Marion Fay: A Novel

by Anthony Trollope

  CHAPTER VI.

  MARION'S OBSTINACY.

  Lord Hampstead drove himself very fast from Hendon Hall to the"Duchess of Edinburgh" at Holloway, and then, jumping out of histrap, left it without saying a word to his servant, and walkedquickly up Paradise Row till he came to No. 17. There, withoutpausing a moment, he knocked sharply at the door. Going on such abusiness as this, he did not care who saw him. There was an ideapresent to him that he would be doing honour to Marion Fay if he madeit known to all the world of Holloway that he had come there to askher to be his wife. It was this feeling which had made him declarehis purpose to his sister, and which restrained him from anyconcealment as to his going and coming.

  Marion was standing alone in the middle of the room, with her twohands clasped together, but with a smile on her face. She hadconsidered much as to this moment, determining even the very wordsthat she would use. The words probably were forgotten, but thepurpose was all there. He had resolved upon nothing, had considerednothing,--except that she should be made to understand that, becauseof 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 advancedto 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 wasstronger than mine. If you can love me say but the one word, and youwill make me absolutely happy. To have you for my wife is all thatthe world can give me now. Why do you go from me? Is it to tell methat you cannot love me, Marion? Do not say that, or I think my heartwill break."

  She could not say that, but as he paused for her answer it wasnecessary that she should say something. And the first word spokenmust tell the whole truth, even though it might be that the word mustbe repeated often before he could be got to believe that it was anearnest word. "My lord," she began.

  "Oh, I do hate that form of address. My name is John. Because ofcertain conventional arrangements the outside people call me LordHampstead."

  "It is because I can be to you no more than one of the outside peoplethat I call you--my lord."

  "Marion!"

  "Only one of the outside people;--no more, though my gratitude toyou, my appreciation, my friendship for you may be ever so strong.My father's daughter must be just one of the outside people to LordHampstead,--and no more."

  "Why so? Why do you say it? Why do you torment me? Why do you banishme at once, and tell me that I must go home a wretched, miserableman? Why?--why?--why?

  "Because, my lord--"

  "I can give a reason,--a good reason,--a reason which I cannotoppose, though it must be fatal to me unless I can remove it; areason 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 thatwill 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 understandthat she would be content to love him on condition that he would becontent to leave her. That she should continue to love him, and thathe should cease to love her,--unless, perhaps, just a little,--thathad been a scheme for the future which had recommended itself to her.There should be a something left which should give a romance to herlife, but which should leave him free in all things. It had been adream, in which she had much trusted, but which, while she listenedto the violence of his words, she acknowledged to herself to bealmost impossible. She must tell the lie;--but at the moment itseemed to her that there might be a middle course. "I dare not loveyou," she said.

  "Dare not love me, Marion? Who hinders you? Who tells you that youmay 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, nofather. I have had to ask myself, and I have told myself that I donot 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 wishes;--yes. Is it not so in allthings? 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 regardas my equal,--in all other things as infinitely my superior."

  "The compliment is very sweet to me, but I have trained myself toresist sweetness. It may not be, Lord Hampstead. It may not be. Youdo not know as yet how obstinate such a girl as I may become when shehas to think of another's welfare,--and a little, perhaps, of herown."

  "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 notlovable you would cease to love me. You would be good to me becauseyour nature is good; kind to me because your nature is kind. Youwould 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 triedto hide it by occasional softness. I should eat my own heart when Icame to see that you despised your Quaker wife."

  "All that is nonsense, Marion."

  "My lord!"

  "Say the word at once if it has to be said,--so that I may know whatit is that I have to contend with. For you my heart is so full oflove that it seems to be impossible that I should live without you.If there could be any sympathy I should at once be happy. If there benone, say so."

  "There is none."

  "No spark of sympathy in you for me,--for one who loves you sotruly?" When the question was put to her in that guise she could notquite tell so monstrous a lie as would be needed for an answer fitfor her purpose. "This is a matter, Marion, in which a man has aright to demand an answer,--to demand a true answer."

  "Lord Hampstead, it may be that you should perplex me sorely. Itmay be that you should drive me away from you, and to beg you neverto trouble me any further. It may be that you should force me toremain dumb before you, because that I cannot reply to you in properwords. But you will never alter my purpose. If you think well ofMarion Fay, take her word when she gives it you. I can never becomeyour lordship's wife."

  "Never?"

  "Never! Certainly never!"

  "Have you told me why;--all the reason why?"

  "I have told you enough, Lord Hampstead."

  "By heavens, no! You have not answered me the one question that Ihave asked you. You have not given me the only reason which I wouldtake,--even for a while. Can you love me, Marion?"

  "If you loved me you would spare me," she said. Then feeling thatsuch words utterly betrayed her, she recovered herself, and went towork with what best eloquence was at her command to cheat him out ofthe direct answer which he required. "I think," she said, "you do notunderstand the workings of a girl's heart in such a matter. She doesnot dare to ask herself about her love, when she knows that lovingwould avail her nothing. For what purpose should I inquire intomyself when the object of such inquiry has already been obtained? Whyshould I trouble myself to know whether this thing would be a gain tome 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 tosmile,--tried to utter some half-joking word; and then as she feltthat she could no longer repress her tears, she turned her face fromhim, and made no attempt at a reply. "Marion," he said again, "Ithink that you love me."

  "If you loved me, my lord, you would not torture me." She had seatedherself now on the sofa, turning her face away from him over hershoulder so that she might in some degree hide her tears. He sathimself at her side, and for a moment or two got possession of herhand.

  "Marion," he said, pleading his case with all the strength of wordswhich was at his command, "you know, do you not, that no moment oflife 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 companionin life, who to me is the sweetest of all huma
n beings. To touchyou as I do now is a joy to me, even though you have made my heartso sad." At the moment she struggled to get her hand away fromhim, but the struggle was not at first successful. "You answer mewith arguments which are to me of no avail at all. They are, to mythinking, simply a repetition of prejudices to which I have been allmy life opposed. You will not be angry because I say so?"

  "Oh, no, my lord," she said; "not angry. I am not angry, but indeedyou must not hold me." With that she extricated her hand, which heallowed to pass from his grasp as he continued his address to her.

  "As to all that, I have my opinion and you have yours. Can it beright that you should hold to your own and sacrifice me who havethought so much of what it is I want myself,--if in truth you loveme? Let your opinion stand against mine, and neutralize it. Let minestand against yours, and in that we shall be equal. Then after thatlet love be lord of all. If you love me, Marion, I think that I havea right to demand that you shall be my wife."

  There was something in this which she did not know how toanswer;--but she did know, she was quite sure, that no word of his,no tenderness either on his part or on her own, would induce her toyield an inch. It was her duty to sacrifice herself for him,--forreasons which were quite apparent to herself,--and she would do it.The fortress of her inner purpose was safe, although he had succeededin breaking down the bulwark by which it had been her purpose toguard it. He had claimed her love, and she had not been strong enoughto deny the claim. Let the bulwark go. She was bad at lying. Let herlie as she might, he had wit enough to see through it. She would nottake the trouble to deny her love should he persist in saying thatit had been accorded to him. But surely she might succeed at last inmaking him understand that, whether she loved him or no, she wouldnot marry him. "I certainly 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 apain to me. Another time do not turn your eyes too often on a youngwoman because her face may chance to please you. It is well thatyou should marry. Go and seek a wife, with judgment, among your ownpeople. When you have done that, then you may return and tell MarionFay that you have done well by following her advice."

  "I will come again, and again, and again, and I will tell Marion Faythat her counsels are unnatural and impossible. I will teach her toknow that the man who loves her can seek no other wife;--that noother mode of living is possible to him than one in which he andMarion Fay shall be joined together. I think I shall persuade her atlast that such is the case. I think she will come to know that allher cold prudence and worldly would-be wisdom can be of no avail toseparate those who love each other. I think that when she finds thather lover so loves her that he cannot live without her, she willabandon those fears as to his future fickleness, and trust herself toone of whose truth she will have assured herself." Then he took herhand, and kneeling at her knee, he kissed it before she was powerfulenough to withdraw it. And so he left her, without another word, andmounting on his vehicle, drove himself home without having exchangeda single word at Holloway with any one save Marion Fay.

  She, when she was left alone, threw herself at full length on thesofa and burst into an ecstacy of tears. Trust herself to him! Yes,indeed. She would trust herself to him entirely, only in order thatshe might have the joy, for one hour, of confessing her love to himopenly, let the consequences to herself afterwards be what theymight! As to that future injury to her pride of which she had spokenboth to her father and also to her friend,--of which she had said somuch to herself in discussing this matter with her own heart--as tothat he had convinced her. It did not become her in any way to thinkof herself in this matter. He certainly would be able to twist heras he would if she could stand upon no surer rock than her fears forher own happiness. One kiss from him would be payment for it all. Butall his love, all his sweetness, all his truth, all his eloquenceshould avail nothing with her towards overcoming that spirit ofself-sacrifice by which she was dominated. Though he should extortfrom her all her secret, that would be her strength. Though sheshould have to tell him of her failing health,--her certainly failinghealth,--though even that should be necessary, she certainly wouldnot be won from her purpose. It might be sweet, she thought, to makehim in all respects her friend of friends; to tell him everything; tokeep 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 firstknelt at my feet, my heart had flown to you without an effort on mypart to arrest it? But now, my beloved one, now we understand eachother. Now there need be no reproaches between us. Now there need beno speaking of distrust. I am all yours,--only it is not fit, as youknow, dearest, that the poor Quaker girl should become your wife. Nowthat we both understand that, why should we be sad? Why should wemourn?" Why should she not succeed in bringing things to such a passas this; and if so, why should life be unhappy either to him or toher?

  Thus she was thinking of it till she had almost brought herself to astate 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 wouldyou 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 forthat. 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 understand."

  "Thou hast not taken his offer then?"

  "Oh, no! No, father, no. I can never accept his offer. If that be inyour mind put it forth. You shall never see your Marion the wife ofany 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 romance and false sentiment, than which nothing is more odiousto 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 wrong for thee tothink it of thyself." She looked up piteously into his face, but saidnot a word. "It is thy duty to take thyself from His hands as He hasmade thee; and to give way to no vain ecstatic terrors. If, as Igather from thy words, this young man be dear to thee, and if, as Igather from this second coming of his, thou art dear to him, then Ias thy father tell thee that thy duty calls thee to him. It is notthat he is a lord."

  "Oh, no, father."

  "It is not, I say, that he is a lord, or that he is rich, or that heis comely to 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 ordinanceof the Lord Almighty that men and women should do. Marriage ishonourable, and I, thy father, would fain see thee married. I believethe young man to be good and true. I could give thee to him, lordthough he be, with a trusting heart, and think that in so disposingof my child I had done well for her. Think of this, Marion, if it benot already too late." All this he had said standing, so that he wasable to leave the room without the ceremony of rising from his chair.Without giving her a moment for reply, having his hand on the lockof the door as he uttered the last words of his counsel to her, hemarched off, leaving her alone.

  It may be doubted whether at the moment she could have found wordsfor reply, so full was her heart with the feelings that were crowdedthere. But she was well aware that all her father's words could gofor nothing. Of only one thing was she sure,--that no counsel,
noeloquence, no love would ever induce her to become the wife of LordHampstead.