my cousins; but I think that he is as 
 anxious as I am tliat there should bo no acknowledged, branch 
 of the family senior to his own. He is Duca di Crinola to all Italy, 
 and will remain so whether I assume the title or not. Were I to 
 take the name, and to remain in Italy,—which is altogether 
 impossible,—I should be nobody. He who has made for himself 
 a great position, and apparently has ample means, would not in 
 truth be affected. But I am sure that he would not wish it. He 
 is actuated by a sense of honesty, but he certainly has no desire to 
 be incommoded by relatives who would, as regards the familv 
 claim to be superior to himself. My dearest mother wishes to 
 
 T 
 
271 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 behave well to him, wishes to sacrifice herself; but is, I fear, above 
 all things, anxious to procure for her son the name and title which 
 Ills fat~h ov bore. 
 
 “ As for myself, you will, I think, already have perceived that 
 it is my desire to remain as 1 was when last I saw you, and to bo 
 ag qyQV 
 
 “ Yours, most affectionately, 
 
 “ George Roden.” 
 
 Lady Frances was, as may be imagined, much startled at the 
 receipt of this letter startled, and also pleased. Though she had 
 always declared to herself that she was in every respect satisfied 
 with her lover from the Post Office, though she had been sure that 
 she had never wanted him to be other than he was, still, when she 
 heard of that fine-sounding name, there did for a moment come 
 upon her an idea that, for his sake, it might be well that he should 
 have the possession of all that his birth had done for him. But 
 when she came to understand the meaning of his words, as she did 
 on the second or third reading of his letter,—when she discovered 
 what he meant by saying that he hoped she would not think better 
 of him by reason of what he was telling her, when she understood 
 the purport of the manner in which he signed his name, sho 
 resolved that in every respect she would think as he thought and 
 act as he wished her to act. Whatever might be the name which % 
 he might be pleased to give her, with that would she be contented, 
 nor would she be led by any one belonging to her to ask him to 
 change his purpose. 
 
 For two days she kept the letter by her unanswered, and 
 without speaking of it to anybody. Then she showed it to her 
 brother, exacting from him a promise that he should not speak of 
 it to any one without her j)ermission. “ It is George’s secret,” she 
 said, “ and I am sure you will see that I have no right to disclose 
 it. I tell you because he would do so if he were here.” Her 
 brother was willing enough to make the promise, which would of 
 course be in force only till he and Roden should see each other; but 
 he could not be brought to agree with his sister as to his friend’s 
 view of the position. 
 
 “ He may have what fancies he pleases about titles,” he said, 
 “ as may I; but I do not think that he would be justified in 
 repudiating his father’s name. I feel it a burden and an absurdity 
 to be born to be an earl and a marquis, but I have to put up with 
 it; and, though my reason and political feeling on the matter tell 
 me that it is a burden and an absurdity, yet the burden is easily 
 borne, and the absurdity does not annoy me much. There is a 
 gratification in being honoured by those around you, though your 
 conscience may be twinged that you yourself have done nothing 
 to deserve it. It will be so with him if he takes his position hero 
 as an Italian nobleman.” 
 
 “ But he would still have to be a clerk in the Post Office.” 
 
 “ Probably not.” 
 
ALL TILE WORLD KNOWS IT. 2 5 
 
 t Tu?^° Se somethrag will have to bo done as to an income 
 Llwddythlw seems to think that he ought to get into Parliament 
 At least that is what he said to papa the other day • for I have not 
 seen him myself for ever so long 1 He calls in the Square every 
 Sunday just as we have done lunch, and never remains abovVTJo 
 minutes Last Sunday we had not heard of this glorious news ■ but 
 papa did see him one day at the House, and that vas what he’said 
 
 and°T don’t CwaS HoUse ^ * «» Itedicm I)uke 
 
 might be employed in some diplomatic position by hfs own Govern 6 
 ment; but I should think that 
 
 him,' as he has so much at his own disposition. Every acre of the 
 .feiionetli property is settled upon,—well,—whoever may happen 
 to be the next heir. There will sure to be an income There 
 cl ways is. Papa says that the young dukes are always as well off 
 at any rate, as the young ravens. y on > 
 
 with Btoon 9 1 H d f W 0re ’ 7 hat does aI ! this si 8 Dif y in comparison 
 
 from ihi Vilf T k0 po ? ition ’ m y dear > ^ «««««• 
 
 HfZfJfSr u h [ 1 bad es P ected - You would have kept your 
 title no doubt; but where would he have been ? 1 y 
 
 L wonder whether you will be married now before August T 
 
 uppose not, because it doesn’t seem to be quite certain when that 
 
 Wicked papa of his died; but I do hope that you won’t. A day at 
 
 bSore^I oiYl’flavfri 01 ' f’~ the 20thof Au Snst, when, as I told you 
 
 as to t^ S nt r !“ away after the ceremony so 
 
 as 7 tiaYe J. ah night and open something the next moraine- nf 
 
 Aberdeen I mention it now, because you'will be the most 
 
 ^narlcable of all my bevy of twenty. Of course /out name wd 
 
 Thlt i 6e “ “ H e b P ? PerS bef ° r ? that aS the futm ' e kalian Z&rfff 
 inat 1 own will be to me a just cause of pride. I think I havp ovu 
 
 ray bevy all fixed at last, and I do hope that none of them will get 
 
 named before my day. That has happened so often as to be quite 
 
 heart-breaking. I shall cry if I find that you are to be married St 
 
 " Believe me to be 
 
 “ Your most affectionate friend and cousin, 
 
 “ Amaldina.” 
 
 She wrote also to her future husband on the same subject 
 t( Dearest Llwddythlw, 
 
 ™-n ^ Was very 9 ? od ° f ^ on to come last Sunday, but I wish 
 
 g Ti aWay Just because tilG Glraiseburys were there. 
 Ihey would not have eaten you, though he is a Liberal. 
 
 i 1 hav ®,'^ r hten to Fanny Trafford to congratulate her ; because 
 
 Thofwnf +* , 1S 1 f ! fter ali better than being a mere Post Office clerk . 
 That yas terrible;—so bad that one hardly knew how to mention 
 
 5S T m . ! u WheU P e °P le talked about I really Z 
 f that I blushed all over. One can mention her name now 
 because people are not supposed to know that he has got nothing. 
 Nevertheless, it is very dreadful. What on earth are they to live on? 
 
C86 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 
 I have told her about the young ravens. It was papa who said 
 that when he first heard of this Di Crinola affair. I suppose a girl 
 ought to trust in Providence when she marries a man without a 
 shilling. That was what papa meant. 
 
 “ Papa says that you said that he ought to go into Parliament. 
 But what would he get by that? Perhaps as he is in the Post 
 Office they might make him Postmaster-General. Only papa says 
 that if he were to go into Parliament, then he could not call himself 
 Duca di Crinola. Altogether it seems to be very sad ,—though not 
 quite so sad as before. It is true that one of the Di Crinolas 
 married a Bourbon , and that others of them have married ever so 
 many royalties. I think there ought to be a law for giving such 
 people something to live upon out of the taxes. IIow are they to be 
 expected to live upon nothing ? I asked papa whether he couldn’t 
 get it done; but he said it would be a money bill, and that you 
 ought to take it up. Pray don’t, for fear it should take you all 
 August. I know you wouldn’t have a scruple about putting off 
 _your own little affair, if anything of that kind were to come in the 
 "way. 1 believe you'd like it. 
 
 “ Do stop a little longer when you come on Sunday. I have ever 
 so many things to say to you. And if you can think of anything to 
 be done for those poor Di Crinolas, anything that won’t take up all 
 August,—pray do it. 
 
 “ Your own, 
 
 “ Amy.” 
 
 One more letter shall be given; the answer, namely, to the 
 above, from the lover to his future bride:— 
 
 “ Dear Amy, 
 
 “ I’ll be at the Square on Sunday by three. I will walk 
 out if you like, but it is always raining. I have to meet five or six 
 conservative members later on in the afternoon as to the best thing 
 to be done as to Mr. Green’s Bill for lighting London by electricity. 
 It would suit everybody; but some of our party, I am afraid, would 
 go with them, and the Government is very shilly-shally. I have 
 been going into the figures, and it has taken me all the week. 
 Otherwise I would have been to see you. 
 
 “This Di Crinola affair is quite a romance. I did not mean 
 that he ought to go into the House by way of getting an income. 
 If he takes up the title of course he could not do so. If he takes it, 
 he must regard himself as an Italian. I should think him 
 quite as respectable, earning his bread as a clerk in a public office. 
 They tell me he’s a high-spirited fellow. If he is, that is what he 
 will do. 
 
 “ Yours affectionately, 
 
 “ Llwddythlw.” 
 
 When Lord Persiflage spoke of the matter to Baron d’Osse, the 
 Italian Minister in London, the Baron quite acknowledged the 
 
 5 
 
— 
 
 ■ "" 
 
 I 
 
 “I WILL COME BACK AS 1 WENT.” 275 
 
 “ But bow would lie live ? ” asked Lady Frances. 
 
 “ The governor, you would find, would look upon him in a much 
 more favourable light than he does at present.” 
 
 “ That would be most unreasonable/’ 
 
 “ Not at all. It is not unreasonable that a Marquis of Kingsbury 
 should be unwilling to give his daughter to George Eoden, a clerk 
 in the Post Office,—but that he should be willing to give her to a 
 Duca di Crinola.” & & 
 
 “ What has that to do with earning money ? ” 
 
 “ The governor would probably find an income in one case, and 
 not in the other. I do not quite say that it ought to be so, but it 
 is not unreasonable that it should be so.” Then Lady Frances 
 said a great deal as to that pride in her lover which would not 
 allow him to accept such a position as that which was now sug¬ 
 gested. 
 
 There was a long discussion on the subject. Her brother ex¬ 
 plained to her how common it was for noblemen of high birth to 
 live]on means provided by.their wives’ fortunes, and how uncommon 
 it was that men born to high titles should consent to serve as clerks 
 in a public office. But his common sense had no effect upon his 
 sister, who ended the conversation by exacting from him a renewed 
 assurance of secrecy. “I won’t say a word till he comes,” said 
 Hampstead; “ but you may be sure that a story like that will be all 
 over London before he does come.” 
 
 Lady Frances of course answered her lover’s letter; but of what 
 she said it is only necessary that the reader should know that she 
 promised that in all things she would be entirely guided by his 
 wishes. 
 
 Then came his second letter to her, dated on the day on which 
 poor Walker had nearly been crushed to death. “ I am so glad 
 that you agree with me,” he wrote. “ Since my last letter to you 
 everything here has been decided as far as I can decide it,—or, 
 indeed, as far as any of us can do so. There can, I think, be no 
 doubt as to the legality of my mother’s marriage. My uncle is of 
 the same opinion, and points out to me that were I to claim my 
 father’s name no one would attempt to dispute it. He alone could 
 do so,—or rather would be the person to do so if it were done. He 
 would make no such attempt, and would himself present me to the 
 King here as the Duca di Crinola if I chose to remain and to accept 
 the position. But I certainly will not do so. I should in the first 
 place be obliged to give up my nationality. I could not live in 
 England bearing an Italian title, except as an Italian. I do not 
 know that as an Italian I should be forced to give up my place in 
 the Post Office. Foreigners, I believe, are employed in the Civil 
 Service.. But there would be an absurdity in it which to me would 
 be specially annoying. I could not live under such a weight of 
 ridicule. Nor could I live in any position in which some meagre 
 income might be found for me because of my nobility. No such 
 income would be forthcoming here. I can imagine that your father 
 might make a provision for a poor son-in-law with a grand title 
 
270 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 He ought not to do so, according to my ideas, but it might bo 
 possible that he should find himself persuaded to such weakness. 
 But I could not accept it. I should not be above taking money 
 with my wife, if it happened to come in my way, provided that I 
 were earning an income myself to the best of my ability. For her sake 
 I should do what might be best for her. But not even for your sake, 
 
 .—if you wished it, as I know you do not,—could I consent to hang 
 about the world in idleness as an Italian duke without a shilling 
 of my own. Therefore, my darling, I purpose to come back as I 
 went, 
 
 “ Your own, 
 
 “ George Eoden. 
 
 * f Clerk in the Post Office, and entitled to consider myself 
 as being on ‘ H.M.S.’ when at work from ten till four.” 
 
 This letter reached Lady Frances at Hendon Hall on the return 
 of herself and her brother from Gorse Hall. But before that time 
 the prophecy uttered by Lord Hampstead as to the story being all 
 over London had already been in part fulfilled. Vivian during 
 their hunting weeks at Gorse Hall had been running continually 
 up and down from London, where his work as private secretary to 
 the Secretary of State had been, of course, most constant and 
 important. He had, nevertheless, managed to have three days a 
 week in Northamptonshire, explaining to his friends in London 
 that he did it by sitting up all night in the country, to his friends 
 in the country that he sat up all night in town. There arc some 
 achievements which are never done in the presence of those who 
 hear of them. Catching salmon is one, and working all night is 
 another. Vivian, however, managed to do what was required of 
 him, and to enjoy his hunting at the same time. 
 
 On his arrival at Gorse Hall the day before the famous 
 accident he had a budget of news of which he was very full, but of 
 which he at first spoke only to Hampstead. He could not, at any 
 rate, speak of it in the presence of Lady Frances. “ You have 
 heard this, haven’t you, about George Eoden ? ” he asked, as soon 
 as he could get Lord Hampstead to himself. 
 
 “ Heard what about George Eoden ? ” asked the other, who, of 
 course, had heard it all. 
 
 “ The Italian title.” 
 
 “ What about an Italian title ? ” 
 
 “ But have you heard it ? ” 
 
 “ I have heard something. What have you heard ? ” 
 
 " George Eoden is in Italy.” 
 
 “ Unless he has left it. He has been there, no doubt.” 
 
 “ And his mother.” Hampstead nodded his head. “ I suppose 
 you do know all about it ? ” 
 
 “ I want to know what you know. What I have heard has 
 come to me as a secret. Your story can probably be divulged.” 
 
 “ I don’t know that. We are apt to be pretty close as to what 
 we hear at the Foreign Office. But this didn’t come as specially 
 
“I WILL COME BACK AS I WENT ” 
 
 277 
 
 private. I’ve had a letter from Muscati, a very good fellow in the 
 Foreign Office there, who had in some way heard your name as 
 connected with Boden.” 
 
 “ That is very likely.” 
 
 “ And your sister’s,” said Vivian in a whisper. 
 
 “ That is likely too. Men talk about anything now-a-days.” 
 
 “ Lord Persiflage has heard direct from Italy. He is interested 
 of course, as being brother-in-law to Lady Kingsbury.” 9 
 
 “ But what have they heard ? ” 
 
 “ It seems that Boden isn’t an Englishman at all.” 
 
 That will be as he likes, I take it. He has lived here as an 
 Englishman for five-and-twenty years.” 
 
 “ But of course he’ll prefer to be an Italian,” said Vivian. " It 
 turns out that he is heir to one of the oldest titles in Italy. You 
 have heard of the Ducas di Crinola ? ” 
 
 “ I have heard of them now.” 
 
 “One of them is Minister of Education in the present Cabinet 
 and is likely to be the Premier. But he isn’t the head of the family' 
 and he isn t leally the Duca di Crinola. He is called so, of course. 
 But lie isn’t the head of the family. George Boden is the real Duca 
 di Crinola. I thought there must be something special about the 
 man when your sister took such a fancy to him.” 
 
 . “ I always thought there was something special about him,” 
 said Hampstead; “ otherwise I should hardly have liked him so 
 well.” 
 
 “ So I. He always seemed to be,—to me,—just one of our¬ 
 selves, you know. A fellow doesn’t come out like that unless he’s 
 somebody. You Badicals may say what you please, but silk purses 
 don’t get made out of sow’s ears. Nobody stands up for blood less 
 than I do; but, by George, it always shows itself. You wouldn’t 
 think Crocker was heir to a dukedom.” 
 
 “ Upon my word, I don’t know. I have a great respect for 
 Crocker.” 
 
 “ And now what’s to be done ? ” asked Vivian. 
 
 “ How done ? ” 
 
 “ About Di Crinola ? Lord Persiflage says that he can’t remain 
 in the Post Office.” 
 
 “ Why not ? ” 
 
 “ I’m afraid he doesn’t come in for much ? ” 
 
 “ Not a shilling.” 
 
 “ Lord Persiflage thinks that something should be done for him. 
 But it is so hard. . It should be done in Italy, you know. I should 
 think that they might make him extra Secretary of Legation, so as 
 to leave him here. But then they have such a small salary! ” As 
 the story of George Boden’s birth was thus known to all the 
 Foreign Office, it was probable that Hampstead’s prophecy would 
 be altogether fulfilled. 
 
278 
 
 MA Ft ION FAY. 
 
 CHAPTER XLY. 
 
 TEUE TIDINGS. 
 
 The Foreign Office, from top to bottom, was very much moved on 
 the occasion —and not without cause. The title of Di Crinola was 
 quite historic, and had existed for centuries. No Duca di Crinola 
 —at any rate, no respectable Duca di Crinola—could be in England 
 even as a temporary visitant without being considered as entitled 
 to some consideration from the Foreign Office. The existing duke 
 of that name, who had lately been best known, was at present a 
 member of the Italian Ministry. Had he come he would have been 
 entitled to great consideration. Put he, as now appeared, was not 
 the real Duca di Crinola. The real duke was an Englishman —or 
 an Anglicized Italian, or an Italianized Englishman. No one in 
 the Foreign Office, not even the most ancient pundit there quite 
 knew what he was. It was clear that the Foreign Office must take 
 some notice of the young nobleman. Put in all this was not con¬ 
 tained more than half of the real reasons for peculiar consideration. 
 -L ns Anglicized Italian Duca was known to be engaged to the 
 daughter of an English Marquis, to a lady who, if not°niece was 
 next door to being niece to the Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs 
 himself! Many years must have passed since an individual had 
 sprung into notice so interesting in many different ways to all the 
 body of the Foreign Office! 
 
 And this personage was a clerk in the Post Office! There had 
 no doubt been a feeling in the Foreign Office, if not of actual 
 disgrace, at any rate of mingled shame and regret, that a niece of 
 their Secretary of State should have engaged herself to one so low. 
 Had lie been in the Foreign Office himself something might have 
 been made of him;—but a Clerk in the Post Office! The thing 
 had been whispered about and talked over, till there had come uv 
 an idea that Lady Frances should be sent away on some compulsor* 
 foreign mission, so as to be out of the pernicious young man’s reach 
 Put now it turned out suddenly that the young man was the Duca 
 
 m an . d 1* w ? s . e 7 ident to all of them that Lady Frances 
 
 Irafford was justified m her choice. 
 
 But what was to be done with the Duca? Rumours reached 
 iae I oreign Office that the infatuated young nobleman intended to 
 adhere to his most unaristocratic position. The absurdity of a 
 clerk of the third class in one of the branches of the Post Office 
 with a salary of a hundred and seventy a year, and sitting in the 
 same room with Crockers and Dobbins while he would have to be 
 called by everybody the Duca di Crinola, was apparent to the mind 
 of the lowest Foreign Office official. It couldn’t be so, they said to 
 each other. Something must be done. If Government pay were 
 necessary to him, could he not be transformed by a leap into the 
 Elysium of their own department, where he might serve with some 
 
TRUE TIDINGS. 
 
 279 
 
 especial name invented for tlie occasion ? Then there arose ques¬ 
 tions which no man could answer. Were he to be introduced into 
 this new-fangled office proposed for him, would he come in as an 
 Englishman or an Italian; and if as an Englishman, was it in 
 accordance with received rules of etiquette that he should be called 
 Duca di Crinola? Would it be possible in so special a case to get 
 special permission from the Crown; or if not, could he be appointed 
 to the Foreign Office as a foreigner? The special permission, 
 though it was surrounded by so many difficulties, yet seemed to be 
 easier and less monstrous than this latter suggestion. They under¬ 
 stood that though he could not well be dismissed from the office 
 which he already held, it might be difficult to appoint a foreign 
 nobleman to the performance of duties which certainly required 
 more than ordinary British tendencies. In this way the mind of 
 the Foreign Office was moved, and the coming of the young duke 
 was awaited with considerable anxiety. 
 
 The news went beyond the Foreign Office. Whether it was 
 that the Secretary of State himself told the story to the ladies of 
 his household, or that it reached them through private secretaries, 
 it was certainly the case that Lady Persiflage was enabled to write 
 a very interesting letter to her sister, and that Lady Amaldina took 
 the occasion of congratulating her cousin and of informing her 
 lover. 
 
 Lady Kingsbury, when she received the news, was still engaged 
 in pointing out to her husband the iniquity of his elder children in 
 having admitted the visit of Mr. Boden to Hendon Hall. This, she 
 persisted in saying, had been done in direct opposition to most 
 solemn promises made by all the parties concerned. The Marquis 
 at the time had recovered somewhat of his strength, in consequence, 
 as was said among the household, of the removal of Mr. Greenwood 
 into Shrewsbury. And the Marchioness took advantage of this 
 improved condition on the part of her husband to make him 
 sensible of the abominable iniquity of which the young persons had 
 been guilty. The visit had occurred two months since, but the 
 iniquity to Lady Kingsbury’s thinking still demanded express con¬ 
 demnation and, if possible, punishment. “ A direct and premedi¬ 
 tated falsehood on the part of them all! ” said Lady Kingsbury, 
 standing over her husband, who was recumbent on the sofa in his 
 own room. 
 
 “ No, it wasn’t,” said the Marquis, who found it easier to deny 
 the whole charge than to attempt in his weakness to divide the 
 guilt. 
 
 “ My dear! When she was allowed to go to Hendon Hall, was 
 it not done on a sacred pledge that she should not see that horrid 
 man ? Did not Hampstead repeat the promise to my own ears?” 
 
 “ How could he help his coming ? I wish you wouldn’t trouble 
 me about it any more.” 
 
 “ Then I suppose that she is to have your leave to marry the 
 man whenever she chooses! ” 
 
 Then he roused himself with whatever strength he possessed. 
 
280 
 
 MARION FAT. 
 
 and begged her to leave him. With much indignation she stalked 
 out of the room, and going to her apartments found the following 
 letter, which had just arrived from her sister- 
 
 “My dear Clara, 
 
 “As you are down in the country, I suppose the news 
 about Fanny’s ‘ young man ’ has not yet reached you.” 
 
 Fanny’s young man! Had Fanny been the housemaid, it was 
 thus that they might have spoken of her lover. Could it be that 
 “ Fanny and her young man ” had already got themselves married ? 
 Lady Kingsbury, when she read this, almost let the letter drop 
 from her hand, so much was she disgusted by the manner in which 
 her sister spoke of this most unfortunate affair. 
 
 “ I heard something of it only yesterday, and the rest of the 
 details to-day. As it has come through the Foreign Office you may 
 be quite sure that it is true, though it is so wonderful. The young 
 man is not George Koden at all, nor is he an Englishman. He is 
 an Italian, and his proper name and title is Duca di Crinola.” 
 Again Lady Kingsbury allowed the letter almost to drop; but on 
 this occasion with feelings of a very different nature. What! not 
 George Koden! Not a miserable clerk in the English Post Office! 
 Duca di Crinolaa title of which she thought that she remem¬ 
 bered to have heard as belonging to some peculiarly ancient family! 
 It was not to be believed. And yet it came from her sister, who 
 was usually correct in all such matters;—and came also from the 
 Foreign Office, which she regarded as the one really trustworthy 
 source of information as to foreign matters of an aristocratic nature. 
 “ Duca di Crinola! ” she said to herself, as she went on with the 
 reading of her letter. 
 
 “ There is a long story of the marriage of his mother which I do 
 not quite understand as yet, but it is not necessary to the facts of 
 the case. The young man has been recognized in his own country 
 as entitled to all the honours of his family, and must be received 
 so by us. Persiflage says that he will be ready to present him at 
 Court on his return as Duca di Crinola, and will ask him at once 
 to dine in Belgrave Square. It is a most romantic story, but must 
 be regarded by you and me as being very fortunate, as dear Fanny 
 had certainly set her heart upon marrying the man. I am told 
 that he inherits nothing but the bare title. Some foreign nobleman, 
 are, you know, very poor; and in this case the father, who was 
 a ‘ mauvais sujet ,’ contrived to destroy whatever rights of property 
 he had. Lord Kingsbury probably will be able to do something for 
 him. Perhaps he may succeed in getting official employment suited 
 to his rank. At any rate we must all of us make the best of him 
 for Fanny’s sake. It will be better to have a Duca di Crinola among 
 us, even though he should not have a shilling, than a Post Office 
 clerk with two or three hundred a year. 
 
 “ I asked Persiflage to write to Lord Kingsbury; but he tells 
 mo that I must do it all, because he is so busy. Were my brother- 
 in-law well enough I think he should come up to town to make 
 
TRUE TIDINGS. 
 
 2SI 
 
 inquiry himself and to see the young man. If he cannot do so, ho 
 had better get Hampstead to take him down to Trafford. Hamp¬ 
 stead and this young Duchino are luckily bosom friends. It tells 
 well for Hampstead that, after all, he did not go so low for his 
 associates as you thought he did. Amaldina intends to write to 
 Fanny to congratulate her. 
 
 “ Your affectionate sister, 
 
 “ Geraldine Persiflage .’ 5 
 
 Duca di Crinola ! She could not quite believe it;—and yet she 
 did believe it. Nor could she be quite sure as to herself whether 
 she was happy in believing it or the reverse. It had been terrible 
 to her to think that she should have to endure the name of being" 
 stepmother to a clerk in the Post Office. It would not be at all 
 terrible to her to be stepmother to a Duca di Crinola, even though 
 the stepson would have no property of his own. That little mis¬ 
 fortune would, as far as the feelings of society went, be swallowed 
 up amidst the attributes of rank. Nothing would sound better than 
 Duchessa or Duchessina! And, moreover, it would be all true! 
 This was no paltry title which might be false, or might have been 
 picked up, anyhow, the other day. All the world would know that 
 the Italian Duke was the lineal representative of a magnificent 
 family to whom this identical rank had belonged for many years. 
 There were strong reasons for taking the young Duke and the young 
 Duchess to her heart at once. 
 
 But then there were other reasons why she should not wish it 
 to be true. In the first place she hated them both. Let the man 
 be Duca di Crinola as much as he might, he would still have beep 
 a Post Office clerk, and Lady Frances would have admitted his 
 courtship having believed him at the time to have been no more 
 than a Post Office clerk. The sin would have been not the less 
 abominable in the choice of her iover, although it might be ex¬ 
 pedient that the sin should be forgiven. And then the girl had 
 insulted her, and there had been that between them which would 
 prevent the possibility of future love; and would it not be hard 
 upon her darlings if it should become necessary to carve out from 
 the family property a permanent income for this Italian nobleman, 
 and for a generation of Italian noblemen to come? And then what 
 a triumph would this be for Hampstead, who, of all human beings, 
 was the most distasteful to her! 
 
 But upon the whole she thought it would be best to accept the- 
 Duca. She must, indeed, accept him. Nothing that she could do 
 would restore the young man to his humble desk and humble name. 
 Nor would the Marquis be actuated by any prayer of hers in refer¬ 
 ence to the carving of the property. It would be better for her to 
 accept the young Duke and the young Duchess, and make the best 
 of them. If only the story should at last be shown to be true! 
 
 The duty was imposed on her of communicating the story to the 
 Marquis; but before she did so she was surprised by a visit from 
 Mr. Greenwood. Mr. Pioberts had used no more than the violence 
 
232 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 of argument, and Mr. Greenwood had been induced to take himself 
 to Shrewsbury on the day named for his departure. If he went he 
 would have £200 a year from the Marquis,—and £100 would bo 
 added by Lord Hampstead, of which the Marquis need not know 
 anything. Unless he went on the day fixed that £100 would not 
 be added. A good deal was said on either side, but he went. The 
 Marquis had refused to see him. The Marchioness had bade him 
 adieu in a most formal manner,—in a manner quite unbecoming 
 those familiar suggestions which, he thought, had been made to 
 him as to a specially desirable event. But he had gone, and as he 
 went he told himself that circumstances might yet occur in the 
 family which might be of use to him. He, too, had heard the great 
 family news,—perhaps through some under-satellite of the Foreign 
 Office, and he came with the idea that he would be the first to make 
 it known at Trafiord Park. 
 
 He would have asked for the Marquis, but he knew that the 
 Marquis would not receive him. Lady Kingsbury consented to see 
 him, and he was ushered up to the room to which he had so often 
 made his way without any asking. “ I hope you are well, Mr. 
 Greenwood,” she said. “ Are you still staying in the neighbour¬ 
 hood ? ” It was, however, well known at Trafford that he was at 
 Shrewsbury. 
 
 “ Yes, Lady Kingsbury. I have not gone from the neighbour¬ 
 hood. I thought that perhaps you might want to see me again.” 
 
 “ I don’t know that we need trouble you, Mr. Greenwood.” 
 
 _ “ I have come with some news respecting the family.” As he 
 said this he managed to assume the old look, and stood as though he 
 had never moved from the place since he had last been in the room. 
 
 “ Ho sit down, Mr. Greenwood. What news ? ” 
 
 “ Mr. George Koden, the clerk in the Post Office-” 
 
 But she was not going to have the tidings repeated to her by 
 him, so as to give him any claim to gratitude for having brought 
 them. “ You mean the Duca di Crinola! ” 
 
 “ Oh! ” exclaimed Mr. Greenwood. 
 
 “ I have heard all that, Mr. Greenwood.” 
 
 That the Post Office clerk is an Italian nobleman ? ” 
 
 “ It suited the Italian nobleman for a time to be a Post Office 
 clerk. That is what you mean.” 
 
 “ And Lady Frances is to be allowed-” 
 
 “ Mr. Greenwood, I must ask you not to discuss Lady Frances 
 here.” 
 
 “ Oh ! Not to discuss her ladyship! ” 
 
 “ Surely you must be aware how angry the Marquis has been 
 about it.” 
 
 “Oh! ” He had not seated himself, nor divested himself of that 
 inquisitorial appearance which was so distasteful to her. “ We 
 used to discuss Lady Frances sometimes, Lady Kingsbury.” 
 
 “ I will not discuss her now. Let that be enough, Mr. Green¬ 
 wood.” 
 
 “Nor yet Lord Hampstead? ” 
 
ALL THE WORLD KNOWS IT. 
 
 233 
 
 “Nor yet Lord Hampstead. I think it very wrong of you to 
 
 come after all that took place. If the Marquis knew it-” 
 
 Oh! If the Marquis knew it! If the Marquis knew all, and 
 if other people knew all! If it were known how often her ladyship 
 had- spoken, and how loud, as to the wished-for removal to a better 
 world of his lordship’s eldest son! But he could not dare to speak 
 it out. And yet it was cruel on him ! He had for some days felt 
 her ladyship to be under his thumb, and now it seemed that she 
 had escaped from him. “ Oh! very well. Lady Kingsbury. Perhaps 
 I had better go,—-just for the present.” And he went. 
 
 This served, at least, for corroboration. She did not dare to 
 keep the secret long from her husband, and therefore, in the course 
 of-the evening, went down with her sister’s letter in her hand. 
 “ What! ” said the Marquis, when the story had been read to him. 
 “ What! Duca di Crinola! ” 
 
 “ There can’t be a doubt about it, my dear.” 
 
 “ And he a clerk in the Post Office ? ” 
 
 “ He isn’t a clerk in the Post Office now.” 
 
 “ I don’t quite see what he will be, then. It appears that he 
 has inherited nothing.” 
 
 “ My sister says nothing.” 
 
 “Then what’s the good of his title? There is nothing so 
 pernicious in the world as a pauper aristocracy. A clerk in the 
 Post Office is entitled to have a wife, but a poor nobleman should 
 at any rate let his poverty die with himself.” 
 
 This was a view of the case which had not hitherto presented 
 itself to Lady Kingsbury. When she suggested to him that the 
 young nobleman should be asked down to Trafford, he did not 
 seem to see that it was at all necessary. It would be much better 
 that Fanny should come back. The young nobleman would, he 
 supposed, live in his own country;—unless, indeed, the whole tale 
 was a cock-and-bull story made up by Persiflage at the Foreign 
 Office. It was just the sort of thing, he said, that Persiflage would 
 do. He had said not a word as to carving an income out of the 
 property for the young noble couple when she left him. 
 
 CHAPTEK XLVI. 
 
 ALL THE WORLD KNOWS IT. 
 
 The story was in truth all over London and half over England by 
 the time that Lady Frances had returned to Hendon Hall. Though 
 Vivian had made a Foreign Office secret of the affair at Gorse 
 Hall, nevertheless it had been so commonly talked about during 
 the last Sunday there, that Hautboy had told it all to poor Walker 
 and to the Walker ladies. “By Jove, fancy!” Hautboy had said, 
 “ to go at once from a Post Office clerk to a duke! It’s like some 
 of those stories when a man goes to bed as a beggar and gets up as 
 a prince. I wonder whether he likes it.” Hampstead had of 
 
281 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 course discussed tlic matter very freely witli his sister, still ex¬ 
 pressing an opinion that a man could not do other than take his 
 father’s name and his father’s title. Lady Frances having thus be¬ 
 come used to the subject was not surprised to find the following letter 
 from her friend Lady Amaldina when she reached her home 
 
 “My dearest Fanny, 
 
 “I am indeed delighted to be able to congratulate you on 
 the wonderful and most romantic, story which has just been made 
 known to us. I was never one of those who blamed you very much 
 because you had given your affections to a man so much beloiv you 
 in rank. Nevertheless, we all could not but feel that it was a pity 
 that he should be a Post Office clerk! Now, indeed, you have 
 reason to be proud! I have already read up the subject, and I 
 find that the Lucas di Crinola are supposed to have the very best 
 blood m Europe. There can be no doubt that one of the family 
 married a Bourbon before they came to the French throne. I 
 could send you all the details, only I do not doubt that you have 
 found it out for yourself already. Another married a second cousin 
 of that Maximilian who married Mary of Burgundy. One of the 
 ladies of the family is supposed to have been the wife of the 
 younger brother of one of the Guises, though it isn’t quite certain 
 whether they were ever married. But that little blot, my dear, 
 will hardly affect you now. Taking the name altogether, I don’t 
 think there is anything higher in all Europe. Papa says that the 
 Li Crinolas have always been doing something in Italy in the way 
 of politics, or rebellion, or fighting. So it isn’t as though they 
 were all w r ashed out and no longer of any account, like some of 
 those we read of in history. Therefore I do think that you must 
 be a very happy girl. 
 
 “ I do feel so completely snuffed out , because, after all, the title 
 of Merioneth was only conferred in the time of Charles the Second . 
 And though there teas a Lord Llwddythlw before that, even he 
 was only created by James the First. The Powells no doubt are a 
 very old Welsh family, and it is supposed that there was some 
 relationship between them and the Tudors. But what is that to be 
 compared to the mediaeval honours of the great House of Di Crinola ? 
 
 “ Papa seems to think that he will not have much fortune. I 
 am one of those who do not think that a large income is at all to be 
 compared to good birth in the way of giving real position in the 
 world. Of course the Luke’s estates are supposed to be enormous , 
 and Llwddythlw, even as an eldest son, is a rich man; but as far as 
 I can see there is nothing but trouble comes from it. If he has 
 anything to do with a provincial town in the way of rents he is 
 expected to lay the first brick of every church and institute about 
 the place. If anything has to be opened he has to open it; and he 
 is never allowed to eat his dinner without having to make two or 
 three speeches before and afterwards. That’s what I call a great bore. 
 As far as I can see you will be always able to have your duke with 
 you, because he will have no abominable public duties to look after* 
 
ALL THE WORLD KNOWS IT. 
 
 2S7 
 
 position of the young Duca, and seemed to think that very little 
 conld be wanting to the making of the young man’s fortune. “ Ah, 
 yes, your Excellency,” said the Baron. “ He has no great estates. 
 Here in England you all have great estates. It is very nice to have 
 great estates. But he has an uncle who is a great man in Borne. 
 And he will have a wife whose uncle is a very great man in London.. 
 What more should he want?” Then the Baron bowed to tho 
 Minister of State, and the Minister of State bowed to the Baron. 
 
 But the surprise expressed and the consternation felt at tho 
 Post Office almost exceeded the feelings excited at the Foreign 
 Office or among Lady Fanny’s family and friends. Dukes and 
 Ministers, Barons and Princes, are terms familiar to the frequenters 
 of the Foreign Office. Ambassadors, Secretaries, and diplomatic 
 noblemen generally, are necessarily common in the mouths of all tho 
 officials. But at the Post Office such titles still carried with them 
 something of awe. The very fact that a man whom they had seen 
 should be a Duke was tremendous to the minds of Bobbin and 
 Geraghty; and when it became known to them that a fellow-work¬ 
 man in their own room, one who had in truth been no more than 
 themselves, would henceforth be called by so august a title, it was 
 as though the heavens and the earth were coming together. It 
 affected Crocker in such a way that there was for a time a doubt 
 whether his senses were not temporarily leaving him,—so that 
 confinement would become necessary. Of course the matter had 
 found its way into the newspapers. It became known at the office 
 on the last day of February,—two days before the return of the 
 Eodens to London. 
 
 “ Have you heard it, Mr. Jerningham?” said Crocker, rushing 
 into the room that morning. He was only ten minutes after the 
 proper time, having put himself to the expense of a cab in his 
 impetuous desire to be the first to convey the great news to his 
 fellow-clerks. But he had been forestalled in his own room by 
 the energy of Geraghty. The condition of mind created in Mr. 
 Jerningham’s bosom by the story told by Geraghty was of such a 
 nature that he was unable to notice Crocker’s sin in reference to 
 the ten minutes. 
 
 “ Dchuca di Crinola!” shouted Geraghty in his broadest brogue 
 as Crocker came in; determined not to be done out of the honour 
 fairly achieved by him. 
 
 “ By Jove, yes! A Duke,” said Crocker. “ A Duke! My own 
 especial friend! Hampstead will be nowhere ; nowhere ; nowhere ! 
 Duca di Crinola! Isn’t it beautiful ? By George, I can’t believe 
 it. Can you, Mr. Jerningham ? ” 
 
 “ I don’t know what to believe,” said Mr. Jerningham. “ Only 
 he was always a most steady, well-behaved young man, and the 
 office will have a great loss of him.” 
 
 “ I suppose the Duke won’t come and see us ever,” said Bobbin. 
 " I should like to shake hands with him once again.” 
 
 “Shake hands with him!’’said Crocker. “I’m sure he won’t 
 drop out like that;—my own peculiar friend! I don’t think I 
 
2SS 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 < 
 
 ever was so fond of anybody as George Eo-, the Duca di Crinola 
 
 of course I mean. By George! haven’t I sat at the same table with 
 him for the last two years! Why, it was only a night or two before 
 he started on this remarkable tour that I spent an evening with 
 him in private society at Holloway! ” Then he got up and walked 
 about the room impetuously, clapping his hands," altogether carried 
 away by the warmth of his feelings. 
 
 . “ I think you might as well sit down to your desk, Mr. Crocker,” 
 .said Mr. Jerningham. 
 
 “ Oh, come, bother, Mr. Jerningham! ” 
 
 “I will not be spoken to in that way, Mr. Crocker.” 
 
 “ Upon my word, I didn’t mean anything, sir. But when one 
 has heard such news as this, how is it possible that one -should 
 
 compose oneself? It’s a sort of thing that never happened before,_ 
 
 that one’s own particular friend should turn out to be the Duca 
 cU Crinola. Did anybody ever read anything like it in a novel? 
 Wouldn t it act well ? Can’t I see the first meeting between myself 
 and the Duke at the Haymarket ? f Duke,’ I should say— f Duke, I 
 congratulate you on having come to your august family title, 'to 
 which no one living could do so much honour as yourself.’ Bancroft 
 should do me. Bancroft would do me to the life, and the piece 
 should be called the Duke’s Friend. I suppose we shall call him 
 Duke here in England, and Duca if we happen to be in Italy 
 together; eh, Mr. Jerningham ? ” 
 
 “You had better sit down, Mr. Crocker, and try to do your 
 work.” 
 
 “ I can’t—upon my word I can’t. The emotion is too much for 
 me. I couldn t do it if AEolus were here himself. By the way, I 
 wonder whether Sir Boreas has heard the news.” Then he rushed 
 off, and absolutely made his w^ay into the room of the great potentate. 
 
 “ Yes, Mr. Crocker,” said Sir Boreas, “ I have heard it, I read 
 the newspapers, no doubt, as well as you do.” 
 
 “ But it’s true. Sir Boreas ? ” 
 
 “I heard it spoken of two or three days ago, Mr. Crocker, and 1 
 believe it to be true.” 
 
 “ He was my friend, Sir Boreas; my particular friend. Isn’t it 
 a 'wonderful thing, that one’s particular friend should turn out to 
 be Duca di Crinola ! And he didn’t know a "word of it himself I 
 feel quite sure that he didn’t know a word of it.” 
 
 “ I rea lly can’t say, Mr. Crocker; but as you have now expressed 
 your "wonder, perhaps you had better go back to your room and do 
 your w r ork.” 
 
 “ He pretends he knew it three days ago! ” said Crocker, as he 
 -returned to his room. “ I don’t believe a "word of it. He’d have 
 written to me had it been known so long ago as that, I suppose he 
 had too many things to think of, or he would have written to me.” 
 
 “ Go aisy, Crocker,” said Geraghty. 
 
 “ What do you mean by that V It’s just the thing he would have 
 •done.” 
 
 “ I don’t believe he ever wrote to you in his life,” said Bobbin. 
 
u lT SHALL BE DONE 289 
 
 " You don’t know anything about it. We were here together 
 two years before you came into the office. Mr. Jerningham knows 
 that we were always friends. Good heavens! Ducadi Cr“ 
 
 dr! ' 1 it J |',V f la t t 'V s ' JIr i/ emin s ,,am - If it were ever so, I couldn’t 
 do anything to-day. You must let me go. There are mutual 
 
 over” S Th°en r Ve 0 to h l° I V,- it i iS i. qlli u e essential that I should talk it 
 , The ? be J ook hls hat and marched off to Holloway and 
 
 in findinTtW thene 7 , t0 Mis® Clara Demijohn had he succeeded 
 
 discussin? wfth at *, home - J 01ara was a ‘ that moment 
 r ,„ s ? uss , m T g Mrs - Duffer the wonderful fact that Mr Walker 
 
 Gimberley°Gr«m mPfitead had been kickecl and troddel1 to Pieces at 
 
 surori^X^t. 8 ’ great . as }*® w ? s ’ ex P ressed himself with some 
 rpnse that afternoon to Mr. Jerningham as to the singular 
 
 quite n tnm h Mr 5 ad beblllen G ™ r 8 Q Doden. “I believe it to be 
 sometimes> M Jermngham * Theso wonderful things do happen 
 
 « S . ta ^ 'with us. Sir Boreas, I suppose ? ” 
 
 with arel dl 9 + T° Ia - £ don,t think we could on 
 
 witn a real duke. I don’t know how it will turn out If he 
 chooses to remain an Englishman he can’t take the title If he 
 
 hnve Se wiv tak + G tltle he must be an Italian, then he’ll 
 
 have nothing to live on. My belief is we shan’t see him anv 
 
 more. I wish it had been Crocker with all my heart.” 
 
 CHAPTER XLVII. 
 
 “it shall be done.” 
 
 Lord Hampstead has been left standing for a long time in Marion 
 Fay s sitting-room after the perpetration of his great offence and 
 “en has p^en standing there also, having come to the house 
 almost immediately after her return home from her Italian journey 
 Hampstead, of course, knew most of the details of the Hi ^rinofa, 
 lomance, but Marion had as yet heard nothing of it. There had 
 )een so much for him to say to her during the interview which had 
 been so wretchedly interrupted by his violence that he had found 
 
 Crinohn t0 mentl0U to ber the name either of Roden or of Hi 
 
 These Y had h bIeTi Cl Mn e 7 wb . ich makes me asbame d of myself.” 
 room « T dflyyi? r laS j ™ ords as Mrs * Eoden entered the 
 
 Roden. 1 d ^ t kn ° W L ° rd Ham P ste ad was here,” said Mrs. 
 
 Ti-nC ?f h " Mrs * Eode ^ 1 I ’ m so S lad yon are come,” exclaimed Marion 
 
 tW 1 TIT S a \ taken b r tbe lad y as a kindly expression of oy 
 that she should have returned from her journey whereas to 
 
 hersdf that Drotectf^ eC p a ? ldea that Marion was congratulating 
 ffeiselt that protection had come to her from further violence on 
 
290 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 his part. Poor Marion herself hardly knew her own meaning,— 
 hardly had any. She could not even tell herself that she was 
 angry with her lover. It was probable that the very ecstasy of his 
 love added fuel to hers. If a lover so placed as were this lover,— 
 a lover who had come to her asking her to be his wife, and who had 
 been received with the warmest assurance of lier own affection for 
 him,—if he were not justified in taking her in his arms and kissing 
 her, when might a lover do so ? The ways of the world were 
 known to her well enough to make her feel that it was so, even in 
 that moment of her perturbation. Angry with him! How could 
 she be angry with him ? He had asked her, and she had declared 
 to him that she was not angry. Nevertheless she had been quite in 
 earnest when she had said that now,—after the thing that he had 
 done,—he must “ never, never come to her again.” 
 
 She was not angry with him, but with herself she was angry. 
 At the moment, when she was in his arms, she bethought herself how 
 impossible had been the conditions she had imposed upon him. 
 That he should be assured of her love, and yet not allowed to 
 approach her as a lover ! That he should be allowed to come there 
 in order that she might be delighted in looking at him, in hearing 
 his voice, in knowing and feeling that she was dear to him; but 
 that he should be kept at arm’s length because she had determined 
 that she should not become his wife ! That they should love each 
 other dearly; but each with a different idea of love! It was her fault 
 that he should be there in her presence at all. She had told herself 
 that it was her duty to sacrifice herself, but she had only half 
 carried out her duty. Should she not have kept her love to herself, 
 —so that he might have left her, as he certainly would have done 
 had she behaved to him coldly, and as her duty had required of 
 her ? She had longed for some sweetness which would be sweet to 
 her though only a vain encouragement to him. She had painted 
 for her own eyes a foolish picture, had dreamed a silly dream. She 
 had fancied that for the little of life that was left to her she might 
 have been allowed the delight of loving, and had been vain enough 
 to think that her lover might be true to her and yet not suffer 
 himself! Her sacrifice had been altogether imperfect. With 
 herself she was angry,—not with him. Angry with him, whose 
 very footfall "was music to her ears! Angry with him, whose smile 
 to her was as a light specially sent from heaven for her behoof! 
 Angry with him, the very energy of whose passion thi filed her with a 
 sense of intoxicating joy! Angry with him because she had been 
 enabled for once,—only for once,—to feel the glory of her life, to be 
 encircled in the warmth of his arms, to become conscious of the 
 majesty of his strength! No,—she was not angry. But he must 
 be made to understand,—he must be taught to acknowledge*—that 
 he must never, never come to her again. The mind can conceive a 
 joy so exquisite that for the enjoyment of it, though it may last but 
 for a moment, the tranquillity, even the happiness, of years may be 
 given in exchange. It must be so with her. It had been her own 
 doing, and if the exchange were a bad one, she must put up with 
 
“IT SHALL BE DONE” 
 
 291 
 
 the bargain. He must never come again. Then Mrs. Roden had 
 entered the room, and she was forced to utter whatever word of 
 welcome might first come to her tongue. 
 
 “ Yes,” said Hampstead, trying to smile, as though nothing had 
 happened which called for special seriousness of manner, “I am 
 nere. I am here, and hope to be here often and often till I shall 
 Jiave succeeded m taking our Marion to another home ” 
 
 gently” 0 *” ^ Mari0n faintly ' utterin S her little protest ever so 
 
 " You are very constant, my lord,” said Mrs. Roden. 
 
 1 suppose a man is constant to what he really loves best. Rut 
 what a history you have brought back with you, Mrs. Roden» 
 I do not know whether I am to call you Mrs. Roden ” 
 
 “ Certainly, my lord, you are to call me so.” 
 
 “ W hat does it mean ? ” asked Marion. 
 
 “ You have not heard,” he said. « I have not been hpre Hm« 
 enough to tell her all this, Mrs. Roden.” time 
 
 “ You know it then, Lord Hampstead ? ” 
 
 „„ “ f es ’ 1 ;-fto«gh Roden has not condescended to write 
 
 me a line. What are we to call him ? ” To this Mrs. Roden made 
 no answer on the spur of the moment. « Of course he has written 
 to Fanny, and all the world knows it. It seems to have reached 
 the Foreign Office first, and to have been sent down from thence to 
 my people at Trafford. I suppose there isn’t a club in London at 
 
 S not GeorgYRoden.” IePea “ hundred timeS that Geor S e Koden 
 “Not George Roden?” asked Marion. 
 
 cad hhn so°” lCSt * Y ° U WlH Sh ° W yourself terribl y ignorant if you 
 
 “ What is he then, my lord ? ” 
 
 ‘ f Marion! ” 
 
 what^s^ie ? ”° Ur Pard ° n * 1 Wil1 not do ^ a S ain tllis time. But 
 
 “ He is the Duca di Crinola.” 
 
 “ Duke! ” said Marion. 
 
 “ That’s what he is, Marion.” 
 
 “ Have they made him that over there ? ” 
 
 ‘ Somebody made one of his ancestors that ever so many 
 
 hundred years ago, when the Traffords were-; well I don’t 
 
 know what the Traffords were doing then ;-fighting somewhere 
 
 I suppose ?” r whateTer they coulcl He means to take the title* 
 
 “ He says not, my lord.” 
 
 “ He should do so.” 
 
 i „ t ‘‘ 1 *ni nk i° t00 ’ Lord Hampstead. He is obstinate, you know • 
 will tell him.” “ ay C ° nSe,,t t0 Usten t0 some friend here. You 
 
 “He had better ask others better able than I am to explain all 
 Hie ms and outs of his position. He had better go to the Foreign 
 Office and see my uncle. Where is he now ? ” S 
 
292 
 
 MARION NAY. 
 
 “He has gone to the Post Office. We reached home about 
 noon, and he went at once. It was late yesterday when we reached 
 Folkestone, and he let me stay there for the night.” 
 
 “ Has he always signed the old name ? ” asked Hampstead. 
 
 “ Oh yes. I think he will not give it up.” 
 
 “Nor his office?” 
 
 “ Nor his office. As he says himself, what else will he have to 
 live on ? ” 
 
 “ My father might do something.” Mrs. Boden shook her head. 
 “My sister will have money, though it may probably be insufficient 
 to furnish such an income as they will want.” 
 
 “ He would never live in idleness upon her money, my lord. 
 Indeed I think I may say that he has quite resolved to drop the 
 title as idle lumber. You perhaps know that he is not easily 
 persuaded.” 
 
 “ The most obstinate fellow I ever knew in my life,” said 
 Hampstead, laughing. “ And he has talked my sister over to his 
 own views.” Then he turned suddenly round to Marion, and 
 asked her a question. “ Shall I go now, dearest? ” he said. 
 
 She had already told him to go,—to go, and never to return to 
 her. But the question was put to her in such a manner that were 
 she simply to assent to his going, she would, by doing so, assent 
 also to his returning. For the sake of her duty to him, in order 
 that she might carry out that self-sacrifice in the performance of 
 which she would now be so resolute, it was necessary that he 
 should in truth be made to understand that he was not to come 
 back to her. But how was this to be done while Mrs. Boden was 
 present with them ? Had he not been there then she could have 
 asked her friend to help her in her great resolution. But before 
 the two she could say nothing of that which it was in her heart to 
 say to both of them.. “ If it pleases you, my lord,” she said. 
 
 “I will not be ( my lord.’ Here is Boden, who is a real duke, 
 and whose ancestors have been dukes since long before Noah, and 
 he is allowed to be called just what he pleases, and I am to have 
 no voice in it with my own particular and dearest friends! Never¬ 
 theless I will go, and if I don’t come to-day, or the day after, I 
 will write you the prettiest little love-letter I can invent.” 
 
 “ Don’t,” she said;—oh, so weakly, so vainly ;—in a manner so 
 utterly void of that intense meaning which she was anxious to 
 throw into her words. She was conscious of her own weakness, 
 and acknowledged to herself that .There must be another interview, 
 or at any rate a letter written on each side, before he could be 
 made to understand her own purpose. If it must be done by a 
 letter, how great would be the struggle to her in explaining herself! 
 But perhaps even that might be easier than the task of telling him 
 all that she would have to tell, while he was standing by, impetuous, 
 impatient, perhaps almost violent, assuring her of his love, and 
 attempting to retain her by the pressure of his hand. 
 
 “ But I shall,” he said, as he held her now for a moment. “ I 
 am not quite sure whether I may not have to go to Trafford; and 
 
“IT SHALL BE DONE." 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 on* 
 
 *«t' t> 
 
 if S L^ ieie - Slia11 i b i G th ? love-letter. I feel conscious, Mrs. Eoden 
 o being incapable of writing a proper love-letter. ‘ Dearest 
 
 thini 0 ’ 11 ’ T SSi? 0 ? 8 ' ^ y °e are ? ine ‘ AIwa ? s believe me ever 
 thine. I don t know liow to go beyond that. When a man is 
 
 married, and can write about the children, or the leg of mutton 
 
 or what’s to be done with his hunters, then I dare say it becomes 
 
 easy. Good-bye, dearest Good-bye, Mrs. Eoden. I wish I could 
 
 fe fer DucheSS “ to -U ‘he * my lerdmg^ 
 
 There was a feeling in the mind of both of them that he had 
 conducted himself j ust as a man would do who was in a hth Lod- 
 
 hHT % Ti ng been Permanently accepted by the gi/1 to whom 
 he had offered his hand Marion Fay knew that it was not so •— 
 knew that it never could be so. Mrs. Eoden knew that it had not 
 een so when she had left home, now nearly two mo ths since* 
 
 hi 1C ln n6 Ti a S0 that i Ma J I( ?? had P led S ed herself that it should not 
 
 A fiin*n Tiie f y0UDS 4 . ° rd tben bad been to ° st rong with his love. 
 A feeling of regret came over her as she remembered that tho 
 
 reasons against such a marriage were still as strong as ever But 
 yet how natural that it should be so! Was it possible that such 
 a lover as Lord Hampstead should not succeed in his love if he 
 were constant to it himself ? Sorrow must come of it-perhaps a 
 
 A S ° blt , ter , tbat sbe could hardly bring herself to think of it 
 And Marion had been so firm in her resolve that it should no be 
 
 £ »«* M?* herself To 
 
 Is it to be ? ” 
 
 -o. _ ..c*o ucHuitu, uuu sne couia not 
 
 express to the girl either anger or disappointment, 
 she said, putting on her sweetest smile 
 
 .£?i.S”v&z t&fcs a r» 
 
 fflSfWftS?.' “ 1 “ wi i». 
 
 But he treats you as though he were engaged to you ? ” 
 
 T , ‘ H ° w can I it? What can I do to prevent it? When 
 I bid him go, he still comes back again, and when I tell him that 
 
 be hlS Wlle he WiU n0t belieye He ^ows“hat1 
 
 “ You have told him that ? ” 
 
 r” “Mrs 
 
 teM, 6ig£s» “ "* »rn - 
 
 him.” BUt 14 Seemed t0 “ e JUSt “° W tbat you were so ha PPy with 
 
 in heaven ” neTer tappy With him; ~ but yet 1 a “ a * though I were 
 ‘ 1 Marion! ” 
 
 , Ee ver happy. I know that it cannot be, that it will not 
 
 be, as he would have it. I know that I am letting him waste his 
 sweetness all in vain. There should be some one else oh so 
 different from nre! There should be one like himself, beautiful! 
 
291 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 strong in health, with hot eager blood in her veins, with a grand 
 name, with grand eyes and a broad brow and a noble figure, one 
 who, in taking his name, will give him as much as she takes—one, 
 above all, who will not pine and fade before his eyes, and trouble 
 him during her short life with sickness and doctors and all the 
 fading hopes of a hopeless invalid. And yet I let him come, and I 
 have told him how dearly I love him. He comes and he sees it in 
 my eyes. And then it is so glorious to be loved as he loves. Oh, 
 Mrs. Eoden, he kissed me.” That to Mrs. Eoden did not seem to 
 be extraordinary; but, not knowing what to say to it at the 
 moment, she also kissed the girl. “ Then I told him that he must 
 go, and never come back to me again.” 
 
 “ Were you angry with him ? ” 
 
 " Angry with him! With myself I was angry. I had given 
 him the right to do it. How could I be angry with him ? And 
 what does it matterexcept for his sake? If he could only 
 understand! If he would only know that I am in earnest when 
 I speak to him! Hut I am weak in everything except one thing. 
 He will never make me say that I will be his wife.” 
 
 “ My Marion! Dear Marion ! ” 
 
 “ But father wishes it.” 
 
 “ Wishes you to become his wife?” 
 
 “ He wishes it. Why should I not be like any other girl, he 
 says. How can I tell him ? How can I say that I am not like to 
 other girls because of my darling, my own dearest mother ? And 
 yet he does not know it. He does not see it, though he has seen so 
 much. He will not see it till I am there, on my bed, unable to 
 come to him when he wants me.” 
 
 “ There is nothing now to show him or mo that you may not 
 live to be old as he is.” 
 
 “ I shall not live to be old. You know that I shall not live to 
 be more than young. Have any of them lived? For my father,— 
 for my dear father,—he must find it out for himself. I have 
 sometimes thought that even yet I might last his time—that I 
 might be with him to the end. It might be so,—only that all this 
 tortures me.” 
 
 “ Shall I tell him;—shall I tell Lord Hampstead? ” 
 
 “ He must at any rate be told. He is not bound to me as my 
 father is. For him there need be no great sorrow.” At this Mrs. 
 Eoden shook her head. “ Must it be so ? ” 
 
 “If he is banished from your presence he will not bear it 
 lightly.” 
 
 “Will a young manEove me like that;—a young man who has 
 so much in the world to occupy him? He has his ship, and his 
 hounds, and his friends, and his great wealth. It is only girls, I 
 think, who love like that.” 
 
 “ He must bear his sorrow as others do.” 
 
 “But it shall be made as light as I can make it,—shall it not? 
 I should have done this before. I should have done it sooner. 
 Had he been made to go away at once, then he would not have 
 
MARION WILL CERTAINLY HAVE HER WAY. 295 
 
 suffered. Why would he not go when I told him ? Why would 
 he not believe me when I spoke to him ? I should have heard all 
 his words and never have answered him even with a smile. I 
 should not have trembled when he told me that I was there, at * his 
 hearth, as a friend. But who thought then, Mrs. Eoden, that 
 this young nobleman would have really cared for the Quaker 
 girl ? ” 
 
 “ I saw it, Marion.” 
 
 ‘•'Could you see just by looking at him that he was so different 
 from others? Are his truth, and his loving heart, and his high 
 honour, and his pure honesty, all written in his eyes,—to you as 
 they are to me? But, Mrs. Roden, there shall be an end of it’ 
 Though it may kill me,—though it may for a little time half-break 
 his heart,—it shall be done! Oh, that his dear heart should be 
 half-broken for me! I will think of it, Mrs. Eoden, to-night. If 
 writing may do it, perhaps I may write. Or, perhaps, I may say a 
 word that he will at least understand. If not you shall tell him. 
 But, Mrs. Roden, it shall be done! ” 
 
 CHAPTER XL VIII. 
 
 MARION WILL CERTAINLY HAVE HER WAY. 
 
 On the day but one following there came a letter to Marion from 
 Hampstead,—the love-letter which he had promised her 
 
 “Dear Marion, 
 
 “ It is as I supposed. This affair about Eoden has 
 stirred them up down at Trafford amazingly. My father wants me 
 to go to him. You know all about my sister. I suppose she will 
 have her way now. I think the girls always do have their way. 
 She will be left alone, and I have told her to go and see you as soon 
 as I have gone. You should tell her that she ought to make him 
 call himself by his father’s proper name. 
 
 “ In my case, dearest, it is not the girl that is to have her own 
 way. It’s the young man that is to do just as he pleases. My 
 girl, my own one, my love, my treasure, think of it all, and ask 
 yourself whether it is in your heart to refuse to bid me be happy. 
 Were it not for all that you have said yourself I should not be vain 
 enough to be happy at this moment, as I am. But you have told 
 me that you love me. Ask your father, and he will tell you that, 
 as it is so, it is your duty to promise to be my wife. 
 
 “ I may be away for a day or two,—perhaps for a week. Write 
 to me at Trafford,—Trafford Park, Shrewsbury,—and say that it 
 shall be so. I sometimes think that you do not understand how 
 absolutely my heayt is set upon you,—so that no pleasures are 
 
296 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 pleasant to me, no employments useful, except in so far as I can 
 make them so by thinking of your love. 
 
 “ Dearest, dearest Marion, 
 
 “ Your own, 
 
 “ Hampstead. 
 
 «* Eemember there must not be a word about a lord inside the 
 envelope. It is very bad to me when it comes from Mrs. Eoden, or 
 from a friend such as she is; but it simply excruciates me from 
 you. It seems to imply that you are determined to regard me as 
 a stranger.” 
 
 She read the letter a dozen times, pressing it to her lips and to 
 her bosom. She might do that at least. He would never know 
 how she treated this only letter that she ever had received from 
 him, the only letter that she would receive. These caresses were 
 only such as those which came from her heart, to relieve her soli¬ 
 tude. It might be absurd in her to think of the -words he had 
 spoken, and to kiss the lines which he had written. Were she now 
 on her deathbed that would be permitted to her. Wherever she 
 might lay her head till the last day should come that letter should 
 be always within her reach. “My girl, my own one, my love, my 
 treasure!” How long would it last with him? Was it not her 
 duty to hope that the words were silly words, written as young 
 men do write, having no eagerness of purpose,—-just playing with 
 the toy of the moment ? Could it be that she should wish them to 
 be true, knowing, as she did, that his girl, his love, his treasure, as 
 he called her, could never be given up to him ? And yet she did 
 believe them to be true, knew them to be true, and took an exceed¬ 
 ing joy in the assurance. It was as though the beauty and excel¬ 
 lence of their truth atoned to her for all else that was troublous to 
 her in the condition of her life. She had not lived in vain. Her 
 life now could never be a vain and empty space of time, as it had 
 been consecrated and ennobled and blessed by such a love as this. 
 And yet she must make the suffering to him as light as possible. 
 Though there might be an ecstasy of joy to her in knowing that 
 she was loved, there could be nothing akin to that in him. He 
 wanted his treasure, and she could only tell him that he might 
 never have it. “ Think of it all, and ask yourself whether it is in 
 your heart to refuse to bid me be happy.” It was in her heart to 
 do it. Though it might break her heart she would do it. It was 
 the one thing to do which was her paramount duty. “ You have 
 told me that you love me.” Truly she had told him so, and cer¬ 
 tainly she would never recall her words. If he ever thought of her 
 in future years when she should long have been at her rest,—and 
 she thought that now and again he would think of her, even when 
 that noble bride should be sitting at his table,—he should always 
 remember that she had given him her whole heart. He had bade 
 her write to him at Trafford. She would obey him at once in that; 
 but she would tell him that she could not obey him in aught else. 
 (< Tell me that it shall be so,” he had said to her with his sweet. 
 
MARION WILL CERTAINLY HAVE IIEIi WAY. 207 
 
 imperious, manly words. There had been something of command 
 about him always, which had helped to make him so perfect in her 
 eyes. “You do not understand,” he said, “how absolutely my 
 heart is set upon you.” Did he understand, she wondered, how 
 absolutely her heart had been set upon him ? “ No pleasures are 
 pleasant to me, no employment useful, unless I can make them so 
 by thinking of your love! ” It was right that he as a man,—and 
 such a man,—should have pleasures and employments, and it was 
 sweet to her to be told that they could be gilded by the remem¬ 
 brance of her smiles. But for her, from the moment in which she had 
 known him, there could be no pleasure but to think of him, no serious 
 employment but to resolve how best she might do her duty to him. 
 
 It was not till the next morning that she took up her pen to 
 begin her all-important letter. Though her resolution had been so 
 firmly made, yet there had been much need for thinking before she 
 could sit down to form the sentences. For a while she had told 
 herself that it would be well first to consult her father; but before 
 her father had returned to her she had remembered that nothing 
 which he could say would induce her in the least to alter her 
 purpose. His wishes had been made known to her; but he had 
 failed altogether to understand the nature of the duty she had 
 imposed upon herself. Thus she let that day pass by, although she 
 knew that the writing of the letter would be an affair of much time 
 to her. She could not take her sheet of paper, and scribble off* 
 warm words of love as he had done. To ask, or to give, in a matter 
 of love must surely, she thought, be easy enough. But to have 
 given and then to refuse—that was the difficulty. There was so 
 much to say of moment both to herself and to him, or rather 
 so much to signify, that it was not at one sitting, or with a single 
 copy, that this letter could be written. He must be assured, no 
 doubt, of her love; but he must be made to understand,—quite to 
 understand, that her love could be of no avail to him. And how 
 was she to obey him as to her mode of addressing him? “It 
 simply excruciates me from you,” he had said, thus debarring her 
 from that only appellation which would certainly be the easiest, 
 and which seemed to her the only one becoming. At last the 
 letter, when written, ran as follows 
 
 “ How I am to begin my letter I do not know, as you have for¬ 
 bidden me to use the only words which would come, naturally. 
 But I love you too well to displease you in so small a matter. My 
 poor letter must therefore go to you without any such beginning 
 as is usual. Indeed, I love you with all my heart. I told you 
 that before, and I will not shame myself by saying that it was 
 untrue. But I told you also before that I could not be your wife. 
 Dearest love, I can only say again what I said before. Dearly as 
 I love you I cannot become your wife. You bid me to think of it 
 all, and to ask myself whether it is in my heart to refuse to bid you 
 to be happy. It is not in my heart to let you do that which cer¬ 
 tainly would make you unhappy. 
 
208 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 “ There are two reasons for this. Of the first, though it is quite 
 sufficient, I know that you will make nothing. When I tell you 
 that you ought not to choose such a one as me for your wife 
 because my manners of life have not fitted me for such a position, 
 then you sometimes laugh at me, and sometimes are half angry,— 
 with that fine way you have of commanding those that are about 
 you. But not the less am I sure that I am right. I do believe 
 that of all human beings poor Marion Fay is the dearest to you. 
 When you tell me of your love and your treasure I do not for 
 a moment doubt that it is all true. And were I to be your wife, 
 your honour and your honesty would force you to be good to me! 
 But when you found that I was not as are other grand ladies, then 
 I think you would be disappointed. I should know it by every 
 line of your dear face, and when I saw it there I should be broken¬ 
 hearted. 
 
 “ Tut this is not all. If there were nothing further, I think 
 I should give way because I am only a weak girl; and your words, 
 my own, own love, would get the better of me. But there is another 
 thing.. It is hard for me to tell, and why should you bo troubled 
 with it? But I think it I tell it you out and out, so as to make 
 you understand the truth, then you will be convinced. Mrs. Eoden 
 could tell you the same. My dear, dear father could tell you also; 
 only that he will not allow himself to believe, because of his love 
 for the only child that remains to him. My mother died; and 
 all my brothers and sisters have died. And I also shall die young. 
 
 “ Is not that enough? I know that it will be enough. Know¬ 
 ing that it will be enough, may I not speak out to you, and tell 
 you all my heart? Will you not let me do so, as though it had 
 been understood between us, that though we can never be more to 
 each other than we are, yet we may be allowed to love each other. 
 Oh, my dearest, my only dearest, just for this once I have found 
 the words in which I may address you. I cannot comfort you as 
 I can myself, because you are a man, and cannot find comfort in 
 sadness and disappointment, as a girl may do. A man thinks that 
 lie should win for himself all that he wants. For a girl, I think it 
 is sufficient for her to feel that, as far as she herself is concerned, 
 that would have been given to her which she most desires, had not 
 Fortune been unkind. You, dearest, cannot have what you want, 
 because you have come to poor Marion Fay with all the glory and 
 sweetness of your love. You must suffer for a while. I, who 
 would so willingly give my life to serve you, must tell you that it 
 will be so. But as you are a man, pluck up your heart, and tell 
 yourself that it shall only be for a time. The shorter the better, 
 and the stronger you will show yourself in overcoming the evil 
 that oppresses you. And remember this. Should Marion Fay live 
 to know that you had brought a bride home to your house, as it 
 will be your duty to do, it will be a comfort to her to feel that the 
 evil she has done has been cured. 
 
 “ Mahion. 
 
 I cannot tell you how proud I should be to see your sister if 
 
MARION WILL CERTAINLY HAVE HER WAY. 2‘J'J 
 
 she will condescend to come and see me. Or would it not be better 
 that I should go over to Hendon Hall ? I could manage it without 
 trouble. Do not you write about it, but ask her to send me one 
 word.” 
 
 Such was the letter when it was at last finished and despatched. 
 As soon as it was gone,—dropped irrevocably by her own hand 
 into the pillar letter-box which stood at the corner opposite to the 
 public-house,—she told her father what she had done. “ And 
 why?” he said crossly. “I do not understand thee. Thou art 
 flighty and fickle, and knowest not thy own mind.” 
 
 “ Yes, father; I have known my own mind always in this matter. 
 It was not fitting.” 
 
 “If he thinks it fitting, why shouldst thou object ? ” 
 
 “ I am not fit, father, to be the wife of a great nobleman. Nor 
 can I trust my own health.” This she said with a courage and 
 firmness which seemed to silence him,—looking at him as though 
 by her looks she forbade him to urge the matter further. Then 
 she put her arms round him and kissed him. “Will it not be 
 better, father, that you and I shall remain together till the last ? ” 
 
 “ Nothing can be better for me that will not also be best for 
 thee.” 
 
 “ For me it will be best. Father, let it be so, and let this young 
 man be no more thought of between us.” In that she asked more 
 than could be granted to her; but for some days Lord Hampstead’s 
 name was not mentioned between them. 
 
 Two days afterwards Lady Frances came to her. “Let me 
 look at you,” said Marion, when the other girl had taken her in her 
 arms and kissed her. “ I like to look at you, to see whether you 
 are like him. To my eyes he is so beautiful.” 
 
 “ More so than I am.” 
 
 “ You are a—lady, and he is a man. But you are like him, and 
 very beautiful. You, too, have a lover, living close to us ? ” 
 
 “ Well, yes. I suppose I must own it.” 
 
 “ Why should you not own it ? It is good to be loved and to 
 love. And he has become a great nobleman,—like your brother.” 
 
 “No, Marion; he is not that.—May I call you Marion ? ” 
 
 “ Why not ? He called me Marion almost at once.” 
 
 “Did he so?” 
 
 “ Just as though it were a thing of course. But I noticed it. 
 It was not when he bade me poke the fire, but the next time. Did 
 he tell you about the fire ? ” 
 
 “ No, indeed.” 
 
 “A man does not tell of such things, I think; but a girl 
 remembers them. It is so good of you to come. You know-- 
 do you not?” 
 
 “ Know what ? ” 
 
 “ That I,—and your brother,—have settled everything at last?” 
 The smile of pleasant good humour passed away from the face of 
 Lady Frances, but at the moment she made no reply. “ It is well 
 
MARION FAY. 
 
 300 
 
 that you should know. He knows now, I am sure. After what 
 I said in my letter he will not contradict me again.” Lady Frances 
 shook her head. “ I have told him that while I live he of all the 
 world must be dearest to me. But that will be all.” 
 
 “ Why should you—not live ? ” 
 
 “Lady Frances-” 
 
 “ Nay, call me Fanny.” 
 
 “ You shall be Fanny if you will let me tell you. Oh! I do so 
 wish that you w r ould understand it all, and make me tell you 
 nothing further. But you must know,—you must know that it 
 cannot be as your brother has wished. If it were only less known, 
 —if ho would consent and you would consent,—then I think that 
 I could be happy. What is it after all,—the few years that w T e 
 may have to live here ? Shall w r e not meet again, and shall we not 
 love each other then ? ” 
 
 “ I hope so.” 
 
 “ If you can really hope it, then why should We not be happy ? 
 But how could I hope it if, with my eyes open, I were to bring a 
 great misfortune upon him ? If I did him an evil here, could I 
 hope that he would love me in heaven, when he w r ould know all 
 the secrets of my heart ? But if he shall say to himself that I 
 denied myself,—for his sake; that I refused to be taken into his arms 
 because it would be bad for him, then, though there may be some 
 one dearer, then shall not I also be dear to him?” The other girl 
 could only cling to her and embrace her. “ When he shall have 
 strong boys round his hearth,—the hearth ho spoke of as though it 
 were almost mine,—and little girls with pink cheeks and bonny 
 brows, and shall know, as he will then, what I might have done for 
 him, will he not pray for me, and tell me in his prayers that wffien 
 w r e shall meet hereafter I shall still be dear to him ? And when 
 she knows it all, she who shall lie on his breast, shall I not be dear 
 also to her ? ” 
 
 “ Oh, my sister! ” 
 
 “He will tell her. I think he will tell her,—because of his 
 truth, his honour, and his manliness.” 
 
 Lady Frances, before she left the house, had been made to 
 understand that her brother could not have his way in the matter 
 which was so near his heart, and that the Quaker’s daughter would 
 certainly have hers. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIX. 
 
 “but he is;—he is.” 
 
 George Roden had come to a decision as to his title, and had told 
 every one concerned that he meant to be as he always had been,— 
 George Eoden, a clerk in the Post Office. When spoken to, on this 
 side and the other, as to the propriety,—or rather impropriety,—of 
 jiis decision, he had smiled for the most part, and had said but 
 
301 
 
 “j UUT HE IS;—HE IS” 
 
 little, but bad been very confident in himself. To none of the 
 arguments used against him would he yield in the least. As to his 
 mother’s fame, he said, no one had doubted, and no one would 
 doubt it for a moment. His mother’s name had been settled by 
 herself, and she had borne it for a quarter of a century. She had 
 not herself thought of changing it. For her to blaze out into the 
 world as a Duchess,—it would be contrary to her feelings, to her 
 taste, and to her comfort! She would have no means of maintaining 
 the title,—and would be reduced to the necessity of still living in 
 Paradise Eow, with the simple addition of an absurd nickname. 
 As to that, no question had been raised. It was only for him that 
 she required the new appellation. 
 
 As for herself, the whole thing had been settled at once by her 
 own good judgment. 
 
 As for himself, he said, the arguments were still stronger 
 against the absurd use of the grand title. It was imperative on 
 him to earn his bread, and his only means of doing so was by doing 
 his work as a clerk in the Post Office. Everybody admitted that it 
 would not be becoming that a Duke should be a clerk in the Post 
 Office. It would be so unbecoming, he declared, that he doubted 
 whether any man could be found brave enough to go through the 
 world with such a fool’s cap on his head. At any rate he had no 
 such courage. Moreover, no Englishman, as he had been told, 
 could at his own will and pleasure call himself by a foreign title. 
 It was his pleasure to be ail Englishman. He had always been an 
 Englishman. As an inhabitant of Holloway he had voted for two 
 Eadical members for the Borough of Islington. He would not 
 stultify his own proceedings, and declare that everything which he 
 had done was wrong. It was thus that he argued the matter; and, 
 as it seemed, no one could take upon himself to prove that he was 
 an Italian, or to prove that he was a Duke. 
 
 But, though he seemed to be, if not logical, at any rate rational, 
 the world generally did not agree with him. Wherever he was 
 encountered there seemed to be an opinion that he ought to assume 
 whatever name and whatever rights belonged to his father. Even 
 at the Post Office the world was against him. 
 
 “I don’t quite know why you couldn’t do it,” said Sir Boreas, 
 when Eoden put it to him whether it would be practicable that a 
 young man calling himself Duca di Crinola should take his place as 
 a clerk in Mr. Jerningham’s room. It may be remembered that 
 Sir Boreas had himself expressed some difficulty in the matter. 
 He had told Mr. Jerningham that he did not think that they could 
 get on very well with a real Duke among them. It was thus that 
 the matter had at first struck him. But he was a brave man, and, 
 when he came to look at it all round, he did not see that there 
 would be any impossibility. It would be a nine days’ wonder, no 
 doubt. But the man would be there just the same,—the Post 
 Office clerk inside the Duke. The work would be done, and after a 
 little time even he would become used to having a Duke among his 
 subordinates. As to whether the Duke were a foreigner or an 
 
MARION FAY. 
 
 30li 
 
 Englishman,—that, he declared, would not matter in the least, as 
 far as the Post Office was concerned. " I really don’t see whv you 
 shouldn’t try it,” said Sir Boreas. J J 
 
 “ The absurdity would be so great that it would crush me, sir. 
 I shouldn’t be worth my salt,” said Boden. 
 
 “ That s a kind of thing that wears itself out very quickly. 
 \ou would feel odci at first, and so would the other men, and the 
 messengers. I should leel a little odd when I asked some one to 
 send the Duca di Crinola to me, for we are not in the habit of 
 sending for Dukes. But there is nothing that you can’t get used 
 to. It your father had been a Prince I don’t think I should break 
 down under it after the first month.” 
 
 “ What good would it do me, Sir Boreas? ” 
 
 I think it would do you good. It is difficult to explain the 
 6P°dy particularly to a man who is so violently opposed as you to 
 all ideas of rank. But-” J 
 
 + -Li f <?L° U mean should get promoted quicker because of my 
 
 title • 
 
 •i 1 t ! link P r °hable that the Civil Service generally would find 
 itself able to do something more for a good officer with a high name 
 than for a good officer without one.” 
 
 .. "Then, Sir Boreas, the Civil Service ought to be ashamed of 
 itself. 
 
 Perhaps so, but such would be the fact. Somebody would 
 interfere to prevent the anomaly of the Duca di Crinola sitting at 
 the same table with Mr. Crocker. I will not dispute it with you — 
 whether it ought to be so;—but, if it be probable, there is 'no 
 reason why you should not take advantage of your good fortune if 
 you have capacity and courage enough to act up to it. Of course 
 \vhat we all want in life is success. If a chance comes in your way 
 
 I , d 2 n fc T? e Why you should flir3 S awa y*” This was the wisdom 
 ot Sir Boreas; but Roden would not take advantage of it. He 
 
 thanked the great man for his kindness and sympathy, but declined 
 to reconsider his decision. 
 
 In the outer office,—in the room, for instance, in which Mr. 
 Jernmgham sat with Crocker and Bobbin and Geraghty, the feeling 
 w as veiy much stronger in favour of the title, and was expressed in 
 strongei lctngu&gG. Crocker could, not contain himself when he 
 heard that there was a doubt upon the subject. On Roden’s first 
 arrival at the office Crocker almost flung himself into his friend’s 
 arms, with just a single exclamation. “ Duca, Duca, Duca!” he 
 had said, and had then fallen back into his own seat overcome by 
 his emotions. Roden had passed this by without remark. It was 
 veiy distasteful to him, and disgusting. He would fain have been 
 able to sit down at his own desk, and go on with his own work 
 without any special notice of the occasion, other than the ordinary 
 greeting occasioned by his return. It was distressing to him that 
 anything should have been known about his father and his father’s 
 title. But that it should be known was natural. The world had 
 heaid of it. The world had put it into the newspapers, and the 
 
“ BUT HE IS;-HE IS." 303 
 
 world had talked about it. Of course Mr. Jerningham also would 
 talk of it, aud the two younger clerks,—and Crocker. Crocker 
 would of course talk of it louder than any one else. That was to 
 be expected. A certain amount of misconduct was to be expected 
 from Crocker, and must be forgiven. Therefore he passed over the 
 ecstatic and almost hysterical repetition of the title which his father 
 had borne, hoping that Crocker might be overcome by the effort, 
 and be tranquil. But Crocker was not so easily overcome. He did 
 sit for a moment or two on his seat with his mouth open; but he 
 was only preparing himself for his great demonstration. 
 
 “ We are very glad to see you again,—sir,” said Mr. Jerning¬ 
 ham; not at first quite knowing how it would become him to 
 address his fellow-clerk. 
 
 “ Thank you, Mr. Jerningham. I have got back again safe.” 
 
 “ I am sure we are all delighted to hear—what we have heard,” 
 said Mr. Jerningham cautiously. 
 
 “By George, yes,” said Bobbin. “I suppose it’s true; isn’t it? 
 Such a beautiful name! ” 
 
 “ There are so many things are true, and so many are false, that 
 I don’t quite know how to answer you,” said Boden. 
 
 “ But you are-? ” asked Geraghty; and then he stopped, 
 
 not quite daring to trust himself with the grand title. 
 
 “No;—that’s just what I’m not,” replied the other. 
 
 “ But he is,” shouted Crocker, jumping from his seat. “ He is! 
 He is! It’s quite true. He is Duca di Crinola. Of course we’ll 
 call him so, Mr. Jerningham;—eh ? ” 
 
 “I am sure I don\know,” said Mr. Jerningham with great 
 caution. 
 
 “ You’ll allow me to know my own name,” said Boden. 
 
 “No! no!” continued Crocker. “It’s all very well for your 
 modesty, but it’s a kind of thing which your friends can’t stand. 
 We are quite sure that you’re the Duca.” There was something in 
 the Italian title which was peculiarly soothing to Crocker’s ears. 
 “ A man has to be called by what he is, not by what he chooses. 
 If the Duke of Middlesex called himself Mr. Smith, he’d be Duke 
 all the same;—wouldn’t he, Mr. Jerningham ? All the world 
 would call him Duke. So it must be with you. I wouldn’t call 
 
 your Grace Mr.-; you know what I mean, but I won’t pronounce 
 
 it ever again ;—not for ever so much.” Boden’s brow became very 
 black as he found himself subjected to the effects of the man’s 
 folly. “ I call upon the whole office,” continued Crocker, “ for the 
 sake of its own honour, to give our dear and highly-esteemed 
 friend his proper name on all occasions. Here’s to the health of 
 the Duca di Crinola! ” Just at that moment Crocker’s lunch had 
 been brought in, consisting of bread and cheese and a pint of stout. 
 The pewter pot was put to his mouth and the toast was drank to 
 the honour and glory of the drinker’s noble friend with no feeling 
 of intended ridicule. It was a grand thing to Crocker to have been 
 brought into contact with a man possessed of so noble a title. In 
 his heart of hearts he reverenced “ The Duca.” He would willingly 
 
304 
 
 MARION PA Y. 
 
 have stayed there till sis or seven o’clock and have done all the 
 Duca’s work for him,—because the Duca was a Duca. He would 
 not have done it satisfactorily, because it was not in his nature to 
 do any work well, but he would have done it as well as he did his 
 own. He hated work; but he would have sooner worked all night 
 than see a Duca do it,—so great was his reverence for the aris¬ 
 tocracy generally. 
 
 “Mr. Crocker,” said Mr. Jerningham severely, “you are making 
 yourself a nuisance. You generally do.” 
 
 “ A nuisance! ” 
 
 “ Yes; a nuisance. "When you see that a gentleman doesn’t 
 wish a thing, you oughtn’t to do it.” 
 
 “ Hut when a man’s name is his name! ” 
 
 “Never mind. When he doesn’t wish it, you oughtn’t to 
 do it! ” 
 
 “ If it’s a man’s own real name 1 ” 
 
 “ Never mind,” said Mr. Jerningham. 
 
 “ If it shoots a gintleman to be incognito, why isn’t ho to do as 
 he plaises ? ” asked Geraghty. 
 
 “If the Duke of Middlesex did call himself Mr. Smith,” said 
 Bobbin, “ any gentleman that was a gentleman would fall in with 
 his views.” Crocker, not conquered, but for the moment silenced, 
 seated himself in a dudgeon at his desk. It might do very well for 
 poor fellows, weak creatures like Jerningham, Bobbin, and Geraghty, 
 thus to be done out of their preybut he would not be cheated 
 in that way. The Duca di Crinola should be Duca di Crinola as 
 far as he, Crocker, could make his voice heard; and all that 
 heard him should know that the Duca was his own old peculiar 
 friend. 
 
 In Paradise Eow the world was decidedly against Roden; and 
 not only were the Demijohns and Duffers against him, but also his 
 own mother and her friend Mrs. Vincent. On the first Monday 
 after Mrs. Roden’s return Mrs. Vincent came to the Row as usual,— 
 on this occasion to welcome her cousin, and to hear all the news of 
 the family as it had been at last brought back from Italy. There was 
 a great deal to be told. Many things had been brought to light 
 which had had their commencement in Mrs. Vincent’s days. There 
 was something of the continuation of a mild triumph for her in 
 every word that was spoken. She had been against the Di Crinola 
 marriage, when it had been first discussed more than a quarter 
 of a century ago. She had never believed in the Duca di Crinola, 
 and her want of faith had been altogether justified. She did not! 
 after all those years, bear hardly on her friend,—but there was still 
 that well-known tone of gentle censure and of gentle self-applause. 
 “ I told you so,” said the elder crow to the younger crow. When 
 does the old crow cease to remind the younger crow that it was so? 
 “ A sad, sad story,” said Mrs. Vincent, shaking her head. 
 
 “ All our stories, I suppose, have much in them that is sad. I 
 have got my son, and no mother can have more reason to be proud 
 Of a son.” Mrs. Vincent shook her head. “ I say it is so,” repeated 
 
“BUT UE IS;—HE 1ST 
 
 305 
 
 MS>' and haTi “ S SUCb “ SOn ’ 1 wU1 not admit that tas 
 
 said Mrl! Vin^ 6re mOT6 rea<3y t0 PerfMm his religious dHties -’’ 
 
 tlmtn^bebrough t Tp e now?- Ut eve ^ thiD g- 1 do »>‘ *n°w that 
 
 H "Jf a “?tter that should be brought up every hour and every 
 day Mary, if the bringing of it up is to do any good ” 
 
 But it was not on this matter that Mrs. Koden now wished to 
 get assistance from her cousincertainly not with any present 
 view towards the amelioration of her son’s religious faith That 
 might come afterwards perhaps. But it was her present object to 
 induce her cousin to agree with her, that her son should permi 
 himself to be called by his father’s title. “ But you think lie should 
 
 ! a ¥ kf , fath . ei ' ® na . me ? she asked. Mrs. Vincent shook her head 
 and tned to look vase The question was one on which her feelings 
 were very much divided. It was of course proper that the son 
 ■should be called by his father’s name. All the proprieties of the 
 world, as known to Mrs. Vincent, declared that it should be so 
 She was a woman, too, who by no means despised rank and who 
 considered that much reverence was due to those who were 
 privileged to cairy titles. Dukes and lords were certainly very 
 great in her estimation, and even the humblest knight wal 
 i espected by her, as having been in some degree lifted nhnvp -h,,. 
 community by the will of his SovereignAnd^though XJ wss 
 always in some degree hostile to George Roden because of Tnf 
 liberties lie took m regard to certain religious matters, yet she was 
 good enough and kind enough to wish well to her own cousii" 
 Had there been a question m regard to an English title she 
 certainly would not have shaken her head. But as to this out¬ 
 landish Italian title she had her doubts. It did not seem to her to 
 be right that an Englishman should be called a Duca. If it hail 
 been Baron or even Count, the name would have been less 
 offensive And then to her mind hereditary titles, as she had 
 known them, had been recommended by hereditary possession. 
 There was something to her almost irreligious in the idea of a 
 Duke without an acre. She could therefore only again shake her 
 head He has as much right to it,” continued Mrs. Roden « as 
 has the eldest son of the greatest peer in England.” J 
 
 I dare say he has, my dear, but-” 
 
 “ But what ? ” 
 
 Eu^^h^rTouTno;.’’' 811 *’ ^ D °‘ like » 
 
 “ The privilege of succession is the same ” 
 
 “He never could sit in the House of Lords, my dear.” 
 
 Ot course not. He would assume only what is his own Whv 
 should he be ashamed to take an Italian title anymore than his 
 iriend Lord Hampstead is to take an English one? It is not as 
 
 M l ^SSiJ pWra,t hiS liTiBg llere ’ foreign noblemen 
 
 X 
 
306 
 
 MAIilON JFAY. 
 
 “ I suppose he could live here,” said Mrs. Vincent, as though 
 she were making a great admission. “I don’t think that there 
 would be any law to turn him out of the country.” 
 
 “ Nor out of the Post Office, if he chooses to remain there,” said 
 Mrs. Eoden. 
 
 “ I don’t know how that mav be.” 
 
 “ Even if they did, I should prefer that it should be so. Accord¬ 
 ing to my thinking, no man should fling away a privilege that is 
 his own, or should be ashamed of assuming a nobility that belongs 
 to him. If not for his own sake, he should do it for the sake of 
 his children. He at any rate has nothing to be ashamed of in the 
 name. It belonged to his father and to his grandfather, and to his 
 ancestors through many generations. Think how men fight for 
 a title in this country; how they struggle for it when there is a 
 doubt as to who may properly have inherited it! Here there is no 
 doubt. Here there need be no struggle.” Convinced by the weight 
 of this argument Mrs. Vincent gave in her adhesion, and at last 
 expressed an opinion that her cousin should at once call himself by 
 his father’s name. 
 
 CHAPTER L. 
 
 THE GREAT QUESTION. 
 
 Neither were the arguments of Mrs. Roden nor the adhesion 
 of Mrs. Vincent of any power in persuading George Roden. He 
 answered his mother gently, kindly, but very firmly. Had any¬ 
 thing, he said, been necessary to strengthen his own feeling, it 
 would have been found in his mother’s "determination to keep his 
 old name. “ Surely, mother, if I may say so without disrespect, 
 what is sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander.” At this the 
 mother smiled, kissing her son to show that the argument had 
 been taken in good part. “In this matter,” he continued, “we 
 certainly are in a boat together. If I am a Duke you would be 
 a Duchess. If I am doomed to make an ape of myself at the Post 
 Office, you must be equally ridiculous in Paradise Row,—unless 
 you are prepared to go back to Italy and live your life there.” 
 
 “ And you ? ” 
 
 “ I could not live there. How could I earn my bread there ? 
 How could I pass my days so as to be in any degree useful? 
 What could be more mean ? My uncle, though he has been civil, 
 and to a certain degree generous, would be especially anxious not 
 to see me in public life. You and I together would have just means 
 enough for existence. I should be doomed to walk about the 
 streets of some third-rate Italian town, and call myself by my grand 
 name. Would a life like that satisfy your ambition on my behalf? ” 
 Then she thought of the girl wffio was in love with him, of the 
 friends whom he had made for himself, of the character which 
 belonged to him, and she was driven to confess that, by whatever 
 
TIIE GREAT QUESTION. 307 
 
 name he might he called, he must continue to live an Englishman’s 
 life, and to live in England. Nevertheless, she told herself that 
 the title would not be abolished, because it might be in abeyance 
 She might, she thought, still live to hear her son called by the 
 name of which she herself had been proud till she had become 
 thoroughly ashamed of the husband who had given it to her. 
 
 . there were others besides Crocker and Mrs. Vincent, and 
 his mother and Sir Boreas, who were much interested by George 
 Roden’s condition. Mrs. Roden returned home on the 2nd of 
 March, and, as may be remembered, the tidings respecting her son 
 had reached England before she came. By the end of the month 
 many persons were much exercised as to the young man’s future 
 name, and some people of high rank had not only discussed the 
 subject at great length, but had written numerous letters concern¬ 
 ing it. It was manifest to Lady Persiflage that no further attempt 
 should now be made to throw obstacles in the way of Lady Frances 
 and her lover. Lady Persiflage had never believed in the obstacles 
 from the first. “ Of course they’ll marry,” she had said to her one 
 daughter, who was now almost as good as married herself, and 
 equally trustworthy. “ When a girl is determined like that of 
 course nothing will stop her. My sister shouldn’t have let her 
 meet the young man at first.” But this had been said before the 
 young man had turned out to be an Italian Duke. Since the news 
 had come Lady Persiflage had been very eager in recommending 
 her sister to discontinue the opposition. “ Make the most of him ” 
 she had said in one of her letters. “ It is all that can be done now. 
 It is a fine name, and though Italian titles do not count like ours 
 yet, when they are as good as this, they go for a good deal. There 
 are real records of the Di Crinola family, and there is no manner of 
 doubt but that he is the head of them. Take him by the hand, and 
 have him down at Trafford if Kingsbury is well enough. They tell 
 me he is quite presentable, with a good figure and all thatby no 
 means a young man who will stand shivering in a room because he 
 doesn’t know how to utter a word. Had he been like that Fanny 
 would never have set her heart upon him. Persiflage has been 
 talking about him, and he says that something will be sure to turn 
 up if he is brought forward properly, and is not ashamed of his 
 family name. Persiflage will do whatever he can, but that can only 
 be if you will open your arms to him.” Lady Kingsbury did feel 
 that she u as called upon to undergo a terrible revulsion of sentiment 
 Opening her arms to the Duca di Crinola might be possible to her. 
 But how was she to open her arms to Lady Frances Trafford ? The 
 man whom she had seen but once might appear before her with his 
 new title as a young nobleman of whose antecedents she was not 
 bound to remember anything. She might seem to regard him as a 
 new arrival, a noble suitor for her stepdaughter’s hand, of whom she 
 had not before heard. But how was she to receive Fanny Trafford 
 the girl whom she had locked up at Konigsgraaf, whose‘letters she 
 had stopped as they came from the Post Office ? Nevertheless she 
 consented,—as far at least as her sister was concerned. “ I shall 
 
808 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 never like Fanny,” slie bad said, “ because she is so sly.” Girls are 
 always called sly by their friends who want to abuse them. “But 
 of course I will have them both here, as you think it will be best. 
 What they are to live upon Heaven only knows. But of course that 
 
 will be no concern of mine.” ^ 
 
 As a first result of this Lady Persiflage asked George Roden 
 down to Castle Hautboy for the Easter holidays. There was a 
 difficulty about this. How was he to be addressed ? Hampstead 
 was consulted, and he, though he was not much in heart just then 
 for the arrangement of such a matter, advised that for the present 
 his friend’s old name should be used. Lady Persiflage therefore 
 wrote to—George Roden, Esq., at the General Post Office. In this 
 letter it was signified that Lord Persiflage was very anxious to 
 make the acquaintance of—Mr. Roden. Lady Persiflage was also 
 very anxious. Lady Persiflage explained that she was aware of,-— 
 Well' Lady Frances Trafford was to be at Castle Hautboy, and 
 that she thought might act as an inducement to—Mr. Roden. 
 The letter was very cleverly managed. Though it never once 
 mentioned the grand title it made allusions which implied that the 
 real rank of the Post Office clerk was well known to every one at 
 Castle Hautboy. And though nothing of course was said as to 
 any possible relations between Lord Persiflage as a member of the 
 British Cabinet and the clerk’s uncle as a member of the Italian 
 Cabinet, nevertheless as to this also there were allusions which were 
 intelligible. This letter was altogether very gracious—such a one 
 as few young men would be able to resist coming from such a 
 person as Lady Persiflage. But the special offer which prevailed 
 with our Post Office clerk was no doubt the promise of the presence 
 of Fanny Trafford. In all the rest, gracious as the woids were, 
 there was nothing but trouble for him. It was clear enough to him 
 that Lady Persiflage was on the same side as Crocker. Lady 
 Persiflage would no doubt prefer a Duca di Crinola to a Post Office 
 clerk for Lady Frances. And he could see also that the Secretary 
 of State for Foreign Affairs was on the same side. The Secretary of 
 State would not have expressed a special desire to see him, the 
 Post Office clerk, at Castle Hautboy, and have, as it were, welcomed 
 him to the possession of his brother-in-law’s daughter, had nothing 
 been told of the Duca di Crinola. He heard as much from Lord 
 Hampstead, who advised him to go to Castle Hautboy, and make 
 himself acquainted with Fanny’s family friends. It was all mani¬ 
 fest. And as it was all being done in opposition to his own firm 
 resolution, he would not have gone,—but that the temptation was 
 too great for him. Fanny Trafford would be there, and he was 
 quite open to the charm of the offer which was almost being made 
 to him of Lady Fanny’s hand. He arranged the matter at the office, 
 and wrote to Lady Persiflage accepting the invitation. 
 
 “ So you’re going to Castle Hautboy ? ” said Crocker to him. 
 Crocker was in torments at the time. He had been made to under¬ 
 stand that he would be doing quite wrong in calling the Duca 
 “ Your Grace.” Roden, if a Duke at all, could be only an Italian 
 
300 
 
 THE GREAT QUESTION . 
 
 Duke—and not on that account “Your Grace.” This had been 
 explained by Bobbin, and had disturbed him. The title “ Duca ” 
 was still open to him; but he feared Boden’s wrath if he should 
 use it too freely. 
 
 “ How do you know ? ” asked Roden. 
 
 “ I have been there myself, you know;—and am in the habit of 
 hearing from Castle Hautboy.” His father was agent on the pro¬ 
 perty, and of course he heard tidings, if not from his father, at any 
 rate from his sisters. 
 
 “ Yes; I am going to Castle Hautboy.” 
 
 “ Hampstead will be there probably. I met Hampstead there. 
 A man in Lord Persiflage’s position will, of course, be delighted to 
 welcome the—the—Duca di Crinola.” He shrank as though he 
 feared that Roden would strike him—but he uttered the words. 
 
 “ Of course, if you choose to annoy me, I cannot well help 
 myself,” said Roden as he left the room. 
 
 On his first arrival at the Castle things were allowed to go 
 quietly with him. Every one called him “Mr. Roden.” Lady 
 Persiflage received him very graciously. Lady Frances was in the 
 house, and her name was mentioned to him with the whispered 
 intimacy which on such occasions indicates the triumph of the 
 man’s position. She made no allusion either to his rank or to his 
 office, but treated him just as she might have done any other 
 suitor,—which was exactly what he wanted. Lord Llwddythlw 
 had come down for his Easter holidays of two days, and was very 
 civil to him. Lady Amaldina was delighted to make his acquaint¬ 
 ance, and within three minutes was calling upon him to promise 
 that he would not get himself married before August in considera¬ 
 tion for her bevy. “ If I was to lose Fanny now,” she said, “ I 
 really think I should give it up altogether.” Then before dinner 
 he was allowed to find himself alone with Fanny, and for the first 
 time in his life felt that his engagement was an acknowledged 
 thing. 
 
 All this was made very pleasant to him by the occasional use 
 of his proper name. He had been almost ashamed of himself 
 because of the embarrassment which his supposed title had occasioned 
 him. He felt that he had thought of the matter more than it was 
 worth. The annoyances of Crocker had been abominable to him. 
 It was not likely that he should encounter a second Crocker, but 
 still he dreaded he hardly knew what. It certainly was not pro¬ 
 bable that these people at Castle Hautboy should call him by a 
 name he had never used without consulting him. But still he had 
 dreaded something, and was gratified that the trouble seemed to 
 pass by him easily. Lady Persiflage and Lady Amaldina had both 
 used his legitimate name, and Lord Llwddythlw had called him 
 nothing at all. If he could only be allowed to go away just as he 
 had come, without an allusion from any one to the Di Crinola 
 family, then he should think that the people at Castle Hautboy 
 were very well bred. But he feared that this was almost too much 
 to hope. He did not see Lord Persiflage till a moment before 
 
310 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 dinner, when he specially remarked that he was introduced as Mr. 
 Eoden. “ Very glad to see you, Mr. Eoden. I hope you’re fond of 
 scenery. We’re supposed to have the finest view in England from 
 the top of the tower. I have no doubt my daughter will show it 
 you. I can’t say that I ever saw it myself. Beautiful scenery is 
 all very well when you are travelling, but nobody ever cares for it 
 at home.” Thus Lord Persiflage had done his courtesy to the 
 stranger, and the conversation became general, as though the 
 stranger were a stranger no longer. When Eoden found that he 
 was allowed to give his arm to Lady Frances, and go out and eat 
 his dinner quietly and comfortably without any reference to the 
 peculiarity of his position, he thought that perhaps no further 
 troubles were in store for him. 
 
 The whole of the next day was devoted to the charms of love 
 and scenery. The spring weather was delightful, and Eoden was 
 allowed to ramble about where he pleased with Lady Frances. 
 Every one about the place regarded him as an accepted and recog¬ 
 nized lover. As he had never been in truth accepted by one of the 
 family except by the girl herself;—as the Marquis had not con¬ 
 descended even to see. him when he had come, but had sent Mr. 
 Greenwood to reject him scornfully; as the Marchioness had treated 
 him as below contempt; as even his own friend Lord Hampstead 
 had declared that the difficulties would be insuperable, this sudden 
 cessation of all impediments did seem to be delightfully miraculous. 
 Assent on the part of Lord and Lady Persiflage would, he under¬ 
 stood, be quite as serviceable as that of Lord and Lady Kingsbury. 
 Something had occurred which, in the eyes of all the family, had 
 lifted him up as it were out of the gutter an<J placed him on a 
 grand pedestal. There could be no doubt as to this something. It 
 was all done because he was [supposed to be an Italian nobleman. 
 And yet he was not an Italian nobleman ; nor would he allow any 
 one to call him so, as far as it might be in his power to prevent it. 
 
 His visit was limited to two entire days. One was passed 
 amidst all the sweets of love-making. With the pleasures of that 
 no allusions were allowed to interfere. On the following morning 
 he found himself alone with Lord Persiflage after breakfast. “ De¬ 
 lighted to have had you down here, you know,” began his lordship. 
 To this Eoden simply bowed. “ I haven’t the pleasure of knowing 
 your uncle personally, but there isn’t a man in Europe for whom I 
 have a higher respect.” Again Eoden bowed. “ I’ve heard all 
 about this romance of yours from D’Ossi. You know D’Ossi?” 
 Eoden declared that he had not the honour of knowing the Italian 
 Minister. “ Ah; well, you must know D’Ossi, of course. I won’t 
 say whether he’s your countryman or not, but you must know him. 
 He is your uncle’s particular friend.” 
 
 “ It’s only by accident that I know my uncle, or even learnt 
 that he was my uncle.” 
 
 '‘Just so. But the accident has taken place, and the result 
 fortunately remains. Of course you must take your own name.” 
 
 “I shall keep the name I have. Lord Persiflage.” 
 
THE GREAT QUESTION. 
 
 Sll 
 
 “ Yon will find it to be quite impossible. The Queen will not 
 allow it.” Upon hearing this Roden opened his eyes; but the 
 Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs looked him full in the face as 
 though to assure him that, though he had never heard of such a 
 thing before, such, in fact, was the truth. “ Of course there will 
 be difficulties. I’m not prepared at the present moment to advise 
 how this should be done. Perhaps you had better wait till Her 
 Majesty has signified her pleasure to receive you as the Duca di 
 Crinola. When she has done so you will have no alternative.” 
 
 “ No alternative as to what I may call myself ? ” 
 
 “ None in the least, I should say. I am thinking now in a great 
 measure as to the welfare of my own relative. Lady Frances. 
 Something will have to be done. I don’t quite see my way as yet; 
 but something, no doubt, will be done. The Duca di Crinola will, I 
 have no doubt, find fitting employment.” Then a little bell was rung, 
 and Vivian, the private secretary, came into the room. Vivian and 
 Roden knew each other, and a few pleasant words were spoken; but 
 Roden found himself obliged to take his departure without making 
 any further protests in regard to Her Majesty’s assumed wishes. 
 
 About five o’clock that evening he was invited into a little 
 sitting-room belonging to Lady Persiflage upstairs. “Haven’t I 
 been very good to you ? ” she said, laughing. 
 
 “ Very good, indeed. Nothing could be so good as inviting me 
 down here to Castle Hautboy.” 
 
 “ That was done for Fanny’s sake. But have I said one word 
 to you about your terrible name ? ” 
 
 “ No, indeed; and now. Lady Persiflage, pray go on and be 
 good to the end.” 
 
 “ Yes,” she said, " I will be good to the end,—before all the 
 people downstairs. I haven’t said a word of it even to Fanny. 
 Fanny is an angel.” 
 
 “ According to my thinking.” 
 
 “ That’s ot course. But even an angel likes to have her proper 
 rank. You. mustn’t allow yourself to suppose that even Fanny 
 Trafford is indifferent to titles. There are things that a man may 
 expect a girl to do for him, but there are things which cannot be 
 expected, let her be ever so much in love. Fanny Trafford has got 
 to become Duchess of Crinola.” 
 
 I am afraid that that is more than I can do for her.” 
 
 “ My dear Mr. Roden, it must be done. I cannot let you go 
 away from here without making you understand that, as a man 
 engaged to be married, you cannot drop your title. Did you intend 
 to remain single, I cannot say how far your peculiar notions might 
 enable you to prevail; but as you mean to marry, she, too, will have 
 rights. I put it to you whether it would be honest on your part to 
 ask her to abandon the rank which she will be entitled to expect 
 from you. Just you think of it, Mr. Roden. And now I won’t 
 trouble you any more upon the subject.” 
 
 Not a word more was said on the subject at Castle Hautboy, 
 and on the next day he returned to the Post Office. 
 
312 
 
 MARIOX FAY. 
 
 CHAPTEE LI. 
 
 “i CANNOT COMPEL HER.” 
 
 About the middle of April Lord and Lady Kingsbury came up to 
 London. From day to day and week to week he had declared that 
 he would never again be able to move out of his room; and had 
 gone on making up his mind to die immediately, till people around 
 him began to think that he was not going to die at all. He was, 
 however, at last persuaded that he might at any rate as well die in 
 London as at Trafford, and, therefore, allowed himself to be carried 
 up to Park Lane. The condition of his own health was, of course, 
 given to him for the reason of this movement. At this peculiar 
 period of the year, it would be better for him, they said, to be near 
 his London doctor. No doubt the Marquis believed that it was so. 
 When a man is ill nothing is so important to him as his own illness. 
 But it may be a question whether the anxiety felt by the Mar¬ 
 chioness as to other affairs of the family generally had not an effect 
 with her in inducing her to persuade her husband. The Marquis 
 had given a modified assent to his daughter’s marriage; and she, in 
 a manner still more modified, had withdrawn her opposition. Per¬ 
 mission had been given to Fanny to marry the Duca di Crinola. 
 This had been given without any reference to money, but had certainly 
 implied a promise of a certain amount of income from the bride’s 
 father. How else would it be possible that they should live? The 
 letter had been written to Lady Frances by her stepmother at the 
 dictation of the Marquis. But the words absolutely dictated had 
 not perhaps been religiously followed. The father had intended to 
 be soft and affectionate, merely expressing his gratification that his 
 girl’s lover should turn out to be the Duca di Crinola. Out of this 
 the Marchioness had made a stipulation. The lover should be 
 received as a lover, on condition that he bore the name and title. 
 Lady Persiflage had told her sister that as a matter of course the name 
 would be taken. “ A man always takes his father’s name as a matter 
 of course,” Lady Persiflage had said. She believed that the man’s 
 absurd notions would be overcome by continual social pressure. 
 Whether the social pressure would or would not prevail, the man 
 -would certainly marry the girl. There could, therefore, be no better 
 course than that of trusting to social pressure. Lady Persiflage 
 was quite clear as to her course. But the Marchioness, though 
 yielding to her sister in much, still thought that a bargain should 
 be made. It had been suggested that she should invite “ the young 
 man ” down to Trafford. Eoden was usually called “ the young 
 man ” at present in these family conclaves. She had thought that it 
 would be better to see him up in London. Lady Frances would 
 come to them in Park Lane, and then the young man should be 
 invited. The Marchioness would send her compliments to the 
 “Duca di Crinola.” Nothing on earth should induce her to write 
 
“I CANNOT COMPEL IIEP.” 
 
 313 
 
 the name of Roden,—unless it might happily come to pass that the 
 
 engagement should be broken. . . . , 
 
 Hampstead at this time was still living at Hendon. His sister 
 remained with him till the Marchioness came up to town about the 
 middle of April, but no one else except George Roden saw much ot 
 him. Since Roden’s return from Italy his visits to Hendon Hall 
 had been tacitly permitted. The Kingsbury and Persiflage world 
 had taken upon itself to presume that the young man was the l)uca 
 di Crinola, and, so presuming, had in truth withdrawn all im¬ 
 pediments. Lady Frances had written to her father in answer to 
 the letter which had reached her from the Marchioness in his name, 
 and had declared that Mr. Roden was Mr. Roden, and would remain 
 Mr. Roden. She had explained his reasons at great length but had 
 probably made them anything but intelligible to her father. He, 
 however, had simply concealed the letter when he had half-read it. 
 He would not incur the further trouble of explaining this to his 
 wife, and had allowed the matter to go on, although the stipulation 
 mado was absolutely repudiated by the parties who were to have been 
 bound by it. 
 
 For Roden and Lady Frances this was no doubt very pleasant. 
 Even Lady Amaldina Hauteville with her bevy was not more 
 thoroughly engaged to her aristocratic lover than was Lady 
 Frances to this precarious Italian nobleman. But the brother m 
 these days was by no means as happy as his sister, lhere had 
 been a terrible scene between him and Lady Frances after his return 
 from Trafford. He came back with Marion’s letter in his pocket, 
 —with every word contained in it clear in his memory , but sti , 
 still doubting as to the necessity of obeying Marions orders. 
 She had declared, with whatever force of words she had known how 
 to use, that the marriage which he proposed to himself was im¬ 
 possible. She had told him so more than once before, and the 
 telling had availed nothing. Her first assertion that she could not 
 become his wife had hardly served to moderate m the least the joy 
 which he had felt from the assurances of her affections. _ It hacl 
 meant nothing to him. "When she had spoken to him simp y ot 
 their differences of rank he had thrown the arguments under Ins 
 feet, and had trampled upon them with his masterful imperious 
 determination. His whole life and energy were devoted to the 
 crushing of arguments used towards him by those who weie daily 
 telling him that he was severed from other men by the peculiarities 
 of his rank. He certainly would not be severed from this one 
 woman whom he loved by any such peculiarity. ..^rtffying his 
 heart by these reflections, he had declared to himself that the turn l 
 doublings of the girl should go for nothing. As she loved him he 
 would ot course be strong enough to conquer all such ^^^nlv 
 He would take her up in his arms and carry her away, and simp y 
 tell her that she had got to do it. He had a conviction that a girl 
 when once she had confessed that she loved a man, belonged to the 
 man, and was bound to obey him. To watch over her, ■to worsnip 
 her, to hover around her, so that no wind should be allowed to blow 
 
314 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 too strongly on her, to teach her that she was the one treasure in 
 the world that could be of real value to him—but at the same 
 time to make a property of her, so that she should be altogether his 
 own,—that had been his idea of the bond which should unite him 
 and Marion Fay together. As she took a joy in his love it could not 
 be but that she would come to his call at last. 
 
 She too had perceived something of this,—so much, that it had 
 become necessary to her to tell him the whole truth. Those minor 
 reasons, though even they should have been strong enough, were 
 not, she found, powerful with him. She tried it, and acknowledged 
 to herself that she failed. The man was too wilful for her 
 guidance—too strong for the arguments by which she had hoped 
 to control him. Then it had been necessary to tell him all the 
 truth. This she had done at last with very few words. “ My 
 mother died; and all my brothers and sisters have died. * And I 
 also shall die young.” Very simple, this had been; but, ah 
 powerful as it was simple ! In it there had been a hard assertion 
 of facts too strong even for his masterful nature. He could not 
 say, even to himself, that it was not so,—that it should not be so. 
 It might be that she might be spared where others had not been 
 spared. That risk, of course, he was prepared to run. Without 
 turning it much in his thoughts, without venturing to think of the 
 results or to make a calculation, he was prepared to tell her that she 
 too must leave all that in the hand of God, and run her chance as 
 do all human mortal beings. He certainly would so argue the 
 matter with her. But he could not tell her that there was no 
 ground for fear. He could not say that though her mother had 
 died, and though her little brothers and sisters had died, there was 
 yet no cause for fear. And he felt that should she persist in her 
 resolution there would be a potency about her which it might well 
 be that he should fail to dominate. If we can live, let "us live 
 together; and if we must die, let us die,—as nearly together as may 
 be. That we should come together is the one thing absolutely 
 essential; and then let us make our way through our troubles as 
 best we may under the hands of Fate. This was what he would 
 now say to her. But he knew that he could not say it with that 
 bright look and those imperious tones which had heretofore almost 
 prevailed with her. Not replying to Marion’s letter by any written 
 answer, but resolving that the words which would be necessary 
 might best be spoken, he came back to Hendon. Oh how softly 
 they should be. spoken ! With his arm round her waist he would 
 tell her that still it should be for better or for worse. “ I will say 
 nothing of what may happen except this;—that whatever may befall 
 us we will take it and bear it together.” With such words whispered 
 into her ear, would he endeavour to make her understand that 
 though it might all be true, still would her duty be the same. 
 
 But when he reached his house, intending to go on almost at 
 once to Holloway, he was stopped by a note from the Quaker. 
 
 ‘ r My dear young friend,” said the note from the Quaker, “ I am 
 
«‘I CANNOT COMPEL HER. ,> 
 
 315 
 
 
 desired by Marion to tell thee that we have thought it better that 
 she should go for a few weeks to the seaside. I have taken her to 
 Pegwell Bay, whence I can run up daily to my work in the City. 
 After that thou last saw her she was somewhat unwell—not ill, 
 indeed, but flurried, as was natural, by the interview. And I have 
 taken her down to the seaside in compliance with medical advice. 
 She bids me, however, to tell thee that there is no cause for alarm. 
 It will, however, be better, for a time at least, that she should not 
 be called upon to encounter the excitement of meeting thee. 
 
 “ Thy very faithful friend, 
 
 “ Zachary Fay.” 
 
 This made him nervous, and for the moment almost wretched. 
 It was his desire at first to rush off to Pegwell Bay and learn for 
 himself what might be the truth of her condition. But on con¬ 
 sideration he felt that he did not dare to do so in opposition to the 
 Quaker’s injunction. His arrival there among the strangers of the 
 little watering-place would of course flurry her. He was obliged to 
 abandon that idea, and content himself with a resolve to see the 
 Quaker in the City on the next morning. But the words spoken 
 to him afterwards by his sister were heavier to bear than the 
 Quaker’s letter. “ Dear John,” she had said, “ you must give it up. 
 
 “ x w m never give it up,” he had answered. And as he spoke 
 there came across his brows an angry look of determination. 
 
 “ Dear John! ” 
 
 “ What right have you to tell me to give it up ? What would 
 you say to me if I were to declare that George Koden should be 
 given up ? ” 
 
 “If there were the same cause!” 
 
 “ What do you know of any cause i ” 
 
 “ Dear, dearest brother.” 
 
 “ You are taking a part against me. You can be obstinate. I 
 am not more likely to give a thing up than you are yourself.” 
 
 “ It is her health.” 
 
 “ Is she the first young woman that was ever married without 
 being as strong as a milkmaid? Why should you take upon your¬ 
 self to condemn her ? ” 
 
 “ It is not I. It is Marion herself. You told me to go to her, 
 and of course she spoke to me.” 
 
 He paused a moment, and then in a hoarse, low voice asked a 
 question. “ What did she say to you when you spoke to her ? ” 
 
 “ Oh, John!—I doubt I can hardly tell you what she said. But 
 you know what she said. Did she not write and tell you that 
 because of her health it cannot be as you would have it.” 
 
 “And would you have me yield, because for my sake she is 
 afraid ? If George Eoden were not strong would you throw him 
 over and go away ? ” 
 
 “ It is a hard matter to discuss, John.” 
 
 “But it has to be discussed. It has at any rate to be thought 
 of. I don’t think that a woman has a right to take the matter into 
 
31G 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 her own hands, and say that as a certainty God Almighty has 
 condemned her to an early death. These things ^must be left to 
 Providence, or Chance, or Fate, as you may call it.” 
 
 “ But if she has her own convictions— V\ 
 
 “ She must not be left to her own convictions. It is just that. 
 She must not be allowed to sacrifice herself to a fantastic idea.’ 
 
 “ You will never prevail with her,” said his sister, taking him 
 by the arm, and looking up piteously into his face. 
 
 “I shall not prevail? Do you say that certainly I shall not 
 prevail?” She was still holding his arm, and still looking up into 
 his face, and now she answered him by slightly shaking her head. 
 “ Why should you speak so positively ? ” 
 
 “ She could say things to me which she could hardly say to 
 
 you.” 
 
 “ What was it, then ? ” 
 
 “ She could say things to me which I can hardly repeat to you. 
 Oh, John, believe me,—believe me. It must be abandoned. Marion 
 Fay will never be your wife.” He shook himself free from her 
 hand, and frowned sternly at her. “ Do you think I would not 
 have her for my sister, if it were possible? Do you not believe 
 that I too can love her ? Who can help loving her ? ” 
 
 He knew, of course, that as the shoe pinched him it could not 
 pinch her. What were any other love or any other sadness as 
 compared to his love or to his sadness? It was to him as though, 
 the sun were suddenly taken out of his heaven, as though the light 
 of day were destroyed for ever from before his eyes,—or rather as 
 though a threat were being made that the sun should be taken 
 from" his heaven and the light from his eyesa threat under which 
 it might be necessary that he should succumb. “ Marion, Marion, 
 Marion,” he said to himself again and again, walking up and down 
 between the lodge and the hall door. Whether well or ill, whether 
 living or dying, she surely must be his! “Marion!” And then 
 he was ashamed of himself, as he felt rather than heard that he 
 had absolutely shouted her name aloud. 
 
 On the following day he was with the Quaker in London, walk¬ 
 ing up and down Old Broad Street in front of the entrance leading 
 up to Pogson and Littlebird’s. “ My dear friend,” said the Quaker, 
 “ I do not say that it shall never be so. It is in the hands of the 
 Almighty.” Hampstead shook his head impatiently. “ You do not 
 doubt the power of the Almighty to watch over His creatures ? 5 
 “ I think that if a man wants a thing he must work for it.” 
 
 The Quaker looked him hard in the face. “ In the ordinary 
 needs of life, my young lord, the maxim is a good one.” 
 
 “It is good for everything. You tell me of the Almighty. 
 Will the Almighty give me the girl I love if I sit still and hold my 
 peace ? Must I not work for that as for anything else ? ” 
 
 “ What'can I do. Lord Hampstead ? ” 
 
 “ Agree with me that it will be better for her to run her chance. 
 Say as I do that it cannot be right that she should condemn her¬ 
 self. If you,—you her father,—will bid her, then she will do it.” 
 
IN PARK LANE. 
 
 317 
 
 “ I do not know.” 
 
 “ You can try with her;—if you think it right. You are her 
 father.” 
 
 “ Yes,—I am her father.” 
 
 “And she is obedient to you. You do not think that she 
 should-? Eh?” 
 
 “ How am I to say ? What am I to say else than that it is in 
 God’s hands? I am an old man who have suffered much. All 
 have been taken from me;—all but she. How can I think of thy 
 trouble when my own is so heavy ? ” 
 
 “ It is of her that we should think.” 
 
 “ I cannot comfort her; I cannot control her. I will not even 
 attempt to persuade her. She is all that I have. If I did think 
 for a moment that I should like to see my child become the wife of 
 one so high as thou art, that folly has been crushed out of me. To 
 have my child alive would be enough for me now, let alone titles, 
 and high places, and noble palaces.” 
 
 “ Who has thought of them ? ” 
 
 “ I did. Not she,—my angel; my white one! ” Hampstead 
 shook his head and clenched his fist, shaking it, in utter disregard 
 of the passers-by, as the hot, fast tears streamed down his face. 
 Could it be necessary that her name should be mentioned even in 
 connection with feelings such as those which the Quaker owned. 
 
 " Thou and I, my lord,” continued Zachary Fay, “ are in sore 
 trouble about this maiden. I believe that thy love is, as mine, true, 
 honest, and thorough. For her sake I wish I could give her to 
 thee,—because of thy truth and honesty; not because of thy wealth 
 and titles. But she is not mine to give. She is her own,—and 
 will bestow her hand or refuse to do so as her own sense of what is 
 best for thee may direct her. I will say no word to persuade her 
 one way or the other.” So speaking the Quaker strode quickly up 
 the gateway, and Lord Hampstead was left to make his way back 
 out of the City as best he might. 
 
 CHAPTER LII. 
 
 IN PARK LANE. 
 
 On Monday, the 20th of April, Lady Frances returned to her 
 father’s roof. The winter had certainly not been a happy time for 
 her. Early in the autumn she had been taken off to the German 
 castle in great disgrace because of her plebeian lover, and had, ever 
 since, been living under so dark a cloud, as to have been considered 
 unfit for the companionship of those little darlings, the young lords, 
 her half-brothers. She had had her way no doubt, never having 
 for a moment wavered in her constancy to the Post Office clerk; 
 but she had been assured incessantly by all her friends that her 
 marriage with the man was impossible, and had no doubt suffered 
 
318 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 under the conviction that her friends were hostile to her. Now she 
 might be happy. Now she was to be taken back to her father’s 
 house. Now she was to keep her lover, and not be held to have 
 been disgraced at all. No doubt in this there was great triumph. 
 
 But her triumph had been due altogether to an accident;—to 
 what her father graciously called a romance, while her stepmother 
 described it less civilly as a “ marvellous coincidence, for which she 
 ought to thank her stars on her bended knees.” The accident,—or 
 coincidence or romance as it might be called,—was, of course, her 
 lover’s title. Of this she was by no means proud, and would not at 
 all thank her stars for it on her bended knees. Though she was 
 happy in her lover’s presence, her happiness was clouded by the 
 feeling that she was imposing upon her father. She had been 
 allowed to ask her lover to dine at Kingsbury House because her 
 lover was supposed to be the Duca di Crinola. But the invitation 
 had been sent under an envelope addressed to George Eoden, Esq., 
 General Post Office. No one had yet ventured to inscribe the 
 Duke’s name and title on the back of a letter. The Marchioness 
 was assured by her sister that it would all come right, and had, 
 therefore, submitted to have the young man asked to come and eat 
 his dinner under the same roof with her darlings. But she did 
 not quite trust her sister, and felt that after all it might become 
 her imperative duty to gather her children together in her bosom, 
 and fly with them from contact with the Post Office clerk,—the 
 Post Office clerk who would not become a Duke. The Marquis 
 himself was only anxious that everything should be made to be 
 easy. He had, while at Trafford, been so tormented by Mr. Green¬ 
 wood ^ and his wife that he longed for nothing so much as a recon¬ 
 ciliation with his daughter. He was told on very good authority, 
 —on the authority of no less a person than the Secretary of Slate' 
 —that this young man was the Duca di Crinola. There had been 
 a romance, a very interesting romance; but the fact remained. 
 The Post Office clerk was no longer George Eoden, and would, he 
 was assured, soon cease to be a Post Office clerk. The young man 
 was in truth an Italian nobleman of the highest order, and as such 
 was entitled to marry the daughter of an English nobleman. If it 
 should turn out that he had been misinformed, that would not be 
 his fault. 
 
 So it was when George Eoden came to dine at Kingsbury House. 
 He himself at this moment was not altogether happy. The last 
 words which Lady Persiflage had said to him at Castle Hautboy 
 had disturbed him. “ Would it be honest on your part,” Lady 
 Persiflage had asked him, “ to ask her to abandon the rank which 
 she will be entitled to expect from you ? ” He had not put the 
 matter to himself in that light before. Lady Erances was entitled 
 to as much consideration in the matter as was himself. The rank 
 would be as much hers as his. And yet he couldn’t do it. Not 
 even for her sake could he walk into the Post Office and call himself' 
 the Duca di Crinola. Not even for her sake could he consent to 
 live an idle, useless life as an Italian nobleman. Love was very 
 
IN PARK LANE. 
 
 319 
 
 strong with him, but with it there was a sense of duty and manli¬ 
 ness which would make it impossible for him to submit himself to 
 such thraldom. In doing it he would have to throw over all the 
 strong convictions of his life. And yet he was about to sit as a 
 guest at Lord Kingsbury’s table, because Lord Kingsbury would 
 believe him to be an Italian nobleman. He was not, therefore, 
 altogether happy when he knocked at the Marquis’s door. 
 
 Hampstead had refused to join the party. He was not at present 
 in a condition to join any social gathering. But, omitting him, 
 a family party had been collected. Lord and Lady Persiflage were 
 there, with Lady Amaldina and her betrothed. The Persiflages 
 had taken the matter up very strongly, so that they may have been 
 said to have become George Eoden’s special patrons or protectors. 
 Lord Persiflage, who was seldom much in earnest about anything, 
 had determined that the Duca di Crinola should be recognized, and 
 was supposed already to have spoken a word on the subject in a 
 very high quarter indeed. Vivian, the Private Secretary, was there. 
 The poor Marquis himself was considered unable to come down 
 into the dining-room, but did receive his proposed son-in-law up¬ 
 stairs. They had not met since the unfortunate visit made by the 
 Post Office clerk to Hendon Hall, when no one had as yet dreamed 
 of his iniquity; nor had the Marchioness seen him since the terrible 
 sound of that feminine Christian name had wounded her ears. The 
 other persons assembled had in a measure become intimate with 
 him. Lord Llwddythlw had walked round Castle Hautboy and 
 discussed with him the statistics of telegraphy. Lady Amaldina 
 had been confidential with him as to her own wedding. Both Lord 
 and Lady Persiflage had given him in a very friendly manner their 
 ideas as to his name and position. Vivian and he had become 
 intimate personal friends. They could, all of them, accept him 
 with open arms when he was shown into the drawing-room, except 
 Lady Kingsbury herself. “No; I am not very well just at present,” 
 said the Marquis from his recumbent position as he languidly 
 stretched out his hand. “ You won’t see me down at dinner. God 
 knows whether anybody will ever see me down at dinner again.” 
 
 “ Not see you "down at dinner! ” said Lord Persiflage. “ In 
 another month you will be talking treason in Pall Mall as you have 
 done all your life.” 
 
 “ I wish you had made Hampstead come with you, Mr.-” 
 
 But the Marquis stopped himself, having been instructed that he 
 was not on any account to call the young man Mr. Boden. “ He 
 was here this morning, but seemed to be in great trouble about 
 something. He ought to come and take his place at the bottom 
 of the table, seeing how ill I am ;—but he won’t.” 
 
 Lady Kingsbury waited until her husband had done his grum¬ 
 bling before she attempted the disagreeable task which was before 
 her. It was very disagreeable. She was a bad hypocrite. There 
 are women who have a special gift of hiding their dislikings from 
 the objects of them, when occasion requires. They can smile and 
 be soft, with bitter enmity in their hearts, to suit the circumstances 
 
320 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 of the moment. And as they do so, their faces will overcome their 
 hearts, and their enmity will give way to their smiles. They will 
 become almost friendly because they look friendly. They will cease 
 to hate because hatred is no longer convenient. But the Marchioness 
 was too rigid and too sincere for this. She could command neither 
 her features nor her feelings. It was evident from the moment the 
 young man entered the room, that she would be unable to greet 
 him even with common courtesy. She hated him, and she had told 
 every one there that she hated him. “ How do you do ? ” she said, 
 just touching his hand as soon as he was released from her husband’s 
 couch. She, too, had been specially warned by her sister that she 
 must not call the young man by any name. If she could have 
 addressed him by his title, her manner might perhaps have been 
 less austere. 
 
 “ I am much obliged to you by allowing me to come here,” said 
 Eoden, looking her full in the face, and making his little speech in 
 such a manner as to be audible to all the room. It was as though 
 he had declared aloud his intention of accepting this permission as 
 conveying much more than a mere invitation to dinner. Her face 
 became harder and more austere than ever. Then, finding that she 
 had nothing more to say to him, she seated herself and held her 
 peace. 
 
 Only that Lady Persiflage was very unlike her sister, the moment 
 would have been awkward for them all. Poor Fanny, who was 
 sitting with her hand within her father’s, could not find a word to 
 say on the occasion. Lord Persiflage, turning round upon his heel, 
 made a grimace to his Private Secretary. Llwddythlw would 
 willingly have said something pleasant on the occasion had he been 
 sufficiently ready. As it was he stood still, with his hands in his 
 trousers pockets and his eyes fixed on the wall opposite. According 
 to his idea the Marchioness was misbehaving herself. “ Dear Aunt 
 Clara,” said Lady Amaldina, trying to say something that might 
 dissipate the horror of the moment, “ have you heard that old Sir 
 Gregory Tollbar is to marry Letitia Tarbarrel at last ? ” But it was 
 Lady Persiflage who really came to the rescue. “ Of course we’re all 
 very glad to see you,” she said. “ You’ll find that if you’ll be nice 
 to us, we’ll all be as nice as possible to you. Won’t we, Lord 
 Llwddythlw.” 
 
 “As far as I am concerned,” said the busy Member of Parliament, 
 “ I shall be delighted to make the acquaintance of Mr. Eoden.” 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 
 Eoden. 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. 
 
IN FAME LANE. 321 
 
 “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 im¬ 
 possible 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.” 
 
 Y 
 
822 
 
 MARION FAY . 
 
 “You heard wliat 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 Boden.” 
 
 “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 Boden’s Italian uncle as a man possessing 
 intellectual gifts and political importance of the highest order. 
 Boden 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 Boden. 
 
 “ 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 
 
AFTER ALL HE ISN’T. 
 
 323 
 
 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 upstairs 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 “ Georae 
 Roden or to the “ Puca di Crinola,” 
 
 CHAPTER Lin. 
 
 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 such-like 
 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 Englishman 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 
 
321 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 Baron d’Ossi and seconded by Lord Persiflage. There it was so 
 that all the world would declare that the young “ Duca was the 
 a Duca” Otherwise the name would not have been inseited tlicie 
 by the Italian Minister and British Secretary of State. Whereas 
 George Boden 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 Boden, 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 man¬ 
 oeuvres of which Lady Persiflage herself was guilty. But they 
 had the effect of spreading abroad the fact that George Boden was 
 George Boden no longer, but was the Duca di Crinola. ‘ There s 
 letters coming for the Duker every day,” said the audlady of the 
 Duchess to Mrs. Duffer of Paradise Bow. " I see them myself. I 
 shan’t stand on any p’s and q’s. I shall call him Duker to his 
 face.” Paradise Bow determined generally to call him Duker to ins 
 lace’, 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, Geoige. 01 
 course if it wasn’t so you’d have to stand out against it, but as it 
 
 “ It is no more a fact with me than with you,” he said angrily. 
 
 (C 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 Boden, George Boden you 11 be 
 to me. But I think you’re wrong. And I think moreover that the 
 o-ood sense of the world will prevail against yom As far as I under¬ 
 stand anything of the theory of titles, this title belongs to you. 
 The world never insists on calling a man a Lord or a Count tor 
 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 Ins 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 
 vour 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 
 wa s 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 fiom 
 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 
 
AFTER ALL HE ISN’T. 
 
 325 
 
 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 English¬ 
 man 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 per* 
 suading me. She has made me half think that it may be my 
 duty.” 
 
526 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 “ 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. 
 lou 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 Eoden’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 “Ducadi Cri- 
 nola.” 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 iEolus. 
 
 “ 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. Eoden 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 
 
AFTER ALL EE ISN’T. 
 
 327 
 
 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 ho 
 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 alto¬ 
 gether 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 neces¬ 
 sary to his audacious demand for the hand of Lady Frances. On 
 that occasion Mr. Greenwood had been very imperious. Mr. Green¬ 
 wood 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 Kings¬ 
 bury 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 ail 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 con¬ 
 sented 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 
 
MARION FAY. 
 
 •>Z 
 
 part referred to his daughter and his daughter’s lover. " No, I’m 
 not very well/’ he said in answer to Eoden’s inquiries. “ I don’t 
 think I ever shall be better. What is it about now ? ” 
 
 “ I have come, my lord,” said Eoden, “ 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 Eoden, 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 Eoden took his leave. 
 
( 329 ) 
 
 CHAPTER LIV. 
 
 “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. Green¬ 
 wood 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 inter¬ 
 view? 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 notnecessary 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! ” 
 
o30 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 “ 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 w as 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. Green¬ 
 wood.” 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 sub¬ 
 ject 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.” 
 
« OF COURSE THERE WAS A BITTERNESS." SSI 
 
 “It isn’t a threat. It is only a statement. She promised it 
 me,—for a purpose.” 
 
 “ I don’t know what yon 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 im¬ 
 pertinent 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’m 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. Green¬ 
 wood 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 
 
MARION FAV. 
 
 non 
 
 uoZ 
 
 won ’J; den y that her ladyship honoured me with a very close 
 
 hULl llUtJIlCc* 
 
 “ 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 ? 
 
 “ / ou hav f got anything to say, say it ” screamed the Marquis. 
 
 Of course ms lordship and her ladyship are not her ladyshin’s 
 own children.” l 
 
 “ What has that got to do with it?” 
 
 “ Of course there was a bitterness.” 
 
 “ j s ^ iat y° u ? I w hl hear nothing from you about 
 ^ a( ly K-ingsbuiy, unless you have to tell me of some claim to bo 
 made upon her. If there has been money promised you, and she 
 acknowledges it, it shall be paid. Has there been any such nro- 
 mise ? ” 1 
 
 Mr. Greenwood found it very difficult,—nay, quite impossible — 
 to say in accurate language that which he was desirous of explain- 
 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 hei 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 
 lie was turned out of the house,—and, as he declared to himself 
 utterly ruined. Now in this there had certainly been much hard¬ 
 ship, 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 "iven 
 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 j 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 com¬ 
 pensation 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 ren¬ 
 dered, 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. 
 
« OF COURSE THERE WAS A BITTERNESS.” 
 
 833 
 
 Wheat 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 Mar¬ 
 chioness, 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 him¬ 
 self 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 pro¬ 
 bably 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 pro¬ 
 mise 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 
 
334 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 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 
 mti listed 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.” 1 
 
 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 
 vere 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 Boden 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 LY. 
 
 LORD HAMPSTEAD AGAIN WITH MRS. RODEN. 
 
 Weeks had passed by since Lord Hampstead had walked up end 
 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 
 ovei, but fiom that moment he had altogether forgotten his horses. 
 
LORD HAMPSTEAD AGAIN WITH MRS. RODEN. 335 
 
 
 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 Eoden 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. Eoden. 
 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 
 
330 
 
 MAE ION FAY . 
 
 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. Boden 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 hardlyany 
 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 happi¬ 
 ness 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 
 

 LOW) HAMPSTEAD AGAIN WITH MRS. RODEN. 337 
 
 remain with hirn 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 
 mn, to Ins thinking, to his feeling, the lasting biting sorrow was 
 1 ere already.. There could be no other love, no other marriage, 
 no other Marion He had heard that his stepmother was anxious 
 lor 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 yeshe’s there again,” said Miss Demijohn to her aunt. 
 IJe conies mostly on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays. What 
 can , be coming about is more than I can guess. Crocker says 
 it s all true love. Crocker says that the Duca says_” 
 
 Tn 0tl i er the ” exclaim ed 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 Amaldma s wedding in August, His lordship has promised. 
 And Crocker thinks-” 
 
 v } believe very much about Crocker, my young woman, 
 lou had better look to yourself, or, perhaps, you’ll find when you 
 
 have got joui self married that Crodker has not got a roof to cover 
 you.’ 
 
 Lord Hampstead had walked over to Paradise Row, and was 
 seated with Mrs. Koden when this little squabble was going on. 
 
 ^Tvr ^ bhink that I ought to let things remain as they are V ’’lie 
 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 
 Mai ion 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 late, 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. “ T will see her.” 
 
 z 
 
338 
 
 MARION FAY . 
 
 “ If you would see lier, and then make up your mind to part 
 with her,—that I think would he 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 most go from me for ever, I would have her in my 
 arms to the very last! ” 
 
 j- “ 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 ask¬ 
 ing 4 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. 
 
LORD HAMPSTEAD AGAIN WITH MRS . RODEN. 339 
 
 “ Mr. Fay has less to say to it even than I have/’ said Hamp¬ 
 stead. “ 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. Eoden. “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 her¬ 
 self after this fashion. Who has a right to say that God has deter¬ 
 mined that she shall die early ? ” Mrs. Roden shook her head. “ J. 
 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? 
 Hut 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 vou 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 mo 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.” 
 
MARION FAY. 
 
 310 
 
 “ Why should it not be for good? ” T ,. 
 
 « x will not speak of that now, but I thought so. I thought so, 
 
 and I told my thoughts to Marion.” 
 
 You did ? ^ 
 
 « X didand 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 
 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 al 
 perfect. But I had never before seen how high she could rise, how 
 certainly she could soar above all weakness and temptation. 1 
 her there was never a moment of doubt. She knew from the vei y 
 
 first that it could not be so.” ._ 
 
 “It shall be so,” he said, jumping up from his chair, and fhngm & 
 
 11P “It was not I who persuaded her, or her father. Eve1 ^ y( l u 
 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 yoi. 
 What may be best for you;—that is present to her mind, . 
 nothing else. On that her heart is fixed, and so clear is. he 
 judgment respecting it, that she willnot allow the words of any 
 other to operate on her for a moment, Marion Fay, Loid Hamp 
 stead, is infinitely too great to have been persuaded m any degiee 
 
 by me ” * * * 
 
 Nevertheless Mrs. Eoden did allow herself to say that in ter 
 opinion the lover should be allowed to see Ins 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 Paiadise Bow. 
 
 CHAPTEK LYI. 
 
 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 
 davs that his daughter was to become the wife of the eldest son o 
 S Marquis of Engsbury, and then it had been sard that tore 
 pould be no such marriage—because of Marion s health. . lne Ho y 
 •while it lasted he had borne meekly, but with a certain a ” xl< ™® 
 satisfaction. The pride of his life had been in Marion, and this 
 
LOPD HAMPSTEAD AGAIN WITH MAP ION 
 
 341 
 
 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 to¬ 
 gether 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 w T ere 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 
 
MARION FAY. 
 
 312 
 
 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 stedfastness, 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 pait 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 trom 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. 
 
LORD HAMPSTEAD AGAIN WITH MARION. 
 
 343 
 
 To hear liis 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/’ 
 
 “Bose leaves soon fall. But we will not talk about that. Why 
 go to such a subject ? ” J 
 
 “ It cannot be helped.” He still held her by the waist, and now 
 again he kissed her. There was something in her passive sub¬ 
 mission 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 bv me 9 
 You will be mine now ? " J ■ 
 
 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 nartprl 
 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 ioined 
 together; when-” J 
 
 “No, dear—no; I cannot say that. I cannot alter anythin"- 
 hat I have said before. I cannot make things other than they are. 
 Here w r e 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 
 
 tault { 
 
 “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 blessin"- 
 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 
 ot 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 knoAv how I could have done otherwise,” she said 
 when you would make it so certain to me that you loved me/ 
 
344 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 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 think¬ 
 ing 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 remem¬ 
 ber 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 know¬ 
 ledge. 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 ” 
 
LOUD HAMPSTEAD AGAIN WITH MAUION. 
 
 845 
 
 “ 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, 1 have acknowledged 
 to myself the vanity and selfishness of such a wish. If I really lovo 
 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 pame. If it is not to be so,—why, 
 
340 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 then let the name ancl 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.” ’ 
 
 "J? u “ us ‘ fait, 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 under¬ 
 stand mine. I do not accept your decision, but you will accept 
 mine. Hunk 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 LYII 
 ceockbr’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 smry 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 whv 
 she had come, and Clara Demijohn professed to be able to tell all 
 that passed the interview next day. And there was the 
 gieat Duca matter;—so that Paradise Row generally conceived 
 Rseif 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 
 lid himself of his ducal nature, and they were loud in their expres¬ 
 sion of the propriety of calling the Duke Duke whether he wished it 
 01 \ na r p ut Mr ; s ; C-rimley at “The Duchess” was warm on the other 
 p”f: George 1{ °den according toiler 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 m 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 
 
CROCKER'S DISTRESS. 
 
 SIT 
 
 stormy and unsuccessful. u 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 Eow would not have been 
 much stirred by it. The Eow 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 Eow. With the object of 
 doing this he frequented the Eow 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 Eow. Should that break¬ 
 fast 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 persist¬ 
 ency of his affection. It was, however, specially worthy of remark 
 that Crocker and Tribbledale never did meet in Paradise Eow. 
 
 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 cort- 
 
MARION FAY. 
 
 ?AS 
 
 sideration should induce him to call his friend by any name short 
 of that noble title which he wms entitled to use, he was asked a 
 question or two as to his practice at the office. For it had come 
 round to Paradise Eow 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 in¬ 
 effably. Not iEolus 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 Boden’s 
 title, and had been anxious to assist Lord Persiflage in forcing the 
 clerk to accept his nobility. But when he had found that Boden 
 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. Boden wished to be Mr. Boden, 
 he was to be Mr. Boden. 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 Boden 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. iEolus 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 
 iEolus 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 iEolus 
 not only an opportunity for dismissing poor Crocker, but an 
 occasion on which, by the consent of all, it w r as 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 exaspera¬ 
 tion 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 
 
CROCKER'S DISTRESS. 
 
 310 
 
 did iHoius lior 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 abso¬ 
 lutely—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 w T ere 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 w 7 as at once 
 suspended, and called upon for his written explanation. “ And I 
 am to be married next week! ” he said weeping to Mr. Jerningham. 
 iEolus 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 
 Piow. 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 mes¬ 
 sengers. It was at any rate known at No. 10. Crocker was sum¬ 
 moned to an interview with the old woman; and the match was 
 then and there declared to be broken off. “ What are your inten¬ 
 tions, sir, as to supporting that young woman ? ” Mrs. Demijohn 
 demanded with all the severity of which she was capable. Crocker 
 

 MARION FAY. 
 
 \wis so broken-hearted that he had not a word to say for himself 
 S® d l d ?® t da }' e suggest that perhaps he might not be dismissed* 
 He admitted the destruction of the papers. “ I never cared for him 
 
 a ^ n - hen J saw \ im so knoc ked out of time by an old woman ” 
 said Clara afterwards. J u,dn ' 
 
 ;; Whatam I to do about the lodgings?”asked Crocker, weepin^ 
 
 send back the clock and the harmonium.” P * U 7 
 
 Crocker in his despair looked about everywhere for assistance 
 It might be that iEolus would be softer-hearted than Clara Demi- 
 
 J r f Tin IT f5. W . rot ? ri ° Lord Per siflage, 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 
 lienc, so he still declared,—but in such an emergency he did 
 not know how to address «the Duca.” But he bethought himself 
 ol Loid Hampstead, of that hunting acquaintance, with whom his 
 intei corn se 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 Bav 
 
 “ d *® r lo ™ r Y as at tha old house holding intercourse almost with 
 no one. His lieait just now was very heavy with him He horl 
 begun to believe that Marion would in truth never become Ws 
 wife. He had begun to think that she would really die and that 
 he woidd 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 m argument, all the eagerness of his character — 
 
 an e e agemess UIlgry Cmmg unsatisfied love could still be called 
 
 • ]? c was j n ^ 1IS 1 colK ]ition when Crocker was brought out to him 
 
 m the garden where he was walking. “Mr. Crocker ” he smVl 
 standing still in the pathway and looking into the man’s face. ' * 
 
 i ° rc li 1 am Crocker. You remember me 
 
 my lord, down m Cumberland ? ” ' 
 
 “ I remember you,—at Castle Hautboy ” 
 home^rom°Airey Force.” 1 ^ l0rd ’~ Wllen W ° had that 
 
 “ What can I do for you now ? ” 
 
 “ I , al ~ ay . s . 1,0 niy lord, that there is nothing like snort to 
 
 cement affection. I don’t know how you feel about it, my ffi> 
 
 «t t le f, e ls ® D ytbmg to be said—perhaps you will say it ” 
 
 l 1 - Ani f %”* S anothei ; bond - “y lord. We have both been 
 
 looking for the partners of our joys in Paradise Eow” 
 
 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 becausT 
 I ve thought that as the title was certainly theirs, a young 1 lady who 
 shall be nameless ought to have the advantage of it I’ve only done 
 it because of my consideration for the family.” y aone 
 
 “ What have you come here, for, Mr. Crocker ? 1 am not just 
 
CROCKER'S DISTRESS . 351 
 
 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, alto¬ 
 gether ineffectual. Lord Hampstead had to make his visitor under¬ 
 stand 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 
 
MARION FA Y. 
 
 352 
 
 contentment, may be regarded with a feeling of mercy which would 
 be prejudicial if used more generally. 
 
 “ Your faithful servant, 
 
 “ HAMrSTEAD.’’ 
 
 When he wrote those words as to the period of joy and satisfac¬ 
 tion his own heart was sore, sore, sore almost to breaking. There 
 could never be such joy, never be such satisfaction for him. 
 
 CHAPTER LVIII. 
 
 “ DISMISSAL. B. B.” 
 
 Ry 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 iEolus 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 
 
“ DISMISSAL. B. B. 
 
 853 
 
 J’y the red lape 0 f 
 
 hole. To stay away SSy ^Te drZk -V^f 
 idle,—to be impudent worn o-mot • 1 • rill V^ to be obstinately 
 
 was used to the^nd kuewTat as the! had^en Mr - ^ghar^ 
 so would they re-occur Clerks nip „ Vi °tten occuired before, 
 will be reckless, will sometimes me ?’ and wiU be bile, 
 
 added severity, Mr. Jernineham / j rows -. A little 
 
 of the department, but knowing nft i!™ improve Ms branch 
 
 especially of Sir Boreas, he could make excuses Tr? 1 ™,’ fbe Datmo 
 ca case in which no superior Civil q a1 .vo + cs - Ho* e, however, was 
 And yet Sir Boreal £w e lS* ®-° U '1 “ ertaiu a doubt, 
 shook his head, and Sir Boreas shoved on „ Ume ,' ® r - Jerningham 
 a day the pain of thinking about them tl»?'| S ° a Ji to aT01<l for 
 which had already formed itself on tlTe- rn"' >undle of P a Pera 
 one would tear n|^ If 1 
 
 allowed it%rU^c^tfhtoffl!f nS rd hiCh Crooter not 
 
 Demijohn became quite confirme?^ S' 1 n dl ! r,ng . thi ? del ^ Clara 
 oyer her ennanement Triiii i 1 i .,,detemimation to throw 
 
 better th^Sker whh “olht^^And ^ T W b ® “^ 
 
 customers! and 'she ^ 
 
 income of course he’s out of the rfnnlnt » w. If „ h . e am ‘ S?* n° 
 
 the y? un 8 ’man’s heaT “ You go 
 
 tha“he^t^^®Ste,M?S: t, ' I,e by r U i a 5 her °P>m™ 
 
 love at the present momen P «£^ successful if he urged his 
 
 JUS TdbSedairSt tTpl^eYSfclS P” 
 
 SSHri 
 
 graUflel el by l 'the e devotion^show^ a ''W'iien eZ Mrs 30 &' eC 5 ed ’^^ , ’^ aa 
 
 Tribbledale to “ go in and win "she 11® . G . ri “’ e y advised 
 
 deuce. When a girl has told n I1 f» 7-’ ? er P a P s ', m Clara’s c°nfi- 
 married, and Madyex 
 
 Slnrtfellrie tsuln'T” 8 
 
 cts ht “Z, a £ 
 
 s$£%i ^tkPT‘ ; °s 
 
 quarrelled dreadfully. da. a from Ztart'momentoTheitgage- 
 
 2 A b 
 
Sol 
 
 MAVION FAY. 
 
 mGilt with Crocker hcicl heen proud of tlio second stiing to liei how, 
 and now perceived that the time had come in which it might he 
 
 conveniently used. c 
 
 It w r as near eleven when Tribhledale 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 V ” . . , 
 
 Tribhledale w T as 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 ? ” 
 
 IjtLWS * HO ^ 
 
 “ And wasn’t that hitting me when I was down, do you think?” 
 
 “ It never did you any harm.” 
 
 “ Oh, Claraif you knew the nature of my love you’d under¬ 
 stand 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 didnot 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 
 led for a wife to lie on. He used to talk so proud of Her Majesty's 
 
“ DISMISSAL. L. B” 
 
 355 
 
 Civil Service. Her Majesty’s Civil Service lias sent liim 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 punish¬ 
 
 ment hook 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 
 lie’s penniless.” 
 
 “ A hundred and twenty isn’t so very much, Daniel.” 
 
 “ ]\ii\ Pay 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 Bow. 
 “ 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 
 mncli ^ 
 
 “ 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 Bow. 
 
MARION FAY 
 
 He had been again with Lord Hampstead, and had succeeded in 
 worming out of the good-natured nobleman something of the infor¬ 
 mation 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 decid¬ 
 ing 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. 
 Belying upon these indications he went to Paradise Bow, 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 
 booknot 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 her¬ 
 self 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 iEolus 
 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 quita 
 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 under- 
 
“DISMISSAL. B.B” 
 
 nr:-* 
 
 oO/ 
 
 stand that Crocker should be allowed to remain after the perpetra¬ 
 tion of it. Crockers salary was £150; and, balancing the two 
 3 oung men together as she had often done, though she liked the 
 poetry of inbbledale, 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 Littlebnd s. Pogson and Littlebird’s hours were 9 to 5. Those 
 of Her Majesty s Service were much more genteel ;—10 namely to 4 . 
 3ut what might not a man do who had shown the nature of his 
 clisposdion 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 diffi¬ 
 culties would be encountered by adhering to Tribbledale She 
 could excuse herself with Crocker. Paradise Eow had already 
 declared that the match with Crocker must be broken off. Crocker 
 J,. “ d . ee f kee , 11 tolcl that the match was to be broken off. When 
 Inbbledale had come to her overnight she had felt herself to be a 
 aee woman. When she had given way to the voice of the charmer 
 when she had sunk into his arms, softened by that domestic picture 
 v Inch he had painted, no pricks of conscience had disturbed her 
 happiness. Whether the “ Dismissal—B. B.” had or had not yet 
 oeen 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 bo all oyer ? ” 
 
 “ You was told it was all over.” 
 
 WaS al ? said I was to be dismissed. 
 
 hnlJJt “At 41 *® 5 though, perhaps, a girl might 
 
 nave waited till a fellow had got up upon his legs again.” 
 
 look afte^herselT” S ° pleaSant ^ Mr ‘ Crocke D when a girl has to 
 
 t “ Bl V t A? in ; t ^ ismisse ^ 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.” 
 
 « t>° } -i 1 H7 e suffei ’ed, Sam. Ho one knows what I have suffered.’ 
 But it 11 come all right now ? ” Clara shook her head. " You 
 don t mean that Tribbledale’s been and talked you over already? ” 
 
 ^ knew Mr. Tribbledale before eyer I saw you, Sam.” 
 
 “ H°w often have I heard you call him a poor mean skunk ? ” 
 
 A eyer, Crocker; never. Such a word never passed my lips.” 
 f 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.” 
 
 “ 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 
 
358 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 was never turned out for nigli a fortnight, so that he couldn’t go 
 and show his face in King’s Head Court. Tribbledale never made 
 liisself 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 mo ? ” 
 
 “ Mr. Jerningham does, and Koden, 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 termi¬ 
 nated the interview without much unpleasantness. 
 
 Crocker, as he shook the dust off his feet upon leaving Paradise 
 Bow, began to ask himself whether he might not upon the whole 
 congratulate himself as to the end to which that piece of business 
 had been brought. When he had first resolved to offer his hand to 
 the young lady, he had certainly imagined that that hand would 
 not be empty. Clara was no doubt “ a fine girl,” but not quite so 
 young as she was once. And she had a temper of her own. Matri¬ 
 mony, too, was often followed by many troubles. Paradise Bow 
 would no doubt utter jeers, but he need not go there to hear them. 
 He was not quite sure but that the tearing of the papers would in 
 the Ion" run be beneficial to him. 
 
( 350 ) 
 
 CHAPTER LIX. 
 
 PEGWELL SAY. 
 
 July had come and nearly gone before Lord Hampstead again saw 
 Mai ion Fay. He had promised not to go to Pegwell Bay,—hardly 
 understanding why such a promise had been Ixacted from him 
 but still acceding to it when it had been suggested to him by Mrs’ 
 Loden at the request as she said, of the Quaker. It was under¬ 
 stood that Marion would soon return to Holloway and that on tint 
 account the serenity of Pegwell Bay need not te dfstabed by tlm 
 coming of so great a man as Lord Hampstead. Hampstead had 
 of course ridiculed the reason, but had complied with the request 
 -with the promise however, that Marion should return early in 
 
 did not™ mm ^ Summer weeks had Passed by, and Marion 
 
 Letters passed between them daily, in which Marion attempted 
 always to be cheerful. Though she had as yet invented no familiar 
 name for her noble lover, yet she had grown into familiarity with 
 him and was no longer afraid of his nobility. -You oughtn’t to 
 stay there, shesaicl, - wasting your life and doing nothing, because 
 of a sick girl, ^lou ve got your yacht, and are letting all the summer 
 weather go by. In answer to this he wrote to her, saying that he 
 had sold his yacht. - Could you have gone with me, I would have 
 kept it, he wrote. - Would you go with me I would have anothe? 
 ready for yon, before you would be ready. I will make no assurance 
 as to my future life. I cannot even guess what may become of me. 
 It may be that I shall come to live on board some ship so that I 
 may be all alone.. But with my heart as it is now I cannot bear 
 the references which others make to me about empty pleasures ” 
 
 At the same time he sold his horses, but he said nothing to her as 
 xo tnat. 
 
 Gradually he did acknowledge to himself that it was her doom 
 to die early,—almost acknowledged to himself that she was dying 
 Nevertheless lie still thought that it would have been fit that they 
 should be married. " If I knew that she Were my own even on he? 
 death-bed he once said to Mrs. Boden, - there would be a comfort 
 to me in it. He was so eager in this that Mrs. Boden was almost 
 convinced. The Quaker was willing that it should be so,—but 
 willing also that it should not bo so. He would not even trv to 
 persuade his girl as to anything. It was his doom to see her go 
 and he, having realized that, could not bring himself to use a word 
 in opposition to her word. But Marion herself was sternly deter- 
 min ™ a S ai . n ? t , the suggestion. It was unfitting, she said, and 
 would be wicked. It was not the meaning of marriage. She could 
 not bring herself to disturb the last thoughts of her life, not only 
 by the empty assumption of a grand name, but by the sounding of 
 that name in her ears from the eager lips of those around her 
 
3G0 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 “ I will be your love to the end,” she said, “ your own Marion. 
 But I will not be made a Countess, only in order that a vain name 
 may be carved over my grave.” “ God has provided a bitter cup 
 for your lips, my love,” she wrote again, “ in having put it into 
 your head to love one whom you must lose so soon. And mine is 
 bitter because yours is bitter. But we cannot rid ourselves of the 
 bitterness by pretences. Would it make your heart light to see 
 me dressed up for a bridal ceremony, knowing, as you would know, 
 that it was all for nothing ? My lord, my love, let us take it as 
 God has provided it. It is only because you grieve that I grieve ; 
 —for you and my poor father. If you could onl$ bring yourself to 
 be reconciled, then it would be so much to me to have had you to 
 love me in my last moments,—to love me and to be loved.” 
 
 He could not but accept her decision. Her father and Mrs. 
 Boden accepted it, and he was forced to do so also. He acknow¬ 
 ledged to himself now that there was no appeal from it. Her very 
 weakness gave her a strength which dominated him. There was 
 an end of all his arguments and his strong phrases. He was aware 
 that they had been of no service to him,—that her soft words had 
 been stronger than all his reasonings. But not on that account 
 did he cease to wish that it might be as he had once wished, since 
 he had first acknowledged to himself his love. “ Of course I will 
 not drive her,” he said to Mrs. Boden, when that lady urged upon 
 him the propriety of abstaining from a renewal of his request. 
 “ Had I any power of driving her, as 'you say, I would not do so. 
 
 I think it would be better. That is all. Of course it must be as 
 she shall decide.” 
 
 “ It would be a comfort to her to think that you and she thought 
 alike about all things,” said Mrs. Boden. 
 
 “ There are points on which I cannot alter my convictions even 
 for her comfort,” he answered. “She bids me love some other 
 woman. Can I comfort her by doing that? She bids me seek 
 another wife. Can I do that;—or say that I will do it at some 
 future time? It would comfort her to know that I have no wound, 
 —that I am not lame and sick and sore and weary. It would 
 comfort her to know that my heart is not broken. How am l to do 
 that for her ? ” 
 
 “ No; ”•—said Mrs. Boden —“ no.” 
 
 “There is no comfort. Her imagination paints for her some 
 future bliss, w r hich shall not be so far away as to be made dim by 
 distance,—in enjoying which we two shall be together, as we are 
 here, with our hands free to grasp each other, and our lips free to 
 kiss;—a heaven, but still a heaven of this world, in which we can 
 hang upon each other’s necks and be warm to each other’s hearts. 
 That is to be, to her, the reward of her innocence, and in the ecstasy 
 of her faith she believes in it, as though it were here. I do think, 
 —I do think,—that if I told her that it should be so, that I trusted* 
 to renew my gaze upon her beauty after a few short years, then 
 she would be happy entirely. It would be for an eternity, and 
 without the fear of separation.” 
 
PEG WELL BAY. 3G1 
 
 “ Then why not profess as she does ? ” 
 
 “ A lie? As I know her truth when she tells me her creed so 
 would she know my falsehood, and the lie would be vain ” 
 
 „Si T thel }J° no futl } re world, Lord Hampstead? ” 
 t i 10 bas ® ai d f° • Certainly not I. I cannot conceive that 
 I shall perish altogether. I do not think that if while ! am horn 
 lean tame the selfishness of self, I shall reaeli a ^top upwards m 
 that world which shall come next after this. As to happiness' I 
 do not venture to think much of it. If I can only be somewhat 
 
 nobler, somewhat more like the Christ whom we worshin_fl-mf- 
 
 will be enough without happiness. If there be truth in tWs story 
 He was not happy Why should I look for happiness -unless ft 
 be when the struggle of many worlds shall have altogether purified 
 flTf 1 -\ like that,—believing like that,-how can 
 
 prepared for heree'lf “> Eplcureau Paradise w hick that child has 
 “ Is it no better than that ? ” 
 
 a a Ca ?, bebe ^ e L what can be purer,—if only it be true 9 
 
 And though it be false to me, it may be true to hpv Tf i a 
 
 sake that she dreams of her Paradise,—that my wounds may be 
 made whole that my heart may be cured. Christ’s lesson has been 
 learned by her that no further learning seems necessary I 
 lancy sometimes that I can see the platform raised just one step 
 above the ground on which I stand,-and look into the hiS 
 world to which I am ascending. It may be that it is given oher 
 
 the ^ the ladder by mounting which she shall 
 
 find hci self enveloped m the full glory of perfection ” 
 
 In conversations such as these Mrs. Eoden was* confounded bv 
 
 hp G nf eP n 1 °/ th ? ma ? s ove * It; became impossible to bid him not 
 be of a broken heart or even to allude to those fresh hopes which 
 
 Time would bring He spoke to her often of his future life alwavs 
 speaking of a life from which Marion would have been withdrawn 
 by death, and did so with a cold, passionless assurance which 
 showed her that he had almost resolved as to the future. He would 
 see all lands that were to be seen, and converse with all people 
 The social condition of God’s creatures at large should be his study' 
 The task would be endless, and, as he said, an endless task hardl y 
 admits of absolute misery. -If I die there will be an end of it 
 
 wnrlr 1 ^ tlP °'?i a A e sba 1 i iave ma de me powerless to carry on my 
 
 feeHng”'™-T W1 fto, le ?, Pr ° b ^ ,y ha ? e done s <“ng to dim The 
 g i i 1 th k ’ lie said agam;—«I feel that could I but 
 remember her as my wife-” 1 x DUl 
 
 "I* is impossible,” said Mrs. Eoden. 
 
 Hut if it were so! It would be no more than a thin thread- 
 
 a“fnst°the 0 Iold^ hT!?’* s ^ ve , rin S shoulders. It is not much 
 
 from her ” She Pa! L ST“ d v ? ry crilel to take that little 
 nom ner. bhe looked at him with her eyes flooded with tears 
 
 but she could only shake her head in sign that it was impossible ^ 
 
 ast -> J us ^ at the end of July, there came a request that "he 
 
 would go down to Pegwell Hay. “It is so long since we have seen 
 
3G2 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 eacli other/’ she wrote, “ and, perhaps, it is better that you should 
 come than that I should go. The doctor is fidgety, and says so. 
 But my darling will be good to me;—will he not? When I have 
 seen a tear in your eyes it has gone near to crush me. That a 
 woman, or even a man, should weep at some unexpected tidings of 
 woe is natural. But who cries for spilt milk ? Tell me that God’s 
 hand, though it be heavy to yon, shall be borne with reverence and 
 obedience and love.” 
 
 He did not tell her this, but he resolved that if possible she 
 should see no tears. As for that cheerfulness, that reconciliation 
 to his fate which she desired, he knew it to be impossible. He 
 almost brought himself to believe as he travelled down to Pegwell 
 Bay that it would be better that they should not meet. To thank 
 the Lord for all His mercies was in her mind. To complain with 
 all the bitterness of his heart of the cruelty with which he was 
 treated was in his. He had told Mrs. Boden that according to his 
 creed there would be a better world to come for him if he could 
 succeed in taming the selfishness of self. But he told himself now 
 that the struggle to do so had hitherto been vain. There had been 
 but the one thing which had ever been to him supremely desirable. 
 He had gone through the years of his early life forming some 
 Utopian ideas,—dreaming of some perfection in politics, in philan¬ 
 thropy, in social reform, and the like,—something by devoting 
 himself to which he could make his life a joy to himself. Then 
 this girl had come across him, and there had suddenly sprung up 
 within him a love so strong that all these other things faded into 
 littlenesses. They should not be discarded. Work would be 
 wanted for his life, and for hers. But here he had found the true 
 salt by which all his work would be vivified and preserved and 
 made holy and happy and glorious. There had come a something' 
 to him that was all that he wanted it to be. And now the some¬ 
 thing was fading from him,—was already all but gone. In such 
 a state how should he tame the selfishness of self? He abandoned 
 the attempt, and told himself that difficulties had been prepared 
 for him greater than any of which he had dreamed when he had 
 hoped that that taming might be within his power. He could not 
 even spare her in his selfishness. He declared to himself that it 
 was so, and almost owned that it would be better that he should 
 not go to her. 
 
 “ Yes,” she said, when he sat down beside her on her sofa, at an 
 open window looking out on the little bay, “put your hand on 
 mine, dear, and leave it there. To have you with me, to feel the 
 little breeze, and to see you and to touch you is absolute happi¬ 
 ness.” 
 
 “ Why did you so often tell me not to come?” 
 
 “Ah, why? But I know why it was, my lord.” There was 
 something half of tenderness, half pleasantry in the mode of address, 
 and now he had ceased to rebel against it. 
 
 “ Why should I not come if it be a joy to you? ” ^ 
 
 “ You must not be angry now.” 
 
 i 
 
TEG WELL BAY. 
 
 3G3- 
 
 " Certainly not angry.” 
 
 “ We have got through all that,—you and I have for ourselves * 
 —hut there is a sort of unseemliness in your coming down here to 
 see a poor Quaker’s daughter.” 
 
 “ Marion! ” 
 
 "But there is. We had got through all that in Paradise Eow. 
 Paradise Eow had become used to you, and I could bear it. But 
 here-They will all be sure to know who you are.” 
 
 " Who cares ? ” 
 
 “ That Marion Fay should have a lover would of itself make a 
 stir in this little placebut that she should have a lord for her 
 lover! One doesn’t want to be looked at as a miracle.” 
 
 " The tollies of others should not ruffle you and me.” 
 
 " That’s very well, dearbut what if one is ruffled ? But 1 
 won't be ruffled, and you shall come. When I thought that 1 
 should go again to our own house, then I thought we might perhaps 
 dispense with the rufflingthat w T as all.” , 
 
 There was a something in these words which he could not 
 stand,—which he could not bear and repress that tear which, as 
 she had said, would go near to crush her if she saw it. Plad she 
 not plainly intimated her conviction that she would never again 
 return to her old home ? Here, here in this very spot, the doom 
 was to come, and to come quickly. He got up and walked across 
 the room, and stood a little behind her, where she could not see 
 his face. 
 
 “ Bo not leave me,” she said. " I told you to stay and let your 
 hand rest on mine.” Then he returned, and laying his hand once 
 again upon her lap turned his face away from her. "Bear it,” 
 she said. " Bear it.” His hand quivered where it lay as he shook 
 his head. " Call uj)on your courage and bear it.” * 
 
 " I cannot bear it,” he said, rising suddenly from his chair, and 
 hurrying out of the room. He went out of the room and from the 
 house, on to the little terrace which ran in front of the sea. But¬ 
 ins escape was of no use to him; he could not leave her. He had 
 come out without his hat, and he could not stand there in the sun 
 to be stared at. " I am a coward,” he said, going back to her and 
 resuming his chair. " I own it. Let there be no more said about 
 it. When a trouble comes to me, it conquers me. Little troubles 
 I think I could bear. If it had been all else in all the world,—if 
 it had been my life before my life was your life, I think that no'one 
 would have seen me blench. But now I find that when I am really 
 tried, I fail.” 
 
 " It is in God’s hands, dearest.” 
 
 "Yes;—it is in God’s hands. There is some power, no doubt, 
 that makes you strong in spirit, but frail in body; while I am 
 strong to live but weak of heart. But how will that help me ? ” 
 
 " Oh, Lord Hampstead, I do so wish you had never seen me.” 
 
 " You should not say that, Marion; you shall not think it. I 
 am ungrateful; because, were it given me to have it all back again, 
 
 I would not sell what I have had of you, though the possession 
 
MARION FAY. 
 
 ACA 
 
 lias been so limited, for all other imaginable treasures. I will bear 
 it. Oh, my love, I will bear it. Do not say again that you wish 
 you had not seen me.” 
 
 “ For myself, dear,—for myself--” 
 
 . “ Do not say it for me. I will struggle to make a joy of it, a 
 3°y m some degree, though my heart bleeds at the widowhood that 
 is coming on it. I will build up for myself a memory in which 
 there shall be much to satisfy me. I shall have been loved by her 
 to have possessed whose love has been and shall be a glorv to me ” 
 
 “ Loved indeed, my darling.” b * 
 
 Though there might have been such a heaven of joy, even that 
 shall be counted as much. It shall be to me during my future 
 life as though when wandering through the green fields ‘in some 
 long-past day, I had met a bright angel from another world • and 
 the angel had stopped to speak to me, and had surrounded me 
 with her glorious wings, and had given me of her heavenly light 
 and had spoken to me with the music of the spheres, and I had 
 thought that she would stay with me for ever. But there had come 
 a noise of the drums and a sound of the trumpets, and she had 
 flown away from me up to her own abode. To have been so 
 favoured, though it had been but for an hour, should suffice for a 
 man’s life. I will bear it, though it be in solitude.” 
 
 “No, darling; not in solitude.” 
 
 “ It; Y 1 ]} be best so f or me. The light and the music and the 
 azure of the wings will so remain with me the purer and the 
 biightei. Oh, if it had been ! But I will bear it. No ear shall 
 -again hear a sound of complaint. Not yours even, my darling my 
 own, mine for so short a time, but yet my very own for ever 'and 
 ever.” Then he fell on his knees beside her, and hid his face in 
 her dress, while the fingers of both her hands rambled through his 
 hair. “ You are going,” he said, when he rose up to his feet “ you 
 are going whither I cannot go.” ’ 
 
 “ You will come; you will come to me.” 
 
 “You are going now, now soon, and I doubt not that you are 
 going to jo 3 7 s inexpressible. _ I cannot go till some chance may take 
 ■ff bc given to you in that further world to see those and to 
 think of those whom you have left below, then, if my heart be true 
 to your heart, keep your heart true to mine. If I can fancy that 
 if I can believe that it is so, then shall I have that angel with me 
 and though my eyes may not see the tints, my ears will hear the 
 music;—and though the glory be not palpable as is the light of 
 heaven, there will be an inner glory in which mv soul will be 
 sanctified.” After that there were not many words spoken between 
 them, though he remained there till he was disturbed by the 
 Quaker s coming. Part of the time she slept with her hand in his 
 and when awake she was contented to feel his touch as he folded 
 the scarf close round her neck and straightened the shawl which 
 ;ay across her feet, and now and again stroked her hair and put it 
 back behind her ears as it strayed upon her forehead. Ever and 
 •ngam she would murmur a word or two of love as she revelled in 
 
LADY AM ALBINA'S WEDDING. 3G5 
 
 the perception of his solicitude. What was there for her to resret 
 01 If to whom was given the luxury of such love? Was not o 
 month of it more than a whole life without it? Then when the 
 ather came, Hampstead took his leave. As he kissed her lips 
 something seemed to tell him that it would be for the last time 5 
 It was not good, the Quaker had said, that she should be disturbed* 
 Yes ; he could come again; but not quite yet. 
 
 her“W 7*™ th ° Qna 1 ker , B0 s P oke «he was pressing 
 ner lips to ins. God keep you and take you, my darling” sb? 
 
 w lsiiered to lum, “ and bring you to me in heaven.” She noticed 
 
 not at all at the moment the warm tears that were running on to 
 
 her own face; nor did the Quaker seem to notice it Xn T nil 
 
 ampstead left the house without saying to him a word of farewell. 
 
 CHAPTEB LX. 
 
 LADY AMALDINA’s WEDDING. 
 
 The time came round for Lady Am aiding marriage, than which 
 nothing more august, nothing more aristocratic, nothing more truly 
 savouring of the hymeneal altar, had ever been knowno?was ever 
 to be known m the neighbourhood of Hanover Square. For itwas 
 at last decided that the marriage should take place in London 
 before any of the aristocratic assistants at the ceremony should 
 have been whirled away into autumnal spaces. Lord Ll/ddythlw 
 unseli knew but very little about it,—except this, that nothin 
 ^ v . ouk ^ 2 ^duce lnm so to hurry on the ceremony as to interfere with 
 
 ? T1 1S S nS 1 i me ? tary dU + tieS A £ day in August had been mentioned 
 m special reference to Parliament. He was willing to abide bv 
 
 wouid°adm?t 0 t0 p tk ® sacrifi , ce at any earlier day of which Parliament 
 wouid admit. Pailiament was to sit for the last time on Wednes- 
 
 C l ay ' August, and the marriage was fixed for the 13th. Ladv 
 Amaldma had prayed for the concession of a week Eeaciers will 
 not imagine that she based her prayers on the impatience of lore 
 
 wX d i a / eek be of T ^ uck SJ gnificance in reference to that pro¬ 
 tracted and dangerous delay to which the match had certainly been 
 subjected But the bevy might escape. How were twen y young 
 ladies to be kept together in the month of August whenall till 
 young men were rushing off to Scotland ? Others were nit wedded 
 to their duties as was Lord Llwddythlw. Lady Amaldina knew 
 well how completely Parliament became a mere affair of Govern¬ 
 mental necessities during the first weeks of August “ I should 
 have thought that just on this one occasion you* might have 
 managed it, she said to him, trying to mingle a tone of love with 
 the sarcasm which at such a crisis was natural to her. He simply 
 reminded her of the promise which he had made to her in the spring 7 
 
 Sin fixld^ Whin h°V' m 1 ?- ak ? rough arran gements which had 
 been fixed. Y hen she told him of one very slippery member of the 
 
MARION FAY. 
 
 •3G6 
 
 bevy,—slippery, not as to character, but in reference to the move¬ 
 ments of her family,—he suggested that no one would know the 
 difference if only nineteen were to be clustered round the bride’s 
 train. “ Don’t you know that they must be in pairs ? ” “ Will not 
 nine pairs suffice ? ” he asked. “And thus make one of them an 
 enemy for ever by telling her that I wish to dispense with her 
 services! ” 
 
 But it was of no use. “ Dispense with them altogether,” he said, 
 looking her full in the face. “ The twenty will not quarrel with 
 you. My object is to marry you, and I don’t care twopence for the 
 bridesmaids.” There was something so near to a compliment in 
 this, that she was obliged to accept it. And she had, too, begun 
 to perceive that Lord Llwddythlw was a man not easily made to 
 change his mind. She was quite prepared for this in reference to 
 her future life. A woman, she thought, might be saved much trouble 
 by having a husband whom she was bound to obey. But in this 
 matter of her marriage ceremony,—this last affair in which she might 
 be presumed to act as a free woman,—she did think it hard that she 
 might not be allowed to have her own way. The bridegroom, how¬ 
 ever, was firm. If Thursday, the 13th, did not suit her, he would 
 be quite ready on Thursday, the 20th. “ There wouldn’t be one of 
 them left in London,” said Lady Amaldina. “ What on earth do 
 you think that they are to do with themselves ? ” 
 
 But all the bevy were true to her. Lady Amelia Beaudesert 
 was a difficulty. Her mother insisted on going to a far-away 
 Bavarian lake on which she had a villa ;—but Lady Amelia at the 
 last moment surrendered the villa rather than break up the bevy, 
 and consented to remain with a grumpy old aunt in Essex till an 
 opportunity should offer. It may be presumed, therefore, that it 
 was taken to be a great thing to be one of the bevy. It is, no doubt, 
 a pleasant thing for a girl to have it asserted in all the newspapers 
 that she is, by acknowledgment, one of the twenty most beautiful 
 unmarried ladies in Great Britain. 
 
 Lady Frances was of course one of the bevy. But there was 
 a member of the family,—a connection rather,—whom no eloquence 
 could induce to show himself either in the church or at the break¬ 
 fast. This was Lord Hampstead. His sister came to him and 
 assured him that he ought to be there. “ Sorrows,” she said, “ that 
 have declared themselves before the world are held as sufficient 
 excuse; but a man should not be hindered from his duties by secret 
 grief.” 
 
 " I make no secret of it. I do not talk about my private affairs. 
 I do not send a town-crier to Charing Cross to tell the passers-by 
 that I am in trouble. But I care not whether men know or not 
 that I am unfitted for joining in such festivities. My presence is 
 not wanted for their marriage.” 
 
 “ It will be odd.” 
 
 “Let it be odd. I most certainly shall not be there.” But he 
 remembered the occasion, and showed that he did so by sending 
 to the bride the handsomest of all the gems which graced her 
 
LALY AMALDINA’S WEDDING. 
 
 €xliibitIon of presents, short of the tremendous set of diamonds 
 which had come from the Duke of Merioneth. 
 
 This collection was supposed to be the most gorgeous thing that 
 had ever as yet been arranged in London. It would certainly not 
 be too much to say that the wealth of precious toys brought together 
 would, if sold, at its cost prico, liavo rnado an aroplo fortune for 
 a young newly-married couple. The families were noble and 
 wealthy, and the richness of the wedding presents was natural. It 
 might perhaps ha\e been better had not the value of the whole 
 been stated in one of the newspapers of the day. Who was 
 responsible for the valuation was never known, but it seemed to 
 indicate that the costliness of the gifts was more thought of than 
 the affection of the givers; and it was undoubtedly true that in 
 lngh circles and among the clubs, the cost of the collection was 
 much discussed. The diamonds were known to a stone, and Hamp¬ 
 stead’s rubies were spoken of almost as freely as though they were 
 being exhibited in public. Lord Llwddythlw when he heard of all 
 this mutteied to his maiden sister a wish that a gnome would come 
 in the night and run away with everything. He felt himself 
 degraded by the publicity given to his future wife’s ornaments But 
 the gnome did not come, and the young men from Messrs. Bijou and 
 Larcanet were allowed to arrange the tables and shelves for the 
 exhibition. 
 
 The breakfast was to take place at the Foreign Office, at which 
 the bride s father was for the time being the chief occupant. Lord 
 Persiflage had not at first been willing that it should be so, thinking 
 that his own more modest house might suffice for the marriage of 
 his own daughter. But grander counsels had been allowed to 
 prevail. With whom the idea first arose Lord Persiflage never 
 i ^ m ^t Probably have been with some of the bevy who 
 
 had felt that an ordinary drawing-room would hardly suffice for so 
 magnificent an array of toilets. Perhaps the thought had first 
 occurred to Messrs. Bijou and Carcanet, who had foreseen the glory 
 of spreading out all that wealth in the magnificent saloon intended 
 for the welcoming of ambassadors. But it travelled from Lady 
 Amaldma to her mother, and was passed on from Lady Persiflage 
 to her husband. “Of course the Ambassadors will all be there” 
 the Countess had said, “ and, therefore, it will be a public occasion’” 
 I wish we could be married at Llanfihangel,” Lord Llwddythlw 
 said to his bride. Now Llanfihangel church was a very small 
 edifice With a thatched roof, among the mountains in North Wales 
 with which Lady Amaldina had been made acquainted when visit¬ 
 ing the Duchess, her future mother-in-law. But Llwddythlw was 
 not to have his way in everything, and the preparations at the 
 Foreign Office were continued. 
 
 The beautifully embossed invitations were sent about among a 
 large circle of noble and aristocratic friends. All the Ambassadors 
 and all the Ministers, with all their wives and daughters were of 
 course, asked. As the breakfast was to be given in the great 
 banqueting Hall at the Foreign Office it was necessary that the 
 
SGS 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 guests should he many. It is sometimes well in a matter of festivals 
 to he saved from extravagance by the modest size of one’s rooms. 
 Lord Persiflage told his wife that his daughter’s marriage would 
 ruin him. In answer to this she reminded him that Llwddythlw 
 had asked for no fortune. Lord Llwddythlw was one of those 
 men who prefer giving to taking. He had a feeling that a husband 
 should supply all that was wanted, and that a wife should owe 
 everything to the man she marries. The feeling is uncommon just 
 at present,—except with the millions who neither have nor expect 
 other money than what they earn. If you are told that the daughter 
 of an old man who has earned his own bread is about to marry a 
 young man in the same condition of life, it is spoken of as a 
 misfortune. But Lord Llwddythlw was old-fashioned, and had 
 the means of acting in accordance with his prejudices. Let the 
 marriage be ever so gorgeous, it would not cost the dowry which 
 an Earl’s daughter might have expected. That was the argument 
 used by Lady Persiflage, and it seemed to have been effectual. 
 
 As the day drew near it was observed that the bridegroom 
 became more sombre and silent even than usual. He never left 
 the House of Commons as long as it was open to him as a refuge. 
 His Saturdays and his Sundays and his Wednesdays he filled up 
 with work so various and unceasiDg that there was no time left for 
 those pretty little attentions which a girl about to be married 
 naturally expects. He did call, perhaps, every other day at his 
 bride’s house, but never remained there above two minutes. “I 
 am afraid he is not happy,” the Countess said to her daughter. 
 
 “ Oh yes, mamma, he is.” 
 
 “ Then why does he go on like that ? ” 
 
 “ Oh, mamma, you do not know him.” 
 
 “ Ho you ? ” 
 
 “ I think so. My belief is that there isn’t a man in London so 
 anxious to be married as Llwddythlw.” 
 
 “ I am glad of that.” 
 
 “ He has lost so much time that he knows it ought to be got 
 through and done with without further delay. If he could only 
 go to sleep and wake up a married man of three months’ standing, 
 he would be quite happy. If it could be administered under 
 chloroform it would be so much better! It is the doing of the 
 thing, and the being talked about and looked at, that is so odious 
 to him.” 
 
 “ Then why not have had it done quietly, my dear ? ” 
 
 “ Because there are follies, mamma, to which a woman should 
 never give way. I will not have myself made humdrum. If I had 
 been going to marry a handsome young man so as to have a spice 
 of romance out of it all, I would have cared nothing about the 
 bridesmaids and the presents. The man then would have stood 
 for everything. Llwddythlw is not young, and is not handsome.” 
 
 “ But he is thoroughly noble.” 
 
 “ Quite so. He’s as good as gold. He will always be somebody 
 in people’s eyes because he’s great and grand and trustworthy all 
 
LADY AM ALBINA'S WEDDING. 
 
 3C9 
 
 round. But I want to be somebody in people’s eyes, too, mamma. 
 I’m all very well to look at, but nothing particular. I’m papa’s 
 daughter, which is something,—but not enough. I mean to begin 
 and be magnificent. He understands it all, and I don’t think he’ll 
 oppose me when once this exhibition day is over. I’ve thought all 
 about it, and I think that I know what I’m doing.” 
 
 At any rate, she had her way, and thoroughly enjoyed the task 
 she had on hand. When she had talked of a possible romance 
 with a handsome young lover she had not quite known herself. 
 She might have made the attempt, but it would have been a failure. 
 She could fall in love with a Master of Bavenswood in a novel, but 
 would have given herself by preference,—after due consideration,— 
 to the richer, though less poetical, suitor. Of good sterling gifts 
 she did know the value, and was therefore contented with her lot. 
 But this business of being married, with all the most extravagant 
 appurtenances of the hymeneal altar, was to her taste. 
 
 That picture in one of the illustrated papers which professed to 
 give the hymeneal altar at St. George’s, with the Bishop and the 
 Dean and two Queen’s Chaplains officiating, and the bride and the 
 bridegroom in all their glory, with a Boyal Duke and a Loyal 
 Duchess looking on, with all the Stars and all the Garters from 
 our own and other Courts, and especially with the bevy of twenty, 
 standing in ten distinct pairs, and each from a portrait, was mani¬ 
 festly a work of the imagination. I was there, and, to tell the truth, 
 it was rather a huddled matter. The spaces did not seem to admit 
 of majestic grouping, and as three of these chief personages had 
 the gout, the sticks of these lame gentlemen were to my eyes very 
 conspicuous. The bevy had not room enough, and the ladies in 
 the crush seemed to feel the intense heat. Something had made 
 the Bishop cross. I am told that Lady Amaldina had determined 
 not to be hurried, while the Bishop was due at an afternoon meeting 
 at three. The artist, in creating the special work of art, had soared 
 boldly into the ideal. In depicting the buffet of presents and the 
 bridal feast, he may probably have been more accurate. I was not 
 myself present. The youthful appearance of the bridegroom as he 
 rose to make his speech may probably be attributed to a poetic 
 license, permissible, nay laudable, nay necessary on such an 
 occasion. The buffet of presents no doubt was all there; though 
 it may be doubted whether the contributions from Loyalty were in 
 truth so conspicuous as they were made to appear. There were 
 speeches spoken by two or three Foreign Ministers, and one by the 
 bride’s father. But the speech which has created most remark w r as 
 from the bridegroom. “ I hope we may be as happy as your kind 
 wishes would have us,” said he;—and then he sat down. It was 
 declared afterwards that these were the only words which passed 
 his lips on the occasion. To those who congratulated him he 
 merely gave his hand and bowed, and yet he looked to be neither 
 fluttered nor ill at ease. We know how a brave man will sit and 
 have his tooth taken out, without a sign of pain on his brow,— 
 trusting to the relief which is to come to him. So it was with 
 
370 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 Lord Llwddythlw. It might, perhaps, have saved pain if, as Lady 
 Amaldina had said, chloroform could have been used. 
 
 “ Well, my dear, it is done at last,” Lady Persiflage said to her 
 daughter, when the bride was taken into some chamber for the 
 readjustment of her dress. 
 
 “ Yes, mamma, it is done now.” 
 
 “ And are you happy ? ” 
 
 “ Certainly I am. I have got what I wanted.” 
 
 '‘And you can love him ? ” Coming from Lady Persiflage this 
 did seem to be romantic; but she had been stirred up to some 
 serious thoughts as she remembered that she was now surrendering 
 to a husband the girl whom she had made, whom she had tutored, 
 whom she had prepared either for the good or for the evil perform¬ 
 ance of the duties of life. 
 
 “ Oh yes, mamma,” said Lady Amaldina. It is so often the 
 case that the pupils are able to exceed the teaching of their tutors ! 
 It was so in this case. The mother, as she saw her girl given up 
 to a silent middle-aged unattractive man, had her misgivings; but 
 not so the daughter herself. She had looked at it all round, and 
 had resolved that she could do her duty—under certain stipulations 
 which she thought would be accorded to her. “ He has more to 
 say for himself than you think;—only he won’t trouble himself to 
 make assertions. And if he is not very much in love, he likes me 
 better than anybody else, which goes a long way.” Her mother 
 blessed her, and led her away into a room where she joined her 
 husband in order that she might be then taken down to the 
 carriage. 
 
 The bride herself had not quite understood what was to take 
 place, and was surprised to find herself quite alone for a moment 
 with her husband. “ My wife,” he said; " now kiss me.” 
 
 She ran into his arms and put up her face to him. “ I thought 
 you were going to forget that,” she said, as he held her for a 
 moment with his arm round her waist. 
 
 ‘ I could not dare,” he said, <f to handle all that gorgeous 
 drapery of lace. You were dressed up then for an exhibition. You 
 look now as my wife ought to look.” 
 
 “ It had to be done, Llwddythlw.” 
 
 “ I make no complaint, dearest. I only say that I like you 
 better as you are, as a girl to kiss, and to embrace, and to talk to 
 and to make my own.” Then she curtsied to him prettily, and' 
 kissed him again; and after that they walked out arm-in-arm 
 down to the carriage. 
 
 There were many carriages drawn up within the quadrangle of 
 which the Foreign Office forms a part, but the carriage which was 
 to take the bride and the bridegroom away was allowed a door to 
 itself,—at any rate till such time as they should have been taken 
 away. An effort had been made to keep the public out of the 
 quadrangle; but as the duties of the four Secretaries of State could 
 not be suspended, and as the great gates are supposed to make a 
 public thoroughfare, this could only be done to a certain extent* 
 
I 
 
 
 CROCKER'S TALE. 
 
 871 
 
 flie crowd,'no doubt, was thicker out in Downing Street, but there 
 /7ere Yery many standing within the square. Among these there 
 was one, beautifully arrayed in frock coat and yellow gloves, almost 
 hs though he himself was prepared for his own wedding. When 
 / ^ j °tm■ ^wddythlw brought Lady Amaldina out from the building 
 and handed her into the carriage, and when the husband and wife 
 had seated themselves the well-dressed individual raised his hat 
 _iom his head, and greeted them. “ Long life and happiness to the 
 bride of Castle Hautboy ! said he at the top of his voice. Lady 
 
 Amaldina could not but see the man, and, recognizing him she 
 bowed. & • 
 
 • I* W ? s Ci ; ock er —the irrepressible Crocker. He had been also 
 m the church The narrator and he had managed to find standing 
 room m a back pew under one of the galleries. Now would he be 
 able to say with perfect truth that he had been at the wedding and 
 had received a parting salute from the bride; whom he had known 
 through so many years of her infancy. He probably did believe 
 that he was entitled to count the future Duchess of Merioneth 
 among his intimate friends. 
 
 CHAPTER LXI. 
 
 CROCKER’S TALE. 
 
 A THING difficult to get is the thing mostly prized, not the thing 
 that is valuable. Two or three additional Kimberley mines found 
 somewhere among the otherwise uninteresting plains of South 
 Africa would bring down the price of diamonds amazingly. It 
 could hardly have been the beauty, or the wit, or the accomplish¬ 
 ments of Clara Demijohn which caused Mr. Tribbledale to triumph 
 so loudly and with so genuine an exultation, telling all Broad 
 Street of his success, when he had succeeded in winning the bride 
 who joad once promised herself to Crocker. Were it not that she 
 had all but slipped through his fingers he would never surely 
 have thought her to be worthy of such a paean. Had she come to 
 ms hist whistle he might have been contented enough,—as are 
 other ordinary young men with their ordinary young women. He 
 would probably have risen to no enthusiasm of passion. But as 
 things had gone he was as another Paris who had torn a Helen 
 tiom her Menelaus, only in this case an honest Paris, with a 
 correct Helen, and from a Menelaus who had not as yet made good 
 ms claim. But the subject was worthy of another Iliad, to be 
 followed by another iEneid. By his bow and his spear he had torn 
 her trom the arms of a usurping lover, and now made her all his 
 own. Another man would have fainted and abandoned the contest, 
 when rejected as he had been. But he had continued the fight 
 even when lying low on the dust of the arena. He had nailed his 
 nag to the mast when all his rigging had been cut awayand at 
 
372 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 last lie had won the battle. Of course his Clara was doubly deal! 
 to him, having been made his own after such difficulties as these. 
 
 “ i’’ m not one of those who easily give way in an affair of the 
 heart,” he said to Mr. Littlebird, the junior partner in the firm, 
 when'he told that gentleman of his engagement. 
 
 “ So I perceive, Mr. Tribbledale.” 
 
 “ When a man has set his affection on a young lady,—that is, 
 his real affection,—he ought to stick to it,—or die.” Mr. Littlebird, 
 who was the happy father of three or four married and marriage¬ 
 able daughters, opened his eyes with surprise. The young men 
 who had come after his young ladies had been pressing enough, but 
 they had not died. “ Or die! ” repeated Tribbledale. “ It is what 
 I should have clone. Had she become Mrs. Crocker, I should never 
 again have been seen in the Court,”—“ the Court ” was the little 
 alley in which Pogson and Littlebird’s office was held—“unless 
 they had brought my dead body here to be identified.” He was 
 quite successful in his enthusiasm. Though Mr. Littlebird laughed 
 when he told the story to Mr. Pogson, not the less did they agree to 
 raise his salary to £1G0 on and from the day of his marriage. 
 
 “Yes, Mr. Fay,” he said to the poor old Quaker, who had lately 
 been so broken by his sorrow as hardly to be as much master of 
 Tribbledale as he used to be, “ I have no doubt I shall be steady 
 now. If anything can make a young man steady it is success 
 
 in love.” . 
 
 “ I hope thou wilt be happy, Mr. Tribbledale. 
 
 “I shall be happy enough now. My heart will be more m the 
 business,—what there isn’t of it at any rate with that dear creature 
 in our mutual home at Islington. It was lucky about his having 
 taken those lodgings, because Clara had got as it were used to 
 them. And there are one or two things, such as a clock and the 
 like, which need not be moved. If anything ever should happen to 
 you, Mr. Fay, Pogson ancl Littlebird will find me quite up to the 
 business ** 
 
 “ Something will happen some day, no doubt,” said the Quaker. 
 
 On one occasion Lord Hampstead was in the Court having a 
 word to say to Marion’s father, or perhaps, a word to hear. . “ I’m 
 sure you’ll excuse me, my lord,” said Tribbledale, following him out 
 
 of the office. . 
 
 “ Oh yes,” said Hampstead, with a smile,—for he had _ been 
 there often enough to have made some acquaintance with the junior 
 clerk. “ If there be anything I can do for you, I will do it 
 willingly.” 
 
 “ Only just to congratulate me, my lord. You have heard of— 
 Crocker ? ” Lord Hampstead owned that he had heard of Crocker. 
 “ He has been interfering with me in the tenderest of parts.” Lord 
 Hampstead looked serious. “ There is a young woman ’’—the poor 
 victim frowned, he knew not why; but remitted his frown and 
 smiled again—“ who had promised herself to me. Then that rude 
 assailant came and upset all my joy.” Here, as the narrator paused, 
 Lord Hampstead owned to himself that he could not deny the truth 
 
CROCKER’S TALE. 
 
 373 
 
 s 
 
 of the description. “Perhaps,” continued Tribbledale,—“ perhaps 
 yon have seen Clara Demijohn.” Lord Hampstead could not 
 remember having been so fortunate. “Because I am aware that 
 your steps have wandered in the way of Paradise Row.” Then 
 there came the frown again,—and then the smile. “Well; _per¬ 
 
 haps it may be that a more perfect form of feminine beauty may be 
 ascribed to another. This was intended as a compliment more 
 civil than true, paid to Marion Pay on Lord Hampstead’s behalf. 
 “ But for a combination of chastity and tenderness I don’t think 
 you can easily beat Clara Demijohn.” Lord Hampstead bowed, as 
 showing his readiness to believe such a statement coming from so 
 good a judge. “Por awhile the interloper prevailed. Interlopers 
 do prevailsuch is the female heart. But the true rock shows 
 itself always at last. She is the true rock on which I have built 
 the castle of my happiness.” 
 
 “ Then I may congratulate you, Mr. Tribbledale.” 
 
 “Yes;—and not only that, my lord. But Crocker is nowhere. 
 You must own that there is a triumph in that. There was a time! 
 Oh ! how I felt it. There was a time when he triumphed; when 
 he talked of f my Clara/ as though I hadn’t a chance. He’s up a tree 
 now, my lord. I thought I’d just tell you as you are so friendly 
 coming among us, here, my lord! ” Lord Hampstead again con¬ 
 gratulated him, and expressed a hope that he might be allowed to 
 send the bride a small present. 
 
 “Oh, my lord,” said Tribbledale, “it shall go with the clock 
 and the haimonium, and shall be the proudest moment of my 
 life.” 
 
 . When Miss Demijohn heard that the salary of Pogson and 
 Littlebird’s clerk,—she called it “ Dan’s screw ” in speaking of the 
 matter to her aunt,—had been raised to £160 per annum, she felt 
 that there could be no excuse for a further change. Up to that 
 moment it had seemed to her that Tribbledale had obtained his 
 triumph by a deceit which it still might be her duty to frustrate. 
 He had declared positively that those fatal words had been actually 
 written in the book, “ Dismissal—B. B.” But she had learned that 
 the words had not been written as yet. All is fair in love and war. 
 She was not in the least angry with Tribbledale because of his little 
 ruse. A lie told in such a cause was a merit. But not on that 
 account need she be led away by it from her own most advantageous 
 course. In spite of the little quarrel which had sprung up between 
 herself and Crocker, Crocker, still belonging to Her Majesty’s Civil 
 Service, must be better than Tribbledale. But when she found that 
 I Tribbledale’s statement as to the £160 was true, and when she be¬ 
 thought herself that Crocker would probably be dismissed sooner or 
 later, then she determined to be firm. As to the £160, old Mrs. 
 Demijohn herself went to the office, and learned the truth from 
 Zachary Fay. “I think he is a good young man,” said the Quaker, 
 
 “ and he will do very well if he will cease to think quite so much of 
 himself.” To this Mrs. Demijohn remarked that half-a-dozen babies 
 might probably cure that fault. 
 
MARION FAY. 
 
 OT/I 
 
 o74 
 
 So the matter was settled, and it came to pass that Daniel 
 Tribbledale and Clara Demijohn were married at Holloway on that 
 very Thursday which saw completed the alliance which had been 
 so long arranged between the noble houses of Powell and De Haute- 
 ville There were two letters written on the occasion which snail 
 be given here as showing the willingness to forget and forgive 
 which marked the characters, of the two persons. A day or two 
 before the marriage the following invitation was sent: 
 
 “ Dear Sam, , , , . , , , 
 
 < e j hope you will quite forget what is. past, at any rate 
 
 what was unpleasant, and come to our wedding on Thursday. 
 There is to be a little breakfast here afterwards, and I am sure that 
 Dan will be very happy to shake your hand. I have asked him, 
 and he says that as he is to be the bridegroom he would be proud 
 to have you as best man. 
 
 ec vr _ 
 
 lour old sincere friend, 
 
 <s n.r a t> a TiTCTvrr.Tmrtf—for the nresent.” 
 
 The answer was as follows:—• 
 
 “ Dear Clara, t , 
 
 a There’s no malice in me. Since our little tin 1 ha\ e 
 
 been thinking that, after all. I’m not the man for matrimony. To 
 sip the honey from many flowers is, perhaps, after all my line ol 
 life. I should have been happy to be Dan. Tribbledale s bottle- 
 holder, but that there is another affair coming off which I must 
 attend. Our Lady Amaldina is to be married, and I must be there. 
 Our families have been connected, as you know, for a great many 
 years, and I could not forgive myself if I did not see her turnedoft 
 No other consideration would have prevented me from accepting 
 
 your very kind invitation. . . , 
 
 “ Your loving old friend, 
 
 “ Sam Crocker.” 
 
 There did come a pang of regret across Clara’s heart, as she 
 read this as to the connection of the families. Of course Crocker 
 was lying. Of course it was an empty boast. But there was. a 
 savour of aristocracy even in the capability of telling such a lie. 
 Had she made Crocker her husband she also would have been 
 able to drag Castle Hautboy into her daily conversations with 
 
 IMrs Duffer. , 
 
 At the time of these weddings, the month of.August, iEolus had 
 
 not even yet come to a positive and actual decision as to Ciocker s 
 fate. Crocker had been suspendedby which act he had been 
 temporarily expelled from the office, so that his time was all ms 
 own to do what he pleased with it. Whether when suspended he 
 would receive his salary, no one knew as a certainty. The piesump- 
 tion was that a man suspended would be dismissed,—unless he 
 could succeed in explaining away or diminishing the sin of which 
 
CROCKER'S TALE. 
 
 o*~ *• 
 0/0 
 
 Her Majesty’s Mail Darters 'in Jn y described it,— destroyed 
 
 idleness might not be traced home toh, ? m”hfhfdTom into'V* Dd 
 mentsa bundle of official documents In/ to frag ~ 
 
 known that no one doubtedh“mis5 «?"?*" 60 Y eI1 
 spoken of it as a thing accomnlisWl ls ?f 1 ;, } lr - Jernmgham had 
 
 I,,. ~ W!i Asatt css ^saar 
 
 When Crocker attended Lady Ama/diS , n0 t bing - 
 
 and gloves he was still under suspension but tiw.v? T f; st coat 
 
 EtSfiftf" S ° l0D8 a ™ « MSgt^'St 
 
 thatching Xe? td Pap T,? ° D T side ’ ^ 
 
 passed, but had 
 
 “nTeuch dt^rthis^wt 4 ° Mm dM ' XikeTremTnd 
 
 ham ^ve^rJust UP °“ * “ impossibIe! ” This M* Jerning- 
 bark rej0ined UlC ° thCT '" wb “» 
 
 them; but there™recasra in-whloh'to^pardon the tv• p ® r, ! aps °ne of 
 to be perfectly impossible. This is one of them Tf Dg d ° ne seems 
 
 I am standing^' mf° f ** 1 d ° Ubt whethe * 
 
 not accusTomed e to ^ J ° raiDg i lam - who was 
 
 Ho went about the office aU the se weeks whh'fv° f bis /^r S . 
 the air of a man conscious that some^real 1 evil Sty t! 
 Boreas had observed it, and knew well wW fw • at fiand * Sir 
 Nevertheless when his eyes fell on that bundle I? age Was so long * 
 Crocker bundle of papers,-he on]v pushedS lhfe -011 * he 
 sight than it was before. ’ 7 pusJiecl a Iittle further out* of 
 
 sho^onone ddedTaftodav? 11 A n “M 1 bec °“ e h * be “g 
 
 rs.tr»j!5fi?5SwS£S^S 
 
37G 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 you have been weak enough to let it lie on your desk, or worse 
 again, hidden in your breast-pocket, for a week or ten days, it will 
 have become an enemy so strong and so odious that you will not 
 dare to attack it. It throws a gloom over all your joys. It makes 
 you cross to your wife, severe to the cook, and critical to your own 
 wine-cellar. It becomes the Black Care which sits behind you 
 when you go out a-riding. You have neglected a duty, and have 
 put yourself in the power of perhaps some vulgar snarler. You 
 think of destroying it and denying it, dishonestly and falselyas 
 Crocker did the mail papers. And yet you must bear yourself all 
 the time as though there were no load lying near your heart. So 
 it was with our ^Eolus and the Crocker papers. The papers had 
 become a great bundle. The unfortunate man had been called upon 
 for an explanation, and had written a blundering long letter on a 
 huge sheet of foolscap paper,—which Sir Boreas had not read, and 
 did not mean to read. Large fragments of the torn “ mail papers ” 
 had been found, and were all there. Mr. Jerningham had written 
 a well-worded lengthy report,—which never certainly would bo 
 read. There were former documents in which the existence of the 
 papers had been denied. Altogether the bundle was big and unholy 
 and distasteful. Those who knew our iEolus well were sure that 
 he would never even undo the tape by which the bundle was tied. 
 But something must be done. One month’s pay-day had already 
 passed since the suspension, and the next was at hand. “Can 
 anything be settled about Mr. Crocker?” asked Mr. Jerningham, 
 one day about the end of August. Sir Boreas had already sent his 
 family to a little place he had in the West of Ireland, and was post¬ 
 poning his holiday because of this horrid matter. Mr. Jerningham 
 could never go away till iEolus went. Sir Boreas knew all this, 
 and was thoroughly ashamed of himself. “ Just speak to me about 
 it to-morrow and we’ll settle the matter,” he said, in his blandest 
 voice. Mr. Jerningham retreated from the room frowning. Ac¬ 
 cording to his thinking there ought to be nothing to settle. “ D- 
 
 the fellow,” said Sir Boreas, as soon as the door was closed; and he 
 gave the papers another shove which sent them off the huge table 
 on to the floor. Whether it was Mr. Jerningham or Crocker who 
 was damned, he hardly knew himself. Then he was forced to stoop 
 to the humility of picking up the bundle. 
 
 That afternoon he roused himself. About three o’clock he sent, 
 not for Mr. Jerningham, but for the Duca. When Roden entered 
 the room the bundle was before him, but not opened. “ Can you 
 send for this man and get him here to-day ? ” he asked. The Duca 
 promised that he would do his best. “I can’t bring myself to 
 recommend his dismissal,” he said. The Duca only smiled. “ The 
 poor fellow is just going to be married, you know.” The Duca 
 smiled again. Living in Paradise Row himself, he knew that the 
 lady, nee Clara Demijohn, was already the happy wife of Mr. 
 Tribbledale. But he knew also that after so long an interval 
 Crocker could not well be dismissed, and he was not ill-natured 
 enough to rob his chief of so good an excuse. He left the room. 
 
CROCKER'S TALE. ■ 
 
 o / / 
 
 therefore, declaring that he would, cause Crockei to he summoned. 
 
 immediately. TT , 
 
 Crocker was summoned, and came. Had Sir Boreas made up- 
 his mind briefly to dismiss the man, or briefly to forgive him, the 
 interview would have been unnecessary. As things now were the 
 man could not certainly be dismissed. Sir Boreas was aware of that. 
 Nor could he be pardoned without further notice. Crocker entered 
 the room with that mingling of the bully and the coward, in his 
 appearance which is generally the result when a man who is over¬ 
 awed attempts to show that he is not afraid.. Sir Boreas passed his 
 fingers through the hairs on each side of his head, frowned hard, 
 and, blowing through his nostrils, became at once the ^lolus that 
 he had been named; 
 
 Assumes the god, 
 
 Affects to nod, 
 
 And seems to shake the spheres. 
 
 11 Mr. Crocker,” said the god, laying his hand on the bundle of 
 papers still tied up in a lump. Then he paused and blew the wrath 
 
 out of his nostrils. ., , T 
 
 « Sir Boreas, no one can be more sorry for an accident than I am 
 
 for that.” 
 
 k accident! ” 
 
 "Well, Sir Boreas; I am afraid I shall not make you understand 
 it all.” 
 
 “ I don’t think you will.” A , . 
 
 “The first paper I did tear up by accident, thinking it was 
 
 something done with.” „ .. ,, ., „ 
 
 ^ Then you thought you might as well send the others alter it. 
 
 t< One or two were torn by accident. Then-” 
 
 “Well!” 
 
 “ I hope you’ll look it over this time, Sir Boreas. 
 
 “I have done nothing but look it over, as you call it, since you 
 came into the Department. You’ve been a disgrace to the office. 
 You’re of no use whatsoever. You give more trouble than all the 
 other clerks put together. I’m sick of hearing your name.” 
 
 tt if you’ll try me again I’ll turn over a new leaf, Sir Boreas.” 
 
 “ I don’t believe it for a moment. They tell me you’re just going 
 to be married.” Crocker was silent. Could he be expected to cut 
 the ground from under his own feet at such a moment ? “ Bor the 
 
 voung lady’s sake, I don’t like turning you adrift on the world at 
 such a time. I only wish that she had a more secure basis for her 
 
 happmess. ^ ^ rigllt » said Crocker. He will probably be thought 
 to have been justified in carrying on the delusion at such a crisis of 
 Ills lifo* 
 
 t ( But you must take my assurance of this,” said fEolus, looking 
 more like the god of storms, “that no wife or baby,—no joy or 
 trouble,—shall save you again if you again deserve dismissal. ' 
 Crocker with his most affable smile thanked Sir Boreas and with- 
 
378 
 
 MA11I0N FAY. 
 
 drew. It was said afterwards that Sir Boreas had seen and read 
 that smile on Roden’s face, had put two and two together in regard 
 to him, and had become sure that there was to be no marriage. 
 But, had he lost that excuse, where should he find another ? 
 
 CHAPTER LXII. 
 
 “MY MARION.” 
 
 The blow came very suddenly at last. About the middle of 
 September the spirit of Marion Fay flitted away from all its earthly 
 joys and all its earthly troubles. Lord Hampstead saw her alive for 
 the last time at that interview which was described a few pages 
 back. Whenever he proposed to go down again to Pegwell Bay 
 some objection was made, either by the Quaker or by Mrs. Roden 
 on the Quaker’s behalf. The doctor, it was alleged, had declared 
 that such visits were injurious to his patient,—or perhaps it was 
 that Marion had herself said that she was unable to bear the 
 excitement. There was, no doubt, some truth in this. And Marion 
 had seen that though she herself could enjoy the boundless love 
 which her lover tendered to her, telling herself that though it was 
 only for a while, it was very sweet to have it so, yet for linn these 
 meetings veie full of agony. But in addition to this there was 
 I think, a jealousy on the part of Zachary Fay as to his dauguter! 
 
 lien there was still a question whether the young lord should 
 be his son-in-law, he had been willing to give way and to sub¬ 
 ordinate himself, even though his girl were the one thing left to 
 him in all the world. While there was an idea that she should 
 be married, there had accompanied that idea a hope, almost an 
 expectation, that she might live. But when it was brought home 
 to him as a fact that her marriage was out of the question because 
 ue J *. was then unconsciously there grew up in his heart 
 
 a feeling that the young lord ought not to rob him of what was 
 lelt Had Marion insisted, he would have yielded. Had Mrs 
 Roden told him that it was cruel to separate them, he would have 
 groaned and given way. As it was, he simply leaned to that view 
 oi the matter which gave him the greatest preponderance with his 
 ovn cmld. . It may be that she saw it too, and would not wound 
 him by asking for her lover’s presence. 
 
 About the middle of September she died, having written to 
 Hampstead the very day before her death. Her letters lately had 
 become but a few words each, which Mrs. Roden would put into 
 an envelope and send to their destination. He wrote daily, assuring 
 her that he would not teave his home for a day in order that he 
 nnght go to her instantly when she would send for him. To the 
 last she never gave up the idea of seeing him again;—but at last 
 the little light flickered out quicker than had been expected. 
 
 Mrs. Roden was at Pegwell JBay when the end came, and to her 
 
“MY MARION.” 
 
 379 
 
 fell the duty of making it known to Lord Hampstead. She went 
 up to town immediately, leaving the Quaker in the desolate cottage, 
 and sent down a note from Holloway to Hendon Hall. “ I must 
 see you as soon as possible. Shall I go to you, or will you come 
 to me ? ” When she wrote the words she was sure that he would 
 understand their purport, and yet it was easier to write so than to 
 tell the cruel truth plainly. The note was sent down by a 
 messenger, but Lord Hampsteadh'n person was the answer. 
 
 There was no need of any telling. When he stood before her 
 dressed from head to foot in black, she took him by the two hands 
 and looked into his face. “ It is all over for her,” he said,—“ the 
 trouble and the anguish, and the sense of long dull days to come. 
 My Marion! How infinitely she has the best of it! How glad. I 
 ought to be that it is so! ” 
 
 “ You must wait, Lord Hampstead,” she said. 
 
 “ Pray, pray, let me have no consolation. Waiting in the sense 
 you mean there will be none. For the one relief which will finally 
 come to me I must of course wait. Did she say any word that you 
 would wish to tell me ? ” 
 
 “ Many, many.” 
 
 “ Were they for my ears?” 
 
 “ What other words should she have spoken to me ? They 
 were prayers for your health.” 
 
 “ My health needs not her prayers.” 
 
 “ Prayers for your soul’s health.” 
 
 “ Such praying will be efficacious there,—or would be were 
 anything needed to make her fit for those angels among whom she 
 has gone. For me they can do nothing,—unless it be that in 
 knowing how much she loved me I may strive to be as she was.” 
 
 “ And for your happiness.” 
 
 “ Psha! ” he exclaimed. 
 
 (t You must let me do her commission, Lord Hampstead. I was 
 to bid you remember that God in His goodness has ordained that 
 the dead after awhile shall be remembered only with a softened 
 sorrow. I was to tell you that as a man you should give your 
 thoughts to other things. It is not from myselfit is from her.” 
 
 “ She did not know. She did not understand. As regards 
 
 good and evil she was, to my eyes, perfect;—perfect as she was in 
 beauty, in grace, and feminine tenderness. But the character of 
 others she had not learned to read. But I need not trouble you as 
 to that, Mrs. Eoden. You have been good to her as though you 
 were her mother, and I will love you for it while I live.” Then 
 he was going away; but he turned again to ask some question as 
 to the funeral. Might he do it? Mrs. Boden shook her head. 
 
 “But I shall be there?” To this she assented, but explained to 
 
 him that Zachary Fay would admit of no interference with that 
 which he considered to be his own privilege and his own duty. 
 
 Lord Hampstead had driven himself over from Hendon Hall, 
 and had driven fast. When he left Mrs. Boden’s house the groom 
 was driving the dog-cart up and down Paradise Bow, waiting for 
 
S30 MARION FAY. 
 
 1 ,,-q mas ter Bat the master walked on out of the Bow, forgetting 
 altogether the horse and the cart and the man, not knowing w hithei 
 
 116 The g blow had come, and though it had been fully expected, 
 
 ,, pi had known well that it was coming, it struck linn now 
 
 S a imost harder than if it had not been expected. It seemed 
 to hfmself that he was unable to endure his sorrow now because he 
 h A h e en already weakened by such a load of sorrow. Because 
 he had grieved so much, he could not now bear this further grief 
 a , he walked on he beat his hands about, unconscious that he was 
 tn the midst of men and women who were gazing at him in the 
 streets. There was nothing left to him,—nothing, nothing, no tig • 
 TTn fpi t fh n t if he could rid himself of his titles, rid himself of his 
 wealth rid himself of the very clothes upon his back, it would be 
 better for him so that he might not seem to himself to think that 
 comfort could be found in externals. “ Marion,” he said, over and 
 over again in little whispered words, but Joud enough foi his own 
 the sound. And then he uttered phrases which were 
 almost fantastic in their woe, but which declared what was and 
 had been the condition of his mind towards her since she^ had 
 become so inexpressibly dear to him. “My wife, he said, . my 
 own one! Mother of my children. My woman; my countess, my 
 nrincess.* They should have seen. They should have acknowledged. 
 Tbev should have known whom it was that I had brought among 
 them -—of what nature should be the woman whom a man riiomd 
 set in a high place. .1 had made my choice;-and then that it 
 S i 1 Si this’” “There is no good to be done, he said 
 
 gljjg « it all turns"to aslies and to dust. The low things of the 
 world" are those which prevail.” “Oh, Marion that I could be 
 with vou! Though it were to be nowhere,—though the giea.. 
 storv should have no pathetic ending, though the last long eternal 
 chanter should be a blank,-still to have wandered away with you 
 woiild have been something.” As soon as he reached his house e 
 walked straight into the drawing-room, and having carefully closed 
 the door be took the poker in his hand and held it clasped there 
 ^something precious “ It is the only thing of mine ” he said, 
 «that she has touched. Even then I swore to myself that this 
 hearth should be her hearth ; that here we vvould sit together, and 
 be one flesh and one bone.” Then surreptitiously he toou the hit 
 of iron away with him, and hid it among his treasures,-to the 
 
 subsequent dismay of the housemaid. , - * 
 
 There came to him a summons from the Quaker to the funeral, 
 and on the day named, without saying a word to any one, be took 
 the train and went down to Peg well Bay. From the moment on 
 which the messenger had come from Mrs. Boden he had diessec 
 himself in black, and he now made no difference in his garments. 
 Boot Zachary said but little to him ; but that little was very bitter. 
 “ it has been so with all of them,'’ he said. They_have all been 
 taken The Lord cannot strike me again now. Of the highly- 
 born stranger’s grief, or of the cause which brought him there, he 
 
“ MY MARIONr 
 
 3S1 
 
 had not a word to say; nor did Lord Hampstead speak of his own 
 sorrow. “ I sympathize and condole with you/’ he said to the old 
 man. The Quaker shook his head, and after that there was silence 
 between them till they parted. To the few others who were there 
 Lord Hampstead did not address himself, nor did they to him. 
 From the grave, when the clod of earth had been thrown on it, he 
 walked slowly away, without a sign on his face of that agony which 
 was rending his heart. There was a carriage there to take him to 
 the railway, but he only shook his head when he was invited to 
 enter it. He walked off and wandered about for hours, till he 
 thought that the graveyard would be deserted. Then he returned, 
 and when he found himself alone he stood over the newly heaped- 
 up soil. “ Marion/’ he said to himself over and over again, 
 whispering as he stood there. “ Marion,—Marion; my wife; my 
 woman.” As he stood by the grave side, one came softly stealing 
 up to him, and laid a hand upon his shoulder. He turned round 
 quickly, and saw that it was the bereaved father. “ Mr. Fay,” he 
 said, “ we have both lost the only thing that either of us valued.” 
 
 “What is it to thee, who are young, and hardly knew her 
 twelve months since ? ” 
 
 “ Months make no difference, I think.” 
 
 “ But old age, my lord, and childishness, and solitude-” 
 
 “ I, too, am alone.” 
 
 “She was my daughter, my own. Thou hadst seen a pretty 
 face, and that was all. She had remained with me when those 
 others died. Had thou not come-” 
 
 “ Lid my coming kill her, Mr. Fay ? ” 
 
 “ I do not say that. Thou hast been good to her, and I would 
 not say a hard word to thee.” 
 
 “I did think that nothing could have added to my sorrow.” 
 
 “No, my lord; no, no. She would have died. She was her 
 dear mother’s child, and she was doomed. Go away, and bo 
 thankful that thou, too, hast not become the father of children 
 born only to perish in your sight. I will not say an unkind word, 
 but I would wish to have my girl’s grave to myself.” Upon this 
 Lord Hampstead walked off, ! and went back to his own home, 
 hardly knowing how he reached it. 
 
 It was a month after this that he returned to the churchyard, 
 and might have been seen sitting on the small stone slab which the 
 Quaker had already caused to be laid over the grave. It was a 
 fine October evening, and the sombre gloom of the hours was 
 already darkening everything around. He had crept into the 
 enclosure silently, almost silly, so as to insure himself that his 
 presence should not be noted; and now, made confident by the w 
 coming darkness, he had seated himself on the stone. During the 
 long hours that he sat there no word was formed within his lips, 
 but he surrendered himself entirely to thoughts of what his life 
 might have been had she been spared to him. He had come there 
 for a purpose, the very opposite of that; but how often does it 
 come to pass that we are unable to drive our thoughts into that 
 

 S82 
 
 MARION FAY . 
 
 
 channel in which we wish them to flow ? He had thought much 
 of her last words, and was minded to attempt to do something as 
 she would have had him do it;—not that he might enjoy his 1 e, 
 hnt that he might make it useful. But as he sat there, he could 
 not think of the real future-not of the future as it might be made 
 to take this or that form by his own efforts; but of the future as it 
 would have been had she been with him, of the glorious, blight, 
 beautiful future which her. love, her goodness, her beauty, hei 
 
 tenderness would have illuminated. , , 
 
 Till lie had seen her his heart had never been struck. Ideas, 
 sufficiently pleasant in themselves, though tinged with a certain 
 irony and sarcasm, had been frequent with him as to his future 
 career He would leave that building up of a future family ot 
 Mn remises —if future Marquises there were to be,—to one of those 
 S Sings whose bridging-up would manifestly fit them for 
 the work. For himself he would perhaps philosophize, peihaps do 
 something that might be of service—would indulge at any rate his 
 own views as to humanity ;-but he would not burden himself with 
 a Countess and a nursery full of young lords and ladies. He had 
 often said to Koden, had often said to Vivian, that her ladyship 
 his stepmother, need not trouble herself. He certainly would not 
 be guilty of making either a Countess or a Marchioness. They, ot 
 course, had laughed at him, and had bid him bide his time. He 
 had bided his time,—as they had said,—and Marion Fay had been 
 
 the Yes U —life would have been worth the having if Marion Fay- 
 had remained to him. It was thus he communed with himself as 
 he sat there on the tomb. From the moment in which he had first 
 seen her in Mrs. Boden’s house he had felt that things were changed 
 with him. There had come a vision before him which filled him 
 full of delight. As he learned to know the tones of her voice, and 
 the motion of her limbs, and to succumb to the feminine charms 
 with which she enveloped him, all the world was brightened up to 
 his view Here there was no pretence of special blood, no assumption 
 of fantastic titles, no claim to superiority because of fathers and 
 mothers who were in themselves by no means superior to their 
 neighbours. And yet there had been all the grace, all the loveliness, 
 all °the tenderness, without which his senses would not have been 
 captivated. Ho had never known his want;—but he had m truth 
 wanted one who should be at all points a lady, and yet not insist 
 on a right to be so esteemed on the strength of inherited privileges. 
 Chance, good fortune, providence had sent her to him,—or more 
 probably the eternal fitness of things, as he had allowed himself to 
 „ argue when things had fallen out so well to his liking. Then them 
 had arisen difficulties, which had seemed to him to be vam and 
 absurd,—though they would not allow themselves to be at once 
 swept away. They had talked to him of his station and of hers, 
 making that an obstacle which to him had been a strong argument 
 in favour of her love. Against this he had done battle with the 
 resolute purpose which a man has who is sure of his cause. He 
 

 3" 
 
 “ MY MARION.'' 
 
 f>Qf> 
 
 OOt> 
 
 tZl ld J a 7 e r ne i° f , theil ; .f?P“s> none of their fears, none of 
 
 ieii old-fashioned absurdities. Did slie love him ? Was her heart 
 
 to him as was his to her? That was the one question on which 
 it must all depend. As lie thought of it all, sitting there on the 
 tombstone, lie put out his arm as though to fold her form to his 
 bosom when bethought of the moment in which he became sure 
 that it was so. There had been no doubt of the full-flowing current 
 of her love Then he had aroused himself, and had shaken his 
 mane like a lion, and had sworn aloud that this vain obstacle should 
 be no obstacle, even though it was pleaded by herself. Nature had 
 been strong enough within him to assure him that he would over¬ 
 come the obstacle. 
 
 And he had overcome it,—or was overcoming it,—when that 
 other barrier gradually presented itself, and loomed day by day 
 terribly large before his affrighted eyes. Even to that he would 
 not yield,—not only as regarded her but himself also. Had there 
 leen no such barrier, the possession of Marion would have been to 
 him an assurance of perfect bliss which the prospect of far-distant 
 death would not have affected. When he begaA to perceive that 
 ler condition was not as that of other young women, he became 
 gl ’® at danger,—-of a danger to himself as well as to her, 
 o himself iather than to her. This increased rather than dimin¬ 
 ished Ins desire for the possession. As the ardent rider will be 
 more intent to take the fence when it looms before him large and 
 difficult, so with him the resolution to make Marion his wife became 
 the stronger when he knew that there were reasons of prudence 
 leasons ot caution, reasons of worldly wisdom, why he should not 
 do so. It had become a religion to him that she should be his one. 
 Then gradually her strength had become known to him, and slowlv 
 he was made aware that he must bow to her decision. All that he 
 wanted m all the world he must not have,—not that the love which 
 he craved was wanting, but because she knew that her own doom 
 was fixed. 
 
 She had bade him retrick his beams, and take the light and the 
 splendour of his sun elsewhere. The light and the splendour of 
 Ins sun had all passed from him. She had absorbed them alto¬ 
 gether. He, while he had been boasting to himself of his power 
 and _ his mamlmess, in that he would certainly overcome all the 
 banders, had found himself to be weak as water in her hands. She 
 in her soft feminine tones, had told him what duty had required of 
 her, and, as she had said so she had done. Then he had stood on 
 one side and had remained looking on, till she had—gone away 
 and left him. She had never been his. It had not been allowed 
 to him even to write his name, as belonging alse to her on the 
 gravestone. 
 
 But she had loved him. There was nothing in it all but this to 
 which his mind could revert with any feeling of satisfaction. She 
 had certainly loved him. If such love might be continued between 
 a disembodied spirit and one still upon the earth,—if there were 
 any spirit capable of love after that divorce between the soul and 
 
MARION FAY. 
 
 -384 
 
 the body,—her love certainly would still be true to him. Most 
 assuredly his should be true to her. Whatever he might do towards 
 obeying her in striving to form some manly purpose for Ins life, he 
 would never ask another woman to be his wife, he would never look 
 for other love. The black coat should be laid aside as soon as 
 might be, so that the world around him should not have cause for 
 remark; but the mourning should never be taken from his heart 
 Then when the darkness of night had quite come upon him, he 
 arose from his seat, and flinging himself on his knees stretched his 
 arms wildly across the grave. “ Marion,” he said ; Marion; oh 
 Marion, will you hear me? Though gone from me, art thou not 
 mine ? ” He looked up into the night, and there before his eyes, 
 was her figure, beautiful as ever, with all her loveliness of half- 
 developed form, with her soft hair upon her shoulders; and her 
 eyes beamed on him, and a heavenly smile came across her face, 
 and her lips moved as though she would encourage him. My 
 
 1 a Very late^that night the servants heard him as he opened the 
 door and walked across the hall, and made his way up to Ins own 
 
 room. 
 
 CIIAPTEE LXIIT. 
 
 MR. GREENWOOD’S LAST BATTLE. 
 
 During the whole of that long summer nothing was absolutely 
 arranged as to Eoden and Lady Frances, though it was known to 
 all London, and to a great many persons outside of London, that 
 they were certainly to become man and wife. The summer was 
 very long to Lord and Lady Trafford because of the necessity 
 incumbent on them of remaining through the last dregs of the 
 season on account of Lady Amaldina’s marriage Had Lady 
 Amaldina thrown herself away on another Eoden the aunt would 
 have no doubt gone to the country; but her niece had done her 
 duty in life with so much propriety and success that it would have 
 been indecent to desert her. Lady Kingsbury therefore remained 
 in Park Lane, and was driven to endure frequently the sight of the 
 
 Post Office clerk. 
 
 For George Eoden was admitted to the house even though it 
 was at last acknowledged that he must be George Eoden, and 
 nothing more. And it was found also that he must be a Post 
 Office clerk, and nothing more. Lord Persiflage, on whom Lady 
 "Kingsbury chiefly depended for seeing that her own darlings should 
 not be disgraced by being made brothers-in-law to anything so 
 low as a clerk in the Post Office, was angry at last, and declared 
 that it was impossible to help a man who would not help himself. 
 t( It is no use trying to pick a man up who will lie in the gutter. 
 Jt was thus he spoke of Eoden in his anger; and then the Mar- 
 
MR. GREENWOOD'S LAST BATTLE. 
 
 cliioness would wring her hands and abuse her stepdaughter. Lord 
 Persiflage did think that something might be done for the young 
 man if the young man would only allow himself to be called a 
 Duke. But the young man would not allow it, and Lord Persiflage 
 did not see what could be done. Nevertheless there was a general 
 idea abroad in the world that something would be done. Even the 
 mysterious savour of high rank which attached itself to the young- 
 man would do something for him. 
 
 It may be remembered that the Marquis himself, when first the 
 fact had come to his ears that his daughter loved the young man, 
 had been almost as ferociously angry as his wife. He had assented 
 to the carrying of her away to the Saxon castle. He had frowned 
 upon her. He had been a party to the expelling her from his own 
 house. But gradually his heart had become softened towards her; 
 in his illness he had repented of his harshness; he had not borne 
 her continued absence easily, and had of late looked about for an 
 excuse for accepting her lover. When the man was discovered to 
 be a Duke, though it was only an Italian Duke, of course he ac¬ 
 cepted him. Now his wife told him daily that Boden was not a 
 Duke, because he would not accept his Dukedom,—and ought 
 therefore again to be rejected. Lord Persiflage had declared that 
 nothing could be done for him, and therefore he ought to be 
 rejected. But the Marquis clung to his daughter. As" the man 
 was absolutely a Duke, according to the laws of all the Heralds, 
 and all the Courts, and all the tables of precedency and usages of 
 peerage in Christendom, he could not de-grade himself even by 
 any motion of his own. He was the eldest and the legitimate son 
 of the last Duca di Crinola,—so the Marquis said,—and as such 
 was a fitting aspirant for the hand of the daughter of an English 
 peer. “But he hasn’t got a shilling,” said Lady Kingsbury, 
 weeping. The Marquis felt that it was within his own power to 
 produce some remedy for this evil, but he did not care to say as 
 much to his wife, who was tender on that point in regard to*the 
 interest of her three darlings. Boden continued his visits to Park 
 Lane very frequently all through the summer, and had already 
 arranged for an autumn visit to Castle Hautboy,—in spite of that 
 angry word spoken by Lord Persiflage. Everybody knew he was 
 to marry Lady Frances. But when the season was over, and all 
 the world had flitted from London, nothing was settled. 
 
 Lady Kingsbury was of course very unhappy during all this 
 time; but there was a source of misery deeper, more pressing, more 
 crushing than even the Post Office clerk. Mr. Greenwood, the late 
 chaplain, had, during his last interview with the Marquis, ex¬ 
 pressed some noble sentiments. He would betray nothing that 
 had been said to him in confidence. He would do nothing that 
 could annoy the Marchioness, because the Marchioness was a lady, 
 and as such, entitled to all courtesy from him as a gentleman! 
 There were grounds no doubt on which he could found a claim, 
 but he would not insist on them, as his doing so would be dis¬ 
 tasteful to her ladyship. He felt that he was being ill-treated. 
 
 2c 
 
MARION FAY. 
 
 386 
 
 almost robbed; but be wou d put up with that rather than say a 
 word which would come against his own conscience as a gentleman 
 With these high assurances he took his leave of the Marquis as 
 i hough lie intended to put up with the beggarly stipend of £200 a 
 year which the Marquis had promised him. Perhaps that had been 
 Ills intention;—but before wo days were over he had remembered 
 
 that though it might be base to tell her ladyship’s secrets the 
 penny-post was still open to him. * 1 secrets, the 
 
 , . ^ ceitainly was the case that Lady Kingsbury had spoken to 
 him with strong hopes of the death of the heir to the title Mr 
 greenwood, in discussing the matter with himself, went beyond 
 that, and declared to himself that she had done so with expectatio 
 as well as hope. Fearful words had been said. So he 1 assured 
 himself. He thanked his God that nothing had come of it " Only 
 mr him something,—he assured himself,-wouId have come of it 
 The whisperings in that upstairs sitting-room at Trafford had been 
 
 dreadful. He had divulged nothing. He had held his tongue_ 
 
 hko a gentleman. But ought he not to be paid for holding his 
 ongue . There are so many who act honestly from noblo motives 
 and then feel that their honesty should be rewarded by all those 
 gams which dishonesty might have procured for them! About a 
 fortnight after the visit which Mr. Greenwood made to the Marquis 
 he did write a letter to the Marchioness. “ I am not anxious ’’he 
 eaid to do more than remind your ladyship of those peculiarly 
 ■cel duntia discussions which took place between yourself aud me 
 at Trafford dunng the lost winter; but I thiuk you will acknow¬ 
 ledge that they were of a nature to make me feel that I should not 
 be discarded like an old glove. If you would tell his lordship that 
 some lung should be done for me, something would be done.” Her 
 .atlyship when she received this was very much frightened She 
 remembered the expressions she had allowed herself to use and did 
 say a hesitating, halting word to her husband, suggesting that 
 Mr. Greenwood’s pension should be increased. The Mlrquis turned 
 upon her in anger. “Hid you ever promise him any thing 9” he 
 asked. No;—she had promised him nothing. “ I am giving him 
 more than he deserves, and will do no more,” said the Marquis 
 
 There was something in his voice which forbade her to sneak 
 another word. 
 
 Mr. Greenwood’s letter having remained for ten days without 
 an answer, there came another. -1 cannot but think that you will 
 acknowledge my right to expect an answer,” he said, "considering 
 the many years through which I have enjoyed the privilege of you? 
 ladyships friendship, and the very confidential terms on which we 
 have been used to discuss matters of the highest interest to 
 both. . The “ matters ” had no doubt been the probability of the 
 accession to the title of her own son through the demise of 
 -elder brother! She understood nowall her own folly and some¬ 
 thing of her own wickedness. To this second appeal she wrote a 
 short answer, haying laid awake over it one entire ni"ht 
 
MR. GREENWOOD'S LAST BATTLE. 
 
 387 
 
 fce w»a E do E nothi n G /' EENWOOD, ~ I haTe Sp ° kon t0 tl10 and 
 
 “ Yours truly, 
 
 “ C. Kingsbury.” 
 
 •£ Sh l did 4 , wit . h ° ut sayill S a word to her husband 
 1 ’ after the mterval of a fc w days, there came a third letter. 
 
 “My dear Lady Kingsbury 
 
 SHisiiliil m 
 
 -exist on a miserable pension of £200 a year*? If qim^in ° to 
 
 Sre d d e ettion H o? T a life? 0 * 3 * ht to « S 
 
 MSS ^ur 
 
 clo no more than sympathize! ^ ecause I could 
 
 4 i i ^ fi Uno ^ beg I am ashamed. You will hard!- 
 that I should perish from want. I have not as vpf w.-fi ■•* y W1 ? 1 
 
 open out my sad case to any one but TOurseff lin Z d / 1Yen *° 
 to it,-for the sake of those 7 darling 
 
 have ever been so anxious. VUUfee weuare i 
 
 tt v , “Believe me to be, 
 
 Your ladyship’s most devoted and faithful friend, 
 
 “ Thomas Greenwood.” 
 
 she to consider how 
 
 siM 
 
 the nature of the demind more exphcifly ® and expIai “ 
 
 TTrwwn fViic? T.ndxr _ i _ i 1 -» A 
 
 ~-~ . «uvu 1/UI(1UU mure explicitly. 
 
 wK hl , S , Lady ^“Ssbury showed all the letters to her husband 
 
 ins wrath'" Tlfelf the ' y Stuniblmg ' bloeks ? ” asked the Marquis iii 
 ins wrath, -then there was a scene which was sad ennno-l/ 
 
 had to confess that she had spoken very freely to the chanlain 
 
 respecting her step-children. “Freely! What dr>P« l ™ Pl ? 
 
 Ho you want them out of the wav?- ww o mean ? 
 
 husband to have to ask his wife ! But she had a Hnm. i° n f ?^ ? 
 
 she could partly escape. It was not that she had wanted them out 
 
 of the way, but that she had been so horrified by what slm had 
 
S88 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 “It would not suit me that he should 
 “ But if he continues to write to her 
 
 thought to be their very improper ideas as to their own rank of 
 life. Those marriages which they had intended had caused her to 
 speak as she had done to the chaplain. When alone at Trafford 
 she had no doubt opened her mind to the clergyman. She rested 
 a great deal on the undoubted fact that Mr. Greenwood was a 
 clergyman. Hampstead and Fanny had been stumbling-blocks to 
 hei ambition because she had desired to see them married properlv 
 into proper families. She probably thought that she was telling 
 the truth as she said all this. It was at auy rate accepted as truth 
 and she was condoned. As to Hampstead, it was known by this 
 time that that marriage could never take place; and as to Ladv 
 I ranees, the Marchioness was driven, in her present misery to 
 confess, that as the Duca was in truth a Duca, his family must be 
 held to be proper. 
 
 But the Marquis sent for Mr. Cumming, his London solicitor, 
 and put all the letters into his hand,—with such explanation as he 
 thought necessary to give. Mr. Cumming at first recommended 
 that the pension should be altogether stopped; but to this the 
 Marquis did not consent. 
 
 starve,” said the Marquis. _ 
 
 ladyship something must be done.” 
 
 -Threatening letters to extort money ! ” said the lawyer confi- 
 oently. ‘ I can have him before a magistrate to-morrow, my lord, 
 if it be thought well ” It was, however, felt to be expedient that 
 Mr. Cumming should in the first case send for Mr. Greenwood, and 
 explain to that gentleman the nature of the law. 
 
 Mr. Cumming no doubt felt himself that it would be well that 
 Mr. Greenwood should not starve, and well also that application, 
 should not be made to the magistrate, unless as a last resort He 
 too, asked himself what was meant by “stumbling-blocks.” Mr! 
 Greenwood was a greedy rascal, descending to the lowest depth of 
 villany with the view of making money out of the fears of a silly 
 woman. But the silly woman, the lawyer thought, must have been 
 almost worse than silly. It seemed natural to Mr. Cumming that* 
 a stepmother should be anxious for the worldly welfare of her own 
 childrennot unnatural, perhaps/that she should be so anxious 
 as to have a feeling at her heart amounting almost to a wish that 
 chance should remove the obstacle. Chance, as Mr. Cumming 
 was aware, could in such a case mean only—death. Mr. Cumming 
 when he put this in plain terms to himself, felt it to be very horrid • 
 but there might be a doubt whether such a feeling would be crimi! 
 nal, if backed up by no deed and expressed by no word. But here 
 it seemed that words had been spoken. Mr. Greenwood had 
 probably invented that particular phrase, but would hardly have 
 invented it unless something had been said to justify it. It was 
 his business, however, to crush Mr. Greenwood, and not to expose 
 
 w r He w , rote ? very civil note to Mr. Greenwood! 
 
 \y ould Mr. Greenwood do him the kindness to call in Bedford Bow 
 at such or such an hour,—or indeed at any other hour that might 
 suit him. Mr. Greenwood, thinking much of it, and resol vino- j U/ 
 
]\Ih. GREENWOOD'S LAST BATTLE 
 
 38a 
 
 saSSSSSS? 1 ® ” as 
 
 so that the visitor’s eyeStt^thlm °- VeraUotber ’ 
 
 hut he did not intend to use them “,“ nd f f* thelr .Presence; 
 Greenwood,” he said “I learn tint m Bless of necessity. “Mr. 
 
 amount of a retiring allowancewhich^h^Marauis^f the 
 
 has made yon on leaving his service ” c d > of Kingsbury 
 
 ;; a year is not — ” 
 
 “ Anti ha^paiJs^mefting.^'Let^u^ca^'^ffSOO Not th 1 t, 
 amount matters. The Marquis and T mil w* * ? ot tbat ' tIie 
 mined not to increase it .”* Lord Ham Pstead are deter- 
 
 “ Determined! ” 
 
 it. wiI > «>ey increase 
 
 “Is this a threat?” 1 * 
 
 thrIwSlmyLve r t^keforrt “ 1°®% There is another 
 I do not wish to l°ca“t S&a* ° f “S J ’° U; but 
 
 sent me 1 l XS‘rt “ flM «*‘ed in this matter. She 
 
 wished to be paid for my services n ° “ that TOy that 1 
 
 mean^’Hm^M^CnmmiJ-kidhif ?^ 17 ™ de f tan d what I 
 made no other allusion to them “A ™ V I|B11 f ^ e letters > hut 
 think, settle all that there it t'n n„ A y fe Y Y ords more will, I 
 Marquis, from certain reasons of humtnfff^wffl® 4 ^ 6 ® 1 ? 'fr The 
 hardly sympathize in this case —is nmtt un’^ir U f hl ? h 1 for one 
 to lessen, the ample pension which is paidTo yom” P ’ ° r CTe “ 
 
 (( Ample, after a whole lifetime! ” 
 
 member^f 1 bis^farndy S ° lf y ° U Wn * e any further Ietters to any 
 “ That is tyranny, Mr. Cumming ” 
 
 furthlrThaT"haMn^ ^ % ty ™‘- ™ he wil1 
 
 *- 1 - >» ftSi'tess,; 
 
MAIIION FAY. 
 
 3 00 
 
 it may be well that you should take a little time to think of it.. 
 But unless you are willing to lose your income, and to be taken 
 before a police magistrate for endeavouring to extort money by 
 threatening letters, you had better hold your hand.” 
 
 “ I have never threatened.” 
 
 “ Good morning, Mr. Greenwood.” 
 
 “ Mr. Cumming, I have threatened no one.” 
 
 “ Good morning, Mr. Greenwood.” Then the discarded chaplain 
 took his leave, failing to find the words with which lie could 
 satisfactorily express his sense of the injury which had been 
 done him. 
 
 Before that day was over he had made up his mind to take his* 
 £300 a year and be silent. The Marquis, he now found, was not so 
 infirm as he had thought, nor the Marchioness quite so full of fears. 
 He must give it up, and take his pittance. But in doing so he 
 continued to assure himself that he was greatly injured, and did 
 not cease to accuse Lord Kingsbury of sordid parsimony in refusing 
 to reward adequately one whose services to the family had been so 
 faithful and long-enduring. 
 
 It may, however, be understood that in the midst of troubles 
 such as these Lady Kingsbury did not pass a pleasant summer. 
 
 CHAPTEE LXIY. 
 
 THE REGISTRAR OF STATE RECORDS. 
 
 Although Lord Persiflage had seemed to bo very angry with the- 
 recusant Duke, and had made that uncivil speech about the gutter, 
 still he was quite willing that George Eoden should be asked down 
 to Castle Hautboy. " Of course we must do something for him,” 
 he said to his wife; “ but I hate scrupulous men. I don’t blame 
 him at all for making such a girl as Fanny fall in love with him. 
 If I were a Post Office clerk I’d do the same if I could.” 
 
 “ Not you. You wouldn’t have given yourself the trouble.” 
 
 “ But when I had done it I wouldn’t have given her friends 
 more trouble than was necessary. I should have known that they 
 would have had to drag me up somewhere. I should have looked 
 for that. But I shouldn’t have made myself difficult when chance 
 gave a helping hand. Why shouldn’t he have taken his title ? ” 
 
 “ Of course we all wish he would.” 
 
 “ Fanny is as bad as he is. She has caught some of Hampstead’s 
 levelling ideas and encourages the young man. It was all Kings¬ 
 bury’s fault from the first. He began the world wrong, and now 
 lie cannot get himself right again. A radical aristocrat is a 
 contradiction in terms. It is very well that there should be 
 Eadicals. It would be a stupid do-nothing world without them. 
 But a man can’t be oil and vinegar at the same time.” This was 
 the expression made by Lord Persiflage of his general ideas on 
 
THE REGISTRAR OF STATE RhJORLS. 
 
 391 
 
 polities in reference to George Eoden and his connection with the 
 lianoid family; but not the less was George Eoden asked down to 
 Castle Hautboy. Lady Frances was not to be thrown over because 
 she had made a fool of herself,—nor was George Eoden to be left 
 out m the cold, belonging as he did now to Lady Frances Lord 
 Persiflage never approved very much of anybody,—but he never 
 threw anybody over. 
 
 It was soon after the funeral of Marion Fay that Eoden went 
 down to Cumberland During the last two months of Marion’s 
 illness Hampstead and Eoden had been very often together. Not 
 that they had lived together, as Hampstead had declared himself 
 unable to bear continued society. His hours had been passed 
 a one. But there had not been many days in which the friends had 
 not seen each other for a few minutes. It had become a habit with 
 Hampstead to ride over to Paradise Eow when Eoden had returned 
 i 1 ?? 1 1 ^ e . °® ce ‘ first Mrs. Eoden also had been there*—but 
 latterly she had spent her time altogether at Pegwell Bay Never 
 theless Lord Hampstead would come, and would say a few words 
 and would then ride home again. When all was over at Pegwell 
 Bay when the funeral was at hand, and during the few days of 
 absolutely prostrating grief which followed it, nothing was seen of 
 ~, im ’ on the evening before his friend’s journey down to 
 Castle Hautboy he again appeared in the Eow. On this occasion 
 lie walked over, and his friend returned with him a part of the 
 way. “ You must do something with yourself,” Eoden said to him. 
 
 I see no need of doing anything special. How many men do 
 nothing with themselves! ” 
 
 “ Men either work or play.” 
 
 “ I do not think I shall play much.” 
 
 . i ^ 01 a certainly. You. used to play; but I can imagine 
 that the power of doing so will have deserted you.” 
 
 “ I shan’t hunt, if you mean that.” 
 
 I do not mean that at all,” said Eoden ;—“ but that you should 
 do something. There must be some occupation, or life will bo 
 insupportable.” 
 
 It is insupportable/ said the young man, looking away, so that 
 his countenance should not be seen. 
 
 But it must be supported. Let the load be ever so heavy it 
 must be carried. You would not destroy yourself? ” 
 
 “No; ’—said the other slowly; “no. I would not do that. If 
 any one would do it for me!” 
 
 “No one will do it for you. Not to have some plan of activo 
 hie, some defined labour by which the weariness of the time may be 
 
 conquered, would be a weakness and a cowardice nest door to that 
 ot suicide. 
 
 “ Poden,” said the lord, “your severity is brutal.” 
 
 “ The question is whether it be true. You shall call it what 
 ^ 0 q 1 0r Ca ^ me what you like; but can you contradict what I 
 ^ -y 0 5°^} feel that it is your duty as a man to apply what 
 you have, and what strength, to some purpose ? ” 
 
■302 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 Then, by degrees, Lord Hampstead did explain the purpose he 
 had before him. He intended to have a yacht built, and start 
 alone, and cruise about the face of the world. He would take 
 books with him, and study the peoples and the countries which lie 
 visited.” 
 
 “ Alone ? ” asked Roden. 
 
 “ Yes, alone;—as far as a man may be alone with a crew and a 
 captain around him. I shall make acquaintances as I go, and shall 
 be able to bear them as such. They will know nothing of my secret 
 wound. Had I you with me,—you and my sister let us suppose,— 
 or Vivian, or any one from here who had known me, I could not 
 even struggle to raise my head.” 
 
 “ It would wear off.” 
 
 “I will go alone; and if occasion offers I will make fresh 
 acquaintances. I will begin another life which shall have no 
 connection with the old one,—except that which will be continued 
 by the thread of my own memory. No one shall be near me who 
 may even think of her name when my own ways and manners are 
 called, in question.” He went on to explain that he would set 
 himself to work at once. The ship must be built, and the crew 
 collected, and the stores prepared. He thought that in this way he 
 might find employment for himself till the spring. In the spring, 
 if all was ready, he would start. Till that time came he would live 
 at Hendon Hall,—still alone. He so far relented, however, as to 
 say that if his sister was married before he began his wanderings he 
 would be present at her marriage. 
 
 Early in the course of the evening he had explained to Roden 
 that his father and he had conjointly arranged to give Lady 
 Frances £40,000 on her wedding. “ Can that be necessary ? ” asked 
 Roden. 
 
 “ You must live; and as you have gone into a nest with the 
 drones, you must live in some sort as the drones do.” 
 
 “ I hope I shall never be a drone.” 
 
 “ You cannot touch pitch and not be defiled. You’ll be expected 
 to wear gloves and drink fine wine,—or, at any rate, to give it to 
 your friends. Your wife will have to ride in a coach. If she don’t 
 people will point at her, and think she’s a pauper, because she has 
 a handle to her name. They talk of the upper ten thousand. It is 
 as hard to get out from among them as it is to get in among them. 
 Though you have been wonderfully stout about the Italian title, 
 you’ll find that it will stick to you.” Then it was explained that 
 the money, which was to be given, would in no wise interfere with 
 the “ darlings.” Whatever was to be added to the fortune which 
 would naturally have belonged to Lady Frances, would come not 
 from her father but from her brother. 
 
 When Roden arrived at Castle Hautboy Lord Persiflage was 
 There, though he remained but for a day. He was due to be with 
 the Queen for a month,— a duty which was evidently much to his 
 taste, though he affected to frown over it as a hardship. 4 
 
 sorry, Roden,” he said, “ that I should be obliged to leave 
 
THE REGISTRAR OF STATE RECORDS. 
 
 81 ) 3 - 
 
 everybody else;—bnt a Government hack, you know, has to be a 
 Government hack/ 5 This was rather strong from a Secretary of 
 State to a Clerk in the Post Office; but Roden had to let it pass 
 lest he should give an opening to some remark on his own 
 repudiated rank. “ I shall be back before you are gone, I hope, 
 and then perhaps we may arrange something.” The only thing, 
 that Roden wished to arrange was a day for his own wedding, as 
 to which, as far as he knew, Lord Persiflage could have nothing 
 to say. 
 
 “ I don’t think you ought to be sorry,” Lady Frances said to¬ 
 ller lover as they were wandering about ou the mountains. He 
 had endeavoured to explain to her that this large income which 
 was now promised to him rather impeded than assisted the scheme 
 of life which he had suggested to himself. 
 
 “ Not sorry,—but disappointed, if you know the difference.” 
 
 “ Not exactly.” 
 
 " I had wanted to feel that I should earn my wife’s bread.” 
 
 “ So you shall. If a man works honestly for his living, I don’t 
 think he need inquire too curiously what proportion of it may come 
 from his own labour or from some other source. If I had had 
 nothing we should have done very well without the coach,—as poor 
 Hampstead calls it. But if the coach is there I don’t see why we 
 shouldn’t ride in it.” 
 
 “ I should like to earn the coach too,” said Roden. 
 
 " This, sir, will be a lesson serviceable in teaching you that you 
 are not to be allowed to have your own way in everything.” 
 
 An additional leave of absence for a month had been accorded 
 to Roden. He had already been absent during a considerable time 
 in the spring of the year, and in the ordinary course of events 
 would not have been entitled to this prolonged indulgence. But 
 there were reasons deemed to be sufficient. He was going to meet 
 a Cabinet Minister. He was engaged to marry the daughter of a 
 Marquis. And it was known that he was not simply George 
 Roden, but in truth the Duca di Crinola. He had suffered some 
 qualms of conscience as to the favour to be thus shown him, but 
 had quieted them by the idea that when a man is in love something 
 special ought to be done for him. He remained, therefore, till the 
 Foreign Secretary returned from his royal service, and had by that 
 time fixed the period of his marriage. It was to take place in the 
 cold comfortless month of March. It would be a great thing, he 
 had said, to have Hampstead present at it, and it was Hampstead’s 
 intention to start on his long travels early in April. “ I don’t see 
 why people shouldn’t be married in cold weather as well as in hot,” 
 said Vivian. “Brides need not go about always in muslin.” 
 
 When Lord Persiflage returned to Castle Hautboy, he had his 
 plan ready arranged for relieving his future lialf-nephew-in-law,—- 
 if there be such a relationship,—from the ignominy of the Post 
 Office. “I have Her Majesty’s permission,” he said to Roden, “ to 
 offer you the position of Registrar of State Records to the Foreign 
 Office.” 
 
 / 
 
394 
 
 MARION FAY. 
 
 „ sSsHSH “V! - 
 
 "Don’t let us go back to that, my lord.” 
 
 thinkbettoTf ^-"fVauny^o.h.l* ll S; ' b ° bought to 
 
 better of it,-the office wSlt fo “ d " d , 7*7» *“«* 
 comfortable to you.” ^ 1 ^oulci, 1 think, be more 
 
 “ How so?” 
 
 earth^why* ikshoifld^noUhe held by^^Italian^^'w^lnd lea |? u r on 
 tor many years librarian at the Museum And as an j^. Italian 
 wouffi of course be entitled to 
 
 " veiv 1 ™n’ el 'n° otIler ttan an Englishman.” 
 
 lL° U ca a s n e d The 0t tMe“S SlA °V‘Xou be 
 
 fm^ d of 0 LXranF° h of^ 
 
 name.” Everybody knew t w t„ i ?? Iled b y your own proper 
 
 Civil ServTce S hisVuntTy perfe^ nff * S ° Unders t ood 
 huSn harf MmSeIf ’ ° r «P“& those 1 Md.Sl!? <W 
 
 it to t stery^s^t'rj 
 
 all, and then, perhaps, afterwards, of the Service * “ f filBt of 
 nroreCThif ^he'rweS'p^iste^ilTt 3 tf » bifc the 
 
 » h *^35SJa@S^ 
 
 Straits. Lady Llwddvthlw with oiwi a° ° 1)1,1 4 over the Menai 
 
 ZtTot 00 ^ °± X^rifFh 
 
 stmt 
 
 Sered ™o^g the big*officiarswelb.^ t 'rherais'so U Mfh^n°a^^ < ™i 
 
 Of course, you've got vonr voni- tie is f° t muc h m a name 
 
 his sake.” * } lanL Bllt ought to insist on it for 
 
THE REGISTRAR OF STATE RECORDS. 
 
 Lady Frances did not give way in tlie least, nor did any on'o 
 venture to call tlie Duca by his title, formally or openly. But, as 
 Lord Hampstead had said, “ it stuck to him.” The women when 
 they were alone with him would call him Duca, joking with him ; 
 and it was out of the question that he should be angry with them 
 for their jokes. He became aware that behind his back he was 
 ■ always spoken of as The Duke, and that this was not done with 
 any idea of laughing at him. The people around him believed 
 that he was a Duke and ought to be called a Duke. Of course it 
 was in joke that Lady Llwddythlw always called Lady Frances 
 Duchessina when they were together, because Lady Frances ha t 
 certainly not as yet acquired her right to the name; but it all 
 tended to the same point. He became aware that the very 
 servants around him understood it. They did. not caHiipi <f your 
 grace,” or “ my lord,” or make spoken allusmm to his rank; ] l T l fc 
 they looked it. All that obsequiousness due to an iWo^itarv 
 nobleman, which is dear to the domestic heart, was paid to him'. 
 He found himself called upon by Lady Presiflage to go into the 
 dining-room out of his proper place. There was a fair excuse for 
 this while the party was small, and confined to few beyond the 
 family, as it was expected that the two declared lovers should sit 
 together. But when this had been done with a larger party he 
 expostulated with his hostess. “ My dear Mr. Boden,” she said,— 
 " I suppose I must call you so.” 
 
 “ It’s my name at any rate.” 
 
 “ There are certain points on which, as far as I can see, a man 
 may be allowed to have his way,—and certain points on which lie 
 may not.” 
 
 “ As to his own name-” 
 
 “ Yes; on the matter of your name. I do not see my way how 
 to get the better of you just at present, though on account of my 
 near connection with Fanny I am very anxious to do so. But as 
 to the fact of your rank, there it is. Whenever I see you,—and I 
 hope I shall see you very often,—I shall always suppose that I see 
 an Italian nobleman of the first class, and shall treat you so.” He 
 shrugged his shoulders, feeling that he had nothing else to do. 
 “ If I were to find myself in the society of some man calling himself 
 by a title to which I knew that he had no right,—I should 
 probably call him by no name; but I should be very careful not 
 to treat him as a nobleman, knowing that he had no right to bo 
 so treated. What can I do in your case but just reverse the 
 position ? ” 
 
 He never went back to the Post Office,—of course. What should 
 a Begistrar of State Becords to the Foreign Office do in so humble 
 .an establishment ? He never went back for the purposes of work. 
 He called to bid farewell to Sir Boreas, Mr. Jerningham, Crocker, 
 and others with whom he had served. “ I did not think we should 
 see much more of you,” said Sir Boreas, laughing. 
 
 “ I intended to live and die with you,” said Boden. 
 
 "Wo don’t have dukes; or at any rate we don’t keep them. 
 
MARION FAY. 
 
 396 
 
 Like to like is a motto which I always find true. When I heard 
 that you were living with a young lord, and were going to marry 
 the daughter of a marquis, and had a title of your own which you 
 could use as soon as you pleased, I knew that I should lose you. 
 Then he added in a little whisper, “ You couldn’t get Crocker made 
 a duke, could you,—or a Registrar of Records ? ” 
 
 Mr. Jerningham was full of smiles and hows, pervaded thoroughly 
 by a feeling that he was bidding farewell to an august nobleman,, 
 though, for negative reasons, he was not to be allowed to gratify 
 his tongue by naming the august name. Crocker was a little shy ; 
 —but he plucked up his courage at last. “ I shall always know 
 what I know, you know,” he said, as he shook hands with the 
 friend to whom he had been so much attached. Bobbin and 
 GeraghWnade no c allusions to the title, but they, too, as they were 
 se^raUy greeted. ,w, ere evidently under the influence of the nobility 
 o' 4-win’iate brother clerk. 
 
 The marriage was duly solemnized when March came in the 
 parish church "of Trafford. There was nothing grand,—no even 
 distant imitation of Lady Amaldina’s glorious cavalcade. Hamp¬ 
 stead did come down, and endeavoured for the occasion to fit him¬ 
 self for the joy of the day. His ship was ready for him, and he 
 intended to start now in a week or two. As it happened that the 
 House was not sitting, Lord Llwddythlw, at the instigation of his 
 wife, was present. “One good turn deserves another,” Lady 
 Llwddythlw had said to him. And the darlings were there in all 
 their glory, loud, beautiful, and unruly. Lady Kingsbury was of 
 course present; but was too much in abeyance to be able to arouse^ 
 even a sign of displeasure. Since that reference to the “ stumbling- 
 blocks” had reached her husband, and since those fears with 
 which Mr. Greenwood had filled her, she had been awed into 
 quiescence. 
 
 The bridegroom was of course married under the simple name 
 of George Roden,—and we must part with him under that name; 
 but it is the belief of the present chronicler that the aristocratic 
 element will prevail, and that the time will come soon in which the 
 Registrar of State Records to the Foreign Office will be known in 
 the purlieus of Downing Street as the Duca di Crinola. 
 
 TIIE END. 
 
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