Marion Fay: A Novel

by Anthony Trollope

  CHAPTER XX.

  NEVER, NEVER, TO COME AGAIN.

  The trouble to Hampstead occasioned by the accident was considerable,as was also for the first twenty-four hours his anxiety and that ofhis sister as to the young man's fate. He got back to Gorse Hallearly in the day, as there was no more hunting after the killing ofthat first fox. There had been a consultation as to the young man,and it had been held to be best to have him taken to the inn at whichhe had been living, as there would be room there for any of hisfriends who might come to look after him. But during the whole ofthat day inquiries were made at Gorse Hall after Lord Hampsteadhimself, so general had been the belief that he was the victim.From all the towns around, from Peterborough, Oundle, Stilton, andThrapstone, there came mounted messengers, with expressions of hopeand condolence as to the young lord's broken bones.

  And then the condition of their poor neighbour was so critical thatthey found it to be impossible to leave Gorse Hall on the next day,as they had intended. He had become intimate with them, and hadbreakfasted at Gorse Hall on that very morning. In one way Hampsteadfelt that he was responsible, as, had he not been in the way, poorWalker's horse would have been next to the gate, and would not haveattempted the impossible jump. They were compelled to put off thejourney till the Monday. "Will go by the 9.30 train," said Hampsteadin his telegram, who, in spite of poor Walker's mangled body, wasstill determined to see Marion on that day. On the Saturday morningit became known to him and his sister that the false report hadbeen in the London newspapers, and then they had found themselvescompelled to send telegrams to every one who knew them, to theMarquis, and to the lawyer in London, to Mr. Roberts, and to thehousekeeper at Hendon Hall. Telegrams were also sent by Lady Amaldinato Lady Persiflage, and especially to Lord Llwddythlw. Vivian sentothers to the Civil Service generally. Hautboy was very eager to leteverybody know the truth at the Pandemonium. Never before had so manytelegrams been sent from the little office at Gimberley. But therewas one for which Hampstead demanded priority, writing it himself,and himself giving it into the hands of the despatching young lady,the daughter of the Gimberley grocer, who no doubt understood theoccasion perfectly.

  To Marion Fay, 17, Paradise Row, Holloway.

  It was not I who was hurt. Shall be at No. 17 by three on Monday.

  "I wonder whether they heard it down at Trafford," said Lady Amaldinato Lady Frances. On this subject they were informed before the daywas over, as a long message came from Mr. Roberts in compliancewith the instructions from the Marquis. "Because if they did what aterrible disappointment my aunt will have to bear."

  "Do not say anything so horrible," said Lady Frances.

  "I always look upon Aunt Clara as though she were not quite in herright senses about her own children. She thinks a great injury isdone her because her son is not the heir. Now for a moment she willhave believed that it was so." This, however, was a view of thematter which Lady Frances found herself unable to discuss.

  "He's going to get well after all," said Hautboy that evening, justbefore dinner. He had been running over to the inn every hour to askafter the condition of poor Walker. At first the tidings had beengloomy enough. The doctor had only been able to say that he needn'tdie because of his broken bones. Then late in the afternoon therearrived a surgeon from London who gave something of a stronger hope.The young man's consciousness had come back to him, and he hadexpressed an appreciation for brandy and water. It was this factwhich had seemed so promising to young Lord Hautboy. On the Saturdaythere came Mrs. Walker and Miss Walker, and before the Sunday eveningit was told how the patient had signified his intention of huntingagain on the first possible opportunity. "I always knew he was abrick," said Hautboy, as he repeated the story, "because he alwayswould ride at everything."

  "I don't think he'll ever ride again at the fence just out ofGimberley Wood," said Lord Hampstead. They were all able to start onthe Monday morning without serious concern, as the accounts from theinjured man's bed-room were still satisfactory. That he had brokenthree ribs, a collar-bone, and an arm seemed to be accounted asnothing. Nor was there much made of the scalp wound on his head,which had come from a kick the horse gave him in the struggle. As hisbrains were still there, that did not much matter. His cheek had beencut open by a stake on which he fell, but the scar, it was thought,would only add to his glories. It was the pressure of the horse whichhad fallen across his body which the doctors feared. But Hautboy veryrightly argued that there couldn't be much danger, seeing that he hadrecovered his taste for brandy and water. "If it wasn't for that,"said Hautboy, "I don't think I'd have gone away and left him."

  Lord Hampstead found, when he reached home on the Monday morning,that his troubles were not yet over. The housekeeper came out andwept, almost with her arms round his neck. The groom, and thefootman, and the gardener, even the cowboy himself, flocked abouthim, telling stories of the terrible condition in which they had beenleft after the coming of the Quaker on the Friday evening. "I didn'tnever think I'd ever see my lord again," said the cook solemnly. "Ididn't a'most hope it," said the housemaid, "after hearing the Quakergentleman read it all out of the newspaper." Lord Hampstead shookhands with them all, and laughed at the misfortune of the falsetelegram, and endeavoured to be well pleased with everything, butit occurred to him to think what must have been the condition of Mr.Fay's house that night, when he had come across from Holloway throughthe darkness and rain to find out for his girl what might be thetruth or falsehood of the report which had reached him.

  At 3.0 punctually he was in Paradise Row. Perhaps it was notunnatural that even then his advent should create emotion. As heturned down from the main road the very potboy from "The Duchess"rushed up to him, and congratulated him on his escape. "I have hadnothing to escape," said Lord Hampstead trying to pass on. ButMrs. Grimley saw him, and came out to him. "Oh, my lord, we are sothankful;--indeed, we are."

  "You are very good, ma'am," said the lord.

  "And now, Lord 'Ampstead, mind and be true to that dear young ladywho was well-nigh heart-broke when she heard as it were you who wassmashed up."

  He was hurrying on finding it impossible to make any reply to this,when Miss Demijohn, seeing that Mrs. Grimley had been bold enough toaddress the noble visitor to their humble street, remembering howmuch she had personally done in the matter, having her mind full ofthe important fact that she had been the first to give information onthe subject to the Row generally, thinking that no such appropriateoccasion as this would ever again occur for making personalacquaintance with the lord, rushed out from her own house, and seizedthe young man's hand before he was able to defend himself. "My lord,"she said, "my lord, we were all so depressed when we heard of it."

  "Were you, indeed?"

  "All the Row was depressed, my lord. But I was the first who knewit. It was I who communicated the sad tidings to Miss Fay. It was,indeed, my lord. I saw it in the _Evening Tell-Tale_, and went acrosswith the paper at once."

  "That was very good of you."

  "Thank'ee, my lord. And, therefore, seeing you and knowing you,--forwe all know you now in Paradise Row--"

  "Do you now?"

  "Every one of us, my lord. Therefore I thought I'd just make boldto come out and introduce myself. Here's Mrs. Duffer. I hope you'lllet me introduce you to Mrs. Duffer of No. 15. Mrs. Duffer, LordHampstead. And oh, my lord, it will be such an honour to the Row ifanything of that kind should happen."

  Lord Hampstead, having with his best grace gone through the ceremonyof shaking hands with Mrs. Duffer, who had come up to him and Clarajust at the step of the Quaker's house, was at last allowed to knockat the door. Miss Fay would be with him in a minute, said the oldwoman as she showed him into the sitting-room up-stairs.

  Marion, as soon as she heard the knock, ran for a moment to her ownbed-room. Was it not much to her that he was with her again, not onlyalive, but uninjured, that she should again hear his voice, and seethe light of his countenance, and become aware once more of a certainalmost heavenly glory wh
ich seemed to surround her when she was inhis presence? She was aware that on such occasions she felt herselfto be lifted out of her ordinary prosaic life, and to be for atime floating, as it were, in some upper air; among the clouds,indeed;--alas, yes; but among clouds which were silver-lined; in aheaven which could never be her own, but in which she could dwell,though it were but for an hour or two, in ecstasy,--if only he wouldallow her to do so without troubling her with further prayer. Thenthere came across her a thought that if only she could so begin thisinterview with him that it might seem to be an occasion of specialjoy,--as though it were a thanksgiving because he had come back toher safe,--she might, at any rate for this day, avoid words from himwhich might drive her again to refuse his great request. He alreadyknew that she loved him, must know of what value to her must behis life, must understand how this had come at first a terrible,crushing, killing sorrow, and then a relief which by the excess ofits joy must have been almost too much for her. Could she not let allthat be a thing acknowledged between them, which might be spoken ofas between dearest friends, without any allusion for the present tothat request which could never be granted?

  But he, as he waited there a minute or two, was minded to make quiteanother use of the interview. He was burning to take her in his armsas his own, to press his lips to hers and know that she returned hiscaress, to have the one word spoken which would alone suffice tosatisfy the dominating spirit of the man within him. Had she accededto his request, then his demand would have been that she should atonce become his wife, and he would not have rested at peace till hehad reduced her months to weeks. He desired to have it all his ownway. He had drawn her into his presence as soon almost as he had seenher. He had forced upon her his love. He had driven her to give himher heart, and to acknowledge that it was so. Of course he must go onwith his triumph over her. She must be his altogether, from the crownof her head to the soles of her feet,--and that without delay. Hishunting and his yacht, his politics and his friendships, were nothingto him without Marion Fay. When she came into the room, his heart wasin sympathy with her, but by no means his mind.

  "My lord," she said, letting her hand lie willingly between thepressure of his two, "you may guess what we suffered when we heardthe report, and how we felt when we learnt the truth."

  "You got my telegram? I sent it as soon as I began to understand howfoolish the people had been."

  "Oh yes, my lord. It was so good of you!"

  "Marion, will you do something for me?"

  "What shall I do, my lord?"

  "Don't call me, 'my lord.'"

  "But it is proper."

  "It is most improper, and abominable, and unnatural."

  "Lord Hampstead!"

  "I hate it. You and I can understand each other, at any rate."

  "I hope so."

  "I hate it from everybody. I can't tell the servants not to do it.They wouldn't understand me. But from you! It seems always as thoughyou were laughing at me."

  "Laugh at you!"

  "You may if you like it. What is it you may not do with me? If itwere really a joke, if you were quizzing, I shouldn't mind it." Heheld her hand the whole time, and she did not attempt to withdraw it.What did her hand signify? If she could only so manage with him onthat day that he should be satisfied to be happy, and not trouble herwith any request. "Marion," he said, drawing her towards him.

  "Sit down, my lord. Well. I won't. You shan't be called my lordto-day, because I am so happy to see you;--because you have had sogreat an escape."

  "But I didn't have any escape."

  If only she could keep him in this way! If he would only talk toher about anything but his passion! "It seemed to me so, of course.Father was broken-hearted about it. He was as bad as I. Think offather going down without his tea to Hendon Hall, and driving thepoor people there all out of their wits."

  "Everybody was out of his wits."

  "I was," she said, bobbing her head at him. She was just so far fromhim, she thought, as to be safe from any impetuous movement. "AndHannah was nearly as bad." Hannah was the old woman. "You may imaginewe had a wretched night of it."

  "And all about nothing," said he, falling into her mood in themoment. "But think of poor Walker."

  "Yes, indeed! I suppose he has friends, too, who loved him, as--assome people love you. But he is not going to die?"

  "I hope not. Who is that young woman opposite who rushed out to me inthe street? She says she brought you the news first."

  "Miss Demijohn."

  "Is she a friend of yours?"

  "No," said Marion, blushing as she spoke the word very firmly.

  "I am rather glad of that, because I didn't fall in love with her.She introduced me to ever so many of the neighbours. The landlady ofthe public-house was one, I think."

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

  "Not in the least. I never take offence except when I think peoplemean 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 oneword which I am dying to hear."

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

  "It is whatever word you may choose to use when you speak to me asmy 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, youshould be my own. Do you remember when you poked the fire for me atHendon Hall?"

  "I do;--I do. It was wrong of me; was it not;--when I hardly knewyou?"

  "It was beyond measure good of you; but I did not dare to call youMarion then, though I knew your name as well as I do now, Marion! Ihave it here, written all round my heart." What could she say to aman who spoke to her after this fashion? It was as though an angelfrom heaven were courting her! If only she could have gone onlistening so that nothing further should come of it! "Find some namefor 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 myfriendship is cold for you?"

  She had turned towards him, and was sitting before him with her facelooking into his, with her hands clasped as though in assurance ofher truth;--when suddenly he had her in his arms and had pressed hislips 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 toyou? 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 notcease to love me?"

  "No;--not that--I cannot do that. But you must not come. You havedone that which makes me ashamed of myself." At that moment the doorwas opened, and Mrs. Roden came into the room.