Marion Fay: A Novel

  CHAPTER III.

  MARION'S VIEWS ABOUT MARRIAGE.

  When Lord Hampstead shut the door behind him, Marion went slowly upthe stairs to Mrs. Roden, who had returned to her drawing-room. Whenshe entered, her friend was standing near the door, with anxietyplainly written on her face,--with almost more than anxiety. She tookMarion by the hand and, kissing her, led her to the sofa. "I wouldhave stopped him if I could," she said.

  "Why should you have stopped him?"

  "Such things should be considered more."

  "He had made it too late for considering to be of service. I knew, Ialmost knew, that he would come."

  "You did?"

  "I can tell myself now that I did, though I could not say it evento myself before." There was a smile on her face as she spoke, and,though her colour was heightened, there was none of that peculiarflush which Mrs. Roden so greatly feared to see. Nor was there anyspecial excitement in her manner. There was no look either of awe orof triumph. She seemed to take it as a matter of course, quite asmuch at least as any Lady Amaldina could have done, who might havebeen justified by her position in expecting that some young nobleeldest son would fling himself at her feet.

  "And are you ready with your answer?" Marion turned her eyes towardsher friend, but made no immediate reply. "My darling girl,--for youin truth are very dear to me,--much thought should be given to suchan appeal as that before any answer is made."

  "I have thought."

  "And are you ready?"

  "I think so. Dear Mrs. Roden, do not look at me like that. If I donot say more to tell you immediately it is because I am not perhapsquite sure;--not sure, at any rate, of the reasons I may have togive. I will come to you to-morrow, and then I will tell you."

  There was room then at any rate for hope! If the girl had not quiteresolved to grasp at the high destiny offered to her, it was stillher friend's duty to say something that might influence her.

  "Marion, dear!"

  "Say all that you think, Mrs. Roden. Surely you know that I know thatwhatever may come from you will come in love. I have no mother, andto whom can I go better than to you to fill a mother's place?"

  "Dear Marion, it is thus I feel towards you. What I would say to youI would say to my own child. There are great differences in the ranksof men."

  "I have felt that."

  "And though I do in my honest belief think that the best andhonestest of God's creatures are not always to be found amongso-called nobles, yet I think that a certain great respect should bepaid to those whom chance has raised to high places."

  "Do I not respect him?"

  "I hope so. But perhaps you may not show it best by loving him."

  "As to that, it is a matter in which one can, perhaps, hardly controloneself. If asked for love it will come from you like water from afountain. Unless it be so, then it cannot come at all."

  "That surely is a dangerous doctrine for a young woman."

  "Young women, I think, are compassed by many dangers," said Marion;"and I know but one way of meeting them."

  "What way is that, dear?"

  "I will tell you, if I can find how to tell it, to-morrow."

  "There is one point, Marion, on which I feel myself bound to warnyou, as I endeavoured also to warn him. To him my words seemed tohave availed nothing; but you, I think, are more reasonable. Unequalmarriages never make happy either the one side or the other."

  "I hope I may do nothing to make him unhappy."

  "Unhappy for a moment you must make him;--for a month, perhaps, orfor a year; though it were for years, what would that be to his wholelife?"

  "For years?" said Marion. "No, not for years. Would it be more thanfor days, do you think?"

  "I cannot tell what may be the nature of the young man's heart;--norcan you. But as to that, it cannot be your duty to take much thought.Of his lasting welfare you are bound to think."

  "Oh, yes; of that certainly;--of that above all things."

  "I mean as to this world. Of what may come afterwards to one solittle known we here can hardly dare to speak,--or even to think. Buta girl, when she has been asked to marry a man, is bound to think ofhis welfare in this life."

  "I cannot but think of his eternal welfare also," said Marion.

  "Unequal marriages are always unhappy," said Mrs. Roden, repeatingher great argument.

  "Always?"

  "I fear so. Could you be happy if his great friends, his father, andhis stepmother, and all those high-born lords and ladies who areconnected with him,--could you be happy if they frowned on you?"

  "What would their frowns be to me? If he smiled I should be happy. Ifthe world were light and bright to him, it would certainly be lightand bright to me."

  "I thought so once, Marion. I argued with myself once just as you arearguing now."

  "Nay, Mrs. Roden, I am hardly arguing."

  "It was just so that I spoke to myself, saying that the joy which Itook in a man's love would certainly be enough for my happiness. Butoh, alas! I fell to the ground. I will tell you now more of myselfthan I have told any one for many a year, more even than I have toldGeorge. I will tell you because I know that I can trust your faith."

  "Yes; you can trust me," said Marion.

  "I also married greatly; greatly, as the world's honours areconcerned. In mere rank I stood as a girl higher perhaps than youdo now. But I was lifted out of my own degree, and in accepting thename which my husband gave me I assured myself that I would do honourto it, at any rate by my conduct. I did it no dishonour;--but mymarriage was most unfortunate."

  "Was he good?" asked Marion.

  "He was weak. Are you sure that Lord Hampstead is strong? He wasfickle-hearted. Can you be sure that Lord Hampstead will be constantamidst the charms of others whose manners will be more like his ownthan yours can be?"

  "I think he would be constant," said Marion.

  "Because you are ready to worship him who has condescended to stepdown from his high pedestal and worship you. Is it not so?"

  "It may be that it is so," said Marion.

  "Ah, yes, my child. It may be that it is so. And then, think of whatmay follow,--not only for him, but for you also; not only for you,but for him also. Broken hearts, crushed ambitions, hopes all dead,personal dislikes, and perhaps hatred."

  "Not hatred; not hatred."

  "I lived to be hated;--and why not another?" Then she was silent, andMarion rising from her seat kissed her, and went away to her home.

  She had very much to think of. Though she had declared that she hadalmost expected this offer from her lover, still it could not be thatthe Quaker girl, the daughter of Zachary Fay, Messrs. Pogson andLittlebird's clerk, should not be astounded by having such an offerfrom such a suitor as Lord Hampstead. But in truth the glory of thething was not very much to her. It was something, no doubt. It mustbe something to a girl to find that her own personal charms havesufficed to lure down from his lofty perch the topmost bird of themall. That Marion was open to some such weakness may be acknowledgedof her. But of the coronet, of the diamonds, of the lofty title,and high seats, of the castle, and the parks, and well-arrangedequipages, of the rich dresses, of the obsequious servants, andfawning world that would be gathered around her, it may be said thatshe thought not at all. She had in her short life seen one man whohad pleased her ear and her eye, and had touched her heart; and thatone man had instantly declared himself to be all her own. That madeher bosom glow with some feeling of triumph!

  That same evening she abruptly told the whole story to her father."Father," she said, "Lord Hampstead was here to-day."

  "Here, in this house?"

  "Not in this house. But I met him at our friend's, whom I went tosee, as is my custom almost daily."

  "I am glad he came not here," said the Quaker.

  "Why should you be glad?" To this the Quaker made no answer.

  "His purpose was to have come here. It was to see me that he came."

  "To see thee?"

  "Father, the young lord ha
s asked me to be his wife."

  "Asked thee to be his wife!"

  "Yes, indeed. Have you not often heard that young men may beinfatuated? It has chanced that I have been the Cinderella for hiseyes."

  "But thou art no princess, child."

  "And, therefore, am unfit to mate with this prince. I could notanswer him at once, father. It was too sudden for me to find thewords. And the place was hardly fitting. But I have found them now."

  "What words, my child?"

  "I will tell him with all respect and deference,--nay, I will tellhim with some love, for I do love him,--that it will become him tolook for his wife elsewhere."

  "Marion," said the Quaker, who was somewhat moved by those thingswhich had altogether failed with the girl herself; "Marion, must itbe so?"

  "Father, it must certainly be so."

  "And yet thou lovest him?"

  "Though I were dying for his love it must be so."

  "Why, my child, why? As far as I saw the young man he is good andgracious, of great promise, and like to be true-hearted."

  "Good, and gracious, and true-hearted! Oh, yes! And would you haveit that I should bring such a one as that to sorrow,--perhaps todisgrace?"

  "Why to sorrow? Why to disgrace? Wouldst thou be more likely todisgrace a husband than one of those painted Jezebels who know noworship but that of their faded beauty? Thou hast not answered him,Marion?"

  "No, father. He is to come on Friday for my answer."

  "Think of it yet again, my child. Three days are no time forconsidering a matter of such moment. Bid him leave you for ten daysfurther."

  "I am ready now," said Marion.

  "And yet thou lovest him! That is not true to nature, Marion. I wouldnot bid thee take a man's hand because he is rich and great if thoucouldst not give him thy heart in return. I would not have thee breakany law of God or man for the glitter of gold or tinsel of rank. Butthe good things of this world, if they be come by honestly, are good.And the love of an honest man, if thou lovest him thyself in return,is not of the less worth because he stands high in wealth and inhonour."

  "Shall I think nothing of him, father?"

  "Yea, verily; it will be thy duty to think of him, almost exclusivelyof him,--when thou shalt be his wife."

  "Then, father, shall I never think of him."

  "Wilt thou pay no heed to my words, so as to crave from him furthertime for thought?"

  "Not a moment. Father, you must not be angry with your child forthis. My own feelings tell me true. My own heart, and my ownheart alone, can dictate to me what I shall say to him. There arereasons--"

  "What reasons?"

  "There are reasons why my mother's daughter should not marry thisman." Then there came a cloud across his brow, and he looked at heras though almost overcome by his anger. It seemed as though he stroveto speak; but he sat for a while in silence. Then rising from hischair he left the room, and did not see her again that night.

  This was on a Tuesday; on the Wednesday he did not speak to her onthe subject. The Thursday was Christmas Day, and she went to churchwith Mrs. Roden. Nor did he on that day allude to the matter; but onthe evening she made to him a little request. "To-morrow, father, isa holiday, is it not, in the City?"

  "So they tell me. I hate such tom-fooleries. When I was young a manmight be allowed to earn his bread on all lawful days of the week.Now he is expected to spend the wages he cannot earn in drinking andshows."

  "Father, you must leave me here alone after our dinner. He will comefor his answer."

  "And you will give it?"

  "Certainly, father, certainly. Do not question me further, for itmust be as I told you." Then he left her as he had done before; buthe did not urge her with any repetition of his request.

  This was what occurred between Marion and her father; but on theWednesday she had gone to Mrs. Roden as she had promised, and thereexplained her purpose more fully than she had before been able to do."I have come, you see," she said, smiling. "I might have told you allat once, for I have changed nothing of my mind since first he spoketo me all so suddenly in the passage down-stairs."

  "Are you so sure of yourself?"

  "Quite sure;--quite sure. Do you think I would hurt him?"

  "No, no. You would not, I know, do so willingly."

  "And yet I must hurt him a little. I hope it will hurt him justa little." Mrs. Roden stared at her. "Oh, if I could make himunderstand it all! If I could bid him be a man, so that it shouldwound him only for a short time."

  "What wound!"

  "Did you think that I could take him, I, the daughter of a Cityclerk, to go and sit in his halls, and shame him before all theworld, because he had thought fit to make me his wife? Never!"

  "Marion, Marion!"

  "Because he has made a mistake which has honoured me, shall I mistakealso, so as to dishonour him? Because he has not seen the distance,shall I be blind to it? He would have given himself up for me. ShallI not be able to make a sacrifice? To such a one as I am to sacrificemyself is all that I can do in the world."

  "Is it such a sacrifice?"

  "Could it be that I should not love him? When such a one comes,casting his pearls about, throwing sweet odours through the air,whispering words which are soft-sounding as music in the heavens,whispering them to me, casting them at me, turning on me the laughingglances of his young eyes, how could I help to love him? Do youremember when for a moment he knelt almost at my feet, and told methat I was his friend, and spoke to me of his hearth? Did you thinkthat that did not move me?"

  "So soon, my child;--so soon?"

  "In a moment. Is it not so that it is done always?"

  "Hearts are harder than that, Marion."

  "Mine, I think, was so soft just then that the half of his sweetthings would have ravished it from my bosom. But I feel for myselfthat there are two parts in me. Though the one can melt away, andpass altogether from my control, can gush like water that runsout and cannot be checked, the other has something in it of hardsubstance which can stand against blows, even from him."

  "What is that something, Marion?"

  "Nay, I cannot name it. I think it be another heart, of finersubstance, or it may be it is woman's pride, which will suffer allthings rather than hurt the one it loves. I know myself. No wordsfrom him,--no desire to see his joy, as he would be joyful, if I toldhim that I could give him all he asks,--no longing for all his lovecould do for me, shall move me one tittle. He shall tell himself tohis dying day that the Quaker girl, because she loved him, was trueto his interests."

  "My child;--my child!" said Mrs. Roden, taking Marion in her arms.

  "Do you think that I do not know,--that I have forgotten? Was itnothing to me to see my--mother die, and her little ones? Do I notknow that I am not, as others are, free to wed, not a lord like that,but even one of my own standing? Mrs. Roden, if I can live till mypoor father shall have gone before me, so that he may not be leftalone when the weakness of age shall have come upon him,--then,--thenI shall be satisfied to follow them. No dream of loving had evercrossed my mind. He has come, and without my mind, the dream has beendreamed. I think that my lot will be happier so, than if I had passedaway without any feeling such as that I have now. Perhaps he will notmarry till I am gone."

  "Would that hurt you so sorely?"

  "It ought not. It shall not. It will be well that he should marry,and I will not wish to cause him evil. He will have gone away, and Ishall hardly know of it. Perhaps they will not tell me." Mrs. Rodencould only embrace her, sobbing, wiping her eyes with piteousness."But I will not begrudge aught of the sacrifice," she continued."There is nothing, I think, sweeter than to deny oneself all thingsfor love. What are our lessons for but to teach us that? Shall I notdo unto him as it would be well for me that some such girl should dofor my sake if I were such as he?"

  "Oh, Marion, you have got the better part."

  "And yet,--and yet--. I would that he should feel a little becausehe cannot have the toy that has pleased his eye. What was it tha
t hesaw in me, do you think?" As she asked the question she cheered upwonderfully.

  "The beauty of your brow and eyes,--the softness of your woman'svoice."

  "Nay, but I think it was my Quaker dress. His eye, perhaps, likesthings all of a colour. I had, too, new gloves and a new frock whenhe saw me. How well I remember his coming,--how he would glance roundat me till I hardly knew whether I was glad that he should observeme so much,--or offended at his persistence. I think that I was glad,though I told myself that he should not have glanced at me so often.And then, when he asked us to go down to his house I did long,--I didlong,--to win father's consent to the journey. Had he not gone--"

  "Do not think of it, Marion."

  "That I will not promise;--but I will not talk of it. Now, dear Mrs.Roden, let all then be as though it had never been. I do not mean tomope, or to neglect my work, because a young lord has crossed my pathand told me that he loves me. I must send him from me, and then Iwill be just as I have been always." Having made this promise shewent away, leaving Mrs. Roden much more flurried by the interviewthan was she herself. When the Friday came, holiday as it was, theQuaker took himself off to the City after dinner, without anotherword as to his daughter's lover.