He, in truth, was terribly anxious that this grand stroke of fortune should be acknowledged and accepted. He wanted nothing from the young lord himself,—except, perhaps, that he might be the young lord's father-in-law. But he did want it all, long for it all, pant for it all, on behalf of his girl. If all these good things came in his girl's way because of her beauty, her grace, and her merit, why should they not be accepted? Others not only accepted these things for their daughters, but hunted for them, cheated for them, did all mean things in searching for them,—and had their tricks and their lies regarded by the world quite as a matter of course,—because it was natural that parents should be anxious for their children. He had not hunted. He had not cheated. The thing had come in his girl's way. The man had found her to be the most lovely, the most attractive, the most loveable among all whom he had seen. And was this glory to be thrown away because she had filled her mind with false fears? Though she were to die, must not the man take his chance with her, as do other husbands in marrying other wives?

He had been thinking of this, and of nothing but this, during the days which had intervened since Lord Hampstead had been in Paradise Row. He had not said a word to his daughter,—had indeed not dared to say a word to her, so abhorrent to him was the idea of discussing with her the probabilities of her own living or dying. And he was doubtful, too, whether any words coming from him at the present might not strengthen her in her resolution. If the man really loved her he might prevail. His words would be stronger to overcome her than any that could be spoken by her father. And then, too, if he really loved her, the one repulse would not send him back for ever. It might, perhaps, be better that any arguments from her father should be postponed till she should have heard her lover's arguments. But his mind was so filled with the whole matter that he could not bring himself to assure himself certainly that his decision was the best. Though he was one who rarely needed counsel from others, on this occasion he did need it, and now it was his purpose to ask counsel of Mrs. Roden before the moment should have come which might be fatal to his hopes.

As this was the day immediately following Christmas, there was no business for him in the City. In order that the weary holiday might be quicker consumed, they breakfasted at No. 17 an hour later than was usual. After breakfast he got through the morning as well as he could with his newspaper, and some record of stocks and prices which he had brought with him from the City. So he remained, fretful, doing nothing, pretending to read, but with his mind fixed upon the one subject, till it was twelve o'clock, at which hour he had determined to make his visit. At half-past one they were to dine, each of them having calculated, without, however, a word having been spoken, that Lord Hampstead would certainly not come till the ceremony of dinner would be over. Though the matter was so vitally important to both of them, not a word concerning it was spoken.

At twelve o'clock he took up his hat, and walked out. "You will be back punctually for dinner, father?" she asked. He made his promise simply by nodding his head, and then left the room. Five minutes afterwards he was closeted with Mrs. Roden in her drawing-room. Having conceived the difficulty of leading up to the subject gradually, he broke into it at once. "Marion has told thee that this young man will be here to-day?" She simply assented. "Hast thou advised her as to what she should say?"

"She has not seemed to want advice."

"How should a girl not want advice in so great a matter?"

"How, indeed? But yet she has needed none."

"Has she told thee," he asked, "what it is in her mind to do?"

"I think so."

"Has she said that she would refuse the man?"

"Yes; that certainly was her purpose."

"And given the reasons?" he said, almost trembling as he asked the question.

"Yes, she gave her reasons."

"And didst thou agree with her?" Before she could reply to this Mrs. Roden felt herself compelled to pause. When she thought of that one strongest reason, fully as she agreed with it, she was unable to tell the father of the girl that she did so. She sat looking at him, wanting words with which she might express her full concurrence with Marion without plunging a dagger into the other's heart. "Then thou didst agree with her?" There was something terrible in the intensity and slowness of the words as he repeated the question.

"On the whole I did," she said. "I think that unequal marriages are rarely happy."

"That was all?" he asked. Then when she was again silent, he made the demand which was so important to him. "Did she say aught of her health in discussing all this with thee?"

"She did, Mr. Fay."

"And thou?"

"It was a subject, my friend, on which I could not speak to her. All that was said came from her. Her mind was so fully made up, as I have said before, no advice from me could avail anything. With some people it is easy to see that whether you agree with them or differ from them it is impossible to turn them."

"But to me thou canst say whether thou hast agreed with her. Yes; I know well that the subject is one difficult to talk of in a father's hearing. But there are things which should be talked of, though the heart should break." After another pause he continued; "Is there, thinkest thou, sufficient cause in the girl's health to bid her sever herself from these delights of life and customary habits which the Lord has intended for His creatures?" At every separate question he paused, but when she was silent he went on with other questions. "Is there that in her looks, is there that in her present condition of life, which make it needful for thee, her friend, or for me, her father, to treat her as though she were already condemned by the hand of the Lord to an early grave?" Then, again, looking almost fiercely into her face, he went on with his examination, "That is what thou art doing."

"Not I;—not I."

"Yes, thou, my friend; thou, with all thy woman's softness in thy heart! It is what I shall do, unless I bring myself to tell her that her fears are vain. To me she has said that that is her reason. It is not that she cannot love the man. Has she not said as much to thee?"

"Yes; truly."

"And art thou not assenting to it unless thou tell'st her that her fancies are not only vain, but wrong? Though thou hast not spoken the word, has not thy silence assented as fully as words could do? Answer me at any rate to that."

"It is so," she said.

"Is it then necessary to condemn her? Art thou justified in thine own thoughts in bidding her regard herself as one doomed?" Again there was a pause. What was she to say? "Thou art aware that in our poor household she does all that the strictest economy would demand from an active mother of a family? She is never idle. If she suffers I do not see it. She takes her food, if not with strong appetite, yet regularly. She is upright, and walks with no languor. No doctor comes near her. If like others she requires change of air and scene, what can give her such chance as this marriage? Hast thou not heard that for girls of feeble health marriage itself will strengthen them? Is she such that thou as her friend must bid her know that she must perish like a blighted flower? Must I bid her to hem and stitch her own winding-sheet? It comes to that if no word be said to her to turn her from this belief. She has seen them all die,—one after another,—one after another, till the idea of death, of death for herself as well as for them, has gotten hold of her. And yet it will be the case that one in a family shall escape. I have asked among those who know, and I have found that it is so. The Lord does not strike them all, always. But if she thinks that she is stricken then she will fall. If she goes forth to meet Death on the path, Death will come half way to encounter her. Dost thou believe of me that it is because the man is a noble lord that I desire this marriage?"

"Oh no, Mr. Fay."

"He will take my child away from me. She will then be but little to me. What want I with lords, who for the few days of active life that are left to me would not change my City stool for any seat that any lord can give me? But I shall know that she has had her chance in the world, and has not been unnecessarily doomed—to an early grave!"

"What would you have me do?"

"Go to her, and tell her that she should look forward, with trust in God, to such a state of health as He may vouchsafe to give her. Her thoughts are mostly with her God. Bid her not shorten His mercies. Bid her not to tell herself that she can examine His purposes. Bid her do in this as her nature bids her, and, if she can love this man, give herself into his arms and leave the rest to the Lord."

"But he will be there at once."

"If he be there, what harm? Thou canst go when he comes to the door. I shall go to her now, and we shall dine together, and then at once I will leave her. When you see me pass the window then thou canst take thine occasion." So saying, without waiting for a promise, he left her and went back to his own house.

And Marion's heart had been full of many thoughts that morning,—some of them so trifling in their object, that she herself would wonder at herself because that they should occupy her. How should she be dressed to receive her lover? In what words first should she speak to him,—and in what sort? Should she let any sign of love escape from her? Her resolution as to her great purpose was so fixed that there was no need for further thought on that matter. It was on the little things that she was intent. How far might she indulge herself in allowing some tenderness to escape her? How best might she save him from any great pain, and yet show him that she was proud that he had loved her? In what dress she might receive him, in that would she sit at table with her father. It was Christmas time, and the occasion would justify whatever of feminine smartness her wardrobe possessed. As she brought out from its recess the rich silk frock, still all but new, in which he had first seen her, she told herself that she would probably have worn it for her father's sake, had no lover been coming. On the day before, the Christmas Day, she had worn it at church. And the shoes with the pretty buckles, and the sober but yet handsome morsel of lace which was made for her throat,—and which she had not been ashamed to wear at that memorable dinner,—they were all brought out. It was Christmas, and her father's presence would surely have justified them all! And would she not wish to leave in her lover's eyes the memory of whatever prettiness she might have possessed? They were all produced. But when the moment came for arraying herself they were all restored to their homes. She would be the simple Quaker girl as she was to be found there on Monday, on Tuesday, and on Wednesday. It would be better that he should know how little there was for him to lose.

Zachary Fay ate his dinner almost without a word. She, though she smiled on him and tried to look contented, found it almost impossible to speak. She uttered some little phrases which she intended to be peculiar to the period of the year; but she felt that her father's mind was intent on what was coming, and she discontinued her efforts. She found it hardly possible to guess at the frame of his mind, so silent had he been since first he had yielded to her when she assured him of her purpose. But she had assured him, and he could not doubt her purpose. If he were unhappy for the moment it was needful that he should be unhappy. There could be no change, and therefore it was well that he should be silent. He had hardly swallowed his dinner when he rose from his chair, and, bringing in his hat from the passage, spoke a word to her before he departed. "I am going into the City, Marion," he said. "I know it is well that I should be absent this afternoon. I shall return to tea. God bless thee, my child."

Marion, rising from her chair, kissed his lips and cheeks, and accompanied him to the door. "It will be all well, my father," she said; "it will be all well, and your child will be happy."

About half-an-hour afterwards there came a knock at the door, and Marion for a moment thought that her lover was already there. But it was Mrs. Roden who came up to her in the drawing-room. "Am I in the way, Marion?" she asked. "I will be gone in a minute; but perhaps I can say a word first."

"Why should you be in the way?"

"He is coming."

"Yes, I suppose so. He said that he would come. But what if he come? You and he are old friends."

"I would not be here to interrupt him. I will escape when we hear the knock. Oh, Marion!"

"What is it, Mrs. Roden? You are sad, and something troubles you?"

"Yes, indeed. There is something which troubles me sorely. This lover of yours?"

"It is fixed, dear friend; fixed as fate. It does not trouble me. It shall not trouble me. Why should it be a trouble? Suppose I had never seen him!"

"But you have seen him, my child."

"Yes, indeed; and whether that be for good or evil, either to him or to me, it must be accepted. Nothing now can alter that. But I think, indeed, that it is a blessing. It will be something to me to remember that such a one as he has loved me. And for him—"

"I would speak now of you, Marion."

"I am contented."

"It may be, Marion, that in this concerning your health you should be altogether wrong."

"How wrong?"

"What right have you or I to say that the Lord has determined to shorten your days."

"Who has said so?"

"It is on that theory that you are acting."

"No;—not on that; not on that alone. Were I as strong as are other girls,—as the very strongest,—I would do the same. Has my father been with you?"

"Yes, he has."

"My poor father! But it is of no avail. It would be wrong, and I will not do it. If I am to die, I must die. If I am to live, let me live. I shall not die certainly because I have resolved to send this fine lover away. However weak Marion Fay may be, she is strong enough not to pine for that."

"If there be no need?"

"No need? What was it you said of unequal marriages? What was the story that you told me of your own? If I love this man, of whom am I to think the most? Could it be possible that I should be to him what a wife ought to be to her husband? Could I stand nobly on his hearth-rug, and make his great guests welcome? Should I be such a one that every day he should bless the kind fortune which had given him such a woman to help him to rule his house? How could I go from the littleness of these chambers to walk through his halls without showing that I knew myself to be an intruder? And yet I should be so proud that I should resent the looks of all who told me by their faces that I was so. He has done wrong in allowing himself to love me. He has done wrong in yielding to his passion, and telling me of his love. I will be wiser and nobler than he. If the Lord will help me, if my Saviour will be on my side, I will not do wrong. I did not think that you, Mrs. Roden, would turn against me."

"Turn against thee, Marion? I to turn against thee!"

"You should strengthen me."

"It seems to me that you want no strength from others. It is for your poor father that I would say a word."

"I would not have father believe that my health has aught to do with it. You know,—you know what right I have to think that I am fit to marry and to hope to be the mother of children. It needs not that he should know. Let it suffice for him to be told that I am not equal to this greatness. A word escaped me in speaking to him, and I repent myself that I so spoke to him. But tell him,—and tell him truly,—that were my days fixed here for the next fifty years, were I sure of the rudest health, I would not carry my birth, my manners, my habits into that young lord's house. How long would it be, Mrs. Roden, before he saw some little trick that would displease him? Some word would be wrongly spoken, some garment would be ill-folded, some awkward movement would tell the tale,—and then he would feel that he had done wrong to marry the Quaker's daughter. All the virtues under the sun cannot bolster up love so as to stand the battery of one touch of disgust. Tell my father that, and tell him that I have done well. Then you can tell him also, that, if God shall so choose it, I shall live a strong old maid for many years, to think night and day of his goodness to me,—of his great love."

Mrs. Roden, as she had come across from her own house, had known that her mission would fail. To persuade another against one's own belief is difficult in any case, but to persuade Marion Fay on such a matter as this was a task beyond the eloquence of man or woman. She had made up her mind that she must fail utterly when the knock came at the door. She took the girl in her arms and kissed her without further attempt. She would not even bid her think of it once again, as might have been so easy at parting. "I will go into your room while he passes," she said. As she did so Lord Hampstead's voice was heard at the door.



CHAPTER VI.

MARION'S OBSTINACY.

Lord Hampstead drove himself very fast from Hendon Hall to the "Duchess of Edinburgh" at Holloway, and then, jumping out of his trap, left it without saying a word to his servant, and walked quickly up Paradise Row till he came to No. 17. There, without pausing a moment, he knocked sharply at the door. Going on such a business as this, he did not care who saw him. There was an idea present to him that he would be doing honour to Marion Fay if he made it known to all the world of Holloway that he had come there to ask her to be his wife. It was this feeling which had made him declare his purpose to his sister, and which restrained him from any concealment as to his going and coming.

Marion was standing alone in the middle of the room, with her two hands clasped together, but with a smile on her face. She had considered much as to this moment, determining even the very words that she would use. The words probably were forgotten, but the purpose was all there. He had resolved upon nothing, had considered nothing,—except that she should be made to understand that, because of his exceeding love, he required her to come to him as his wife. "Marion," he said, "Marion, you know why I am here!" And he advanced to her, as though he would at once have taken her in his arms.

"Yes, my lord, I know."

"You know that I love you. I think, surely, that never love was stronger than mine. If you can love me say but the one word, and you will make me absolutely happy. To have you for my wife is all that the world can give me now. Why do you go from me? Is it to tell me that you cannot love me, Marion? Do not say that, or I think my heart will break."

She could not say that, but as he paused for her answer it was necessary that she should say something. And the first word spoken must tell the whole truth, even though it might be that the word must be repeated often before he could be got to believe that it was an earnest word. "My lord," she began.

"Oh, I do hate that form of address. My name is John. Because of certain conventional arrangements the outside people call me Lord Hampstead."

"It is because I can be to you no more than one of the outside people that I call you—my lord."

"Marion!"

"Only one of the outside people;—no more, though my gratitude to you, my appreciation, my friendship for you may be ever so strong. My father's daughter must be just one of the outside people to Lord Hampstead,—and no more."

"Why so? Why do you say it? Why do you torment me? Why do you banish me at once, and tell me that I must go home a wretched, miserable man? Why?—why?—why?

"Because, my lord—"

"I can give a reason,—a good reason,—a reason which I cannot oppose, though it must be fatal to me unless I can remove it; a reason to which I must succumb if necessary, but to which, Marion, I will not succumb at once. If you say that you cannot love me that will be a reason."

If it were necessary that she should tell him a lie, she must do so. It would have been pleasant if she could have made him understand that she would be content to love him on condition that he would be content to leave her. That she should continue to love him, and that he should cease to love her,—unless, perhaps, just a little,—that had been a scheme for the future which had recommended itself to her. There should be a something left which should give a romance to her life, but which should leave him free in all things. It had been a dream, in which she had much trusted, but which, while she listened to the violence of his words, she acknowledged to herself to be almost impossible. She must tell the lie;—but at the moment it seemed to her that there might be a middle course. "I dare not love you," she said.

"Dare not love me, Marion? Who hinders you? Who tells you that you may not? Is it your father?"

"No, my lord, no."

"It is Mrs. Roden."

"No, my lord. This is a matter in which I could obey no friend, no father. I have had to ask myself, and I have told myself that I do not dare to love above my station in life."

"I am to have that bugbear again between me and my happiness?"

"Between that and your immediate wishes;—yes. Is it not so in all things? If I,—even I,—had set my heart upon some one below me, would not you, as my friend, have bade me conquer the feeling?"

"I have set my heart on one whom in the things of the world I regard as my equal,—in all other things as infinitely my superior."

"The compliment is very sweet to me, but I have trained myself to resist sweetness. It may not be, Lord Hampstead. It may not be. You do not know as yet how obstinate such a girl as I may become when she has to think of another's welfare,—and a little, perhaps, of her own."

"Are you afraid of me?"

"Yes."

"That I should not love you?"

"Even of that. When you should come to see in me that which is not lovable you would cease to love me. You would be good to me because your nature is good; kind to me because your nature is kind. You would not ill-treat me because you are gentle, noble, and forgiving. But that would not suffice for me. I should see it in your eye, despite yourself,—and hear it in your voice, even though you tried to hide it by occasional softness. I should eat my own heart when I came to see that you despised your Quaker wife."

"All that is nonsense, Marion."

"My lord!"

"Say the word at once if it has to be said,—so that I may know what it is that I have to contend with. For you my heart is so full of love that it seems to be impossible that I should live without you. If there could be any sympathy I should at once be happy. If there be none, say so."

"There is none."

"No spark of sympathy in you for me,—for one who loves you so truly?" When the question was put to her in that guise she could not quite tell so monstrous a lie as would be needed for an answer fit for her purpose. "This is a matter, Marion, in which a man has a right to demand an answer,—to demand a true answer."

"Lord Hampstead, it may be that you should perplex me sorely. It may be that you should drive me away from you, and to beg you never to trouble me any further. It may be that you should force me to remain dumb before you, because that I cannot reply to you in proper words. But you will never alter my purpose. If you think well of Marion Fay, take her word when she gives it you. I can never become your lordship's wife."

"Never?"

"Never! Certainly never!"

"Have you told me why;—all the reason why?"

"I have told you enough, Lord Hampstead."

"By heavens, no! You have not answered me the one question that I have asked you. You have not given me the only reason which I would take,—even for a while. Can you love me, Marion?"

"If you loved me you would spare me," she said. Then feeling that such words utterly betrayed her, she recovered herself, and went to work with what best eloquence was at her command to cheat him out of the direct answer which he required. "I think," she said, "you do not understand the workings of a girl's heart in such a matter. She does not dare to ask herself about her love, when she knows that loving would avail her nothing. For what purpose should I inquire into myself when the object of such inquiry has already been obtained? Why should I trouble myself to know whether this thing would be a gain to me or not, when I am well aware that I can never have the gain?"

"Marion, I think you love me." She looked at him and tried to smile,—tried to utter some half-joking word; and then as she felt that she could no longer repress her tears, she turned her face from him, and made no attempt at a reply. "Marion," he said again, "I think that you love me."

"If you loved me, my lord, you would not torture me." She had seated herself now on the sofa, turning her face away from him over her shoulder so that she might in some degree hide her tears. He sat himself at her side, and for a moment or two got possession of her hand.

"Marion," he said, pleading his case with all the strength of words which was at his command, "you know, do you not, that no moment of life can be of more importance to me than this?"

"Is it so, my lord?"

"None can be so important. I am striving to get her for my companion in life, who to me is the sweetest of all human beings. To touch you as I do now is a joy to me, even though you have made my heart so sad." At the moment she struggled to get her hand away from him, but the struggle was not at first successful. "You answer me with arguments which are to me of no avail at all. They are, to my thinking, simply a repetition of prejudices to which I have been all my life opposed. You will not be angry because I say so?"

"Oh, no, my lord," she said; "not angry. I am not angry, but indeed you must not hold me." With that she extricated her hand, which he allowed to pass from his grasp as he continued his address to her.

"As to all that, I have my opinion and you have yours. Can it be right that you should hold to your own and sacrifice me who have thought so much of what it is I want myself,—if in truth you love me? Let your opinion stand against mine, and neutralize it. Let mine stand against yours, and in that we shall be equal. Then after that let love be lord of all. If you love me, Marion, I think that I have a right to demand that you shall be my wife."

There was something in this which she did not know how to answer;—but she did know, she was quite sure, that no word of his, no tenderness either on his part or on her own, would induce her to yield an inch. It was her duty to sacrifice herself for him,—for reasons which were quite apparent to herself,—and she would do it. The fortress of her inner purpose was safe, although he had succeeded in breaking down the bulwark by which it had been her purpose to guard it. He had claimed her love, and she had not been strong enough to deny the claim. Let the bulwark go. She was bad at lying. Let her lie as she might, he had wit enough to see through it. She would not take the trouble to deny her love should he persist in saying that it had been accorded to him. But surely she might succeed at last in making him understand that, whether she loved him or no, she would not marry him. "I certainly shall never be your wife," she said.

"And that is all?"

"What more, my lord?"

"You can let me go, and never wish me to return?"

"I can, my lord. Your return would only be a trouble to you, and a pain to me. Another time do not turn your eyes too often on a young woman because her face may chance to please you. It is well that you should marry. Go and seek a wife, with judgment, among your own people. When you have done that, then you may return and tell Marion Fay that you have done well by following her advice."

"I will come again, and again, and again, and I will tell Marion Fay that her counsels are unnatural and impossible. I will teach her to know that the man who loves her can seek no other wife;—that no other mode of living is possible to him than one in which he and Marion Fay shall be joined together. I think I shall persuade her at last that such is the case. I think she will come to know that all her cold prudence and worldly would-be wisdom can be of no avail to separate those who love each other. I think that when she finds that her lover so loves her that he cannot live without her, she will abandon those fears as to his future fickleness, and trust herself to one of whose truth she will have assured herself." Then he took her hand, and kneeling at her knee, he kissed it before she was powerful enough to withdraw it. And so he left her, without another word, and mounting on his vehicle, drove himself home without having exchanged a single word at Holloway with any one save Marion Fay.

She, when she was left alone, threw herself at full length on the sofa and burst into an ecstacy of tears. Trust herself to him! Yes, indeed. She would trust herself to him entirely, only in order that she might have the joy, for one hour, of confessing her love to him openly, let the consequences to herself afterwards be what they might! As to that future injury to her pride of which she had spoken both to her father and also to her friend,—of which she had said so much to herself in discussing this matter with her own heart—as to that he had convinced her. It did not become her in any way to think of herself in this matter. He certainly would be able to twist her as he would if she could stand upon no surer rock than her fears for her own happiness. One kiss from him would be payment for it all. But all his love, all his sweetness, all his truth, all his eloquence should avail nothing with her towards overcoming that spirit of self-sacrifice by which she was dominated. Though he should extort from her all her secret, that would be her strength. Though she should have to tell him of her failing health,—her certainly failing health,—though even that should be necessary, she certainly would not be won from her purpose. It might be sweet, she thought, to make him in all respects her friend of friends; to tell him everything; to keep no fear, no doubt, no aspiration a secret from him. "Love you, oh my dearest, thou very pearl of my heart, love you indeed! Oh, yes. Do you not know that not even for an instant could I hide my love? Are you not aware, did you not see at the moment, that when you first knelt at my feet, my heart had flown to you without an effort on my part to arrest it? But now, my beloved one, now we understand each other. Now there need be no reproaches between us. Now there need be no speaking of distrust. I am all yours,—only it is not fit, as you know, dearest, that the poor Quaker girl should become your wife. Now that we both understand that, why should we be sad? Why should we mourn?" Why should she not succeed in bringing things to such a pass as this; and if so, why should life be unhappy either to him or to her?

Thus she was thinking of it till she had almost brought herself to a state of bliss, when her father returned to her. "Father," she said, getting up and embracing his arm as he stood, "it is all over."

"What is over?" asked the Quaker.

"He has been here."

"Well, Marion; and what has he said?"

"What he said it is hardly for me to tell you. What I said,—I would you could know it all without my repeating a word of it."

"Has he gone away contented?"

"Nay, not that, father. I hardly expected that. I hardly hoped for that. Had he been quite contented perhaps I might not have been so."

"Why should you not have both been made happy?" asked the father.

"It may be that we shall be so. It may be that he shall understand."

"Thou hast not taken his offer then?"

"Oh, no! No, father, no. I can never accept his offer. If that be in your mind put it forth. You shall never see your Marion the wife of any man, whether of that young lord or of another more fitted to her. No one ever shall be allowed to speak to me as he has spoken."

"Why dost thou make thyself different from other girls?" he said, angrily.

"Oh, father, father!"

"It is romance and false sentiment, than which nothing is more odious to me. There is no reason why thou shouldst be different from others. The Lord has not marked thee out as different from other girls, either in His pleasure or His displeasure. It is wrong for thee to think it of thyself." She looked up piteously into his face, but said not a word. "It is thy duty to take thyself from His hands as He has made thee; and to give way to no vain ecstatic terrors. If, as I gather from thy words, this young man be dear to thee, and if, as I gather from this second coming of his, thou art dear to him, then I as thy father tell thee that thy duty calls thee to him. It is not that he is a lord."

"Oh, no, father."

"It is not, I say, that he is a lord, or that he is rich, or that he is comely to the eyes, that I would have thee go to him as his wife. It is because thou and he love each other, as it is the ordinance of the Lord Almighty that men and women should do. Marriage is honourable, and I, thy father, would fain see thee married. I believe the young man to be good and true. I could give thee to him, lord though he be, with a trusting heart, and think that in so disposing of my child I had done well for her. Think of this, Marion, if it be not already too late." All this he had said standing, so that he was able to leave the room without the ceremony of rising from his chair. Without giving her a moment for reply, having his hand on the lock of the door as he uttered the last words of his counsel to her, he marched off, leaving her alone.

It may be doubted whether at the moment she could have found words for reply, so full was her heart with the feelings that were crowded there. But she was well aware that all her father's words could go for nothing. Of only one thing was she sure,—that no counsel, no eloquence, no love would ever induce her to become the wife of Lord Hampstead.



CHAPTER VII.

MRS. DEMIJOHN'S PARTY.

Mrs. Demijohn presents her compliments to Mr. Crocker, and begs the honour of his company to tea at nine o'clock on Wednesday, 31st of December, to see the New Year in.

R.I.V.P. (Do come, C. D.)

10, Paradise Row, Holloway. 29th December, 18—.

This note was delivered to Crocker on his arrival at his office on the morning of Saturday, the 27th.

It must be explained that Crocker had lately made the acquaintance of Miss Clara Demijohn without any very formal introduction. Crocker, with that determination which marked his character, in pursuit of the one present purport of his mind to effect a friendly reconciliation with George Roden, had taken himself down to Holloway, and had called at No. 11, thinking that he might induce his friend's mother to act on his behalf in a matter appertaining to peace and charity. Mrs. Roden had unhappily been from home, but he had had the good fortune to encounter Miss Demijohn. Perhaps it was that she had seen him going in and out of the house, and had associated him with the great mystery of the young nobleman; perhaps she had been simply attracted by the easy air with which he cocked his hat and swung his gloves;—or, perhaps it was simply chance. But so it was that in the gloom of the evening she met him just round the corner opposite to the "Duchess of Edinburgh," and the happy acquaintance was commenced. No doubt, as in all such cases, it was the gentleman who spoke first. Let us, at any rate, hope so for the sake of Paradise Row generally. Be that as it may, before many minutes were over she had explained to him that Mrs. Roden had gone out in a cab soon after dinner, and that probably something was up at Wimbledon, as Mrs. Roden never went anywhere else, and this was not the day of the week on which her visits to Mrs. Vincent were generally made. Crocker, who was simplicity itself, soon gave her various details as to his own character and position in life. He, too, was a clerk in the Post Office, and was George Roden's particular friend. "Oh, yes; he knew all about Lord Hampstead, and was, he might say, intimately acquainted with his lordship. He had been in the habit of meeting his lordship at Castle Hautboy, the seat of his friend, Lord Persiflage, and had often ridden with his lordship in the hunting-field. He knew all about Lady Frances and the engagement, and had had the pleasure of making the acquaintance of her ladyship. He had been corresponding lately with Lord Hampstead on the subject. No;—he had not as yet heard anything of Marion Fay, the Quaker's daughter. Then Clara had something to say on her side. She quite understood that if she expected to be communicated with, she also must communicate; and moreover, young Mr. Crocker was by his age, appearance, and sex, just such a one as prompted her to be communicative without loss of self-respect. What was the good of telling things to Mrs. Duffer, who was only an old widow without any friends, and with very small means of existence? She had communicated her secrets to Mrs. Duffer simply from want of a better pair of ears into which she could pour them. But here was one in telling secrets to whom she could take delight, and who had secrets of his own to give in return. It is not to be supposed that the friendship which arose grew from the incidents of one meeting only. On that first evening Crocker could not leave the fair one without making arrangements for a further interview, and so the matter grew. The intimacy between them was already of three days' standing when the letter of invitation above given reached Crocker's hands. To tell the very truth, the proposed party was made up chiefly for Crocker's sake. What is the good of having a young man if you cannot show him to your friends?

"Crocker!" said Mrs. Demijohn to her niece; "where did you pick up Crocker?"

"What questions you do ask, aunt! Pick him up, indeed!"

"So you have—; picked him up, as you're always a doing with young men. Only you never know how to keep 'em when you've got 'em."

"I declare, aunt, your vulgarity is unbearable."

"I'm not going to have any Crocker in my house," said the old woman, "unless I know where he comes from. Perhaps he's a counter-skipper. He may be a ticket-of-leave man for all you know."

"Aunt Jemima, you're so provoking that I sometimes think I shall have to leave you."

"Where will you go to, my dear?"

To this question, which had often been asked before, Clara thought it unnecessary to make any answer; but returned at once to the inquiries which were not unnaturally made by the lady who stood to her in the place of a mother. "Mr. Crocker, Aunt Jemima, is a clerk in the Post Office, who sits at the same desk with George Roden, and is intimately acquainted both with Lord Hampstead and with Lady Frances Trafford. He used to be George Roden's bosom friend; but there has lately been some little tiff between the young men, which would be so pleasant if we could make it up. You have got to a speaking acquaintance with Mrs. Roden, and perhaps if you will ask them they'll come. I am sure Marion Fay will come, because you always get your money from Pogson and Littlebird. I wish I had the cheek to ask Lord Hampstead." Having heard all this, the old lady consented to receive our sporting friend from the Post Office, and also assented to the other invitations, which were given.

Crocker, of course, sent his compliments, and expressed the great pleasure he would have in "seeing the New Year in" in company with Mrs. Demijohn. As the old lady was much afflicted with rheumatism, the proposition as coming from her would have been indiscreet had she not known that her niece on such occasions was well able to act as her deputy. Mrs. Roden also promised to come, and with difficulty persuaded her son that it would be gracious on his part to be so far civil to his neighbours. Had he known that Crocker also would be there he certainly would not have yielded; but Crocker, when at the office, kept the secret of his engagement to himself. The Quaker also and Marion Fay were to be there. Mr. Fay and Mrs. Demijohn had long known each other in regard to matters of business, and he, for the sake of Messrs. Pogson and Littlebird's firm, could not refuse to drink a cup of tea at their client's house. A junior clerk from the same counting-house, one Daniel Tribbledale by name, with whom Clara had made acquaintance at King's Court some two years since, was also to be of the party. Mr. Tribbledale had at one time, among all Clara's young men, been the favourite. But circumstances had occurred which had somewhat lessened her goodwill towards him. Mr. Littlebird had quarrelled with him, and he had been refused promotion. It was generally supposed at the present time in the neighbourhood of Old Broad Street that Daniel Tribbledale was languishing for the love of Clara Demijohn. Mrs. Duffer, of course, was to be there, and so the list of friends for the festive occasion was completed.

Mrs. Duffer was the first to come. Her aid, indeed, was required for the cutting up of the cakes and arrangements of the cups and saucers. The Quaker and his daughter were next, appearing exactly at nine o'clock,—to do which he protested to be the best sign of good manners that could be shown. "If they want me at ten, why do they ask me at nine?" demanded the Quaker. Marion was forced to give way, though she was by no means anxious to spend a long evening in company with Mrs. Demijohn. As to that seeing of the New Year in, it was quite out of the question for the Quaker or for his daughter. The company altogether came early. The only touch of fashion evinced on this occasion was shown by Mr. Crocker. The Rodens, with Mr. Tribbledale at their heels, appeared not long after Mr. Fay, and then the demolition of the Sally Lunns was commenced. "I declare I think he means to deceive us," whispered Clara to her friend, Mrs. Duffer, when all the good tea had been consumed before the young man appeared. "I don't suppose he cares much for tea," said Mrs. Duffer; "they don't now-a-days." "It isn't just for the tea that a man is expected to come," said Clara, indignantly. It was now nearly ten, and she could not but feel that the evening was going heavily. Tribbledale had said one tender word to her; but she had snubbed him, expecting Crocker to be there almost at once, and he had retired silent into a corner. George Roden had altogether declined to make himself agreeable—to her; but as he was an engaged man, and engaged to a lady of rank, much could not be expected of him. Mrs. Roden and the Quaker and Mrs. Demijohn did manage to keep up something of conversation. Roden from time to time said a few words to Marion. Clara, who was repenting herself of her hardness to young Tribbledale, was forced to put up with Mrs. Duffer. When suddenly there came a thundering knock at the door, and Mr. Crocker was announced by the maid, who had been duly instructed beforehand as to all peculiarities in the names of the guests.

There was a little stir, as there always is when a solitary guest comes in much after the appointed time. Of course there was rebuke,—suppressed rebuke from Mrs. Demijohn, mild rebuke from Mrs. Duffer, a very outburst of rebuke from Clara. But Crocker was up to the occasion. "Upon my word, ladies, I had no help for it. I was dining with a few friends in the City, and I couldn't get away earlier. If my own ideas of happiness had been consulted I should have been here an hour ago. Ah, Roden, how are you? Though I know you live in the same street, I didn't think of meeting you." Roden gave him a nod, but did not vouchsafe him a word. "How's his lordship? I told you, didn't I, that I had heard from him the other day?" Crocker had mentioned more than once at his office the fact that he had received a letter from Lord Hampstead.

"I don't often see him, and very rarely hear from him," said Roden, without turning away from Marion to whom he was at the moment speaking.

"If all our young noblemen were like Hampstead," said Crocker, who had told the truth in declaring that he had been dining, "England would be a very different sort of place from what it is. The most affable young lord that ever sat in the House of Peers." Then he turned himself towards Marion Fay, at whose identity he made a guess. He was anxious at once to claim her as a mutual friend, as connected with himself by her connection with the lord in question. But as he could find no immediate excuse for introducing himself, he only winked at her.

"Are you acquainted with Mr. Tribbledale, Mr. Crocker?" asked Clara.

"Never had the pleasure as yet," said Crocker. Then the introduction was effected. "In the Civil Service?" asked Crocker. Tribbledale blushed, and of necessity repudiated the honour. "I thought, perhaps, you were in the Customs. You have something of the H.M.S. cut about you." Tribbledale acknowledged the compliment with a bow. "I think the Service is the best thing a man can do with himself," continued Crocker.

"It is genteel," said Mrs. Duffer.

"And the hours so pleasant," said Clara. "Bank clerks have always to be there by nine."

"Is a young man to be afraid of that?" asked the Quaker, indignantly. "Ten till four, with one hour for the newspapers and another for lunch. See the consequence. I never knew a young man yet from a public office who understood the meaning of a day's work."

"I think that is a little hard," said Roden. "If a man really works, six hours continuously is as much as he can do with any good to his employers or himself."

"Well done, Roden," said Crocker. "Stick up for Her Majesty's shop." Roden turned himself more round than before, and continued to address himself to Marion.

"Our employers wouldn't think much of us," said the Quaker, "if we didn't do better for them than that in private offices. I say that the Civil Service destroys a young man, and teaches him to think that the bread of idleness is sweet. As far as I can see, nothing is so destructive of individual energy as what is called public money. If Daniel Tribbledale would bestir himself he might do very well in the world without envying any young man his seat either at the Custom House or the Post Office." Mr. Fay had spoken so seriously that they all declined to carry that subject further. Mrs. Demijohn and Mrs. Duffer murmured their agreement, thinking it civil to do so, as the Quaker was a guest. Tribbledale sat silent in his corner, awestruck at the idea of having given rise to the conversation. Crocker winked at Mrs. Demijohn, and thrust his hands into his pockets as much as to say that he could get the better of the Quaker altogether if he chose to exercise his powers of wit and argument.

Soon after this Mr. Fay rose to take his daughter away. "But," said Clara, with affected indignation, "you are to see the Old Year out and the New Year in."

"I have seen enough of the one," said Mr. Fay, "and shall see enough of the other if I live to be as near its close as I am to its birth."

"But there are refreshments coming up," said Mrs. Demijohn.

"I have refreshed myself sufficiently with thy tea, madam. I rarely take anything stronger before retiring to my rest. Come, Marion, thou requirest to be at no form of welcoming the New Year. Thou, too, wilt be better in thy bed, as thy duties call upon thee to be early." So saying, the Quaker bowed formally to each person present, and took his daughter out with him under his arm. Mrs. Roden and her son escaped almost at the same moment, and Mrs. Demijohn, having waited to take what she called just a thimbleful of hot toddy, went also to her rest.

"Here's a pretty way of seeing the New Year in," said Clara, laughing.

"We are quite enough of us for the purpose," said Crocker, "unless we also are expected to go away." But as he spoke he mixed a tumbler of brandy and water, which he divided among two smaller glasses, handing them to the two ladies present.

"I declare," said Mrs. Duffer, "I never do anything of the kind,—almost never."

"On such an occasion as this everybody does it," said Crocker.

"I hope Mr. Tribbledale will join us," said Clara. Then the bashful clerk came out of his corner, and seating himself at the table prepared to do as he was bid. He made his toddy very weak, not because he disliked brandy, but guided by an innate spirit of modesty which prevented him always from going more than halfway when he was in company.

Then the evening became very pleasant. "You are quite sure that he is really engaged to her ladyship?" asked Clara.

"I wish I were as certainly engaged to you," replied the polite Crocker.

"What nonsense you do talk, Mr. Crocker;—and before other people too. But you think he is?"

"I am sure of it. Both Hampstead and she have told me so much themselves out of their own mouths."

"My!" exclaimed Mrs. Duffer.

"And here's her brother engaged to Marion Fay," said Clara. Crocker declared that as to this he was by no means so well assured. Lord Hampstead in spite of their intimacy had told him nothing about it. "But it is so, Mr. Crocker, as sure as ever you are sitting there. He has been coming here after her over and over again, and was closeted with her only last Friday for hours. It was a holiday, but that sly old Quaker went out of the way, so as to leave them together. That Mrs. Roden, though she's as stiff as buckram, knows all about it. To the best of my belief she got it all up. Marion Fay is with her every day. It's my belief there's something we don't understand yet. She's got a hold of them young people, and means to do just what she likes with 'em." Crocker, however, could not agree to this. He had heard of Lord Hampstead's peculiar politics, and was assured that the young lord was only carrying out his peculiar principles in selecting Marion Fay for himself and devoting his sister to George Roden.

"Not that I like that kind of thing, if you ask me," said Crocker. "I'm very fond of Hampstead, and I've always found Lady Frances to be a pleasant and affable lady. I've no cause to speak other than civil of both of them. But when a man has been born a lord, and a lady a lady—. A lady of that kind, Miss Demijohn."

"Oh, exactly;—titled you mean, Mr. Crocker?"

"Quite high among the nobs, you know. Hampstead will be a Marquis some of these days, which is next to a Duke."

"And do you know him,—yourself?" asked Tribbledale with a voice of awe.

"Oh, yes," said Crocker.

"To speak to him when you see him?"

"I had a long correspondence with him about a week ago about a matter which interested both of us very much."

"And how does he address you?" asked Clara,—also with something of awe.

"'Dear Crocker;'—just that. I always say 'My dear Lord Hampstead,' in return. I look upon 'Dear Hampstead,' as a little vulgar, you know, and I always think that one ought to be particular in these matters. But, as I was saying, when it comes to marriage, people ought to be true to themselves. Now if I was a Marquis,—I don't know what I mightn't do if I saw you, you know, Clara." "Clara" pouted, but did not appear to have been offended either by the compliment or by the familiarity. "But under any other circumstances less forcible I would stick to my order."

"So would I," said Mrs. Duffer. "Marquises ought to marry marquises, and dukes dukes."

"There it is!" said Clara, "and now we must drink its health, and I hope we may be all married to them we like best before it comes round again." This had reference to the little clock on the mantelpiece, the hands of which had just crept round to twelve o'clock.

"I wish we might," said Crocker, "and have a baby in the cradle too."

"Go away," said Clara.

"That would be quick," said Mrs. Duffer. "What do you say, Mr. Tribbledale?"

"Where my heart's fixed," said Tribbledale, who was just becoming warm with the brandy-and-water, "there ain't no hope for this year, nor yet for the one after." Whereupon Crocker remarked that "care killed a cat."

"You just put on your coat and hat, and take me across to my lodgings. See if I don't give you a chance," said Mrs. Duffer, who was also becoming somewhat merry under the influences of the moment. But she knew that it was her duty to do something for her young hostess, and, true woman as she was, thought that this was the best way of doing it. Tribbledale did as he was bid, though he was obliged thus to leave his lady-love and her new admirer together. "Do you really mean it?" said Clara, when she and Crocker were alone.

"Of course I do,—honest," said Crocker.

"Then you may," said Clara, turning her face to him.



CHAPTER VIII.

NEW YEAR'S DAY.

Crocker had by no means as yet got through his evening. Having dined with his friends in the City, and "drank tea" with the lady of his love, he was disposed to proceed, if not to pleasanter delights, at any rate to those which might be more hilarious. Every Londoner, from Holloway up to Gower Street, in which he lived, would be seeing the New Year in,—and beyond Gower Street down in Holborn, and from thence all across to the Strand, especially in the neighbourhood of Covent Garden and the theatres, there would be a whole world of happy revellers engaged in the same way. On such a night as this there could certainly be no need of going to bed soon after twelve for such a one as Samuel Crocker. In Paradise Row he again encountered Tribbledale, and suggested to that young man that they should first have a glass of something at the "Duchess" and then proceed to more exalted realms in a hansom. "I did think of walking there this fine starlight night," said Tribbledale, mindful of the small stipend at which his services were at present valued by Pogson and Littlebird. But Crocker soon got the better of all this. "I'll stand Sammy for this occasion," said he. "The New Year comes in only once in twelve months." Then Tribbledale went into "The Duchess," and after that was as indifferent, while his money lasted him, as was Crocker himself. "I've loved that girl for three years," said Tribbledale, as soon as they had left "The Duchess" and were again in the open air.

It was a beautiful night, and Crocker thought that they might as well walk a little way. It was pleasant under the bright stars to hear of the love adventures of his new friend, especially as he himself was now the happy hero. "For three years?" he asked.

"Indeed I have, Crocker." That glass of hot whiskey-and-water, though it enhanced the melancholy tenderness of the young man, robbed him of his bashfulness, and loosened the strings of his tongue. "For three years! And there was a time when she worshipped the very stool on which I sat at the office. I don't like to boast."

"You have to be short, sharp, and decisive if you mean to get a girl like that to travel with you."

"I should have taken the ball at the hop, Crocker; that's what I ought to have done. But I see it all now. She's as fickle as she is fair;—fickler, perhaps, if anything."

"Come, Tribbledale; I ain't going to let you abuse her, you know."

"I don't want to abuse her. God knows I love her too well in spite of all. It's your turn now. I can see that. There's a great many of them have had their turns."

"Were there now?" asked Crocker anxiously.

"There was Pollocky;—him at the Highbury Gas Works. He came after me. It was because of him she dropped me."

"Was that going on for a marriage?"

"Right ahead, I used to think. Pollocky is a widower with five children."

"Oh Lord!"

"But he's the head of all the gas, and has four hundred a year. It wasn't love as carried her on with him. I could see that. She wouldn't go and meet him anywhere about the City, as she did me. I suppose Pollocky is fifty, if he's a day."

"And she dropped him also?"

"Or else it was he." On receipt of this information Crocker whistled. "It was something about money," continued Tribbledale. "The old woman wouldn't part."

"There is money I suppose?"

"The old woman has a lot."

"And isn't the niece to have it?" asked Crocker.

"No doubt she will; because there never was a pair more loving. But the old lady will keep it herself as long as she is here." Then there entered an idea into Crocker's head that if he could manage to make Clara his own, he might have power enough to manage the aunt as well as the niece. They had a little more whiskey-and-water at the Angel at Islington before they got into the cab which was to take them down to the Paphian Music-Hall, and after that Tribbledale passed from the realm of partial fact to that of perfect poetry. "He would never," he said, "abandon Clara Demijohn, though he should live to an age beyond that of any known patriarch. He quite knew all that there was against him. Crocker he thought might probably prevail. He rather hoped that Crocker might prevail;—for why should not so good a fellow be made happy, seeing how utterly impossible it was that he, Daniel Tribbledale, should ever reach that perfect bliss in dreaming of which he passed his miserable existence. But as to one thing he had quite made up his mind. The day that saw Clara Demijohn a bride would most undoubtedly be the last of his existence."

"Oh, no, damme; you won't," said Crocker turning round upon him in the cab.

"I shall!" said Tribbledale with emphasis. "And I've made up my mind how to do it too. They've caged up the Monument, and you're so looked after on the Duke of York's, that there isn't a chance. But there's nothing to prevent you from taking a header at the Whispering Gallery of Saint Paul's. You'd be more talked of that way, and the vergers would be sure to show the stains made on the stones below. 'It was here young Tribbledale fell,—a clerk at Pogson and Littlebird's, who dashed out his brains for love on the very day as Clara Demijohn got herself married.' I'm of that disposition, Crocker, as I'd do anything for love;—anything." Crocker was obliged to reply that he trusted he might never be the cause of such a fatal attempt at glory; but he went on to explain that in the pursuit of love a man could not in any degree give way to friendship. Even though numberless lovers might fall from the Whispering Gallery in a confused heap of mangled bodies, he must still tread the path which was open to him. These were his principles, and he could not abandon them even for the sake of Tribbledale. "Nor would I have you," shouted Tribbledale, leaning out over the door of the cab. "I would not delay you not for a day, not for an hour. Were to-morrow to be your bridal morning it would find me prepared. My only request to you is that a boy might be called Daniel after me. You might tell her it was an uncle or grandfather. She would never think that in her own child was perpetuated a monument of poor Daniel Tribbledale." Crocker, as he jumped out of the cab with a light step in front of the Paphian Hall, promised that in this particular he would attend to the wishes of his friend.

The performances at the Paphian Hall on that festive occasion need not be described here with accuracy. The New Year had been seen well in with music, dancing, and wine. The seeing of it in was continued yet for an hour, till an indulgent policeman was forced to interfere. It is believed that on the final ejection of our two friends, the forlorn lover, kept steady, no doubt, by the weight of his woe, did find his way home to his own lodgings. The exultant Crocker was less fortunate, and passed his night without the accommodation of sheets and blankets somewhere in the neighbourhood of Bow Street. The fact is important to us, as it threatened to have considerable effect upon our friend's position at his office. Having been locked up in a cell during the night, and kept in durance till he was brought on the following morning before a magistrate, he could not well be in his room at ten o'clock. Indeed when he did escape from the hands of the Philistines, at about two in the day, sick, unwashed and unfed, he thought it better to remain away altogether for that day. The great sin of total absence would be better than making an appearance before Mr. Jerningham in his present tell-tale condition. He well knew his own strength and his own weakness. All power of repartee would be gone from him for the day. Mr. Jerningham would domineer over him, and Aeolus, should the violent god be pleased to send for him, would at once annihilate him. So he sneaked home to Gower Street, took a hair of the dog that bit him, and then got the old woman who looked after him to make him some tea and to fry a bit of bacon for him. In this ignominious way he passed New Year's Day,—at least so much of it as was left to him after the occurrences which have been described.

But on the next morning the great weight of his troubles fell upon him heavily. In his very heart of hearts he was afraid of Aeolus. In spite of his "brummagem" courage the wrath of the violent god was tremendous to him. He knew what it was to stand with his hand on the lock of the door and tremble before he dared to enter the room. There was something in the frown of the god which was terrible to him. There was something worse in the god's smile. He remembered how he had once been unable to move himself out of the room when the god had told him that he need not remain at the office, but might go home and amuse himself just as he pleased. Nothing crushes a young man so much as an assurance that his presence can be dispensed with without loss to any one. Though Crocker had often felt the mercies of Aeolus, and had told himself again and again that the god never did in truth lift up his hand for final irrevocable punishment, still he trembled as he anticipated the dread encounter.

When the morning came, and while he was yet in his bed, he struggled to bethink himself of some strategy by which he might evade the evil hour. Could he have been sent for suddenly into Cumberland? But in this case he would of course have telegraphed to the Post Office on the preceding day. Could he have been taken ill with a fit,—so as to make his absence absolutely necessary, say for an entire week? He well knew that they had a doctor at the Post Office, a crafty, far-seeing, obdurate man, who would be with him at once and would show him no mercy. He had tried these schemes all round, and had found that there were none left with which Aeolus was not better acquainted than was he himself. There was nothing for it but to go and bear the brunt.

Exactly at ten o'clock he entered the room, hung his hat up on the accustomed peg, and took his seat on the accustomed chair before any one spoke a word to him. Roden on the opposite seat took no notice of him. "Bedad, he's here anyhow this morning," whispered Geraghty to Bobbin, very audibly. "Mr. Crocker," said Mr. Jerningham, "you were absent throughout the entire day yesterday. Have you any account to give of yourself?" There was certainly falsehood implied in this question, as Mr. Jerningham knew very well what had become of Crocker. Crocker's misadventure at the police office had found its way into the newspapers, and had been discussed by Aeolus with Mr. Jerningham. I am afraid that Mr. Jerningham must have intended to tempt the culprit into some false excuse.

"I was horribly ill," said Crocker, without stopping the pen with which he was making entries in the big book before him. This no doubt was true, and so far the trap had been avoided.

"What made you ill, Mr. Crocker?"

"Headache."

"It seems to me, Mr. Crocker, you're more subject to such attacks as these than any young man in the office."

"I always was as a baby," said Crocker, resuming something of his courage. Could it be possible that Aeolus should not have heard of the day's absence?

"There is ill-health of so aggravated a nature," said Mr. Jerningham, "as to make the sufferer altogether unfit for the Civil Service."

"I'm happy to say I'm growing out of them gradually," said Crocker. Then Geraghty got up from his chair and whispered the whole truth into the sufferer's ears. "It was all in the Pall Mall yesterday, and Aeolus knew it before he went away." A sick qualm came upon the poor fellow as though it were a repetition of yesterday's sufferings. But still it was necessary that he should say something. "New Year's Day comes only once a year, I suppose."

"It was only a few weeks since that you remained a day behind your time when you were on leave. But Sir Boreas has taken the matter up, and I have nothing to say to it. No doubt Sir Boreas will send for you." Sir Boreas Bodkin was that great Civil servant in the General Post Office whom men were wont to call Aeolus.

It was a wretched morning for poor Crocker. He was not sent for till one o'clock, just at the moment when he was going to eat his lunch! That horrid sickness, the combined result of the dinner in the City, of Mrs. Demijohn's brandy, and of the many whiskies which followed, still clung to him. The mutton-chop and porter which he had promised himself would have relieved him; but now he was obliged to appear before the god in all his weakness. Without a word he followed a messenger who had summoned him, with his tail only too visibly between his legs. Aeolus was writing a note when he was ushered into the room, and did not condescend to arrest himself in the progress merely because Crocker was present. Aeolus well knew the effect on a sinner of having to stand silent and all alone in the presence of an offended deity.

"So, Mr. Crocker," said Aeolus at last, looking up from his completed work; "no doubt you saw the Old Year out on Wednesday night." The jokes of the god were infinitely worse to bear than his most furious blasts. "Like some other great men," continued Aeolus, "you have contrived to have your festivities chronicled in the newspapers." Crocker found it impossible to utter a word. "You have probably seen the Pall Mall of yesterday, and the Standard of this morning?"

"I haven't looked at the newspaper, sir, since—"

"Since the festive occasion," suggested Aeolus.

"Oh, Sir Boreas—"

"Well, Mr. Crocker; what is it that you have to say for yourself?"

"I did dine with a few friends."

"And kept it up tolerably late, I should think."

"And then afterwards went to a tea-party," said Crocker.

"A tea-party!"

"It was not all tea," said Crocker, with a whine.

"I should think not. There was a good deal besides tea, I should say." Then the god left off to smile, and the blasts began to blow. "Now, Mr. Crocker, I should like to know what you think of yourself. After having read the accounts of your appearance before the magistrate in two newspapers, I suppose I may take it for granted that you were abominably drunk out in the streets on Wednesday night." It is very hard for a young man to have to admit under any circumstances that he has been abominably drunk out in the streets;—so that Crocker stood dumb before his accuser. "I choose to have an answer, sir. I must either have your own acknowledgment, or must have an official account from the police magistrate."

"I had taken something, sir."

"Were you drunk? If you will not answer me you had better go, and I shall know how to deal with you." Crocker thought that he had perhaps better go and leave the god to deal with him. He remained quite silent. "Your personal habits would be nothing to me, sir," continued Aeolus, "if you were able to do your work and did not bring disgrace on the department. But you neglect the office. You are unable to do your work. And you do bring disgrace on the department. How long is it since you remained away a day before?"

"I was detained down in Cumberland for one day, after my leave of absence."

"Detained in Cumberland! I never tell a gentleman, Mr. Crocker, that I do not believe him,—never. If it comes to that with a gentleman, he must go." This was hard to bear; but yet Crocker was aware that he had told a fib on that occasion in reference to the day's hunting. Then Sir Boreas took up his pen and again had recourse to his paper, as though the interview was over. Crocker remained standing, not quite knowing what he was expected to do. "It's of no use your remaining there," said Sir Boreas. Whereupon Crocker retired, and, with his tail still between his legs, returned to his own desk. Soon afterwards Mr. Jerningham was sent for, and came back with an intimation that Mr. Crocker's services were no longer required, at any rate for that day. When the matter had been properly represented to the Postmaster-General, a letter would be written to him. The impression made on the minds of Bobbin and Geraghty was that poor Crocker would certainly be dismissed on this occasion. Roden, too, thought that it was now over with the unfortunate young man, as far as the Queen's service was concerned, and could not abstain from shaking hands with the unhappy wretch as he bade them all a melancholy good-bye. "Good afternoon," said Mr. Jerningham to him severely, not condescending to shake hands with him at all.

But Mr. Jerningham heard the last words which the god had spoken on the subject, and was not therefore called upon to be specially soft-hearted. "I never saw a poor devil look so sick in my life," Aeolus had said.

"He must have been very bad, Sir Boreas."

Aeolus was fond of a good dinner himself, and had a sympathy for convivial offences. Indeed for all offences he had a sympathy. No man less prone to punish ever lived. But what is a man to do with inveterate offenders? Aeolus would tear his hair sometimes in dismay because he knew that he was retaining in the service men whom he would have been bound to get rid of had he done his duty. "You had better tell him to go home," said Aeolus,—"for to-day, you know."

"And what then, Sir Boreas?"

"I suppose he'll sleep it off by to-morrow. Have a letter written to him,—to frighten him, you know. After all, New Year's Day only does come once a year." Mr. Jerningham, having thus received instructions, went back to his room and dismissed Crocker in the way we have seen. As soon as Crocker's back was turned Roden was desired to write the letter.

SIR,

Your conduct in absenting yourself without leave from the office yesterday is of such a nature as to make it necessary for me to inform you, that should it be repeated I shall have no alternative but to bring your name under the serious consideration of my Lord the Postmaster-General.

I am, sir, Your obedient servant,

(Signed) BOREAS BODKIN.

In the same envelope was a short note from one of his brother clerks.

DEAR CROCKER,

You had better be here sharp at ten to-morrow. Mr. Jerningham bids me tell you.

Yours truly,

BART. BOBBIN.

Thus Crocker got through his troubles on this occasion.



CHAPTER IX.

MISS DEMIJOHN'S INGENUITY.

On the day on which Crocker was going through his purgatory at the Post Office, a letter reached Lady Kingsbury at Trafford Park, which added much to the troubles and annoyances felt by different members of the family there. It was an anonymous letter, and the reader,—who in regard to such mysteries should never be kept a moment in ignorance,—may as well be told at once that the letter was written by that enterprising young lady, Miss Demijohn. The letter was written on New Year's Day, after the party,—perhaps in consequence of the party, as the rash doings of some of the younger members of the Trafford family were made specially obvious to Miss Demijohn by what was said on that occasion. The letter ran as follows:

MY LADY MARCHIONESS—

I conceive it to be my duty as a well-wisher of the family to inform you that your stepson, Lord Hampstead, has become entangled in what I think to be a dangerous way with a young woman living in a neighbouring street to this.

The "neighbouring" street was of course a stroke of cunning on the part of Miss Demijohn.

She lives at No. 17, Paradise Row, Holloway, and her name is Marion Fay. She is daughter to an old Quaker, who is clerk to Pogson and Littlebird, King's Court, Great Broad Street, and isn't of course in any position to entertain such hopes as these. He may have a little money saved, but what's that to the likes of your ladyship and his lordship the Marquis? Some think she is pretty. I don't. Now I don't like such cunning ways. Of what I tell your ladyship there isn't any manner of doubt. His lordship was there for hours the other day, and the girl is going about as proud as a peacock.

It's what I call a regular Paradise Row conspiracy, and though the Quaker has lent himself to it, he ain't at the bottom. Next door but two to the Fays there is a Mrs. Roden living, who has got a son, a stuck-up fellow and a clerk in the Post Office. I believe there isn't a bit of doubt but he has been and got himself engaged to another of your ladyship's noble family. As to that, all Holloway is talking of it. I don't believe there is a 'bus driver up and down the road as doesn't know it. It's my belief that Mrs. Roden is the doing of it all! She has taken Marion Fay by the hand just as though she were her own, and now she has got the young lord and the young lady right into her mashes. If none of 'em isn't married yet it won't be long so unless somebody interferes. If you don't believe me do you send to the 'Duchess of Edinburgh' at the corner, and you'll find that they know all about it.

Now, my Lady Marchioness, I've thought it my duty to tell you all this because I don't like to see a noble family put upon. There isn't nothing for me to get out of it myself. But I do it just as one of the family's well-wishers. Therefore I sign myself your very respectful,

A WELL-WISHER.

The young lady had told her story completely as far as her object was concerned, which was simply that of making mischief. But the business of anonymous letter-writing was one not new to her hand. It is easy, and offers considerable excitement to the minds of those whose time hangs heavy on their hands.

The Marchioness, though she would probably have declared beforehand that anonymous letters were of all things the most contemptible, nevertheless read this more than once with a great deal of care. And she believed it altogether. As to Lady Frances, of course she knew the allegations to be true. Seeing that the writer was so well acquainted with the facts as to Lady Frances, why should she be less well-informed in reference to Lord Hampstead? Such a marriage as this with the Quaker girl was exactly the sort of match which Hampstead would be pleased to make. Then she was especially annoyed by the publicity of the whole affair. That Holloway and the drivers of the omnibuses, and the "Duchess of Edinburgh" should know all the secrets of her husband's family,—should be able to discuss the disgrace to which "her own darlings" would be subjected, was terrible to her. But perhaps the sting that went sharpest to her heart was that which came from the fact that Lord Hampstead was about to be married at all. Let the wife be a Quaker or what not, let her be as low as any woman that could be found within the sound of Bow Bells, still, if the marriage ceremony were once pronounced over them, that woman's son would become Lord Highgate, and would be heir to all the wealth and all the titles of the Marquis of Kingsbury,—to the absolute exclusion of the eldest-born of her own darlings.

She had had her hopes in the impracticability of Lord Hampstead. Such men as that, she had told herself, were likely to keep themselves altogether free of marriage. He would not improbably, she thought, entertain some abominable but not unlucky idea that marriage in itself was an absurdity. At any rate, there was hope as long as he could be kept unmarried. Were he to marry and then have a son, even though he broke his neck out hunting next day, no good would come of it. In this condition of mind she thought it well to show the letter to Mr. Greenwood before she read it to her husband. Lord Kingsbury was still very ill,—so ill as to have given rise to much apprehension; but still it would be necessary to discuss this letter with him, ill as he might be. Only it should be first discussed with Mr. Greenwood.

Mr. Greenwood's face became flatter, and his jaw longer, and his eyes more like gooseberries as he read the letter. He had gradually trained himself to say and to hear all manner of evil things about Lady Frances in the presence of the Marchioness. He had too accustomed himself to speak of Lord Hampstead as a great obstacle which it would be well if the Lord would think proper to take out of the way. He had also so far followed the lead of his patroness as to be deep if not loud in his denunciations of the folly of the Marquis. The Marquis had sent him word that he had better look out for a new home, and without naming an especial day for his dismissal, had given him to understand that it would not be convenient to receive him again in the house in Park Lane. But the Marquis had been ill when he had thus expressed his displeasure,—and was now worse. It might be that the Marquis himself would never again visit Park Lane. As no positive limit had been fixed for Mr. Greenwood's departure from Trafford Park, there he remained,—and there he intended to remain for the present. As he folded up the letter carefully after reading it slowly, he only shook his head.

"Is it true, I wonder?" asked the Marchioness.

"There is no reason why it should not be."

"That's just what I say to myself. We know it is true about Fanny. Of course there's that Mr. Roden, and the Mrs. Roden. When the writer knows so much, there is reason to believe the rest."

"A great many people do tell a great many lies," said Mr. Greenwood.

"I suppose there is such a person as this Quaker,—and that there is such a girl?"

"Quite likely."

"If so, why shouldn't Hampstead fall in love with her? Of course he's always going to the street because of his friend Roden."

"Not a doubt, Lady Kingsbury."

"What ought we to do?" To this question Mr. Greenwood was not prepared with an immediate answer. If Lord Hampstead chose to get himself married to a Quaker's daughter, how could it be helped? "His father would hardly have any influence over him now." Mr. Greenwood shook his head. "And yet he must be told." Mr. Greenwood nodded his head. "Perhaps something might be done about the property."

"He wouldn't care two straws about settlements," said Mr. Greenwood.

"He doesn't care about anything he ought to. If I were to write and ask him, would he tell the truth about this marriage?"

"He wouldn't tell the truth about anything," said Mr. Greenwood.

The Marchioness passed this by, though she knew it at the moment to be calumny. But she was not unwilling to hear calumny against Lord Hampstead. "There used to be ways," she said, "in which a marriage of that kind could be put on one side afterwards."

"You must put it on one side before, now-a-days, if you mean to do it at all," said the clergyman.

"But how?—how?"

"If he could be got out of the way."

"How out of the way?"

"Well;—that's what I don't know. Suppose he could be made to go out yachting, and she be married to somebody else when he's at sea!" Lady Kingsbury felt that her friend was but little good at a stratagem. But she felt also that she was not very good herself. She could wish; but wishing in such matters is very vain. She had right on her side. She was quite confident as to that. There could be no doubt but that "gods and men" would desire to see her little Lord Frederic succeed to the Marquisate rather than this infidel Republican. If this wretched Radical could be kept from marrying there would evidently be room for hope, because there was the fact,—proved by the incontestable evidence of Burke's Peerage,—that younger sons did so often succeed. But if another heir were to be born, then, as far as she was aware, Burke's Peerage promised her nothing. "It's a pity he shouldn't break his neck out hunting," said Mr. Greenwood.

"Even that wouldn't be much if he were to be married first," said the Marchioness.

Every day she went to her husband for half-an-hour before her lunch, at which time the nurse who attended him during the day was accustomed to go to her dinner. He had had a physician down from London since his son had visited him, and the physician had told the Marchioness that though there was not apparently any immediate danger, still the symptoms were such as almost to preclude a hope of ultimate recovery. When this opinion had been pronounced there had arisen between the Marchioness and the chaplain a discussion as to whether Lord Hampstead should be once again summoned. The Marquis himself had expressed no such wish. A bulletin of a certain fashion had been sent three or four times a week to Hendon Hall purporting to express the doctor's opinion of the health of their noble patient; but the bulletin had not been scrupulously true. Neither of the two conspirators had wished to have Lord Hampstead at Trafford Park. Lady Kingsbury was anxious to make the separation complete between her own darlings and their brother, and Mr. Greenwood remembered, down to every tittle of a word and tone, the insolence of the rebuke which he had received from the heir. But if Lord Kingsbury were really to be dying, then they would hardly dare to keep his son in ignorance.

"I've got something I'd better show you," she said, as she seated herself by her husband's sofa. Then she proceeded to read to him the letter, without telling him as she did so that it was anonymous. When he had heard the first paragraph he demanded to know the name of the writer. "I'd better read it all first," said the Marchioness. And she did read it all to the end, closing it, however, without mentioning the final "Well-Wisher." "Of course it's anonymous," she said, as she held the letter in her hand.

"Then I don't believe a word of it," said the Marquis.

"Very likely not; but yet it sounds true."

"I don't think it sounds true at all. Why should it be true? There is nothing so wicked as anonymous letters."

"If it isn't true about Hampstead it's true at any rate of Fanny. That man comes from Holloway, and Paradise Row and the 'Duchess of Edinburgh.' Where Fanny goes for her lover, Hampstead is likely to follow. 'Birds of a feather flock together.'"

"I won't have you speak of my children in that way," said the sick lord.

"What can I do? Is it not true about Fanny? If you wish it, I will write to Hampstead and ask him all about it." In order to escape from the misery of the moment he assented to this proposition. The letter being anonymous had to his thinking been disgraceful and therefore he had disbelieved it. And having induced himself to disbelieve the statements made, he had been drawn into expressing,—or at any rate to acknowledging by his silence,—a conviction that such a marriage as that proposed with Marion Fay would be very base. Her ladyship felt therefore that if Lord Hampstead could be got to acknowledge the engagement, something would have been done towards establishing a quarrel between the father and the son.

"Has that man gone yet?" he asked as his wife rose to leave the room.

"Has what man gone?"

"Mr. Greenwood."

"Gone? How should he have gone? It has never been expected that he should go by this time. I don't see why he should go at all. He was told that you would not again require his services up in London. As far as I know, that is all that has been said about going." The poor man turned himself on his sofa angrily, but did not at the moment give any further instructions as to the chaplain's departure.

"He wants to know why you have not gone," Lady Kingsbury said to the clergyman that afternoon.

"Where am I to go to?" whined the unfortunate one. "Does he mean to say that I am to be turned out into the road at a moment's notice because I can't approve of what Lady Frances is doing? I haven't had any orders as to going. If I am to go I suppose he will make some arrangement first." Lady Kingsbury said what she could to comfort him, and explained that there was no necessity for his immediate departure. Perhaps the Marquis might not think of it again for another week or two; and there was no knowing in what condition they might find themselves.

Her ladyship's letter to her stepson was as follows; and by return of post her stepson's answer came;—

MY DEAR HAMPSTEAD,—

Tidings have reached your father that you have engaged yourself to marry a girl, the daughter of a Quaker named Fay, living at No. 17, Paradise Row. He, the Quaker, is represented as being a clerk in a counting-house in the City. Of the girl your father has heard nothing, but can only imagine that she should be such as her position would make probable. He desires me to ask you whether there is any truth in the statement. You will observe that I express no opinion myself whether it be true or false, whether proper or improper. After your conduct the other day I should not think of interfering myself; but your father wishes me to ask for his information.

Yours truly,

CLARA KINGSBURY.

Hampstead's answer was very short, but quite sufficient for the purpose;—

MY DEAR LADY KINGSBURY,

I am not engaged to marry Miss Fay,—as yet. I think that I may be some day soon.

Yours affectionately,

HAMPSTEAD.

By the same post he wrote a letter to his father, and that shall also be shown to the reader.

MY DEAR FATHER,—

I have received a letter from Lady Kingsbury, asking me as to a report of an engagement between me and a young lady named Marion Fay. I am sorry that her writing should be evidence that you are hardly yet strong enough to write yourself. I trust that it may not long be so.

Would you wish to see me again at Trafford? I do not like to go there without the expression of a wish from you; but I hold myself in readiness to start whenever you may desire it. I had hoped from the last accounts that you were becoming stronger.