CHAPTER XIII.
LORD HAMPSTEAD AGAIN WITH MARION.
The Quaker had become as weak as water in his daughter's hands. Towhatever she might have desired he would have given his assent. Hewent daily up from Pegwell Bay to Pogson and Littlebird's, but eventhen he was an altered man. It had been said there for a few daysthat his daughter was to become the wife of the eldest son of theMarquis of Kingsbury, and then it had been said that there could beno such marriage--because of Marion's health. The glory while itlasted he had borne meekly, but with a certain anxious satisfaction.The pride of his life had been in Marion, and this young lord'schoice had justified his pride. But the glory had been very fleeting.And now it was understood through all Pogson and Littlebird's thattheir senior clerk had been crushed, not by the loss of his nobleson-in-law, but by the cause which produced the loss. Under thesecircumstances poor Zachary Fay had hardly any will of his own, exceptto do that which his daughter suggested to him. When she told himthat she would wish to go up to London for a few days, he assented asa matter of course. And when she explained that she wished to do soin order that she might see Lord Hampstead, he only shook his headsadly, and was silent.
"Of course I will come as you wish it," Marion had said in her letterto her lover. "What would I not do that you wish,--except when youwish things that you know you ought not? Mrs. Roden says that I am togo up to be lectured. You mustn't be very hard upon me. I don't thinkyou ought to ask me to do things which you know,--which you know thatI cannot do. Oh, my lover! oh, my love! would that it were all over,and that you were free!"
In answer to this, and to other letters of the kind, he wrote toher long argumentative epistles, in which he strove to repress theassurances of his love, in order that he might convince her thebetter by the strength of his reasoning. He spoke to her of the willof God, and of the wickedness of which she would be guilty if shetook upon herself to foretell the doings of Providence. He said muchof the actual bond by which they had tied themselves together indeclaring their mutual love. He endeavoured to explain to her thatshe could not be justified in settling such a question for herselfwithout reference to the opinion of those who must know the worldbetter than she did. Had the words of a short ceremony been spoken,she would have been bound to obey him as her husband. Was she notequally bound now, already, to acknowledge his superiority,--and ifnot by him, was it not her manifest duty to be guided by her father?Then at the end of four carefully-written, well-stuffed pages, therewould come two or three words of burning love. "My Marion, my self,my very heart!" It need hardly be said that as the well-stuffed pageswent for nothing with Marion,--had not the least effect towardsconvincing her, so were the few words the very food on which shelived. There was no absurdity in the language of love that was not toher a gem so brilliant that it deserved to be garnered in the verytreasure house of her memory! All those long useless sermons werepreserved because they had been made rich and rare by the expressionof his passion.
She understood him, and valued him at the proper rate, and measuredhim correctly in everything. He was so true, she knew him to be sotrue, that even his superlatives could not be other than true! But asfor his reasoning, she knew that that came also from his passion. Shecould not argue the matter out with him, but he was wrong in it all.She was not bound to listen to any other voice but that of her ownconscience. She was bound not to subject him to the sorrows whichwould attend him were he to become her husband. She could not tellhow weak or how strong might be his nature in bearing the burdenof the grief which would certainly fall upon him at her death. Shehad heard, and had in part seen, that time does always mitigate theweight of that burden. Perhaps it might be best that she should goat once, so that no prolonged period of his future career shouldbe injured by his waiting. She had begun to think that he would beunable to look for another wife while she lived. By degrees therecame upon her the full conviction of the steadfastness, nay, of thestubbornness, of his heart. She had been told that men were notusually like that. When first he had become sweet to her, she hadnot thought that he would have been like that. Was it not almostunmanly,--or rather was it not womanly? And yet he,--strong andmasterful as he was,--could he have aught of a woman's weakness abouthim? Could she have dreamed that it would be so from the first, shethought that from the very first she could have abstained.
"Of course I shall be at home on Tuesday at two. Am I not at homeevery day at all hours? Mrs. Roden shall not be there as you do notwish it, though Mrs. Roden has always been your friend. Of course Ishall be alone. Papa is always in the City. Good to you! Of course Ishall be good to you! How can I be bad to the one being that I lovebetter than all the world? I am always thinking of you; but I do wishthat you would not think so much of me. A man should not think somuch of a girl,--only just at his spare moments. I did not think thatit would be like that when I told you that you might love me."
All that Tuesday morning, before he left home, he was not onlythinking of her, but trying to marshal in order what argumentshe might use,--so as to convince her at last. He did not at allunderstand how utterly fruitless his arguments had been with her.When Mrs. Roden had told him of Marion's strength he had only in partbelieved her. In all matters concerning the moment Marion was weakand womanly before him. When he told her that this or the other thingwas proper and becoming, she took it as Gospel because it came fromhim. There was something of the old awe even when she looked up intohis face. Because he was a great nobleman, and because she was theQuaker's daughter, there was still, in spite of their perfect love,something of superiority, something of inferiority of position. Itwas natural that he should command,--natural that she should obey.How could it be then that she should not at last obey him in thisgreat thing which was so necessary to him? And yet hitherto he hadnever gone near to prevailing with her. Of course he marshalled allhis arguments.
Gentle and timid as she was, she had made up her mind to everything,even down to the very greeting with which she would receive him. Hisfirst warm kiss had shocked her. She had thought of it since, andhad told herself that no harm could come to her from such tokens ofaffection,--that it would be unnatural were she to refuse it to him.Let it pass by as an incident that should mean nothing. To hang uponhis neck and to feel and to know that she was his very own,--thatmight not be given to her. To hear his words of love and to answerhim with words as warm,--that could be allowed to her. As for therest, it would be better that she should let it so pass by that thereneed be as little of contention as possible on a matter so trivial.
When he came into the room he took her at once, passive andunresisting, into his arms. "Marion," he said. "Marion! Do you saythat you are ill? You are as bright as a rose."
"Rose leaves soon fall. But we will not talk about that. Why go tosuch a subject?"
"It cannot be helped." He still held her by the waist, and now againhe kissed her. There was something in her passive submission whichmade him think at the moment that she had at last determined to yieldto him altogether. "Marion, Marion," he said, still holding her inhis embrace, "you will be persuaded by me? You will be mine now?"
Gradually,--very gently,--she contrived to extricate herself. Theremust be no more of it, or his passion would become too strong forher. "Sit down, dearest," she said. "You flurry me by all this. It isnot good that I should be flurried."
"I will be quiet, tame, motionless, if you will only say the one wordto me. Make me understand that we are not to be parted, and I willask for nothing else."
"Parted! No, I do not think that we shall be parted."
"Say that the day shall come when we may really be joined together;when--"
"No, dear; no; I cannot say that. I cannot alter anything that I havesaid before. I cannot make things other than they are. Here we are,we two, loving each other with all our hearts, and yet it may not be.My dear, dear lord!" She had never even yet learned another name forhim than this. "Sometimes I ask myself whether it has been my fault."She was now sitting, and he was standing over her, but still holdi
ngher by the hand.
"There has been no fault. Why should either have been in fault?"
"When there is so great a misfortune there must generally havebeen a fault. But I do not think there has been any here. Do notmisunderstand me, dear. The misfortune is not with me. I do not knowthat the Lord could have sent me a greater blessing than to havebeen loved by you,--were it not that your trouble, your grief, yourcomplainings rob me of my joy."
"Then do not rob me," he said.
"Out of two evils you must choose the least. You have heard of that,have you not?"
"There need be no evil;--no such evil as this." Then he dropped herhand, and stood apart from her while he listened to her, or elsewalked up and down the room, throwing at her now and again a quickangry word, as she went on striving to make clear to him the ideas asthey came to her mind.
"I do not know how I could have done otherwise," she said, "whenyou would make it so certain to me that you loved me. I suppose itmight have been possible for me to go away, and not to say a word inanswer."
"That is nonsense,--sheer nonsense," he said.
"I could not tell you an untruth. I tried it once, but the wordswould not come at my bidding. Had I not spoken them, you would readthe truth in my eyes. What then could I have done? And yet there wasnot a moment in which I have not known that it must be as it is."
"It need not be; it need not be. It should not be."
"Yes, dear, it must be. As it is so why not let us have the sweetof it as far as it will go? Can you not take a joy in thinking thatyou have given an inexpressible brightness to your poor Marion'sdays; that you have thrown over her a heavenly light which wouldbe all glorious to her if she did not see that you were covered bya cloud? If I thought that you could hold up your head with manlystrength, and accept this little gift of my love, just for what it isworth,--just for what it is worth,--then I think I could be happy tothe end."
"What would you have me do? Can a man love and not love?"
"I almost think he can. I almost think that men do. I would not haveyou not love me. I would not lose my light and my glory altogether.But I would have your love to be of such a nature that it should notconquer you. I would have you remember your name and your family--"
"I care nothing for my name. As far as I am concerned, my name isgone."
"Oh, my lord!"
"You have determined that my name shall go no further."
"That is unmanly, Lord Hampstead. Because a poor weak girl such as Iam cannot do all that you wish, are you to throw away your strengthand your youth, and all the high hopes which ought to be before you?Would you say that it were well in another if you heard that he hadthrown up everything, surrendered all his duties, because of his lovefor some girl infinitely beneath him in the world's esteem?"
"There is no question of above and beneath. I will not have it. As tothat, at any rate we are on a par."
"A man and a girl can never be on a par. You have a great career, andyou declare that it shall go for nothing because I cannot be yourwife."
"Can I help myself if I am broken-hearted? You can help me."
"No, Lord Hampstead; it is there that you are wrong. It is there thatyou must allow me to say that I have the clearer knowledge. With aneffort on your part the thing may be done."
"What effort? What effort? Can I teach myself to forget that I haveever seen you?"
"No, indeed; you cannot forget. But you may resolve that, rememberingme, you should remember me only for what I am worth. You should notbuy your memories at too high a price."
"What is it that you would have me do?"
"I would have you seek another wife."
"Marion!"
"I would have you seek another wife. If not instantly, I would haveyou instantly resolve to do so."
"It would not hurt you to feel that I loved another?"
"I think not. I have tried myself, and now I think that it would nothurt me. There was a time in which I owned to myself that it would bevery bitter, and then I told myself, that I hoped,--that I hoped thatyou would wait. But now, I have acknowledged to myself the vanity andselfishness of such a wish. If I really love you am I not bound towant what may be best for you?"
"You think that possible?" he said, standing over her, and lookingdown upon her. "Judging from your own heart do you think that youcould do that if outward circumstances made it convenient?"
"No, no, no."
"Why should you suppose me to be harder-hearted than yourself, morecallous, more like a beast of the fields?"
"More like a man is what I would have you."
"I have listened to you, Marion, and now you may listen to me. Yourdistinctions as to men and women are all vain. There are those, menand women both, who can love and do love, and there are those whoneither do nor can. Whether it be for good or evil,--we can, you andI, and we do. It would be impossible to think of giving yourself toanother?"
"That is certainly true."
"It is the same with me,--and will ever be so. Whether you live ordie, I can have no other wife than Marion Fay. As to that I have aright to expect that you shall believe me. Whether I have a wife ornot you must decide."
"Oh, dearest, do not kill me."
"It has to be so. If you can be firm so can I. As to my name andmy family, it matters nothing. Could I be allowed to look forwardand think that you would sit at my hearth, and that some childthat should be my child should lie in your arms, then I could lookforward to what you call a career. Not that he might be the last of ahundred Traffords, not that he might be an Earl or a Marquis like hisforefathers, not that he might some day live to be a wealthy peer,would I have it so,--but because he would be yours and mine." Now shegot up, and threw her arms around him, and stood leaning on him ashe spoke. "I can look forward to that and think of a career. If thatcannot be, the rest of it must provide for itself. There are otherswho can look after the Traffords,--and who will do so whether it benecessary or not. To have gone a little out of the beaten path, tohave escaped some of the traditional absurdities, would have beensomething to me. To have let the world see how noble a Countess Icould find for it--that would have satisfied me. And I had succeeded.I had found one that would really have graced the name. If it is notto be so,--why then let the name and family go on in the old beatentrack. I shall not make another venture. I have made my choice, andit is to come to this."
"You must wait, dear;--you must wait. I had not thought it would belike this; but you must wait."
"What God may have in store for me, who can tell. You have told meyour mind, Marion; and now I trust that you will understand mine. Ido not accept your decision, but you will accept mine. Think of itall, and when you see me again in a day or two, then see whether youwill not be able to join your lot to mine and make the best of it."Upon this he kissed her again, and left her without another word.