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 words 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 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 attendance was made; and he could not very well leave her alone for 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 father's 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 in the same manner, and to which the servants at trafford were well 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 his man?uvres on these occasions, having never been free in his correspondence with his stepmother. he had written or telegraphed to lady frances, 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 in the family from a period previous to his own birth. this telegram he sent on the monday, as follows;—"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 father 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 he would be glad to know whether the old man was for him or against him. and with the object of ascertaining this, he determined that he would pay a visit to the office in king's court on the wednesday morning. he could not endure the thought of leaving london,—it might be for much more than the one day intended,—without making some effort in regard to the object which was nearest his heart.
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 after 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 of 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 mr. 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 apartment 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 littlebird themselves, 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' cargos 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.
"oh, mr. fay, how do you do? i have something i 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 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 would 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 thoroughfares 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, who stopped them, standing 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 never heard of gruby and inderwald, and 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 two, 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 why 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 were odious to him? i will have nothing to do with rank on such terms. i claim the right to please myself, 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 important that he should see some one immediately."
"tell him that he must wait 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."
"in this matter, mr. 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 says 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, "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 punctually. i think that her mind is pervaded with vain terrors. now i 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 tribbledale 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 contemplated 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 be 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 breakfast 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."
