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 marchioness 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 the marquis had given a modified assent to his daughter's marriage; and she, in a manner still more modified, had withdrawn her opposition. permission 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. roden 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 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 of 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 duca di crinola, and, so presuming, had in truth withdrawn all impediments. 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 made 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 in these days was by no means as happy as his sister. there 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 still, still doubting as to the necessity of obeying marion's orders. she had declared, with whatever force of words she had known how to use, that the marriage which he proposed to himself was impossible. 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 in the least the joy which he had felt from the assurances of her affections. it had meant nothing to him. when she had spoken to him simply of their differences of rank he had thrown the arguments under his 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 were 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. fortifying his heart by these reflections, he had declared to himself that the timid doubtings of the girl should go for nothing. as she loved him he would of course be strong enough to conquer all such doubtings. he would take her up in his arms and carry her away, and simply 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 worship her, to hover round her, so that no wind should be allowed to blow 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.
"my dear young friend," said the note from the quaker,
i am 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 consideration 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."
"i will 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 roden should be given up?"
"if there were the same cause!"
"what do you know of any cause?"
"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 yourself 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 roden 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 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—?"
"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 eyes,—a 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, walking 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?"
"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 herself. if you,—you her father,—will bid her, then she will do it."
"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.
