CHAPTER VIII.
"I CANNOT COMPEL HER."
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 neveragain be able to move out of his room; and had gone on making up hismind to die immediately, till people around him began to think thathe was not going to die at all. He was, however, at last persuadedthat he might at any rate as well die in London as at Trafford,and, therefore, allowed himself to be carried up to Park Lane. Thecondition of his own health was, of course, given to him for thereason of this movement. At this peculiar period of the year, itwould be better for him, they said, to be near his London doctor. Nodoubt the Marquis believed that it was so. When a man is ill nothingis so important to him as his own illness. But it may be a questionwhether the anxiety felt by the Marchioness as to other affairs ofthe family generally had not an effect with her in inducing her topersuade her husband. The Marquis had given a modified assent to hisdaughter's marriage; and she, in a manner still more modified, hadwithdrawn her opposition. Permission had been given to Fanny to marrythe Duca di Crinola. This had been given without any reference tomoney, but had certainly implied a promise of a certain amount ofincome from the bride's father. How else would it be possible thatthey should live? The letter had been written to Lady Frances by herstepmother at the dictation of the Marquis. But the words absolutelydictated had not perhaps been religiously followed. The fatherhad intended to be soft and affectionate, merely expressing hisgratification that his girl's lover should turn out to be the Ducadi Crinola. Out of this the Marchioness had made a stipulation. Thelover should be received as a lover, on condition that he bore thename and title. Lady Persiflage had told her sister that as a matterof course the name would be taken. "A man always takes his father'sname as a matter of course," Lady Persiflage had said. She believedthat the man's absurd notions would be overcome by continual socialpressure. Whether the social pressure would or would not prevail,the man would certainly marry the girl. There could, therefore, beno better course than that of trusting to social pressure. LadyPersiflage was quite clear as to her course. But the Marchioness,though yielding to her sister in much, still thought that a bargainshould be made. It had been suggested that she should invite "theyoung man" down to Trafford. Roden was usually called "the young man"at present in these family conclaves. She had thought that it wouldbe better to see him up in London. Lady Frances would come to them inPark Lane, and then the young man should be invited. The Marchionesswould send her compliments to the "Duca di Crinola." Nothing onearth should induce her to write the name of Roden,--unless it mighthappily come to pass that the engagement should be broken.
Hampstead at this time was still living at Hendon. His sisterremained with him till the Marchioness came up to town about themiddle 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 beentacitly permitted. The Kingsbury and Persiflage world had taken uponitself to presume that the young man was the Duca di Crinola, and, sopresuming, had in truth withdrawn all impediments. Lady Frances hadwritten to her father in answer to the letter which had reached herfrom the Marchioness in his name, and had declared that Mr. Roden wasMr. Roden, and would remain Mr. Roden. She had explained his reasonsat great length, but had probably made them anything but intelligibleto her father. He, however, had simply concealed the letter whenhe had half-read it. He would not incur the further trouble ofexplaining this to his wife, and had allowed the matter to go on,although the stipulation made was absolutely repudiated by theparties who were to have been bound by it.
For Roden and Lady Frances this was no doubt very pleasant. Even LadyAmaldina Hauteville with her bevy was not more thoroughly engagedto her aristocratic lover than was Lady Frances to this precariousItalian nobleman. But the brother in these days was by no means ashappy as his sister. There had been a terrible scene between himand Lady Frances after his return from Trafford. He came back withMarion's letter in his pocket,--with every word contained in it clearin his memory; but still, still doubting as to the necessity ofobeying Marion's orders. She had declared, with whatever force ofwords she had known how to use, that the marriage which he proposedto himself was impossible. She had told him so more than once before,and the telling had availed nothing. Her first assertion that shecould not become his wife had hardly served to moderate in the leastthe joy which he had felt from the assurances of her affections. Ithad meant nothing to him. When she had spoken to him simply of theirdifferences of rank he had thrown the arguments under his feet, andhad trampled upon them with his masterful imperious determination.His whole life and energy were devoted to the crushing of argumentsused towards him by those who were daily telling him that he wassevered from other men by the peculiarities of his rank. He certainlywould not be severed from this one woman whom he loved by any suchpeculiarity. Fortifying his heart by these reflections, he haddeclared to himself that the timid doubtings of the girl should gofor nothing. As she loved him he would of course be strong enoughto conquer all such doubtings. He would take her up in his arms andcarry her away, and simply tell her that she had got to do it. He hada conviction that a girl when once she had confessed that she loveda man, belonged to the man, and was bound to obey him. To watch overher, to worship her, to hover round her, so that no wind should beallowed to blow too strongly on her, to teach her that she was theone treasure in the world that could be of real value to him,--butat the same time to make a property of her, so that she should bealtogether his own,--that had been his idea of the bond which shouldunite him and Marion Fay together. As she took a joy in his love itcould not be but that she would come to his call at last.
She too had perceived something of this,--so much, that it had becomenecessary 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 shefailed. The man was too wilful for her guidance,--too strong for thearguments by which she had hoped to control him. Then it had beennecessary to tell him all the truth. This she had done at last withvery few words. "My mother died; and all my brothers and sisters havedied. 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 assertionof 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. Itmight be that she might be spared where others had not been spared.That risk, of course, he was prepared to run. Without turning it muchin his thoughts, without venturing to think of the results or tomake a calculation, he was prepared to tell her that she too mustleave all that in the hand of God, and run her chance as do all humanmortal beings. He certainly would so argue the matter with her. Buthe could not tell her that there was no ground for fear. He could notsay that though her mother had died, and though her little brothersand sisters had died, there was yet no cause for fear. And he feltthat should she persist in her resolution there would be a potencyabout 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 usdie,--as nearly together as may be. That we should come together isthe one thing absolutely essential; and then let us make our waythrough our troubles as best we may under the hands of Fate. This waswhat he would now say to her. But he knew that he could not say itwith that bright look and those imperious tones which had heretoforealmost prevailed with her. Not replying to Marion's letter by anywritten answer, but resolving that the words which would be necessarymight best be spoken, he came back to Hendon. Oh how softly theyshould be spoken! With his arm round her waist he would tell her thatstill it should be for better or for worse. "I will say nothing ofwhat may happen except this;--that whatever may befall us we willtake it and bear it together." With such words whispered into herear, would he endeavour to make her understand that though it mightall be true, still would her duty be the same.
But when he reached his house, intending to go on
almost at once toHolloway, 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 washis desire at first to rush off to Pegwell Bay and learn for himselfwhat might be the truth of her condition. But on consideration hefelt that he did not dare to do so in opposition to the Quaker'sinjunction. His arrival there among the strangers of the littlewatering-place would of course flurry her. He was obliged to abandonthat idea, and content himself with a resolve to see the Quaker inthe City on the next morning. But the words spoken to him afterwardsby his sister were heavier to bear than the Quaker's letter. "DearJohn," she had said, "you must give it up."
"I will never give it up," he had answered. And as he spoke therecame 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 tome 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 notmore 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 asstrong as a milkmaid? Why should you take upon yourself to condemnher?"
"It is not I. It is Marion herself. You told me to go to her, and ofcourse 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 knowwhat she said. Did she not write and tell you that because of herhealth it cannot be as you would have it."
"And would you have me yield, because for my sake she is afraid? IfGeorge 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. Idon't think that a woman has a right to take the matter into her ownhands, and say that as a certainty God Almighty has condemned her toan 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. Shemust not be allowed to sacrifice herself to a fantastic idea."
"You will never prevail with her," said his sister, taking him by thearm, 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 shouldyou 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 willnever be your wife." He shook himself free from her hand, and frownedsternly at her. "Do you think I would not have her for my sister, ifit were possible? Do you not believe that I too can love her? Who canhelp loving her?"
He knew, of course, that as the shoe pinched him it could not pinchher. What were any other love or any other sadness as compared to hislove or to his sadness? It was to him as though the sun were suddenlytaken out of his heaven, as though the light of day were destroyedfor ever from before his eyes,--or rather as though a threat werebeing made that the sun should be taken from his heaven and the lightfrom his eyes,--a threat under which it might be necessary that heshould succumb. "Marion, Marion, Marion," he said to himself againand 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 thanheard that he had absolutely shouted her name aloud.
On the following day he was with the Quaker in London, walking up anddown Old Broad Street in front of the entrance leading up to Pogsonand Littlebird's. "My dear friend," said the Quaker, "I do not saythat it shall never be so. It is in the hands of the Almighty."Hampstead shook his head impatiently. "You do not doubt the power ofthe 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 oflife, my young lord, the maxim is a good one."
"It is good for everything. You tell me of the Almighty. Will theAlmighty 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. Sayas I do that it cannot be right that she should condemn herself. Ifyou,--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'shands? I am an old man who have suffered much. All have been takenfrom me;--all but she. How can I think of thy trouble when my own isso heavy?"
"It is of her that we should think."
"I cannot comfort her; I cannot control her. I will not even attemptto persuade her. She is all that I have. If I did think for a momentthat I should like to see my child become the wife of one so high asthou art, that folly has been crushed out of me. To have my childalive 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 headand clenched his fist, shaking it, in utter disregard of the passersby, as the hot, fast tears streamed down his face. Could it benecessary that her name should be mentioned even in connection withfeelings such as those which the Quaker owned.
"Thou and I, my lord," continued Zachary Fay, "are in sore troubleabout 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,--becauseof thy truth and honesty; not because of thy wealth and titles. Butshe is not mine to give. She is her own,--and will bestow her hand orrefuse to do so as her own sense of what is best for thee may directher. I will say no word to persuade her one way or the other." Sospeaking the Quaker strode quickly up the gateway, and Lord Hampsteadwas left to make his way back out of the City as best he might.