"I am afraid they have offended you among them."

"Not in the least. I never take offence except when I think people mean it. But now, Marion, say one word to me."

"I have said many words. Have I not said nice words?"

"Every word out of your mouth is like music to me. But there is one word which I am dying to hear."

"What word?" she said. She knew that she should not have asked the question, but it was so necessary for her to put off the evil if it were only for a moment.

"It is whatever word you may choose to use when you speak to me as my wife. My mother used to call me John; the children call me Jack; my friends call me Hampstead. Invent something sweet for yourself. I always call you Marion because I love the sound so dearly."

"Every one calls me Marion."

"No! I never did so till I had told myself that, if possible, you should be my own. Do you remember when you poked the fire for me at Hendon Hall?"

"I do;—I do. It was wrong of me; was it not;—when I hardly knew you?"

"It was beyond measure good of you; but I did not dare to call you Marion then, though I knew your name as well as I do now, Marion! I have it here, written all round my heart." What could she say to a man who spoke to her after this fashion? It was as though an angel from heaven were courting her! If only she could have gone on listening so that nothing further should come of it! "Find some name for me, and tell me that it shall be written round your heart."

"Indeed it is. You know it is, Lord Hampstead."

"But what name?"

"Your friend;—your friend of friends."

"It will not do. It is cold."

"Then it is untrue to her from whom it comes. Do you think that my friendship is cold for you?"

She had turned towards him, and was sitting before him with her face looking into his, with her hands clasped as though in assurance of her truth;—when suddenly he had her in his arms and had pressed his lips to hers. In a moment she was standing in the middle of the room. Though he was strong, her strength was sufficient for her. "My lord!" she exclaimed.

"Ah, you are angry with me?"

"My lord, my lord,—I did not think you would treat me like that."

"But, Marion; do you not love me?"

"Have I not told you that I do? Have I not been true and honest to you? Do you not know it all?" But in truth he did not know it all. "And now I must bid you never, never to come again."

"But I shall come. I will come. I will come always. You will not cease to love me?"

"No;—not that—I cannot do that. But you must not come. You have done that which makes me ashamed of myself." At that moment the door was opened, and Mrs. Roden came into the room.



CHAPTER XXI.

DI CRINOLA.

The reader must submit to have himself carried back some weeks,—to those days early in January, when Mrs. Roden called upon her son to accompany her to Italy. Indeed, he must be carried back a long way beyond that; but the time during which he need be so detained shall be short. A few pages will suffice to tell so much of the early life of this lady as will be necessary to account for her residence in Paradise Row.

Mary Roden, the lady whom we have known as Mrs. Roden, was left an orphan at the age of fifteen, her mother having died when she was little more than an infant. Her father was an Irish clergyman with no means of his own but what he secured from a small living; but his wife had inherited money amounting to about eight thousand pounds, and this had descended to Mary when her father died. The girl was then taken in charge by a cousin of her own, a lady ten years her senior who had lately married, and whom we have since met as Mrs. Vincent, living at Wimbledon. Mr. Vincent had been well connected and well-to-do in the world, and till he died the household in which Mary Roden had been brought up had been luxurious as well as comfortable. Nor did Mr. Vincent die till after his wife's cousin had found a husband for herself. Soon afterwards he was gathered to his fathers, leaving to his widow a comfortable, but not more than a comfortable, income.

The year before his death he and his wife had gone into Italy, rather on account of his health than for pleasure, and had then settled themselves at Verona for a winter,—a winter which eventually stretched itself into nearly a year, at the close of which Mr. Vincent died. But before that event took place Mary Roden had become a wife.

At Verona, at first at the house of her own cousin,—which was of course her own home,—and afterwards in the society of the place to which the Vincents had been made welcome,—Mary met a young man who was known to all the world as the Duca di Crinola. No young man more beautiful to look at, more charming in manners, more ready in conversation, was then known in those parts of Italy than this young nobleman. In addition to these good gifts, he was supposed to have in his veins the very best blood in all Europe. It was declared on his behalf that he was related to the Bourbons and to the Hapsburgh family. Indeed there was very little of the best blood which Europe had produced in the last dozen centuries of which some small proportion was not running in his veins. He was too the eldest son of his father, who, though he possessed the most magnificent palace in Verona, had another equally magnificent in Venice, in which it suited him to live with his Duchessa. As the old nobleman did not come often to Verona, and as the young nobleman never went to Venice, the father and son did not see much of each other, an arrangement which was supposed to have its own comforts, as the young man was not disturbed in the possession of his hotel, and as the old man was reported in Verona generally to be arbitrary, hot-tempered, and tyrannical. It was therefore said of the young Duke by his friends that he was nearly as well off as though he had no father at all.

But there were other things in the history of the young Duke which, as they became known to the Vincents, did not seem to be altogether so charming. Though of all the palaces in Verona that in which he lived was by far the most beautiful to look at from the outside, it was not supposed to be furnished in a manner conformable to its external appearance. It was, indeed, declared that the rooms were for the most part bare; and the young Duke never gave the lie to these assertions by throwing them open to his friends. It was said of him also that his income was so small and so precarious that it amounted almost to nothing, that the cross old Duke at Venice never allowed him a shilling, and that he had done everything in his power to destroy the hopes of a future inheritance. Nevertheless, he was beautiful to look at in regard to his outward attire, and could hardly have been better dressed had he been able to pay his tailor and shirt-maker quarterly. And he was a man of great accomplishments, who could talk various languages, who could paint, and model, and write sonnets, and dance to perfection. And he could talk of virtue, and in some sort seem to believe in it,—though he would sometimes confess of himself that Nature had not endowed him with the strength necessary for the performance of all the good things which he so thoroughly appreciated.

Such as he was he entirely gained the affection of Mary Roden. It is unnecessary here to tell the efforts that were made by Mrs. Vincent to prevent the marriage. Had she been less austere she might, perhaps, have prevailed with the girl. But as she began by pointing out to her cousin the horror of giving herself, who had been born and bred a Protestant, to a Roman Catholic,—and also of bestowing her English money upon an Italian,—all that she said was without effect. The state of Mr. Vincent's health made it impossible for them to move, or Mary might perhaps have been carried back to England. When she was told that the man was poor, she declared that there was so much the more reason why her money should be given to relieve the wants of the man she loved. It ended in their being married, and all that Mr. Vincent was able to accomplish was to see that the marriage ceremony should be performed after the fashion both of the Church of England and of the Church of Rome. Mary at the time was more than twenty-one, and was thus able, with all the romance of girlhood, to pour her eight thousand pounds into the open hands of her thrice-noble and thrice-beautiful lover.

The Duchino with his young Duchessina went their way rejoicing, and left poor Mr. Vincent to die at Verona. Twelve months afterwards the widow had settled herself at the house at Wimbledon, from which she had in latter years paid her weekly visits to Paradise Row, and tidings had come from the young wife which were not altogether satisfactory. The news, indeed, which declared that a young little Duke had been born to her was accompanied by expressions of joy which the other surrounding incidents of her life were not permitted at the moment altogether to embitter. Her baby, her well-born beautiful baby, was for a few months allowed to be a joy to her, even though things were otherwise very sorrowful. But things were very sorrowful. The old Duke and the old Duchess would not acknowledge her. Then she learned that the quarrel between the father and son had been carried to such a pitch that no hope of reconciliation remained. Whatever was left of family property was gone as far as any inheritance on the part of the elder son was concerned. He had himself assisted in making over to a second brother all right that he possessed in the property belonging to the family. Then tidings of horror accumulated itself upon her and her baby. Then came tidings that her husband had been already married when he first met her,—which tidings did not reach her till he had left her alone, somewhere up among the Lakes, for an intended absence of three days. After that day she never saw him again. The next she heard of him was from Italy, from whence he wrote to her to tell her that she was an angel, and that he, devil as he was, was not fit to appear in her presence. Other things had occurred during the fifteen months in which they had lived together to make her believe at any rate the truth of this last statement. It was not that she ceased to love him, but that she knew that he was not fit to be loved. When a woman is bad a man can generally get quit of her from his heartstrings;—but a woman has no such remedy. She can continue to love the dishonoured one without dishonour to herself,—and does so.

Among other misfortunes was the loss of all her money. There she was, in the little villa on the side of the lake, with no income,—and with statements floating about her that she had not, and never had had, a husband. It might well be that after that she should caution Marion Fay as to the imprudence of an exalted marriage. But there came to her assistance, if not friendship and love, in the midst of her misfortunes. Her brother-in-law,—if she had a husband or a brother-in-law,—came to her from the old Duke with terms of surrender; and there came also a man of business, a lawyer, from Venice, to make good the terms if they should be accepted. Though money was very scarce with the family, or the power of raising money, still such was the feeling of the old nobleman in her misfortunes that the entire sum which had been given up to his eldest son should be restored to trustees for her use and for the benefit of her baby, on condition that she should leave Italy, and consent to drop the title of the Di Crinola family. As to that question of a former marriage, the old lawyer declared that he was unable to give any certain information. The reprobate had no doubt gone through some form of a ceremony with a girl of low birth at Venice. It very probably was not a marriage. The young Duchino, the brother, declared his belief that there had been no such marriage. But she, should she cling to the name, could not make her title good to it without obtaining proofs which they had not been able to find. No doubt she could call herself Duchess. Had she means at command she might probably cause herself to be received as such. But no property would thus be affected,—nor would it rob him, the younger son, of his right to call himself also by the title. The offer made to her was not ungenerous. The family owed her nothing, but were willing to sacrifice nearly half of all they had with the object of restoring to her the money of which the profligate had robbed her,—which he had been enabled to take from her by her own folly and credulity. In this terrible emergency of her life, Mrs. Vincent sent over to her a solicitor from London, between whom and the Italian man of business a bargain was struck. The young wife undertook to drop her husband's name, and to drop it also on behalf of her boy. Then the eight thousand pounds was repaid, and Mrs. Roden, as she afterwards called herself, went back to Wimbledon and to England with her baby.

So far the life of George Roden's mother had been most unfortunate. After that, for a period of sixteen years time went with her, if not altogether happily, at least quietly and comfortably. Then there came a subject of disruption. George Roden took upon himself to have opinions of his own; and would not hold his peace in the presence of Mrs. Vincent, to whom those opinions were most unacceptable. And they were the more unacceptable because the mother's tone of mind had always taken something of the bent which appeared so strongly afterwards in her son. George at any rate could not be induced to be silent; nor,—which was worse,—could he after reaching his twentieth year be made to go to church with that regularity which was necessary for the elder lady's peace of mind. He at this time had achieved for himself a place in the office ruled over by our friend Sir Boreas, and had in this way become so much of a man as to be entitled to judge for himself. In this way there had been no quarrel between Mrs. Vincent and Mrs. Roden, but there had come a condition of things in which it had been thought expedient that they should live apart. Mrs. Roden had therefore taken for herself a house in Paradise Row, and those weekly inter-visitings had been commenced between her and her cousin.

Such had been the story of Mrs. Roden's life, till tidings were received in England that her husband was dead. The information had been sent to Mrs. Vincent by the younger son of the late old Duke, who was now a nobleman well known in the political life of his own country. He had stated that, to the best of his belief, his brother's first union had not been a legal marriage. He thought it right, he had said, to make this statement, and to say that as far as he was concerned he was willing to withdraw that compact upon which his father had insisted. If his sister-in-law wished to call herself by the name and title of Di Crinola, she might do so. Or if the young man of whom he spoke as his nephew wished to be known as Duca di Crinola he would raise no objection. But it must be remembered that he had nothing to offer to his relative but the barren tender of the name. He himself had succeeded to but very little, and that which he possessed had not been taken from his brother.

Then there were sundry meetings between Mrs. Vincent and Mrs. Roden, at which it was decided that Mrs. Roden should go to Italy with her son. Her brother-in-law had been courteous to her, and had offered to receive her if she would come. Should she wish to use the name of Di Crinola, he had promised that she should be called by it in his house; so that the world around might know that she was recognized by him and his wife and children. She determined that she would at any rate make the journey, and that she would take her son with her.

George Roden had hitherto learnt nothing of his father or his family. In the many consultations held between his mother and Mrs. Vincent it had been decided that it would be better to keep him in the dark. Why fill his young imagination with the glory of a great title in order that he might learn at last, as might too probably be the case, that he had no right to the name,—no right to consider himself even to be his father's son? She, by her folly,—so she herself acknowledged,—had done all that was possible to annihilate herself as a woman. There was no name which she could give to her son as certainly as her own. This, which had been hers before she had been allured into a mock marriage, would at any rate not be disputed. And thus he had been kept in ignorance of his mother's story. Of course he had asked. It was no more than natural that he should ask. But when told that it was for his mother's comfort that he should ask no more, he had assented with that reticence which was peculiar to him. Then chance had thrown him into friendship with the young English nobleman, and the love of Lady Frances Trafford had followed.

His mother, when he consented to accompany her, had almost promised him that all mysteries should be cleared up between them before their return. In the train, before they reached Paris, a question was asked and an answer given which served to tell much of the truth. As they came down to breakfast that morning, early in the dark January morning, he observed that his mother was dressed in deep mourning. It had always been her custom to wear black raiment. He could not remember that he had ever seen on her a coloured dress, or even a bright ribbon. And she was not now dressed quite as is a widow immediately on the death of her husband. It was now a quarter of a century since she had seen the man who had so ill-used her. According to the account which she had received, it was twelve months at least since he had died in one of the Grecian islands. The full weeds of a mourning widow would ill have befitted her condition of mind, or her immediate purpose. But yet there was a speciality of blackness in her garments which told him that she had dressed herself with a purpose as of mourning. "Mother," he said to her in the train, "you are in mourning,—as for a friend?" Then when she paused he asked again, "May I not be told for whom it is done? Am I not right in saying that it is so?"

"It is so, George."

"For whom then?"

They two were alone in the carriage, and why should his question not be answered now? But it had come to pass that there was a horror to her in mentioning the name of his father to him. "George," she said, "it is more than twenty-five years since I saw your father."

"Is he dead—only now?"

"It is only now,—only the other day,—that I have heard of his death."

"Why should not I also be in black?"

"I had not thought of it. But you never saw him since he had you in his arms as a baby. You cannot mourn for him in heart."

"Do you?"

"It is hard to say for what we mourn sometimes. Of course I loved him once. There is still present to me a memory of what I loved,—of the man who won my heart by such gifts as belonged to him; and for that I mourn. He was beautiful and clever, and he charmed me. It is hard to say sometimes for what we mourn."

"Was he a foreigner, mother?"

"Yes, George. He was an Italian. You shall know it all soon now. But do not you mourn. To you no memories are left. Were it not for the necessity of the present moment, no idea of a father should ever be presented to you." She vouchsafed to tell him no more at that moment, and he pressed her with no further questions.

END OF VOL. II.

Bungay: Printed by Clay and Taylor.

* * * * * *

MARION FAY.

A Novel.

by

ANTHONY TROLLOPE,

Author of "Framley Parsonage," "Orley Farm," "The Way We Live Now," etc., etc.

In Three Volumes.

VOL. III.



London: Chapman & Hall, Limited, 11, Henrietta St. 1882 [All Rights reserved.]

Bungay: Clay and Taylor, Printers.



CONTENTS OF VOLUME III.

I. "I WILL COME BACK AS I WENT." II. TRUE TIDINGS. III. ALL THE WORLD KNOWS IT. IV. "IT SHALL BE DONE." V. MARION WILL CERTAINLY HAVE HER WAY. VI. "BUT HE IS;—HE IS." VII. THE GREAT QUESTION. VIII. "I CANNOT COMPEL HER." IX. IN PARK LANE. X. AFTER ALL HE ISN'T. XI. "OF COURSE THERE WAS A BITTERNESS." XII. LORD HAMPSTEAD AGAIN WITH MRS. RODEN. XIII. LORD HAMPSTEAD AGAIN WITH MARION. XIV. CROCKER'S DISTRESS. XV. "DISMISSAL. B. B." XVI. PEGWELL BAY. XVII. LADY AMALDINA'S WEDDING. XVIII. CROCKER'S TALE. XIX. "MY MARION." XX. MR. GREENWOOD'S LAST BATTLE. XXI. THE REGISTRAR OF STATE RECORDS.



MARION FAY.

CHAPTER I.

"I WILL COME BACK AS I WENT."

While Lord Hampstead's party were at Gorse Hall, some weeks before poor Walker's accident, there came a letter from George Roden to Lady Frances, and she, when she reached Hendon Hall, found a second. Both these letters, or parts of them, shall be here given, as they will tell all that need be added to what is already known of the story of the man, and will explain to the reader the cause and manner of action which he adopted.

Rome, January 30th, 18—.

DEAREST FANNY,—

I wonder whether it will seem as odd to you to receive a letter from me written at Rome as it is to me to write it. Our letters hitherto have been very few in number, and have only declared that in spite of obstacles we shall always love each other. I have never before had anything in truth to tell you; but now I have so much that I do not know how to begin or how to go on with it. But it must be written, as there is much that will interest you as my dearest friend, and much also that will concern yourself should you ever become my wife. It may be that a point will arise as to which you and your friends,—your father, for instance, and your brother,—will feel yourselves entitled to have a voice in deciding. It may be quite possible that your judgment, or, at any rate, that of your friends, may differ from my own. Should it be so I cannot say that I shall be prepared to yield; but I will, at any rate, enable you to submit the case to them with all fairness.

I have told you more than once how little I have known of my own family,—that I have known indeed nothing. My mother has seemed to me to be perversely determined not to tell me all that which I will acknowledge I have thought that I ought to know. But with equal perversity I have refrained from asking questions on a subject of which I think I should have been told everything without questioning. And I am a man not curious by nature as to the past. I am more anxious as to what I may do myself than as to what others of my family may have done before me.

When, however, my mother asked me to go with her to Italy, it was manifest that her journey had reference to her former life. I knew from circumstances which could not be hidden from me,—from her knowledge, for instance, of Italian, and from some relics which remained to her of her former life,—that she had lived for some period in this country. As my place of birth had never been mentioned to me, I could not but guess that I had been born in Italy, and when I found that I was going there I felt certain that I must learn some portion of the story of which I had been kept in ignorance. Now I have learnt it all as far as my poor mother knows it herself; and as it will concern you to know it too, I must endeavour to explain to you all the details. Dearest Fanny, I do trust that when you have heard them you will think neither worse of me on that account,—nor better. It is as to the latter that I am really in fear. I wish to believe that no chance attribute could make me stand higher in your esteem than I have come to stand already by my own personal character.

Then he told her,—not, perhaps, quite so fully as the reader has heard it told in the last chapter,—the story of his mother's marriage and of his own birth. Before they had reached Rome, where the Duca di Crinola at present lived, and where he was at present a member of the Italian Cabinet, the mother had told her son all that she knew, having throughout the telling of the story unconsciously manifested to him her own desire to remain in obscurity, and to bear the name which had been hers for five-and-twenty years; but at the same time so to manage that he should return to England bearing the title to which by his birth she believed him to be entitled. When in discussing this he explained to her that it would be still necessary for him to earn his bread as a clerk in the Post Office in spite of his high-sounding nobility, and explained to her the absurdity of his sitting in Mr. Jerningham's room at the desk with young Crocker, and calling himself at the same time the Duca di Crinola, she in her arguments exhibited a weakness which he had hardly expected from her. She spoke vaguely, but with an assurance of personal hope, of Lady Frances, of Lord Hampstead, of the Marquis of Kingsbury, and of Lord Persiflage,—as though by the means of these noble personages the Duca di Crinola might be able to live in idleness. Of all this Roden could say nothing in this first letter to Lady Frances. But it was to this that he alluded when he hoped that she would not think better of him because of the news which he sent her.

"At present," he wrote, continuing his letter after the telling of the story,

we are staying with my uncle, as I presume I am entitled to call him. He is very gracious, as also are his wife and the young ladies who are my cousins; but I think that he is as anxious as I am that there should be no acknowledged branch of the family senior to his own. He is Duca di Crinola to all Italy, and will remain so whether I assume the title or not. Were I to take the name, and to remain in Italy,—which is altogether impossible,—I should be nobody. He who has made for himself a great position, and apparently has ample means, would not in truth be affected. But I am sure that he would not wish it. He is actuated by a sense of honesty, but he certainly has no desire to be incommoded by relatives who would, as regards the family, claim to be superior to himself. My dearest mother wishes to behave well to him, wishes to sacrifice herself; but is, I fear, above all things, anxious to procure for her son the name and title which his father bore.

As for myself, you will, I think, already have perceived that it is my desire to remain as I was when last I saw you, and to be as ever

Yours, most affectionately,

GEORGE RODEN.

Lady Frances was, as may be imagined, much startled at the receipt of this letter;—startled, and also pleased. Though she had always declared to herself that she was in every respect satisfied with her lover from the Post Office, though she had been sure that she had never wanted him to be other than he was, still, when she heard of that fine-sounding name, there did for a moment come upon her an idea that, for his sake, it might be well that he should have the possession of all that his birth had done for him. But when she came to understand the meaning of his words, as she did on the second or third reading of his letter,—when she discovered what he meant by saying that he hoped she would not think better of him by reason of what he was telling her, when she understood the purport of the manner in which he signed his name, she resolved that in every respect she would think as he thought and act as he wished her to act. Whatever might be the name which he might be pleased to give her, with that would she be contented, nor would she be led by any one belonging to her to ask him to change his purpose.

For two days she kept the letter by her unanswered, and without speaking of it to anybody. Then she showed it to her brother, exacting from him a promise that he should not speak of it to any one without her permission. "It is George's secret," she said, "and I am sure you will see that I have no right to disclose it. I tell you because he would do so if he were here." Her brother was willing enough to make the promise, which would of course be in force only till he and Roden should see each other; but he could not be brought to agree with his sister as to his friend's view of the position.

"He may have what fancies he pleases about titles," he said, "as may I; but I do not think that he would be justified in repudiating his father's name. I feel it a burden and an absurdity to be born to be an earl and a marquis, but I have to put up with it; and, though my reason and political feeling on the matter tell me that it is a burden and an absurdity, yet the burden is easily borne, and the absurdity does not annoy me much. There is a gratification in being honoured by those around you, though your conscience may be twinged that you yourself have done nothing to deserve it. It will be so with him if he takes his position here as an Italian nobleman."

"But he would still have to be a clerk in the Post Office."

"Probably not."

"But how would he live?" asked Lady Frances.

"The governor, you would find, would look upon him in a much more favourable light than he does at present."

"That would be most unreasonable."

"Not at all. It is not unreasonable that a Marquis of Kingsbury should be unwilling to give his daughter to George Roden, a clerk in the Post Office,—but that he should be willing to give her to a Duca di Crinola."

"What has that to do with earning money?"

"The Governor would probably find an income in one case, and not in the other. I do not quite say that it ought to be so, but it is not unreasonable that it should be so." Then Lady Frances said a great deal as to that pride in her lover which would not allow him to accept such a position as that which was now suggested.

There was a long discussion on the subject. Her brother explained to her how common it was for noblemen of high birth to live on means provided by their wives' fortunes, and how uncommon it was that men born to high titles should consent to serve as clerks in a public office. But his common sense had no effect upon his sister, who ended the conversation by exacting from him a renewed assurance of secrecy. "I won't say a word till he comes," said Hampstead; "but you may be sure that a story like that will be all over London before he does come."

Lady Frances of course answered her lover's letter; but of what she said it is only necessary that the reader should know that she promised that in all things she would be entirely guided by his wishes.

Then came his second letter to her, dated on the day on which poor Walker had nearly been crushed to death. "I am so glad that you agree with me," he wrote.

Since my last letter to you everything here has been decided as far as I can decide it,—or, indeed, as far as any of us can do so. There can, I think, be no doubt as to the legality of my mother's marriage. My uncle is of the same opinion, and points out to me that were I to claim my father's name no one would attempt to dispute it. He alone could do so,—or rather would be the person to do so if it were done. He would make no such attempt, and would himself present me to the King here as the Duca di Crinola if I chose to remain and to accept the position. But I certainly will not do so. I should in the first place be obliged to give up my nationality. I could not live in England bearing an Italian title, except as an Italian. I do not know that as an Italian I should be forced to give up my place in the Post Office. Foreigners, I believe, are employed in the Civil Service. But there would be an absurdity in it which to me would be specially annoying. I could not live under such a weight of ridicule. Nor could I live in any position in which some meagre income might be found for me because of my nobility. No such income would be forthcoming here. I can imagine that your father might make a provision for a poor son-in-law with a grand title. He ought not to do so, according to my ideas, but it might be possible that he should find himself persuaded to such weakness. But I could not accept it. I should not be above taking money with my wife, if it happened to come in my way, provided that I were earning an income myself to the best of my ability. For her sake I should do what might be best for her. But not even for your sake,—if you wished it, as I know you do not,—could I consent to hang about the world in idleness as an Italian duke without a shilling of my own. Therefore, my darling, I purpose to come back as I went,

Your own,

GEORGE RODEN.

Clerk in the Post Office, and entitled to consider myself as being on "H.M.S." when at work from ten till four.

This letter reached Lady Frances at Hendon Hall on the return of herself and her brother from Gorse Hall. But before that time the prophecy uttered by Lord Hampstead as to the story being all over London had already been in part fulfilled. Vivian during their hunting weeks at Gorse Hall had been running continually up and down from London, where his work as private secretary to the Secretary of State had been, of course, most constant and important. He had, nevertheless, managed to have three days a week in Northamptonshire, explaining to his friends in London that he did it by sitting up all night in the country, to his friends in the country that he sat up all night in town. There are some achievements which are never done in the presence of those who hear of them. Catching salmon is one, and working all night is another. Vivian, however, managed to do what was required of him, and to enjoy his hunting at the same time.

On his arrival at Gorse Hall the day before the famous accident he had a budget of news of which he was very full, but of which he at first spoke only to Hampstead. He could not, at any rate, speak of it in the presence of Lady Frances. "You have heard this, haven't you, about George Roden?" he asked, as soon as he could get Lord Hampstead to himself.

"Heard what about George Roden?" asked the other, who, of course, had heard it all.

"The Italian title."

"What about an Italian title?"

"But have you heard it?"

"I have heard something. What have you heard?"

"George Roden is in Italy."

"Unless he has left it. He has been there, no doubt."

"And his mother." Hampstead nodded his head. "I suppose you do know all about it?"

"I want to know what you know. What I have heard has come to me as a secret. Your story can probably be divulged."

"I don't know that. We are apt to be pretty close as to what we hear at the Foreign Office. But this didn't come as specially private. I've had a letter from Muscati, a very good fellow in the Foreign Office there, who had in some way heard your name as connected with Roden."

"That is very likely."

"And your sister's," said Vivian in a whisper.

"That is likely too. Men talk about anything now-a-days."

"Lord Persiflage has heard direct from Italy. He is interested, of course, as being brother-in-law to Lady Kingsbury."

"But what have they heard?"

"It seems that Roden isn't an Englishman at all."

"That will be as he likes, I take it. He has lived here as an Englishman for five-and-twenty years."

"But of course he'll prefer to be an Italian," said Vivian. "It turns out that he is heir to one of the oldest titles in Italy. You have heard of the Ducas di Crinola?"

"I have heard of them now."

"One of them is Minister of Education in the present Cabinet, and is likely to be the Premier. But he isn't the head of the family, and he isn't really the Duca di Crinola. He is called so, of course. But he isn't the head of the family. George Roden is the real Duca di Crinola. I thought there must be something special about the man when your sister took such a fancy to him."

"I always thought there was something special about him," said Hampstead; "otherwise I should hardly have liked him so well."

"So did I. He always seemed to be,—to me,—just one of ourselves, you know. A fellow doesn't come out like that unless he's somebody. You Radicals may say what you please, but silk purses don't get made out of sow's ears. Nobody stands up for blood less than I do; but, by George, it always shows itself. You wouldn't think Crocker was heir to a dukedom."

"Upon my word, I don't know. I have a great respect for Crocker."

"And now what's to be done?" asked Vivian.

"How done?"

"About Di Crinola? Lord Persiflage says that he can't remain in the Post Office."

"Why not?"

"I'm afraid he doesn't come in for much?"

"Not a shilling."

"Lord Persiflage thinks that something should be done for him. But it is so hard. It should be done in Italy, you know. I should think that they might make him extra Secretary of Legation, so as to leave him here. But then they have such a small salary!" As the story of George Roden's birth was thus known to all the Foreign Office, it was probable that Hampstead's prophecy would be altogether fulfilled.



CHAPTER II.

TRUE TIDINGS.

The Foreign Office, from top to bottom, was very much moved on the occasion,—and not without cause. The title of Di Crinola was quite historic, and had existed for centuries. No Duca di Crinola,—at any rate, no respectable Duca di Crinola,—could be in England even as a temporary visitant without being considered as entitled to some consideration from the Foreign Office. The existing duke of that name, who had lately been best known, was at present a member of the Italian Ministry. Had he come he would have been entitled to great consideration. But he, as now appeared, was not the real Duca di Crinola. The real duke was an Englishman,—or an Anglicized Italian, or an Italianized Englishman. No one in the Foreign Office, not even the most ancient pundit there, quite knew what he was. It was clear that the Foreign Office must take some notice of the young nobleman. But in all this was not contained more than half of the real reasons for peculiar consideration. This Anglicized Italian Duca was known to be engaged to the daughter of an English Marquis, to a lady who, if not niece, was next door to being niece to the Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs himself! Many years must have passed since an individual had sprung into notice so interesting in many different ways to all the body of the Foreign Office!

And this personage was a clerk in the Post Office! There had no doubt been a feeling in the Foreign Office, if not of actual disgrace, at any rate of mingled shame and regret, that a niece of their Secretary of State should have engaged herself to one so low. Had he been in the Foreign Office himself something might have been made of him;—but a Clerk in the Post Office! The thing had been whispered about and talked over, till there had come up an idea that Lady Frances should be sent away on some compulsory foreign mission, so as to be out of the pernicious young man's reach. But now it turned out suddenly that the young man was the Duca di Crinola, and it was evident to all of them that Lady Frances Trafford was justified in her choice.

But what was to be done with the Duca? Rumours reached the Foreign Office that the infatuated young nobleman intended to adhere to his most unaristocratic position. The absurdity of a clerk of the third class in one of the branches of the Post Office, with a salary of a hundred and seventy a year, and sitting in the same room with Crockers and Bobbins while he would have to be called by everybody the Duca di Crinola, was apparent to the mind of the lowest Foreign Office official. It couldn't be so, they said to each other. Something must be done. If Government pay were necessary to him, could he not be transformed by a leap into the Elysium of their own department, where he might serve with some especial name invented for the occasion? Then there arose questions which no man could answer. Were he to be introduced into this new-fangled office proposed for him, would he come in as an Englishman or an Italian; and if as an Englishman, was it in accordance with received rules of etiquette that he should be called Duca di Crinola? Would it be possible in so special a case to get special permission from the Crown; or if not, could he be appointed to the Foreign Office as a foreigner? The special permission, though it was surrounded by so many difficulties, yet seemed to be easier and less monstrous than this latter suggestion. They understood that though he could not well be dismissed from the office which he already held, it might be difficult to appoint a foreign nobleman to the performance of duties which certainly required more than ordinary British tendencies. In this way the mind of the Foreign Office was moved, and the coming of the young duke was awaited with considerable anxiety.

The news went beyond the Foreign Office. Whether it was that the Secretary of State himself told the story to the ladies of his household, or that it reached them through private secretaries, it was certainly the case that Lady Persiflage was enabled to write a very interesting letter to her sister, and that Lady Amaldina took the occasion of congratulating her cousin and of informing her lover.

Lady Kingsbury, when she received the news, was still engaged in pointing out to her husband the iniquity of his elder children in having admitted the visit of Mr. Roden to Hendon Hall. This, she persisted in saying, had been done in direct opposition to most solemn promises made by all the parties concerned. The Marquis at the time had recovered somewhat of his strength, in consequence, as was said among the household, of the removal of Mr. Greenwood into Shrewsbury. And the Marchioness took advantage of this improved condition on the part of her husband to make him sensible of the abominable iniquity of which the young persons had been guilty. The visit had occurred two months since, but the iniquity to Lady Kingsbury's thinking still demanded express condemnation and, if possible, punishment. "A direct and premeditated falsehood on the part of them all!" said Lady Kingsbury, standing over her husband, who was recumbent on the sofa in his own room.

"No; it wasn't," said the Marquis, who found it easier to deny the whole charge than to attempt in his weakness to divide the guilt.

"My dear! When she was allowed to go to Hendon Hall, was it not done on a sacred pledge that she should not see that horrid man? Did not Hampstead repeat the promise to my own ears?"

"How could he help his coming? I wish you wouldn't trouble me about it any more."

"Then I suppose that she is to have your leave to marry the man whenever she chooses!"

Then he roused himself with whatever strength he possessed, and begged her to leave him. With much indignation she stalked out of the room, and going to her apartments found the following letter, which had just arrived from her sister;—

MY DEAR CLARA,—

As you are down in the country, I suppose the news about Fanny's "young man" has not yet reached you.

Fanny's young man! Had Fanny been the housemaid, it was thus that they might have spoken of her lover. Could it be that "Fanny and her young man" had already got themselves married? Lady Kingsbury, when she read this, almost let the letter drop from her hand, so much was she disgusted by the manner in which her sister spoke of this most unfortunate affair.

I heard something of it only yesterday, and the rest of the details to-day. As it has come through the Foreign Office you may be quite sure that it is true, though it is so wonderful. The young man is not George Roden at all, nor is he an Englishman. He is an Italian, and his proper name and title is Duca di Crinola.

Again Lady Kingsbury allowed the letter almost to drop; but on this occasion with feelings of a very different nature. What! not George Roden! Not a miserable clerk in the English Post Office! Duca di Crinola;—a title of which she thought that she remembered to have heard as belonging to some peculiarly ancient family! It was not to be believed. And yet it came from her sister, who was usually correct in all such matters;—and came also from the Foreign Office, which she regarded as the one really trustworthy source of information as to foreign matters of an aristocratic nature. "Duca di Crinola!" she said to herself, as she went on with the reading of her letter.

There is a long story of the marriage of his mother which I do not quite understand as yet, but it is not necessary to the facts of the case. The young man has been recognized in his own country as entitled to all the honours of his family, and must be received so by us. Persiflage says that he will be ready to present him at Court on his return as Duca di Crinola, and will ask him at once to dine in Belgrave Square. It is a most romantic story, but must be regarded by you and me as being very fortunate, as dear Fanny had certainly set her heart upon marrying the man. I am told that he inherits nothing but the bare title. Some foreign noblemen are, you know, very poor; and in this case the father, who was a "mauvais sujet," contrived to destroy whatever rights of property he had. Lord Kingsbury probably will be able to do something for him. Perhaps he may succeed in getting official employment suited to his rank. At any rate we must all of us make the best of him for Fanny's sake. It will be better to have a Duca di Crinola among us, even though he should not have a shilling, than a Post Office clerk with two or three hundred a year.

I asked Persiflage to write to Lord Kingsbury; but he tells me that I must do it all, because he is so busy. Were my brother-in-law well enough I think he should come up to town to make inquiry himself and to see the young man. If he cannot do so, he had better get Hampstead to take him down to Trafford. Hampstead and this young Duchino are luckily bosom friends. It tells well for Hampstead that, after all, he did not go so low for his associates as you thought he did. Amaldina intends to write to Fanny to congratulate her.

Your affectionate sister,

GERALDINE PERSIFLAGE.

Duca di Crinola! She could not quite believe it;—and yet she did believe it. Nor could she be quite sure as to herself whether she was happy in believing it or the reverse. It had been terrible to her to think that she should have to endure the name of being stepmother to a clerk in the Post Office. It would not be at all terrible to her to be stepmother to a Duca di Crinola, even though the stepson would have no property of his own. That little misfortune would, as far as the feelings of society went, be swallowed up amidst the attributes of rank. Nothing would sound better than Duchessa or Duchessina! And, moreover, it would be all true! This was no paltry title which might be false, or might have been picked up, any how, the other day. All the world would know that the Italian Duke was the lineal representative of a magnificent family to whom this identical rank had belonged for many years. There were strong reasons for taking the young Duke and the young Duchess to her heart at once.

But then there were other reasons why she should not wish it to be true. In the first place she hated them both. Let the man be Duca di Crinola as much as he might, he would still have been a Post Office clerk, and Lady Frances would have admitted his courtship having believed him at the time to have been no more than a Post Office clerk. The sin would have been not the less abominable in the choice of her lover, although it might be expedient that the sin should be forgiven. And then the girl had insulted her, and there had been that between them which would prevent the possibility of future love; and would it not be hard upon her darlings if it should become necessary to carve out from the family property a permanent income for this Italian nobleman, and for a generation of Italian noblemen to come; and then what a triumph would this be for Hampstead, who, of all human beings, was the most distasteful to her.

But upon the whole she thought it would be best to accept the Duca. She must, indeed, accept him. Nothing that she could do would restore the young man to his humble desk and humble name. Nor would the Marquis be actuated by any prayer of hers in reference to the carving of the property. It would be better for her to accept the young Duke and the young Duchess, and make the best of them. If only the story should at last be shown to be true!

The duty was imposed on her of communicating the story to the Marquis; but before she did so she was surprised by a visit from Mr. Greenwood. Mr. Roberts had used no more than the violence of argument, and Mr. Greenwood had been induced to take himself to Shrewsbury on the day named for his departure. If he went he would have L200 a year from the Marquis,—and L100 would be added by Lord Hampstead, of which the Marquis need not know anything. Unless he went on the day fixed that L100 would not be added. A good deal was said on either side, but he went. The Marquis had refused to see him. The Marchioness had bade him adieu in a most formal manner,—in a manner quite unbecoming those familiar suggestions which, he thought, had been made to him as to a specially desirable event. But he had gone, and as he went he told himself that circumstances might yet occur in the family which might be of use to him. He, too, had heard the great family news,—perhaps through some under-satellite of the Foreign Office, and he came with the idea that he would be the first to make it known at Trafford Park.

He would have asked for the Marquis, but he knew that the Marquis would not receive him. Lady Kingsbury consented to see him, and he was ushered up to the room to which he had so often made his way without any asking. "I hope you are well, Mr. Greenwood," she said. "Are you still staying in the neighbourhood?" It was, however, well known at Trafford that he was at Shrewsbury.

"Yes, Lady Kingsbury. I have not gone from the neighbourhood. I thought that perhaps you might want to see me again."

"I don't know that we need trouble you, Mr. Greenwood."

"I have come with some news respecting the family." As he said this he managed to assume the old look, and stood as though he had never moved from the place since he had last been in the room.

"Do sit down, Mr. Greenwood. What news?"

"Mr. George Roden, the clerk in the Post Office—"

But she was not going to have the tidings repeated to her by him, so as to give him any claim to gratitude for having brought them. "You mean the Duca di Crinola!"

"Oh," exclaimed Mr. Greenwood.

"I have heard all that, Mr. Greenwood."

"That the Post Office clerk is an Italian nobleman?"

"It suited the Italian nobleman for a time to be a Post Office clerk. That is what you mean."

"And Lady Frances is to be allowed—"

"Mr. Greenwood, I must ask you not to discuss Lady Frances here."

"Oh! Not to discuss her ladyship!"

"Surely you must be aware how angry the Marquis has been about it."

"Oh!" He had not seated himself, nor divested himself of that inquisitorial appearance which was so distasteful to her. "We used to discuss Lady Frances sometimes, Lady Kingsbury."

"I will not discuss her now. Let that be enough, Mr. Greenwood."

"Nor yet Lord Hampstead."

"Nor yet Lord Hampstead. I think it very wrong of you to come after all that took place. If the Marquis knew it—"

Oh! If the Marquis knew it! If the Marquis knew all, and if other people knew all! If it were known how often her ladyship had spoken, and how loud, as to the wished-for removal to a better world of his lordship's eldest son! But he could not dare to speak it out. And yet it was cruel on him! He had for some days felt her ladyship to be under his thumb, and now it seemed that she had escaped from him. "Oh! very well, Lady Kingsbury. Perhaps I had better go,—just for the present." And he went.

This served, at least, for corroboration. She did not dare to keep the secret long from her husband, and therefore, in the course of the evening, went down with her sister's letter in her hand. "What!" said the Marquis, when the story had been read to him. "What! Duca di Crinola."

"There can't be a doubt about it, my dear."

"And he a clerk in the Post Office?"

"He isn't a clerk in the Post Office now."

"I don't quite see what he will be then. It appears that he has inherited nothing."

"My sister says nothing."

"Then what's the good of his title. There is nothing so pernicious in the world as a pauper aristocracy. A clerk in the Post Office is entitled to have a wife, but a poor nobleman should at any rate let his poverty die with himself."

This was a view of the case which had not hitherto presented itself to Lady Kingsbury. When she suggested to him that the young nobleman should be asked down to Trafford, he did not seem to see that it was at all necessary. It would be much better that Fanny should come back. The young nobleman would, he supposed, live in his own country;—unless, indeed, the whole tale was a cock-and-bull story made up by Persiflage at the Foreign Office. It was just the sort of thing, he said, that Persiflage would do. He had said not a word as to carving an income out of the property for the young noble couple when she left him.



CHAPTER III.

ALL THE WORLD KNOWS IT.

The story was in truth all over London and half over England by the time that Lady Frances had returned to Hendon Hall. Though Vivian had made a Foreign Office secret of the affair at Gorse Hall, nevertheless it had been so commonly talked about during the last Sunday there, that Hautboy had told it all to poor Walker and to the Walker ladies. "By Jove, fancy!" Hautboy had said, "to go at once from a Post Office clerk to a duke! It's like some of those stories where a man goes to bed as a beggar and gets up as a prince. I wonder whether he likes it." Hampstead had of course discussed the matter very freely with his sister, still expressing an opinion that a man could not do other than take his father's name and his father's title. Lady Frances having thus become used to the subject was not surprised to find the following letter from her friend Lady Amaldina when she reached her home:—

MY DEAREST FANNY,—

I am indeed delighted to be able to congratulate you on the wonderful and most romantic story which has just been made known to us. I was never one of those who blamed you very much because you had given your affections to a man so much below you in rank. Nevertheless, we all could not but feel that it was a pity that he should be a Post Office clerk! Now, indeed, you have reason to be proud! I have already read up the subject, and I find that the Ducas di Crinola are supposed to have the very best blood in Europe. There can be no doubt that one of the family married a Bourbon before they came to the French throne. I could send you all the details, only I do not doubt that you have found it out for yourself already. Another married a second cousin of that Maximilian who married Mary of Burgundy. One of the ladies of the family is supposed to have been the wife of the younger brother of one of the Guises, though it isn't quite certain whether they were ever married. But that little blot, my dear, will hardly affect you now. Taking the name altogether, I don't think there is anything higher in all Europe. Papa says that the Di Crinolas have always been doing something in Italy in the way of politics, or rebellion, or fighting. So it isn't as though they were all washed out and no longer of any account, like some of those we read of in history. Therefore I do think that you must be a very happy girl.

I do feel so completely snuffed out, because, after all, the title of Merioneth was only conferred in the time of Charles the Second. And though there was a Lord Llwddythlw before that, even he was only created by James the First. The Powells no doubt are a very old Welsh family, and it is supposed that there was some relationship between them and the Tudors. But what is that to be compared to the mediaeval honours of the great House of Di Crinola?

Papa seems to think that he will not have much fortune. I am one of those who do not think that a large income is at all to be compared to good birth in the way of giving real position in the world. Of course the Duke's estates are supposed to be enormous, and Llwddythlw, even as an eldest son, is a rich man; but as far as I can see there is nothing but trouble comes from it. If he has anything to do with a provincial town in the way of rents he is expected to lay the first brick of every church and institute about the place. If anything has to be opened he has to open it; and he is never allowed to eat his dinner without having to make two or three speeches before and afterwards. That's what I call a great bore. As far as I can see you will be always able to have your duke with you, because he will have no abominable public duties to look after.

I suppose something will have to be done as to an income. Llwddythlw seems to think that he ought to get into Parliament. At least that is what he said to papa the other day; for I have not seen him myself for ever so long. He calls in the Square every Sunday just as we have done lunch, and never remains above two minutes. Last Sunday we had not heard of this glorious news; but papa did see him one day at the House, and that was what he said. I don't see how he is to get into the House if he is an Italian Duke, and I don't know what he'd get by going there. Papa says that he might be employed in some diplomatic position by his own Government; but I should think that the Marquis could do something for him as he has so much at his own disposition. Every acre of the Merioneth property is settled upon,—well,—whoever may happen to be the next heir. There will sure to be an income. There always is. Papa says that the young dukes are always as well off, at any rate, as the young ravens.

But, as I said before, what does all this signify in comparison with BLOOD. It does make your position, my dear, quite another thing from what we had expected. You would have kept your title no doubt; but where would he have been?

I wonder whether you will be married now before August. I suppose not, because it doesn't seem to be quite certain when that wicked papa of his died; but I do hope that you won't. A day at last has been fixed for us;—the 20th of August, when, as I told you before, Lord David is to run away instantly after the ceremony so as to travel all night and open something the next morning at Aberdeen. I mention it now, because you will be by far the most remarkable of all my bevy of twenty. Of course your name will have been in the papers before that as the future Italian Duchess. That I own will be to me a just cause of pride. I think I have got my bevy all fixed at last, and I do hope that none of them will get married before my day. That has happened so often as to be quite heart-breaking. I shall cry if I find that you are to be married first.

Believe me to be Your most affectionate friend and cousin,

AMALDINA.

She wrote also to her future husband on the same subject;—

DEAREST LLWDDYTHLW,—

It was very good of you to come last Sunday, but I wish you hadn't gone away just because the Graiseburys were there. They would not have eaten you, though he is a Liberal.

I have written to Fanny Trafford to congratulate her; because you know it is after all better than being a mere Post Office clerk. That was terrible;—so bad that one hardly knew how to mention her name in society! When people talked about it, I really did feel that I blushed all over. One can mention her name now because people are not supposed to know that he has got nothing. Nevertheless, it is very dreadful. What on earth are they to live on? I have told her about the young ravens. It was papa who said that when he first heard of this Di Crinola affair. I suppose a girl ought to trust in Providence when she marries a man without a shilling. That was what papa meant.

Papa says that you said that he ought to go into Parliament. But what would he get by that? Perhaps as he is in the Post Office they might make him Postmaster-General. Only papa says that if he were to go into Parliament, then he could not call himself Duca di Crinola. Altogether it seems to be very sad,—though not quite so sad as before. It is true that one of the Di Crinolas married a Bourbon, and that others of them have married ever so many royalties. I think there ought to be a law for giving such people something to live upon out of the taxes. How are they to be expected to live upon nothing? I asked papa whether he couldn't get it done; but he said it would be a money bill, and that you ought to take it up. Pray don't, for fear it should take you all August. I know you wouldn't have a scruple about putting off your own little affair, if anything of that kind were to come in the way. I believe you'd like it.

Do stop a little longer when you come on Sunday. I have ever so many things to say to you. And if you can think of anything to be done for those poor Di Crinolas, anything that won't take up all August,—pray do it.

Your own,

AMY.

One more letter shall be given; the answer, namely, to the above from the lover to his future bride;—

DEAR AMY,—

I'll be at the Square on Sunday by three. I will walk out if you like, but it is always raining. I have to meet five or six conservative members later on in the afternoon as to the best thing to be done as to Mr. Green's Bill for lighting London by electricity. It would suit everybody; but some of our party, I am afraid, would go with them, and the Government is very shilly-shally. I have been going into the figures, and it has taken me all the week. Otherwise I would have been to see you.

This Di Crinola affair is quite a romance. I did not mean that he ought to go into the House by way of getting an income. If he takes up the title of course he could not do so. If he takes it, he must regard himself as an Italian. I should think him quite as respectable, earning his bread as a clerk in a public office. They tell me he's a high-spirited fellow. If he is, that is what he will do.

Yours affectionately,

LLWDDYTHLW.

When Lord Persiflage spoke of the matter to Baron d'Ossi, the Italian Minister in London, the Baron quite acknowledged the position of the young Duca, and seemed to think that very little could be wanting to the making of the young man's fortune. "Ah, yes, your Excellency," said the Baron. "He has no great estates. Here in England you all have great estates. It is very nice to have great estates. But he has an uncle who is a great man in Rome. And he will have a wife whose uncle is a very great man in London. What more should he want?" Then the Baron bowed to the Minister of State, and the Minister of State bowed to the Baron.

But the surprise expressed and the consternation felt at the Post Office almost exceeded the feelings excited at the Foreign Office or among Lady Fanny's family and friends. Dukes and Ministers, Barons and Princes, are terms familiar to the frequenters of the Foreign Office. Ambassadors, Secretaries, and diplomatic noblemen generally, are necessarily common in the mouths of all the officials. But at the Post Office such titles still carried with them something of awe. The very fact that a man whom they had seen should be a Duke was tremendous to the minds of Bobbin and Geraghty; and when it became known to them that a fellow workman in their own room, one who had in truth been no more than themselves, would henceforth be called by so august a title, it was as though the heavens and the earth were coming together. It affected Crocker in such a way that there was for a time a doubt whether his senses were not temporarily leaving him,—so that confinement would become necessary. Of course the matter had found its way into the newspapers. It became known at the office on the last day of February,—two days before the return of the Rodens to London.

"Have you heard it, Mr. Jerningham?" said Crocker, rushing into the room that morning. He was only ten minutes after the proper time, having put himself to the expense of a cab in his impetuous desire to be the first to convey the great news to his fellow clerks. But he had been forestalled in his own room by the energy of Geraghty. The condition of mind created in Mr. Jerningham's bosom by the story told by Geraghty was of such a nature that he was unable to notice Crocker's sin in reference to the ten minutes.

"Dchuca di Crinola!" shouted Geraghty in his broadest brogue as Crocker came in; determined not to be done out of the honour fairly achieved by him.

"By Jove, yes! A Duke," said Crocker. "A Duke! My own especial friend! Hampstead will be nowhere; nowhere; nowhere! Duca di Crinola! Isn't it beautiful? By George, I can't believe it. Can you, Mr. Jerningham?"

"I don't know what to believe," said Mr. Jerningham. "Only he was always a most steady, well-behaved young man, and the office will have a great loss of him."

"I suppose the Duke won't come and see us ever," said Bobbin. "I should like to shake hands with him once again."

"Shake hands with him," said Crocker. "I'm sure he won't drop out like that;—my own peculiar friend! I don't think I ever was so fond of anybody as George Ro—, the Duca di Crinola of course I mean. By George! haven't I sat at the same table with him for the last two years! Why, it was only a night or two before he started on this remarkable tour that I spent an evening with him in private society at Holloway!" Then he got up and walked about the room impetuously, clapping his hands, altogether carried away by the warmth of his feelings.

"I think you might as well sit down to your desk, Mr. Crocker," said Mr. Jerningham.

"Oh, come, bother, Mr. Jerningham!"

"I will not be spoken to in that way, Mr. Crocker."

"Upon my word, I didn't mean anything, sir. But when one has heard such news as this, how is it possible that one should compose oneself? It's a sort of thing that never happened before,—that one's own particular friend should turn out to be the Duca di Crinola. Did anybody ever read anything like it in a novel? Wouldn't it act well? Can't I see the first meeting between myself and the Duke at the Haymarket! 'Duke,' I should say—'Duke, I congratulate you on having come to your august family title, to which no one living could do so much honour as yourself.' Bancroft should do me. Bancroft would do me to the life, and the piece should be called the Duke's Friend. I suppose we shall call him Duke here in England, and Duca if we happen to be in Italy together; eh, Mr. Jerningham?"

"You had better sit down, Mr. Crocker, and try to do your work."

"I can't;—upon my word I can't. The emotion is too much for me. I couldn't do it if Aeolus were here himself. By the way, I wonder whether Sir Boreas has heard the news." Then he rushed off, and absolutely made his way into the room of the great potentate.

"Yes, Mr. Crocker," said Sir Boreas, "I have heard it. I read the newspapers, no doubt, as well as you do."

"But it's true, Sir Boreas?"

"I heard it spoken of two or three days ago, Mr. Crocker, and I believe it to be true."

"He was my friend, Sir Boreas; my particular friend. Isn't it a wonderful thing,—that one's particular friend should turn out to be Duca di Crinola! And he didn't know a word of it himself. I feel quite sure that he didn't know a word of it."

"I really can't say, Mr. Crocker; but as you have now expressed your wonder, perhaps you had better go back to your room and do your work."

"He pretends he knew it three days ago!" said Crocker, as he returned to his room. "I don't believe a word of it. He'd have written to me had it been known so long ago as that. I suppose he had too many things to think of, or he would have written to me."

"Go aisy, Crocker," said Geraghty.

"What do you mean by that? It's just the thing he would have done."

"I don't believe he ever wrote to you in his life," said Bobbin.

"You don't know anything about it. We were here together two years before you came into the office. Mr. Jerningham knows that we were always friends. Good heavens! Duca di Crinola! I tell you what it is, Mr. Jerningham. If it were ever so, I couldn't do anything to-day. You must let me go. There are mutual friends of ours to whom it is quite essential that I should talk it over." Then he took his hat and marched off to Holloway, and would have told the news to Miss Clara Demijohn had he succeeded in finding that young lady at home. Clara was at that moment discussing with Mrs. Duffer the wonderful fact that Mr. Walker and not Lord Hampstead had been kicked and trodden to pieces at Gimberley Green.

But even Aeolus, great as he was, expressed himself with some surprise that afternoon to Mr. Jerningham as to the singular fortune which had befallen George Roden. "I believe it to be quite true, Mr. Jerningham. These wonderful things do happen sometimes."

"He won't stay with us, Sir Boreas, I suppose?"

"Not if he is Duca di Crinola. I don't think we could get on with a real duke. I don't know how it will turn out. If he chooses to remain an Englishman he can't take the title. If he chooses to take the title he must be an Italian, then he'll have nothing to live on. My belief is we shan't see him any more. I wish it had been Crocker with all my heart."



CHAPTER IV.

"IT SHALL BE DONE."

Lord Hampstead has been left standing for a long time in Marion Fay's sitting-room after the perpetration of his great offence, and Mrs. Roden has been standing there also, having come to the house almost immediately after her return home from her Italian journey. Hampstead, of course, knew most of the details of the Di Crinola romance, but Marion had as yet heard nothing of it. There had been so much for him to say to her during the interview which had been so wretchedly interrupted by his violence that he had found no time to mention to her the name either of Roden or of Di Crinola.

"You have done that which makes me ashamed of myself." These had been Marion's last words as Mrs. Roden entered the room. "I didn't know Lord Hampstead was here," said Mrs. Roden.

"Oh, Mrs. Roden, I'm so glad you are come," exclaimed Marion. This of course was taken by the lady as a kindly expression of joy that she should have returned from her journey; whereas to Hampstead it conveyed an idea that Marion was congratulating herself that protection had come to her from further violence on his part. Poor Marion herself hardly knew her own meaning,—hardly had any. She could not even tell herself that she was angry with her lover. It was probable that the very ecstacy of his love added fuel to hers. If a lover so placed as were this lover,—a lover who had come to her asking her to be his wife, and who had been received with the warmest assurance of her own affection for him,—if he were not justified in taking her in his arms and kissing her, when might a lover do so? The ways of the world were known to her well enough to make her feel that it was so, even in that moment of her perturbation. Angry with him! How could she be angry with him? He had asked her, and she had declared to him that she was not angry. Nevertheless she had been quite in earnest when she had said that now,—after the thing that he had done,—he must "never, never come to her again."

She was not angry with him, but with herself she was angry. At the moment, when she was in his arms, she bethought herself how impossible had been the conditions she had imposed upon him. That he should be assured of her love, and yet not allowed to approach her as a lover! That he should be allowed to come there in order that she might be delighted in looking at him, in hearing his voice, in knowing and feeling that she was dear to him; but that he should be kept at arm's length because she had determined that she should not become his wife! That they should love each other dearly; but each with a different idea of love! It was her fault that he should be there in her presence at all. She had told herself that it was her duty to sacrifice herself, but she had only half carried out her duty. Should she not have kept her love to herself,—so that he might have left her, as he certainly would have done had she behaved to him coldly, and as her duty had required of her. She had longed for some sweetness which would be sweet to her though only a vain encouragement to him. She had painted for her own eyes a foolish picture, had dreamed a silly dream. She had fancied that for the little of life that was left to her she might have been allowed the delight of loving, and had been vain enough to think that her lover might be true to her and yet not suffer himself! Her sacrifice had been altogether imperfect. With herself she was angry,—not with him. Angry with him, whose very footfall was music to her ears! Angry with him, whose smile to her was as a light specially sent from heaven for her behoof! Angry with him, the very energy of whose passion thrilled her with a sense of intoxicating joy! Angry with him because she had been enabled for once,—only for once,—to feel the glory of her life, to be encircled in the warmth of his arms, to become conscious of the majesty of his strength! No,—she was not angry. But he must be made to understand,—he must be taught to acknowledge,—that he must never, never come to her again. The mind can conceive a joy so exquisite that for the enjoyment of it, though it may last but for a moment, the tranquillity, even the happiness, of years may be given in exchange. It must be so with her. It had been her own doing, and if the exchange were a bad one, she must put up with the bargain. He must never come again. Then Mrs. Roden had entered the room, and she was forced to utter whatever word of welcome might first come to her tongue.

"Yes," said Hampstead, trying to smile, as though nothing had happened which called for special seriousness of manner, "I am here. I am here, and hope to be here often and often till I shall have succeeded in taking our Marion to another home."

"No," said Marion faintly, uttering her little protest ever so gently.

"You are very constant, my lord," said Mrs. Roden.

"I suppose a man is constant to what he really loves best. But what a history you have brought back with you, Mrs. Roden! I do not know whether I am to call you Mrs. Roden."

"Certainly, my lord, you are to call me so."

"What does it mean?" asked Marion.

"You have not heard," he said. "I have not been here time enough to tell her all this, Mrs. Roden."

"You know it then, Lord Hampstead?"

"Yes, I know it;—though Roden has not condescended to write me a line. What are we to call him?" To this Mrs. Roden made no answer on the spur of the moment. "Of course he has written to Fanny, and all the world knows it. It seems to have reached the Foreign Office first, and to have been sent down from thence to my people at Trafford. I suppose there isn't a club in London at which it has not been repeated a hundred times that George Roden is not George Roden."

"Not George Roden?" asked Marion.

"No, dearest. You will show yourself terribly ignorant if you call him so."

"What is he then, my lord?"

"Marion!"

"I beg your pardon. I will not do it again this time. But what is he?"

"He is the Duca di Crinola."

"Duke!" said Marion.

"That's what he is, Marion."

"Have they made him that over there?"

"Somebody made one of his ancestors that ever so many hundred years ago, when the Traffords were—; well, I don't know what the Traffords were doing then;—fighting somewhere, I suppose, for whatever they could get. He means to take the title, I suppose?"

"He says not, my lord."

"He should do so."

"I think so too, Lord Hampstead. He is obstinate, you know; but, perhaps, he may consent to listen to some friend here. You will tell him."

"He had better ask others better able than I am to explain all the ins and outs of his position. He had better go to the Foreign Office and see my uncle. Where is he now?"

"He has gone to the Post Office. We reached home about noon, and he went at once. It was late yesterday when we reached Folkestone, and he let me stay there for the night."

"Has he always signed the old name?" asked Hampstead.

"Oh yes. I think he will not give it up."

"Nor his office?"

"Nor his office. As he says himself, what else will he have to live on?"

"My father might do something." Mrs. Roden shook her head. "My sister will have money, though it may probably be insufficient to furnish such an income as they will want."

"He would never live in idleness upon her money, my lord. Indeed I think I may say that he has quite resolved to drop the title as idle lumber. You perhaps know that he is not easily persuaded."

"The most obstinate fellow I ever knew in my life," said Hampstead, laughing. "And he has talked my sister over to his own views." Then he turned suddenly round to Marion, and asked her a question. "Shall I go now, dearest?" he said.

She had already told him to go,—to go, and never to return to her. But the question was put to her in such a manner that were she simply to assent to his going, she would, by doing so, assent also to his returning. For the sake of her duty to him, in order that she might carry out that self-sacrifice in the performance of which she would now be so resolute, it was necessary that he should in truth be made to understand that he was not to come back to her. But how was this to be done while Mrs. Roden was present with them? Had he not been there then she could have asked her friend to help her in her great resolution. But before the two she could say nothing of that which it was in her heart to say to both of them. "If it pleases you, my lord," she said.

"I will not be 'my lord.' Here is Roden, who is a real duke, and whose ancestors have been dukes since long before Noah, and he is allowed to be called just what he pleases, and I am to have no voice in it with my own particular and dearest friends! Nevertheless I will go, and if I don't come to-day, or the day after, I will write you the prettiest little love-letter I can invent."

"Don't," she said;—oh so weakly, so vainly;—in a manner so utterly void of that intense meaning which she was anxious to throw into her words. She was conscious of her own weakness, and acknowledged to herself that there must be another interview, or at any rate a letter written on each side, before he could be made to understand her own purpose. If it must be done by a letter, how great would be the struggle to her in explaining herself. But perhaps even that might be easier than the task of telling him all that she would have to tell, while he was standing by, impetuous, impatient, perhaps almost violent, assuring her of his love, and attempting to retain her by the pressure of his hand.

"But I shall," he said, as he held her now for a moment. "I am not quite sure whether I may not have to go to Trafford; and if so there shall be the love-letter. I feel conscious, Mrs. Roden, of being incapable of writing a proper love-letter. 'Dearest Marion, I am yours, and you are mine. Always believe me ever thine.' I don't know how to go beyond that. When a man is married, and can write about the children, or the leg of mutton, or what's to be done with his hunters, then I dare say it becomes easy. Good-bye dearest. Good-bye, Mrs. Roden. I wish I could keep on calling you Duchess in revenge for all the 'my lordings.'" Then he left them.

There was a feeling in the mind of both of them that he had conducted himself just as a man would do who was in a high good-humour at having been permanently accepted by the girl to whom he had offered his hand. Marion Fay knew that it was not so;—knew that it never could be so. Mrs. Roden knew that it had not been so when she had left home, now nearly two months since; and knew also that Marion had pledged herself that it should not be so. The young lord then had been too strong with his love. A feeling of regret came over her as she remembered that the reasons against such a marriage were still as strong as ever. But yet how natural that it should be so! Was it possible that such a lover as Lord Hampstead should not succeed in his love if he were constant to it himself? Sorrow must come of it,—perhaps a tragedy so bitter that she could hardly bring herself to think of it. And Marion had been so firm in her resolve that it should not be so. But yet it was natural, and she could not bring herself to express to the girl either anger or disappointment. "Is it to be?" she said, putting on her sweetest smile.

"No!" said Marion, standing up suddenly,—by no means smiling as she spoke! "It is not to be. Why do you look at me like that, Mrs. Roden? Did I not tell you before you went that it should never be so?"

"But he treats you as though he were engaged to you?"

"How can I help it? What can I do to prevent it? When I bid him go, he still comes back again, and when I tell him that I can never be his wife he will not believe me. He knows that I love him."

"You have told him that?"

"Told him! He wanted no telling. Of course he knew it. Love him! Oh, Mrs. Roden, if I could die for him, and so have done with it! And yet I would not wish to leave my dear father. What am I to do, Mrs. Roden?"

"But it seemed to me just now that you were so happy with him."

"I am never happy with him;—but yet I am as though I were in heaven."

"Marion!"

"I am never happy. I know that it cannot be, that it will not be, as he would have it. I know that I am letting him waste his sweetness all in vain. There should be some one else, oh, so different from me! There should be one like himself, beautiful, strong in health, with hot eager blood in her veins, with a grand name, with grand eyes and a broad brow and a noble figure, one who, in taking his name, will give him as much as she takes—one, above all, who will not pine and fade before his eyes, and trouble him during her short life with sickness and doctors and all the fading hopes of a hopeless invalid. And yet I let him come, and I have told him how dearly I love him. He comes and he sees it in my eyes. And then it is so glorious, to be loved as he loves. Oh, Mrs. Roden, he kissed me." That to Mrs. Roden did not seem to be extraordinary; but, not knowing what to say to it at the moment, she also kissed the girl. "Then I told him that he must go, and never come back to me again."

"Were you angry with him?"

"Angry with him! With myself I was angry. I had given him the right to do it. How could I be angry with him? And what does it matter;—except for his sake? If he could only understand! If he would only know that I am in earnest when I speak to him! But I am weak in everything except one thing. He will never make me say that I will be his wife."

"My Marion! Dear Marion!"

"But father wishes it."

"Wishes you to become his wife?"

"He wishes it. Why should I not be like any other girl, he says. How can I tell him? How can I say that I am not like to other girls because of my darling, my own dearest mother? And yet he does not know it. He does not see it, though he has seen so much. He will not see it till I am there, on my bed, unable to come to him when he wants me."

"There is nothing now to show him or me that you may not live to be old as he is."

"I shall not live to be old. You know that I shall not live to be more than young. Have any of them lived? For my father,—for my dear father,—he must find it out for himself. I have sometimes thought that even yet I might last his time—that I might be with him to the end. It might be so,—only that all this tortures me."

"Shall I tell him;—shall I tell Lord Hampstead?"

"He must at any rate be told. He is not bound to me as my father is. For him there need be no great sorrow." At this Mrs. Roden shook her head. "Must it be so?"

"If he is banished from your presence he will not bear it lightly."

"Will a young man love me like that;—a young man who has so much in the world to occupy him? He has his ship, and his hounds, and his friends, and his great wealth. It is only girls, I think, who love like that."

"He must bear his sorrow as others do."

"But it shall be made as light as I can make it,—shall it not? I should have done this before. I should have done it sooner. Had he been made to go away at once, then he would not have suffered. Why would he not go when I told him? Why would he not believe me when I spoke to him? I should have heard all his words and never have answered him even with a smile. I should not have trembled when he told me that I was there, at his hearth, as a friend. But who thought then, Mrs. Roden, that this young nobleman would have really cared for the Quaker girl?"

"I saw it, Marion."

"Could you see just by looking at him that he was so different from others? Are his truth, and his loving heart, and his high honour, and his pure honesty, all written in his eyes,—to you as they are to me? But, Mrs. Roden, there shall be an end of it! Though it may kill me,—though it may for a little time half-break his heart,—it shall be done! Oh, that his dear heart should be half-broken for me! I will think of it, Mrs. Roden, to-night. If writing may do it, perhaps I may write. Or, perhaps, I may say a word that he will at least understand. If not you shall tell him. But, Mrs. Roden, it shall be done!"



CHAPTER V.

MARION WILL CERTAINLY HAVE HER WAY.

On the day but one following there came a letter to Marion from Hampstead,—the love-letter which he had promised her;—

DEAR MARION—

It is as I supposed. This affair about Roden has stirred them up down at Trafford amazingly. My father wants me to go to him. You know all about my sister. I suppose she will have her way now. I think the girls always do have their way. She will be left alone, and I have told her to go and see you as soon as I have gone. You should tell her that she ought to make him call himself by his father's proper name.

In my case, dearest, it is not the girl that is to have her own way. It's the young man that is to do just as he pleases. My girl, my own one, my love, my treasure, think of it all, and ask yourself whether it is in your heart to refuse to bid me be happy. Were it not for all that you have said yourself I should not be vain enough to be happy at this moment, as I am. But you have told me that you love me. Ask your father, and he will tell you that, as it is so, it is your duty to promise to be my wife.

I may be away for a day or two,—perhaps for a week. Write to me at Trafford,—Trafford Park, Shrewsbury,—and say that it shall be so. I sometimes think that you do not understand how absolutely my heart is set upon you,—so that no pleasures are pleasant to me, no employments useful, except in so far as I can make them so by thinking of your love.