CHAPTER XIX.
FALSE TIDINGS.
But there was another household which the false tidings of LordHampstead's death reached that same night. The feelings excitedat Trafford had been very keen,--parental agony, maternal hope,disappointment, and revenge; but in that other household there wassuffering quite as great. Mr. Fay himself did not devote much timeduring the day either to the morning or the evening newspapers. Hadhe been alone at Messrs. Pogson and Littlebird's he would have heardnothing of the false tidings. But sitting in his inner room, Mr.Pogson read the third edition of the _Evening Advertiser_, and thensaw the statement, given with many details. "We," said the statement,"have sent over to the office of our contemporary, and havecorroborated the facts." Then the story was repeated. Pushing his waythrough a gate at Gimberley Green, Lord Hampstead's horse had tumbleddown, and all the field had ridden over him. He had been picked updead, and his body had been carried home to Gorse Hall. Now LordHampstead's name had become familiar in King's Court. Tribbledalehad told how the young lord had become enamoured of Zachary Fay'sdaughter, and was ready to marry her at a moment's notice. The talehad been repeated to old Littlebird by young Littlebird, and at lasteven to Mr. Pogson himself. There had been, of course, much doubtin King's Court as to the very improbable story. But some inquirieshad been made, and there was now a general belief in its truth. WhenMr. Pogson read the account of the sad tragedy he paused a moment tothink what he would do, then opened his door and called for ZacharyFay. They who had known the Quaker long always called him Zachary, orFriend Zachary, or Zachary Fay. "My friend," said Mr. Pogson, "haveyou read this yet?" and he handed him the paper.
"I never have much time for the newspaper till I get home at night,"said the clerk, taking the sheet that was offered him.
"You had better read it, perhaps, as I have heard your namementioned, I know not how properly, with that of the young lord."Then the Quaker, bringing his spectacles down from his forehead overhis eyes, slowly read the paragraph. As he did so Mr. Pogson lookedat him carefully. But the Quaker showed very little emotion by hisface. "Does it concern you, Zachary?"
"I know the young man, Mr. Pogson. Though he be much out of my ownrank, circumstances have brought him to my notice. I shall be grievedif this be true. With thy permission, Mr. Pogson, I will lock up mydesk and return home at once." To this Mr. Pogson of course assented,recommending the Quaker to put the newspaper into his pocket.
Zachary Fay, as he walked to the spot where he was wont to find theomnibus, considered much as to what he might best do when he reachedhome. Should he tell the sad tidings to his girl, or should he leaveher to hear it when further time should have confirmed the truth.To Zachary himself it seemed too probable that it should be true.Hunting to him, in his absolute ignorance of what hunting meant,seemed to be an occupation so full of danger that the wonder was thatthe hunting world had not already been exterminated. And then therewas present to him a feeling, as there is to so many of us, that thegrand thing which Fortune seemed to offer him was too good to betrue. It could hardly be that he should live to see his daughter themother of a future British peer! He had tried to school himself notto wish it, telling himself that such wishes were vain, and suchlongings wicked; he had said much to himself as to the dangers ofrank and titles and wealth for those who were not born to them. Hehad said something also of that family tragedy which had robbedhis own life of most of its joys, and which seemed to have laid soheavy a burden on his girl's spirit. Going backwards and forwardsmorning and evening to his work, he had endeavoured to make hisown heart acknowledge that the marriage was not desirable; but hehad failed;--and had endeavoured to reconcile the failure to hisconscience by telling himself falsely that he as a father had beenanxious only for the welfare of his child. Now he felt the blowterribly on her account, feeling sure that his girl's heart had beengiven to the young man; but he felt it also on his own. It might be,nevertheless, that the report would prove untrue. Had the matterbeen one in which he was not himself so deeply interested, he wouldcertainly have believed it to be untrue, he being a man by his naturenot prone to easy belief. It would, however, be wiser, he said tohimself as he left the omnibus at the "Duchess of Edinburgh," tosay nothing as yet to Marion. Then he put the paper carefully intohis breast coat pocket, and considered how he might best hide hisfeelings as to the sad news. But all this was in vain. The story hadalready found its way down to Paradise Row. Mrs. Demijohn was asgreedy of news as her neighbours, and would generally send round thecorner for a halfpenny evening journal. On this occasion she did so,and within two minutes of the time in which the paper had been putinto her hands exclaimed to her niece almost with ecstasy, "Clara,what do you think? That young lord who comes here to see Marion Fayhas gone and got himself killed out hunting."
"Lord Hampstead!" shouted Clara. "Got himself killed! Laws, aunt, Ican't believe it!" In her tone, also, there was something almost ofexultation. The glory that had been supposed to be awaiting MarionFay was almost too much for the endurance of any neighbour. Sinceit had become an ascertained fact that Lord Hampstead had admiredthe girl, Marion's popularity in the Row had certainly decreased.Mrs. Duffer believed her no longer to be handsome; Clara had alwaysthought her to be pert; Mrs. Demijohn had expressed her opinion thatthe man was an idiot; and the landlady at the "Duchess of Edinburgh"had wittily asserted that "young marquises were not to be caught withchaff." There was no doubt a sense of relief in Clara Demijohn's mindwhen she heard that this special young marquis had been trampled todeath in the hunting field, and carried home a corpse.
"I must go and tell the poor girl," said Clara, immediately.
"Leave it alone," said the old woman. "There will be plenty to tellher, let alone you." But such occasions occur so rarely that it doesnot do not to take advantage of them. In ordinary life events are sounfrequent, and when they do arrive they give such a flavour of saltto hours which are generally tedious, that sudden misfortunes come asgodsends,--almost even when they happen to ourselves. Even a funeralgives a tasteful break to the monotony of our usual occupations, andsmall-pox in the next street is a gratifying excitement. Clara soongot possession of the newspaper, and with it in her hand ran acrossthe street to No. 17. Miss Fay was at Home, and in a minute or twocame down to Miss Demijohn in the parlour.
It was only during the minute or two that Clara began to think howshe should break the tidings to her friend, or in any way to realizethe fact that the "tidings" would require breaking. She had rushedacross the street with the important paper in her hand, proud of thefact that she had something great to tell. But during that minute ortwo it did occur to her that a choice of words was needed for such anoccasion. "Oh, Miss Fay," she said, "have you heard?"
"Heard what?" asked Marion.
"I do not know how to tell you, it is so terrible! I have only justseen it in the newspaper, and have thought it best to run over andlet you know."
"Has anything happened to my father?" asked the girl.
"It isn't your father. This is almost more dreadful, because he is soyoung." Then that bright pink hue spread itself over Marion's face;but she stood speechless with her features almost hardened by theresolution which she had already formed within her not to betray thefeelings of her heart before this other girl. The news, let it bewhat it might, must be of him! There was no one else "so young," ofwhom it was probable that this young woman would speak to her afterthis fashion. She stood silent, motionless, conveying nothing of herfeelings by her face,--unless one might have read something from thedeep flush of her complexion. "I don't know how to say it," saidClara Demijohn. "There; you had better take the paper and read foryourself. It's in the last column but one near the bottom. 'FatalAccident in the Field!' You'll see it."
Marion took the paper, and read the words through without falteringor moving a limb. Why would not the cruel young woman go and leaveher to her sorrow? Why did she stand there looking at her, as thoughdesirous to probe to the bottom the sad secret of her bosom? She kepther eyes still fixed upon
the paper, not knowing where else to turnthem,--for she would not look into her tormentor's face for pity."Ain't it sad?" said Clara Demijohn.
Then there came a deep sigh. "Sad," she said, repeating the word;"sad! Yes, it's sad. I think, if you don't mind, I'll ask you toleave me now. Oh, yes; there's the newspaper."
"Perhaps you'd like to keep it for your father." Here Marion shookher head. "Then I'll take it back to aunt. She's hardly looked at ityet. When she came to the paragraph, of course, she read it out; andI wouldn't let her have any peace till she gave it me to bring over."
"I wish you'd leave me," said Marion Fay.
Then with a look of mingled surprise and anger she left the room, andreturned across the street to No. 10. "She doesn't seem to me to carea straw about it," said the niece to her aunt; "but she got up justas highty tighty as usual and asked me to go away."
When the Quaker came to the door, and opened it with his latch-key,Marion was in the passage ready to receive him. Till she had heardthe sound of the lock she had not moved from the room, hardly fromthe position, in which the other girl had left her. She had sunk intoa chair which had been ready for her, and there she had remainedthinking over it. "Father," she said, laying her hand upon his arm asshe went to meet him, and looking up into his face;--"father?"
"My child!"
"Have you heard any tidings in the City?"
"Have you heard any, Marion?"
"Is it true then?" she said, seizing both his arms as though tosupport her.
"Who knows? Who can say that it be true till further tidings shallcome? Come in, Marion. It is not well that we should discuss ithere."
"Is it true? Oh, father;--oh, father; it will kill me."
"Nay, Marion, not that. After all, the lad was little more than astranger to thee."
"A stranger?"
"How many weeks is it since first thou saw'st him? And how often?But two or three times. I am sorry for him;--if it be true; if it betrue! I liked him well."
"But I have loved him."
"Nay, Marion, nay; thou shouldst moderate thyself."
"I will not moderate myself." Then she disengaged herself from hisarm. "I loved him,--with all my heart, and all my strength; nay, withmy whole soul. If it be so as that paper says, then I must die too.Oh, father, is it true, think you?"
He paused a while before he answered, examining himself what it mightbe best that he should say as to her welfare. As for himself, hehardly knew what he believed. These papers were always in search ofparagraphs, and would put in the false and true alike,--the falseperhaps the sooner, so as to please the taste of their readers. Butif it were true, then how bad would it be to give her false hopes!"There need be no ground to despair," he said, "till we shall hearagain in the morning."
"I know he is dead."
"Not so, Marion. Thou canst know nothing. If thou wilt bear thyselflike a strong-hearted girl, as thou art, I will do this for thee.I will go across to the young lord's house at Hendon at once, andinquire there as to his safety. They will surely know if aught of illhas happened to their master."
So it was done. The poor old man, after his long day's labour,without waiting for his evening meal, taking only a crust with himin his pocket, got into a cab on that cold November evening, and hadhimself driven by suburban streets and lanes to Hendon Hall. Here theservants were much surprised and startled by the inquiries made. Theyhad heard nothing. Lord Hampstead and his sister were expected homeon the following day. Dinner was to be prepared for them, and fireshad already been lighted in the rooms. "Dead!" "Killed out hunting!""Trodden to death in the field!" Not a word of it had reached HendonHall. Nevertheless the housekeeper, when the paragraph was shown toher, believed every word of it. And the servants believed it. Thusthe poor Quaker returned home with but very little comfort.
Marion's condition during that night was very sad, though shestruggled to bear up against her sorrow in compliance with herfather's instructions. There was almost nothing said as she sat byhim while he ate his supper. On the next morning, too, she rose togive him his breakfast, having fallen asleep through weariness ahundred times during the night, to wake again within a minute or twoto the full sense of her sorrow. "Shall I know soon?" she said as heleft the house.
"Surely some one will know," he said; "and I will send thee word."
But as he left the house the real facts had already been made knownat the "Duchess of Edinburgh." One of the morning papers had a full,circumstantial, and fairly true account of the whole matter. "It wasnot his lordship at all," said the good-natured landlady, coming outto him as he passed the door.
"Not Lord Hampstead?"
"Not at all."
"He was not killed?"
"It wasn't him as was hurt, Mr. Fay. It was another of them youngmen--one Mr. Walker; only son of Watson, Walker, and Warren. Andwhether he be dead or alive nobody knows; but they do say therewasn't a whole bone left in his body. It's all here, and I wasa-going to bring it you. I suppose Miss Fay did take it badly?"
"I knew the young man," said the Quaker, hurrying back to his ownhouse with the paper,--anxious if possible not to declare to theneighbourhood that the young lord was in truth a suitor for hisdaughter's hand. "And I thank thee, Mrs. Grimley, for thy care. Thesuddenness of it all frightened my poor girl."
"That'll comfort her up," said Mrs. Grimley cheerily. "From all wehear, Mr. Fay, she do have reason to be anxious for this young lord.I hope he'll be spared to her, Mr. Fay, and show himself a true man."
Then the Quaker returned with his news,--which was accepted by himand by them all as trustworthy. "Now my girl will be happy again?"
"Yes, father."
"But my child has told the truth to her old father at last."
"Had I told you any untruth?"
"No, indeed, Marion."
"I said that I am not fit to be his wife, and I am not. Nothing ischanged in all that. But when I heard that he was--. But, father, wewill not talk of it now. How good you have been to me, I shall neverforget,--and how tender!"
"Who should be soft-hearted if not a father?"
"They are not all like you. But you have been always good and gentleto your girl. How good and how gentle we cannot always see;--can we?But I have seen it now, father."
As he went into the City, about an hour after his proper time, heallowed his heart to rejoice at the future prospects of his girl. Hedid now believe that there would be a marriage between her and hernoble lover. She had declared her love to him,--to him, her father,and after that she would surely do as they would have her. Somethinghad reached even his ears of the coyness of girls, and it was notdispleasing to him that his girl had not been at once ready to giveherself with her easy promise to her lover. How strong she hadlooked, even in the midst of her sufferings, on the previous evening!That she should be weaker this morning, less able to restrain hertears, more prone to tremble as he spoke to her, was but natural. Theshock of the grief will often come after the sorrow is over. He knewthat, and told himself that there need be nothing,--need not at leastbe much,--to fear.
But it was not so with Marion as she lay all the morning convulsedalmost with the violence of her emotions. Her own weakness waspalpable to herself, as she struggled to regain her breath, struggledto repress her sobs, struggled to move about the house, and be asmight be any other girl. "Better just lie thee down till thy fatherreturn, and leave me to bustle through the work," said the old Quakerwoman who had lived with them through all their troubles. Then Marionyielded, and laid herself on the bed till the hour had come in whichher father might be expected.