Marion Fay: A Novel

by Anthony Trollope

  CHAPTER XVI.

  "I DO."

  Lord Hampstead did not reach his house till nearly six on thefollowing morning, and, having been travelling two nights out ofthree, allowed himself the indulgence of having his breakfast in bed.While he was so engaged his sister came to him, very penitent for herfault, 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'tknow how I am to help 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, hewould 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. We mustwait, that's all. I do not think it would make me unhappy to waittill I died, if he only were content to wait also. But was papa sovery angry?"

  "He wasn't so very angry,--only angry. I was obliged to tell him; butI said as little to him as possible because he is ill. Somebody elsemade herself disagreeable."

  "Did you tell her?"

  "I was determined to tell her;--so that she should not turn roundupon me afterwards and say that I had deceived her. I had made apromise to my father."

  "Oh, John, I am so sorry."

  "There is no use in crying after spilt milk. A promise to my fathershe would of course take as a promise to her, and it would have beenflung in my face."

  "She will do so now."

  "Oh, yes;--but I can fight the battle better, having told hereverything."

  "Was she disagreeable?"

  "Abominable! She mixed you up with Marion Fay, and really showed morereadiness than I gave her credit for in what she said. Of course shegot the better of me. She could call me a liar and a fool to my face,and I could not retaliate. But there's a row in the house which makeseverything wretched there."

  "Another row?"

  "You are forgotten in this new row,--and so am I. George Roden andMarion Fay are nothing in comparison with poor Mr. Greenwood. Hehas been committing horrible offences, and is to be turned out. Heswears he won't go, and my father is determined he shall. Mr. Robertshas been called in, and there is a question whether Harris shallnot put him on gradually diminished rations till he be starved intosurrender. He's to have L200 a year if he goes, but he says that itis not enough for him."

  "Would it be much?"

  "Considering that he likes to have everything of the very best I donot think it would. He would probably have to go to prison or elsehang himself."

  "Won't it be rather hard upon him?"

  "I think it will. I don't know what it is that makes the governor sohard to him. I begged and prayed for another hundred a year as thoughhe were the dearest friend I had in the world; but I couldn't turnthe governor an inch. I don't think I ever disliked any one so muchin the world as I do Mr. Greenwood."

  "Not Mr. Crocker?" she asked.

  "Poor Crocker! I love Crocker, in comparison. There is a delightfulpachydermatousness about Crocker which is almost heroic. But I hateMr. Greenwood, if it be in my nature to hate any one. It is not onlythat he insults me, but he looks at me as though he would take meby the throat and strangle me if he could. But still I will add theother hundred a year out of my own pocket, because I think he isbeing treated hardly. Only I must do it on the sly."

  "But Lady Kingsbury is still fond of him?"

  "I rather think not. I fancy he has made himself too free with her,and has offended her. However, there he is shut up all alone, andswearing that he won't stir out of the house till something better isdone for him."

  There were two matters now on Lord Hampstead's mind to which hegave his attention, the latter of which, however, was much the moreprominent in his thoughts. He was anxious to take his sister downto 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 timefind to be necessary. No man can have a string of hunters idlethrough the winter without feeling himself to be guilty of anunpardonable waste of property. A customer at an eating-house willsometimes be seen to devour the last fragments of what has beenbrought to him, because he does not like to abandon that for whichhe must pay. So it is with the man who hunts. It is not perhaps thathe wants to hunt. There are other employments in life which would atthe moment be more to his taste. It is his conscience which promptshim,--the feeling that he cannot forgive himself for intolerableextravagance if he does not use the articles with which he hasprovided himself. You can neglect your billiard-table, your books,or even your wine-cellar,--because they eat nothing. But your horsessoon eat their heads off their own shoulders if you pass weekswithout getting on their backs. Hampstead had endeavoured to mitigatefor himself this feeling of improvidence by running up and downto Aylesbury; but the saving in this respect was not sufficientfor his conscience, and he was therefore determined to balance theexpenditure of the year by a regular performance of his duties atGorse Hall. But the other matter was still more important to him. Hemust see Marion Fay before he went into Northamptonshire, and then hewould learn how soon he might run up with the prospect of seeing heragain. The distance of Gorse Hall and the duty of hunting would admitof certain visits to Holloway. "I think I shall go to Gorse Hallto-morrow," he said to his sister as soon as he had come down fromhis room.

  "All right; I shall be ready. Hendon Hall or Gorse Hall,--or anyother Hall, will be the same to me now." Whereby she probablyintended to signify that as George Roden was on his way to Italy allparts 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 nodoubt has set in Paradise Row, but the moon remains." At this shecould only laugh, while he prepared himself for his excursion toHolloway.

  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. Hefelt that there was a strength in Marion which, as it would have madeher strong against her father had she given away her heart withouthis sanction, so would it be but little moved by any permissioncoming from him. And there was present to the lover's mind a feelingof fear which had been generated by the Quaker's words as to Marion'shealth. Till he had heard something of that story of the mother andher little ones, it had not occurred to him that the girl herself waswanting in any gift of physical well-being. She was beautiful in hiseyes, and he had thought of nothing further. Now an idea had beenput into his head which, though he could hardly realize it, was mostpainful to him. He had puzzled himself before. Her manner to him hadbeen so soft, so tender, so almost loving, that he could not buthope, could hardly not think, that she loved him. That, loving 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 confidentthat, were there nothing else, he could overcome that objection. Herheart, if it were really given to him, would not be able to supportitself in its opposition to him upon such a ground of severance asthat. He thought that he could talk her out of so absurd an argument.But in that other argument there might be something that she wouldcling to with persistency.

  But the Quaker himself had declared that there was nothing in it. "Asfar as I know," the Quaker had said, "she is as fit to become a man'swife as any other girl." He surely must have known had there been anyreal cause. Girls are so apt to take fancies into their heads, andthen will sometimes become so obstinate in their fancies! In this wayHampstead discussed the matter with himself, and had been discussingit 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 saidto use as an argument with which to convince her. If she spoke againof his rank, he thought that on that matter his love mi
ght be strongenough as an argument against her,--or perhaps her own.

  He found no trouble in making his way into her presence. She hadheard of his visit to King's Court, and knew that he would come. Shehad three things which she had to tell him, and she would tell themall very plainly if all should be necessary. The first was that lovemust have nothing to do in this matter,--but only duty. The second,which she feared to be somewhat weak,--which she almost thought wouldnot of itself have been strong enough,--was that objection as to hercondition in life which she had urged to him before. She declared toherself that it would be strong enough both for him, and for her, ifthey would only guide themselves by prudence. But the third,--thatshould be a rock to her if it were necessary; a cruel rock on whichshe must be shipwrecked, but against which his bark should surely notbe dashed to atoms. If he would not leave her in peace without it shewould tell him that she was fit to be no man's wife.

  If it came to that, then she must confess her own love. Sheacknowledged to herself that it must be so. There could not bebetween them the tenderness necessary for the telling of such atale without love, without acknowledged love. It would be betterthat it should not be so. If he would go and leave her to dream ofhim,--there might be a satisfaction even in that to sustain herduring what was left to her of life. She would struggle that itshould be so. But if his love were too strong, then must he know itall. She had learned from her father something of what had passed atthat interview in the City, and was therefore ready to receive herlover when he came. "Marion," he said, "you expected me to come toyou again?"

  "Certainly I did."

  "Of course I have come. I have had to go to my father, or I shouldhave been here sooner. You know that I shall come again and againtill you will say a word to me that shall comfort me."

  "I knew that you would come again, because you were with father inthe City."

  "I 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 herown home, and make her the mistress of his, it is customary that heshall ask for her father's permission."

  "It would have been so, had you looked higher,--as you should havedone."

  "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 myMarion." She looked at him, and with the glance of her eye went allthe love of her heart. How could she say those words to him, full ofreason and prudence and wisdom, if he spoke to her like this? "Answerme honestly. Do you not know that if you were the daughter of theproudest lord living in England you would not be held by me asdeserving other usage than that which I think to be your privilegenow?"

  "I only meant that father could not but feel that you were honouringhim."

  "I will not speak of honour as between him and me or between me andyou. With me and your father honesty was concerned. He has believedme, and has accepted me as his son-in-law. With us, Marion, with ustwo, all alone as we are here together, all in all to each other asI hope we are to be, only love can be brought in question. Marion,Marion!" Then he threw himself on his knees before her, and embracedher as she was sitting.

  "No, my lord; no; it must not be." But now he had both her hands inhis, and was looking into her face. Now was the time to speak ofduty,--and to speak with some strength, if what she might say was tohave any avail.

  "It shall not be so, my lord." Then she did regain her hands, andstruggled up from the sofa on to her feet. "I, too, believe inyour honesty. I am sure of it, as I am of my own. But you do notunderstand 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, whomshe knew that she could never marry? Would you have her submit to hisembrace because she knew him to be honest?"

  "Not unless she loved him."

  "It would have nothing to do with it, Lord Hampstead."

  "Nothing, Marion!"

  "Nothing, my lord. You will think that I am giving myself airs if Ispeak of my duty."

  "Your father has allowed me to come."

  "I owe him duty, no doubt. Had he bade me never to see you, I hopethat that would have sufficed. But there are other duties thanthat,--a duty even higher than that."

  "What duty, Marion?"

  "That which I owe to you. If I had promised to be your wife--"

  "Do promise it."

  "Had I so promised, should I not then have been bound to think firstof your happiness?"

  "You would have accomplished it, at any rate."

  "Though I cannot be your wife I do not owe it you the less to thinkof it,--seeing all that you are willing to do for me,--and I willthink of it. I am grateful to you."

  "Do you love me?"

  "Let me speak, Lord Hampstead. It is not civil in you to interruptme in that way. I am thoroughly grateful, and I will not show mygratitude 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 her armsas though to assure herself how she did love him with all her verysoul,--"would I for that be brought even to think of doing the thingthat you ask me."

  "Marion!"

  "No,--no. We are utterly unfit for each other." She had made herfirst declaration as to duty, and now she was going on as to thatsecond profession which she intended should be, if possible, thelast. "You are as high as blood and wealth and great friends can makeyou. I am nothing. You have called me a lady."

  "If God ever made one, you are she."

  "He has made me better. He has made me a woman. But others would notcall me a lady. I cannot talk as they do, sit as they do, act as theydo,--even think as they do. I know myself, and I will not presume tomake myself the wife of such a man as you." As she said this therecame a flush across her face, and a fire in her eye, and, as thoughconquered by her own emotion, she sank again upon the sofa.

  "Do you love me, Marion?"

  "I do," she said, standing once more erect upon her feet. "Thereshall be no shadow of a lie between us. I do love you, LordHampstead. I will have nothing to make me blush in my own esteem whenI think of you. How should it be other than that a girl such as Ishould love such a one as you when you ask me with words so sweet!"

  "Then, Marion, you shall be my own."

  "Oh, yes, I must now be yours,--while I am alive. You have so farconquered me." As he attempted to take her in his arms she retreatedfrom him; but so gently that her very gentleness repressed him. "Ifnever loving another is to be yours,--if to pray for you night andday as the dearest one of all, is to be yours,--if to remind myselfevery hour that all my thoughts are due to you, if to think of you sothat I may console myself with knowing that one so high and so goodhas condescended to regard me,--if that is to be yours,--then I amyours; then shall I surely be yours while I live. But it must be onlywith my thoughts, only with my prayers, only with all my heart."

  "Marion, Marion!" Now again he was on his knees before her, buthardly touching her.

  "It is your fault, Lord Hampstead," she said, trying to smile. "Allthis is your doing, because you would not let a poor girl say simplywhat she had to say."

  "Nothing of it shall be true,--except that you love me. That is allthat I can remember. That I will repeat to you daily till you haveput your hand in mine, and call yourself my wife."

  "That I will never do," she exclaimed, once again standing. "As Godhears me now I will never say it. It would be wrong,--and I willnever say it." In thus protesting she put forth her little handsclenched fast, and then came again the flush across her brow, and hereyes for a moment seemed to wander, and then, failing in strength tocarry her through it all, she fell back senseless on the sofa.

  Lord Hampstead, finding that he alone could do nothing to aid her,was forced to ring the bell, and to give her over to the care of thewoman, who did not cease to pray him to depart. "I can't do nothing,my lord, while you stand
over her that way."