CHAPTER XVI.
PEGWELL BAY.
July had come and nearly gone before Lord Hampstead again saw MarionFay. He had promised not to go to Pegwell Bay,--hardly understandingwhy such a promise had been exacted from him, but still acceding toit when it had been suggested to him by Mrs. Roden, at the request,as she said, of the Quaker. It was understood that Marion would soonreturn to Holloway, and that on that account the serenity of PegwellBay need not be disturbed by the coming of so great a man as LordHampstead. Hampstead had of course ridiculed the reason, but hadcomplied with the request,--with the promise, however, that Marionshould return early in the summer. But the summer weeks had passedby, and Marion did not return.
Letters passed between them daily in which Marion attempted alwaysto be cheerful. Though she had as yet invented no familiar name forher noble lover, yet she had grown into familiarity with him, and wasno longer afraid of his nobility. "You oughtn't to stay there," shesaid, "wasting your life and doing nothing, because of a sick girl.You've got your yacht, and are letting all the summer weather go by."In answer to this he wrote to her, saying that he had sold his yacht."Could you have gone with me, I would have kept it," he wrote. "Wouldyou go with me I would have another ready for you, before you wouldbe ready. I will make no assurance as to my future life. I cannoteven guess what may become of me. It may be that I shall come to liveon board some ship so that I may be all alone. But with my heart asit is now I cannot bear the references which others make to me aboutempty pleasures." At the same time he sold his horses, but he saidnothing to her as to that.
Gradually he did acknowledge to himself that it was her doom todie early,--almost acknowledged to himself that she was dying.Nevertheless he still thought that it would have been fit that theyshould be married. "If I knew that she were my own even on herdeathbed," he once said to Mrs. Roden, "there would be a comfortto me in it." He was so eager in this that Mrs. Roden was almostconvinced. The Quaker was willing that it should be so,--but willingalso that it should not be so. He would not even try to persuade hisgirl as to anything. It was his doom to see her go, and he, havingrealized that, could not bring himself to use a word in oppositionto her word. But Marion herself was sternly determined against thesuggestion. It was unfitting, she said, and would be wicked. It wasnot the meaning of marriage. She could not bring herself to disturbthe last thoughts of her life, not only by the empty assumption ofa grand name, but by the sounding of that name in her ears from theeager lips of those around her. "I will be your love to the end,"she said, "your own Marion. But I will not be made a Countess, onlyin order that a vain name may be carved over my grave." "God hasprovided a bitter cup for your lips, my love," she wrote again,"in having put it into your head to love one whom you must lose sosoon. And mine is bitter because yours is bitter. But we cannot ridourselves of the bitterness by pretences. Would it make your heartlight to see me dressed up for a bridal ceremony, knowing, as youwould know, that it was all for nothing? My lord, my love, let ustake it as God has provided it. It is only because you grieve that Igrieve;--for you and my poor father. If you could only bring yourselfto be reconciled, then it would be so much to me to have had you tolove me in my last moments,--to love me and to be loved."
He could not but accept her decision. Her father and Mrs. Rodenaccepted it, and he was forced to do so also. He acknowledged tohimself now that there was no appeal from it. Her very weakness gaveher a strength which dominated him. There was an end of all hisarguments and his strong phrases. He was aware that they had been ofno service to him,--that her soft words had been stronger than allhis reasonings. But not on that account did he cease to wish that itmight be as he had once wished, since he had first acknowledged tohimself his love. "Of course I will not drive her," he said to Mrs.Roden, when that lady urged upon him the propriety of abstaining froma renewal of his request. "Had I any power of driving her, as yousay, I would not do so. I think it would be better. That is all. Ofcourse it must be as she shall decide."
"It would be a comfort to her to think that you and she thought alikeabout all things," said Mrs. Roden.
"There are points on which I cannot alter my convictions even forher comfort," he answered. "She bids me love some other woman. CanI comfort her by doing that? She bids me seek another wife. Can I dothat;--or say that I will do it at some future time? It would comforther to know that I have no wound,--that I am not lame and sick andsore and weary. It would comfort her to know that my heart is notbroken. How am I to do that for her?"
"No;"--said Mrs. Roden--"no."
"There is no comfort. Her imagination paints for her some futurebliss, which shall not be so far away as to be made dim bydistance,--in enjoying which we two shall be together, as we arehere, with our hands free to grasp each other, and our lips free tokiss;--a heaven, but still a heaven of this world, in which we canhang upon each other's necks and be warm to each other's hearts. Thatis to be, to her, the reward of her innocence, and in the ecstacy ofher faith she believes in it, as though it were here. I do think,--Ido think,--that if I told her that it should be so, that I trusted torenew my gaze upon her beauty after a few short years, then she wouldbe happy entirely. It would be for an eternity, and without the fearof separation."
"Then why not profess as she does?"
"A lie? As I know her truth when she tells me her creed, so would sheknow my falsehood, and the lie would be vain."
"Is there then to be no future world, Lord Hampstead?"
"Who has said so? Certainly not I. I cannot conceive that I shallperish altogether. I do not think that if, while I am here, I cantame the selfishness of self, I shall reach a step upwards inthat world which shall come next after this. As to happiness,I do not venture to think much of it. If I can only be somewhatnobler,--somewhat more like the Christ whom we worship,--that willbe enough without happiness. If there be truth in this story, He wasnot happy. Why should I look for happiness,--unless it be when thestruggle of many worlds shall have altogether purified my spirit? Butthinking like that,--believing like that,--how can I enter into thesweet Epicurean Paradise which that child has prepared for herself?"
"Is it no better than that?"
"What can be better, what can be purer,--if only it be true? Andthough it be false to me, it may be true to her. It is for my sakethat she dreams of her Paradise,--that my wounds may be made whole,that my heart may be cured. Christ's lesson has been so learned byher that no further learning seems necessary. I fancy sometimes thatI can see the platform raised just one step above the ground on whichI stand,--and look into the higher world to which I am ascending. Itmay be that it is given to her to look up the one rung of the ladderby mounting which she shall find herself enveloped in the full gloryof perfection."
In conversations such as these Mrs. Roden was confounded by the depthof the man's love. It became impossible to bid him not be of a brokenheart, or even to allude to those fresh hopes which Time would bring.He spoke to her often of his future life, always speaking of a lifefrom which Marion would have been withdrawn by death, and did so witha cold, passionless assurance which showed her that he had almostresolved as to the future. He would see all lands that were to beseen, and converse with all people. The social condition of God'screatures at large should be his study. The task would be endless,and, as he said, an endless task hardly admits of absolute misery."If I die there will be an end of it. If I live till old ageshall have made me powerless to carry on my work, time will thenprobably have done something to dim the feeling." "I think," he saidagain;--"I feel that could I but remember her as my wife--"
"It is impossible," said Mrs. Roden.
"But if it were so! It would be no more than a thin threadbare cloakover a woman's shivering shoulders. It is not much against the cold;but it would be very cruel to take that little from her." She lookedat him with her eyes flooded with tears, but she could only shake herhead in sign that it was impossible.
At last, just at the end of July, there came a request that he wouldgo down to Pegwell Bay. "
It is so long since we have seen eachother," she wrote, "and, perhaps, it is better that you should comethan that I should go. The doctor is fidgety, and says so. But mydarling will be good to me;--will he not? When I have seen a tear inyour eyes it has gone near to crush me. That a woman, or even a man,should weep at some unexpected tidings of woe is natural. But whocries for spilt milk? Tell me that God's hand, though it be heavy toyou, shall be borne with reverence and obedience and love."
He did not tell her this, but he resolved that if possible she shouldsee no tears. As for that cheerfulness, that reconciliation to hisfate which she desired, he knew it to be impossible. He almostbrought himself to believe as he travelled down to Pegwell Bay thatit would be better that they should not meet. To thank the Lord forall His mercies was in her mind. To complain with all the bitternessof his heart of the cruelty with which he was treated was in his.He had told Mrs. Roden that according to his creed there would bea better world to come for him if he could succeed in taming theselfishness of self. But he told himself now that the struggle to doso had hitherto been vain. There had been but the one thing which hadever been to him supremely desirable. He had gone through the yearsof his early life forming some Utopian ideas,--dreaming of someperfection in politics, in philanthropy, in social reform, and thelike,--something by devoting himself to which he could make his lifea joy to himself. Then this girl had come across him, and there hadsuddenly sprung up within him a love so strong that all these otherthings faded into littlenesses. They should not be discarded. Workwould be wanted for his life, and for hers. But here he had foundthe true salt by which all his work would be vivified and preservedand made holy and happy and glorious. There had come a somethingto him that was all that he wanted it to be. And now the somethingwas fading from him,--was already all but gone. In such a state howshould he tame the selfishness of self? He abandoned the attempt, andtold himself that difficulties had been prepared for him greater thanany of which he had dreamed when he had hoped that that taming mightbe within his power. He could not even spare her in his selfishness.He declared to himself that it was so, and almost owned that it wouldbe better that he should not go to her.
"Yes," she said, when he sat down beside her on her sofa, at an openwindow looking out on the little bay, "put your hand on mine, dear,and leave it there. To have you with me, to feel the little breeze,and to see you and to touch you is absolute happiness."
"Why did you so often tell me not to come?"
"Ah, why? But I know why it was, my lord." There was something halfof tenderness, half pleasantry in the mode of address, and now he hadceased to rebel against it.
"Why should I not come if it be a joy to you?"
"You must not be angry now."
"Certainly not angry."
"We have got through all that,--you and I have for ourselves;--butthere is a sort of unseemliness in your coming down here to see apoor Quaker's daughter."
"Marion!"
"But there is. We had got through all that in Paradise Row. ParadiseRow had become used to you, and I could bear it. But here-- They willall be sure to know who you are."
"Who cares?"
"That Marion Fay should have a lover would of itself make a stir inthis little place;--but that she should have a lord for her lover!One doesn't want to be looked at as a miracle."
"The follies of others should not ruffle you and me."
"That's very well, dear;--but what if one is ruffled? But I won't beruffled, and you shall come. When I thought that I should go againto our own house, then I thought we might perhaps dispense with theruffling;--that was all."
There was a something in these words which he could not stand,--whichhe could not bear and repress that tear which, as she had said, wouldgo near to crush her if she saw it. Had she not plainly intimated herconviction that she would never again return to her old home? Here,here in this very spot, the doom was to come, and to come quickly.He got up and walked across the room, and stood a little behind her,where she could not see his face.
"Do not leave me," she said. "I told you to stay and let your handrest on mine." Then he returned, and laying his hand once again uponher lap turned his face away from her. "Bear it," she said. "Bearit." His hand quivered where it lay as he shook his head. "Call uponyour courage and bear it."
"I cannot bear it," he said, rising suddenly from his chair, andhurrying out of the room. He went out of the room and from the house,on to the little terrace which ran in front of the sea. But hisescape was of no use to him; he could not leave her. He had come outwithout his hat, and he could not stand there in the sun to be staredat. "I am a coward," he said, going back to her and resuming hischair. "I own it. Let there be no more said about it. When a troublecomes to me, it conquers me. Little troubles I think I could bear. Ifit had been all else in all the world,--if it had been my life beforemy life was your life, I think that no one would have seen me blench.But now I find that when I am really tried, I fail."
"It is in God's hands, dearest."
"Yes;--it is in God's hands. There is some power, no doubt, thatmakes you strong in spirit, but frail in body; while I am strong tolive but weak of heart. But how will that help me?"
"Oh, Lord Hampstead, I do so wish you had never seen me."
"You should not say that, Marion; you shall not think it. I amungrateful; because, were it given me to have it all back again, Iwould not sell what I have had of you, though the possession has beenso limited, for all other imaginable treasures. I will bear it. Oh,my love, I will bear it. Do not say again that you wish you had notseen me."
"For myself, dear,--for myself--"
"Do not say it for me. I will struggle to make a joy of it, a joy insome degree, though my heart bleeds at the widowhood that is comingon it. I will build up for myself a memory in which there shall bemuch to satisfy me. I shall have been loved by her to have possessedwhose love has been and shall be a glory to me."
"Loved indeed, my darling."
"Though there might have been such a heaven of joy, even that shallbe counted as much. It shall be to me during my future life as thoughwhen wandering through the green fields in some long-past day, I hadmet a bright angel from another world; and the angel had stopped tospeak to me, and had surrounded me with her glorious wings, and hadgiven me of her heavenly light, and had spoken to me with the musicof the spheres, and I had thought that she would stay with me forever. But there had come a noise of the drums and a sound of thetrumpets, and she had flown away from me up to her own abode. To havebeen so favoured, though it had been but for an hour, should sufficefor a man's life. I will bear it, though it be in solitude."
"No, darling; not in solitude."
"It will be best so for me. The light and the music and the azure ofthe wings will so remain with me the purer and the brighter. Oh,--ifit had been! But I will bear it. No ear shall again hear a sound ofcomplaint. Not yours even, my darling, my own, mine for so short atime, but yet my very own for ever and ever." Then he fell on hisknees beside her, and hid his face in her dress, while the fingersof both her hands rambled through his hair. "You are going," he said,when he rose up to his feet, "you are going whither I cannot go."
"You will come; you will come to me."
"You are going now, now soon, and I doubt not that you are going tojoys inexpressible. I cannot go till some chance may take me. If itbe given to you in that further world to see those and to think ofthose whom you have left below, then, if my heart be true to yourheart, keep your heart true to mine. If I can fancy that, if Ican believe that it is so, then shall I have that angel with me,and though my eyes may not see the tints, my ears will hear themusic;--and though the glory be not palpable as is the light ofheaven, there will be an inner glory in which my soul will besanctified." After that there were not many words spoken betweenthem, though he remained there till he was disturbed by the Quaker'scoming. Part of the time she slept with her hand in his, and whenawake she was contented to feel his touch as he folded the scarfclose round her neck and straightene
d the shawl which lay acrossher feet, and now and again stroked her hair and put it back behindher ears as it strayed upon her forehead. Ever and again she wouldmurmur a word or two of love as she revelled in the perception ofhis solicitude. What was there for her to regret, for her to whomwas given the luxury of such love? Was not a month of it more thana whole life without it? Then, when the father came, Hampstead tookhis leave. As he kissed her lips, something seemed to tell him thatit would be for the last time. It was not good, the Quaker had said,that she should be disturbed. Yes; he could come again; but not quiteyet.
At the very moment when the Quaker so spoke she was pressing her lipsto his. "God keep you and take you, my darling," she whispered tohim, "and bring you to me in heaven." She noticed not at all at themoment the warm tears that were running on to her own face; nor didthe Quaker seem to notice it when Lord Hampstead left the housewithout saying to him a word of farewell.