Marion Fay: A Novel

But, as I said before, what does all this signify in comparison with Blood. It does make your position, my dear, quite another thing from what we had expected. You would have kept your title no doubt; but where would he have been?

I wonder whether you will be married now before August. I suppose 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 last has been fixed for us; – the 20th of August, when, as I told you before, Lord David is to run away instantly after the ceremony so as to travel all night and open something the next morning at Aberdeen. I mention it now, because you will be by far the most remarkable of all my bevy of twenty. Of course your name will have been in the papers before that as the future Italian Duchess. That I own will be to me a just cause of pride. I think I have got my bevy all fixed at last, and I do hope that none of them will get married 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 first.

Believe me to beYour most affectionate friend and cousin,Amaldina.

She wrote also to her future husband on the same subject; —

Dearest Llwddythlw, —

It was very good of you to come last Sunday, but I wish you hadn't gone away just because the Graiseburys were there. They would not have eaten you, though he is a Liberal.

I have written to Fanny Trafford to congratulate her; because you know it is after all better than being a mere Post Office clerk. That was terrible; – so bad that one hardly knew how to mention her name in society! When people talked about it, I really did feel 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? 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. How 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. I 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'Ossi, the Italian Minister in London, the Baron quite acknowledged the position of the young Duca, and seemed to think that very little could 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 Rome. 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 the Minister of State, and the Minister of State bowed to the Baron.

But the surprise expressed and the consternation felt at the 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 the 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 workman 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 Rodens 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 ever was so fond of anybody as George Ro – , 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 di 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! 'Duke,' I should say – '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 Æolus were here himself. By the way, I wonder whether Sir Boreas has heard the news." Then he rushed off, and absolutely made his way 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 I 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 really 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 work."

"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? It's just the thing he would have done."

"I don't believe he ever wrote to you in his life," said Bobbin.

"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! Duca di Crinola! I tell you what it is, Mr. Jerningham. If it were ever so, I couldn't do anything to-day. You must let me go. There are mutual friends of ours to whom it is quite essential that I should talk it over." Then he took his hat and marched off to Holloway, and would have told the news to Miss Clara Demijohn had he succeeded in finding that young lady at home. Clara was at that moment discussing with Mrs. Duffer the wonderful fact that Mr. Walker and not Lord Hampstead had been kicked and trodden to pieces at Gimberley Green.

But even Æolus, great as he was, expressed himself with some surprise that afternoon to Mr. Jerningham as to the singular fortune which had befallen George Roden. "I believe it to be quite true, Mr. Jerningham. These wonderful things do happen sometimes."

"He won't stay with us, Sir Boreas, I suppose?"

"Not if he is Duca di Crinola. I don't think we could get on with 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 chooses to take the title he must be an Italian, then he'll have nothing to live on. My belief is we shan't see him any more. I wish it had been Crocker with all my heart."

CHAPTER IV

"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 Mrs. Roden has been 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 Di Crinola romance, but Marion had as yet heard nothing of it. There had been so much for him to say to her during the interview which had been so wretchedly interrupted by his violence that he had found no time to mention to her the name either of Roden or of Di Crinola.

"You have done that which makes me ashamed of myself." These had been Marion's last words as Mrs. Roden entered the room. "I didn't know Lord Hampstead was here," said Mrs. Roden.

"Oh, Mrs. Roden, I'm so glad you are come," exclaimed Marion. This of course was taken by the lady as a kindly expression of joy that she should have returned from her journey; whereas to Hampstead it conveyed an idea that Marion was congratulating herself that protection had come to her from further violence on 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 ecstacy 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 her 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 thrilled 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 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 here. I am here, and hope to be here often and often till I shall have succeeded in taking our Marion to another home."

"No," said Marion faintly, uttering her little protest ever so gently.

"You are very constant, my lord," said Mrs. Roden.

"I suppose a man is constant to what he really loves best. But 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."

"What does it mean?" asked Marion.

"You have not heard," he said. "I have not been here time enough to tell her all this, Mrs. Roden."

"You know it then, Lord Hampstead?"

"Yes, I know it; – though 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 which it has not been repeated a hundred times that George Roden is not George Roden."

"Not George Roden?" asked Marion.

"No, dearest. You will show yourself terribly ignorant if you call him so."

"What is he then, my lord?"

"Marion!"

"I beg your pardon. I will not do it again this time. But what is he?"

"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, for whatever they could get. He means to take the title, I suppose?"

"He says not, my lord."

"He should do so."

"I think so too, Lord Hampstead. He is obstinate, you know; but, perhaps, he may consent to listen to some friend here. You will tell him."

"He had better ask others better able than I am to explain all the ins and outs of his position. He had better go to the Foreign Office and see my uncle. Where is he now?"

"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. Roden 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. Roden 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 Roden, 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! Nevertheless 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 if so there shall be the love-letter. I feel conscious, Mrs. Roden, of being incapable of writing a proper love-letter. 'Dearest Marion, I am yours, and you are mine. Always believe me ever thine.' I don't know how 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. Roden. I wish I could keep on calling you Duchess in revenge for all the 'my lordings.'" Then he left them.

There was a feeling in the mind of both of them that he had conducted himself just as a man would do who was in a high good-humour at having been permanently accepted by the girl to whom he had offered his hand. Marion Fay knew that it was not so; – knew that it never could be so. Mrs. Roden knew that it had not been so when she had left home, now nearly two months since; and knew also that Marion had pledged herself that it should not be so. The young lord then had been too strong with his love. A feeling of regret came over her as she remembered that the 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 tragedy so bitter that she could hardly bring herself to think of it. And Marion had been so firm in her resolve that it should not be so. But yet it was natural, and she could not bring herself to express to the girl either anger or disappointment. "Is it to be?" she said, putting on her sweetest smile.

"No!" said Marion, standing up suddenly, – by no means smiling as she spoke! "It is not to be. Why do you look at me like that, Mrs. Roden? Did I not tell you before you went that it should never be so?"

"But he treats you as though he were engaged to you?"

"How can I help it? What can I do to prevent it? When I bid him go, he still comes back again, and when I tell him that I can never be his wife he will not believe me. He knows that I love him."

"You have told him that?"

"Told him! He wanted no telling. Of course he knew it. Love him! Oh, Mrs. Roden, if I could die for him, and so have done with it! And yet I would not wish to leave my dear father. What am I to do, Mrs. Roden?"

"But it seemed to me just now that you were so happy with him."

"I am never happy with him; – but yet I am as though I were in heaven."

"Marion!"

"I am never 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 me! There should be one like himself, beautiful, 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. Roden, he kissed me." That to Mrs. Roden 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."