CHAPTER V.
MARION WILL CERTAINLY HAVE HER WAY.
On the day but one following there came a letter to Marion fromHampstead,--the love-letter which he had promised her;--
DEAR MARION--
It is as I supposed. This affair about Roden has stirred them up down at Trafford amazingly. My father wants me to go to him. You know all about my sister. I suppose she will have her way now. I think the girls always do have their way. She will be left alone, and I have told her to go and see you as soon as I have gone. You should tell her that she ought to make him call himself by his father's proper name.
In my case, dearest, it is not the girl that is to have her own way. It's the young man that is to do just as he pleases. My girl, my own one, my love, my treasure, think of it all, and ask yourself whether it is in your heart to refuse to bid me be happy. Were it not for all that you have said yourself I should not be vain enough to be happy at this moment, as I am. But you have told me that you love me. Ask your father, and he will tell you that, as it is so, it is your duty to promise to be my wife.
I may be away for a day or two,--perhaps for a week. Write to me at Trafford,--Trafford Park, Shrewsbury,--and say that it shall be so. I sometimes think that you do not understand how absolutely my heart is set upon you,--so that no pleasures are pleasant to me, no employments useful, except in so far as I can make them so by thinking of your love.
Dearest, dearest Marion, Your own,
HAMPSTEAD.
Remember there must not be a word about a lord inside the envelope. It is very bad to me when it comes from Mrs. Roden, or from a friend such as she is; but it simply excruciates me from you. It seems to imply that you are determined to regard me as a stranger.
She read the letter a dozen times, pressing it to her lips and toher bosom. She might do that at least. He would never know how shetreated this only letter that she ever had received from him, theonly letter that she would receive. These caresses were only such asthose which came from her heart, to relieve her solitude. It might beabsurd in her to think of the words he had spoken, and to kiss thelines which he had written. Were she now on her deathbed that wouldbe permitted to her. Wherever she might lay her head till the lastday should come that letter should be always within her reach. "Mygirl, my own one, my love, my treasure!" How long would it last withhim? Was it not her duty to hope that the words were silly words,written as young men do write, having no eagerness of purpose,--justplaying with the toy of the moment? Could it be that she should wishthem to be true, knowing, as she did, that his girl, his love, histreasure, as he called her, could never be given up to him? And yetshe did believe them to be true, knew them to be true, and tookan exceeding joy in the assurance. It was as though the beautyand excellence of their truth atoned to her for all else that wastroublous to her in the condition of her life. She had not lived invain. Her life now could never be a vain and empty space of time,as it had been consecrated and ennobled and blessed by such a loveas this. And yet she must make the suffering to him as light aspossible. Though there might be an ecstasy of joy to her in knowingthat she was loved, there could be nothing akin to that in him. Hewanted his treasure, and she could only tell him that he might neverhave it. "Think of it all, and ask yourself whether it is in yourheart to refuse to bid me be happy." It was in her heart to do it.Though it might break her heart she would do it. It was the one thingto do which was her paramount duty. "You have told me that you loveme." Truly she had told him so, and certainly she would never recallher words. If he ever thought of her in future years when she shouldlong have been at her rest,--and she thought that now and again hewould think of her, even when that noble bride should be sitting athis table,--he should always remember that she had given him herwhole heart. He had bade her write to him at Trafford. She would obeyhim at once in that; but she would tell him that she could not obeyhim in aught else. "Tell me that it shall be so," he had said to herwith his sweet, imperious, manly words. There had been something ofcommand about him always, which had helped to make him so perfect inher eyes. "You do not understand," he said, "how absolutely my heartis set upon you." Did he understand, she wondered, how absolutelyher heart had been set upon him? "No pleasures are pleasant to me,no employment useful, unless I can make them so by thinking of yourlove!" It was right that he as a man,--and such a man,--should havepleasures and employments, and it was sweet to her to be told thatthey could be gilded by the remembrance of her smiles. But forher, from the moment in which she had known him, there could be nopleasure but to think of him, no serious employment but to resolvehow best she might do her duty to him.
It was not till the next morning that she took up her pen to beginher all-important letter. Though her resolution had been so firmlymade, yet there had been much need for thinking before she could sitdown to form the sentences. For a while she had told herself that itwould be well first to consult her father; but before her father hadreturned to her she had remembered that nothing which he could saywould induce her in the least to alter her purpose. His wishes hadbeen made known to her; but he had failed altogether to understandthe nature of the duty she had imposed upon herself. Thus she letthat day pass by, although she knew that the writing of the letterwould be an affair of much time to her. She could not take her sheetof paper, and scribble off warm words of love as he had done. Toask, or to give, in a matter of love must surely, she thought, beeasy enough. But to have given and then to refuse--that was thedifficulty. There was so much to say of moment both to herselfand to him, or rather so much to signify, that it was not at onesitting, or with a single copy, that this letter could be written.He must be assured, no doubt, of her love; but he must be made tounderstand,--quite to understand, that her love could be of no availto him. And how was she to obey him as to her mode of addressing him?"It simply excruciates me from you," he had said, thus debarring herfrom that only appellation which would certainly be the easiest, andwhich seemed to her the only one becoming. At last the letter, whenwritten, ran as follows;--
How I am to begin my letter I do not know, as you have forbidden me to use the only words which would come naturally. But I love you too well to displease you in so small a matter. My poor letter must therefore go to you without any such beginning as is usual. Indeed, I love you with all my heart. I told you that before, and I will not shame myself by saying that it was untrue. But I told you also before that I could not be your wife. Dearest love, I can only say again what I said before. Dearly as I love you I cannot become your wife. You bid me to think of it all, and to ask myself whether it is in my heart to refuse to bid you to be happy. It is not in my heart to let you do that which certainly would make you unhappy.
There are two reasons for this. Of the first, though it is quite sufficient, I know that you will make nothing. When I tell you that you ought not to choose such a one as me for your wife because my manners of life have not fitted me for such a position, then you sometimes laugh at me, and sometimes are half angry,--with that fine way you have of commanding those that are about you. But not the less am I sure that I am right. I do believe that of all human beings poor Marion Fay is the dearest to you. When you tell me of your love and your treasure I do not for a moment doubt that it is all true. And were I to be your wife, your honour and your honesty would force you to be good to me. But when you found that I was not as are other grand ladies, then I think you would be disappointed. I should know it by every line of your dear face, and when I saw it there I should be broken-hearted.
But this is not all. If there were nothing further, I think I should give way because I am only a weak girl; and your words, my own, own love, would get the better of me. But there is another thing. It is hard for me to tell, and why should you be troubled with it? But I think if I tell it you out and out, so as to make you understand the truth, then you will be convinced. Mrs. Roden could tell you
the same. My dear, dear father could tell you also; only that he will not allow himself to believe, because of his love for the only child that remains to him. My mother died; and all my brothers and sisters have died. And I also shall die young.
Is not that enough? I know that it will be enough. Knowing that it will be enough, may I not speak out to you, and tell you all my heart? Will you not let me do so, as though it had been understood between us, that though we can never be more to each other than we are, yet we may be allowed to love each other? Oh, my dearest, my only dearest, just for this once I have found the words in which I may address you. I cannot comfort you as I can myself, because you are a man, and cannot find comfort in sadness and disappointment, as a girl may do. A man thinks that he should win for himself all that he wants. For a girl, I think it is sufficient for her to feel that, as far as she herself is concerned, that would have been given to her which she most desires, had not Fortune been unkind. You, dearest, cannot have what you want, because you have come to poor Marion Fay with all the glory and sweetness of your love. You must suffer for a while. I, who would so willingly give my life to serve you, must tell you that it will be so. But as you are a man, pluck up your heart, and tell yourself that it shall only be for a time. The shorter the better, and the stronger you will show yourself in overcoming the evil that oppresses you. And remember this. Should Marion Fay live to know that you had brought a bride home to your house, as it will be your duty to do, it will be a comfort to her to feel that the evil she has done has been cured.
MARION.
I cannot tell you how proud I should be to see your sister if she will condescend to come and see me. Or would it not be better that I should go over to Hendon Hall? I could manage it without trouble. Do not you write about it, but ask her to send me one word.
Such was the letter when it was at last finished and despatched.As soon as it was gone,--dropped irrevocably by her own hand intothe pillar letter-box which stood at the corner opposite to thepublic-house,--she told her father what she had done. "And why?" hesaid crossly. "I do not understand thee. Thou art flighty and fickle,and knowest not thy own mind."
"Yes, father; I have known my own mind always in this matter. It wasnot fitting."
"If he thinks it fitting, why shouldst thou object?"
"I am not fit, father, to be the wife of a great nobleman. Nor can Itrust my own health." This she said with a courage and firmness whichseemed to silence him,--looking at him as though by her looks sheforbade him to urge the matter further. Then she put her arms roundhim and kissed him. "Will it not be better, father, that you and Ishall remain together till the last?"
"Nothing can be better for me that will not also be best for thee."
"For me it will be best. Father, let it be so, and let this young manbe no more thought of between us." In that she asked more than couldbe granted to her; but for some days Lord Hampstead's name was notmentioned between them.
Two days afterwards Lady Frances came to her. "Let me look at you,"said Marion, when the other girl had taken her in her arms and kissedher. "I like to look at you, to see whether you are like him. To myeyes he is so beautiful."
"More so than I am."
"You are a--lady, and he is a man. But you are like him, and verybeautiful. You, too, have a lover, living close to us?"
"Well, yes. I suppose I must own it."
"Why should you not own it? It is good to be loved and to love. Andhe has become a great nobleman,--like your brother."
"No, Marion; he is not that.--May I call you Marion?"
"Why not? He called me Marion almost at once."
"Did he so?"
"Just as though it were a thing of course. But I noticed it. It wasnot when he bade me poke the fire, but the next time. Did he tell youabout the fire?"
"No, indeed."
"A man does not tell of such things, I think; but a girl remembersthem. It is so good of you to come. You know--do you not?"
"Know what?"
"That I,--and your brother,--have settled everything at last?" Thesmile of pleasant good humour passed away from the face of LadyFrances, but at the moment she made no reply. "It is well that youshould know. He knows now, I am sure. After what I said in my letterhe will not contradict me again." Lady Frances shook her head. "Ihave told him that while I live he of all the world must be dearestto me. But that will be all."
"Why should you--not live?"
"Lady Frances--"
"Nay, call me Fanny."
"You shall be Fanny if you will let me tell you. Oh! I do so wishthat you would understand it all, and make me tell you nothingfurther. But you must know,--you must know that it cannot be as yourbrother has wished. If it were only less known,--if he would consentand you would consent,--then I think that I could be happy. What isit after all,--the few years that we may have to live here? Shall wenot meet again, and shall we not love each other then?"
"I hope so."
"If you can really hope it, then why should we not be happy? Buthow could I hope it if, with my eyes open, I were to bring a greatmisfortune upon him? If I did him an evil here, could I hope thathe would love me in Heaven, when he would know all the secrets ofmy heart? But if he shall say to himself that I denied myself,--forhis sake; that I refused to be taken into his arms because it wouldbe bad for him, then, though there may be some one dearer, thenshall not I also be dear to him?" The other girl could only clingto her and embrace her. "When he shall have strong boys round hishearth,--the hearth he spoke of as though it were almost mine,--andlittle girls with pink cheeks and bonny brows, and shall know, as hewill then, what I might have done for him, will he not pray for me,and tell me in his prayers that when we shall meet hereafter I shallstill be dear to him? And when she knows it all, she who shall lie onhis breast, shall I not be dear also to her?"
"Oh, my sister!"
"He will tell her. I think he will tell her,--because of his truth,his honour, and his manliness."
Lady Frances, before she left the house, had been made to understandthat her brother could not have his way in the matter which was sonear his heart, and that the Quaker's daughter would certainly havehers.