CHAPTER XXI.
DI CRINOLA.
The reader must submit to have himself carried back some weeks,--tothose days early in January, when Mrs. Roden called upon her son toaccompany her to Italy. Indeed, he must be carried back a long waybeyond that; but the time during which he need be so detained shallbe short. A few pages will suffice to tell so much of the early lifeof this lady as will be necessary to account for her residence inParadise Row.
Mary Roden, the lady whom we have known as Mrs. Roden, was left anorphan at the age of fifteen, her mother having died when she waslittle more than an infant. Her father was an Irish clergyman withno means of his own but what he secured from a small living; but hiswife had inherited money amounting to about eight thousand pounds,and this had descended to Mary when her father died. The girl wasthen taken in charge by a cousin of her own, a lady ten years hersenior who had lately married, and whom we have since met as Mrs.Vincent, living at Wimbledon. Mr. Vincent had been well connected andwell-to-do in the world, and till he died the household in which MaryRoden had been brought up had been luxurious as well as comfortable.Nor did Mr. Vincent die till after his wife's cousin had found ahusband 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, ratheron account of his health than for pleasure, and had then settledthemselves at Verona for a winter,--a winter which eventuallystretched itself into nearly a year, at the close of which Mr.Vincent died. But before that event took place Mary Roden had becomea wife.
At Verona, at first at the house of her own cousin,--which was ofcourse her own home,--and afterwards in the society of the placeto which the Vincents had been made welcome,--Mary met a young manwho was known to all the world as the Duca di Crinola. No young manmore beautiful to look at, more charming in manners, more ready inconversation, was then known in those parts of Italy than this youngnobleman. In addition to these good gifts, he was supposed to havein his veins the very best blood in all Europe. It was declared onhis behalf that he was related to the Bourbons and to the Hapsburghfamily. Indeed there was very little of the best blood which Europehad produced in the last dozen centuries of which some smallproportion was not running in his veins. He was too the eldest son ofhis father, who, though he possessed the most magnificent palace inVerona, had another equally magnificent in Venice, in which it suitedhim to live with his Duchessa. As the old nobleman did not come oftento Verona, and as the young nobleman never went to Venice, the fatherand son did not see much of each other, an arrangement which wassupposed to have its own comforts, as the young man was not disturbedin the possession of his hotel, and as the old man was reported inVerona generally to be arbitrary, hot-tempered, and tyrannical. Itwas therefore said of the young Duke by his friends that he wasnearly 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 altogetherso charming. Though of all the palaces in Verona that in which helived was by far the most beautiful to look at from the outside,it was not supposed to be furnished in a manner conformable to itsexternal appearance. It was, indeed, declared that the rooms were forthe most part bare; and the young Duke never gave the lie to theseassertions by throwing them open to his friends. It was said of himalso that his income was so small and so precarious that it amountedalmost to nothing, that the cross old Duke at Venice never allowedhim a shilling, and that he had done everything in his power todestroy the hopes of a future inheritance. Nevertheless, he wasbeautiful to look at in regard to his outward attire, and couldhardly have been better dressed had he been able to pay his tailorand shirt-maker quarterly. And he was a man of great accomplishments,who could talk various languages, who could paint, and model, andwrite sonnets, and dance to perfection. And he could talk of virtue,and in some sort seem to believe in it,--though he would sometimesconfess of himself that Nature had not endowed him with the strengthnecessary for the performance of all the good things which he sothoroughly appreciated.
Such as he was he entirely gained the affection of Mary Roden. It isunnecessary here to tell the efforts that were made by Mrs. Vincentto prevent the marriage. Had she been less austere she might,perhaps, have prevailed with the girl. But as she began by pointingout to her cousin the horror of giving herself, who had been born andbred a Protestant, to a Roman Catholic,--and also of bestowing herEnglish money upon an Italian,--all that she said was without effect.The state of Mr. Vincent's health made it impossible for them tomove, or Mary might perhaps have been carried back to England. Whenshe was told that the man was poor, she declared that there was somuch the more reason why her money should be given to relieve thewants of the man she loved. It ended in their being married, and allthat Mr. Vincent was able to accomplish was to see that the marriageceremony should be performed after the fashion both of the Church ofEngland and of the Church of Rome. Mary at the time was more thantwenty-one, and was thus able, with all the romance of girlhood,to pour her eight thousand pounds into the open hands of herthrice-noble and thrice-beautiful lover.
The Duchino with his young Duchessina went their way rejoicing, andleft poor Mr. Vincent to die at Verona. Twelve months afterwardsthe widow had settled herself at the house at Wimbledon, from whichshe had in latter years paid her weekly visits to Paradise Row,and tidings had come from the young wife which were not altogethersatisfactory. The news, indeed, which declared that a young littleDuke had been born to her was accompanied by expressions of joy whichthe other surrounding incidents of her life were not permitted atthe moment altogether to embitter. Her baby, her well-born beautifulbaby, was for a few months allowed to be a joy to her, even thoughthings were otherwise very sorrowful. But things were very sorrowful.The old Duke and the old Duchess would not acknowledge her. Then shelearned that the quarrel between the father and son had been carriedto such a pitch that no hope of reconciliation remained. Whateverwas left of family property was gone as far as any inheritance onthe part of the elder son was concerned. He had himself assisted inmaking over to a second brother all right that he possessed in theproperty belonging to the family. Then tidings of horror accumulateditself upon her and her baby. Then came tidings that her husband hadbeen already married when he first met her,--which tidings did notreach her till he had left her alone, somewhere up among the Lakes,for an intended absence of three days. After that day she never sawhim again. The next she heard of him was from Italy, from whence hewrote to her to tell her that she was an angel, and that he, devilas he was, was not fit to appear in her presence. Other things hadoccurred during the fifteen months in which they had lived togetherto 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 hewas not fit to be loved. When a woman is bad a man can generally getquit of her from his heartstrings;--but a woman has no such remedy.She can continue to love the dishonoured one without dishonour toherself,--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,--andwith statements floating about her that she had not, and never hadhad, a husband. It might well be that after that she should cautionMarion Fay as to the imprudence of an exalted marriage. But therecame to her assistance, if not friendship and love, in the midstof her misfortunes. Her brother-in-law,--if she had a husband ora brother-in-law,--came to her from the old Duke with terms ofsurrender; and there came also a man of business, a lawyer, fromVenice, to make good the terms if they should be accepted. Thoughmoney was very scarce with the family, or the power of raising money,still such was the feeling of the old nobleman in her misfortunesthat the entire sum which had been given up to his eldest son shouldbe restored to trustees for her use and for the benefit of her baby,on condition that she should leave Italy, and consent to drop thetitle of the Di Crinola family. As to that question of a formermarriage, t
he old lawyer declared that he was unable to give anycertain information. The reprobate had no doubt gone through someform of a ceremony with a girl of low birth at Venice. It veryprobably was not a marriage. The young Duchino, the brother, declaredhis belief that there had been no such marriage. But she, shouldshe cling to the name, could not make her title good to it withoutobtaining proofs which they had not been able to find. No doubtshe could call herself Duchess. Had she means at command she mightprobably cause herself to be received as such. But no property wouldthus be affected,--nor would it rob him, the younger son, of hisright to call himself also by the title. The offer made to her wasnot ungenerous. The family owed her nothing, but were willing tosacrifice nearly half of all they had with the object of restoringto her the money of which the profligate had robbed her,--which hehad been enabled to take from her by her own folly and credulity. Inthis terrible emergency of her life, Mrs. Vincent sent over to her asolicitor from London, between whom and the Italian man of businessa bargain was struck. The young wife undertook to drop her husband'sname, and to drop it also on behalf of her boy. Then the eightthousand pounds was repaid, and Mrs. Roden, as she afterwards calledherself, 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 notaltogether happily, at least quietly and comfortably. Then therecame a subject of disruption. George Roden took upon himself to haveopinions of his own; and would not hold his peace in the presenceof Mrs. Vincent, to whom those opinions were most unacceptable. Andthey were the more unacceptable because the mother's tone of mindhad always taken something of the bent which appeared so stronglyafterwards in her son. George at any rate could not be induced to besilent; nor,--which was worse,--could he after reaching his twentiethyear be made to go to church with that regularity which was necessaryfor the elder lady's peace of mind. He at this time had achieved forhimself 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 tojudge for himself. In this way there had been no quarrel between Mrs.Vincent and Mrs. Roden, but there had come a condition of things inwhich it had been thought expedient that they should live apart. Mrs.Roden had therefore taken for herself a house in Paradise Row, andthose weekly inter-visitings had been commenced between her and hercousin.
Such had been the story of Mrs. Roden's life, till tidings werereceived in England that her husband was dead. The information hadbeen 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 owncountry. He had stated that, to the best of his belief, his brother'sfirst union had not been a legal marriage. He thought it right, hehad said, to make this statement, and to say that as far as he wasconcerned he was willing to withdraw that compact upon which hisfather had insisted. If his sister-in-law wished to call herself bythe name and title of Di Crinola, she might do so. Or if the youngman of whom he spoke as his nephew wished to be known as Duca diCrinola he would raise no objection. But it must be remembered thathe had nothing to offer to his relative but the barren tender of thename. He himself had succeeded to but very little, and that which hepossessed 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 herson. Her brother-in-law had been courteous to her, and had offeredto receive her if she would come. Should she wish to use the name ofDi Crinola, he had promised that she should be called by it in hishouse; so that the world around might know that she was recognized byhim and his wife and children. She determined that she would at anyrate 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. Vincentit 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 inorder 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 himselfeven to be his father's son? She, by her folly,--so she herselfacknowledged,--had done all that was possible to annihilate herselfas a woman. There was no name which she could give to her son ascertainly as her own. This, which had been hers before she had beenallured into a mock marriage, would at any rate not be disputed. Andthus he had been kept in ignorance of his mother's story. Of coursehe had asked. It was no more than natural that he should ask. Butwhen told that it was for his mother's comfort that he should ask nomore, he had assented with that reticence which was peculiar to him.Then chance had thrown him into friendship with the young Englishnobleman, and the love of Lady Frances Trafford had followed.
His mother, when he consented to accompany her, had almost promisedhim that all mysteries should be cleared up between them before theirreturn. In the train, before they reached Paris, a question wasasked and an answer given which served to tell much of the truth. Asthey came down to breakfast that morning, early in the dark Januarymorning, he observed that his mother was dressed in deep mourning.It had always been her custom to wear black raiment. He could notremember that he had ever seen on her a coloured dress, or evena bright ribbon. And she was not now dressed quite as is a widowimmediately on the death of her husband. It was now a quarter of acentury since she had seen the man who had so ill-used her. Accordingto the account which she had received, it was twelve months at leastsince he had died in one of the Grecian islands. The full weeds of amourning widow would ill have befitted her condition of mind, or herimmediate purpose. But yet there was a speciality of blackness in hergarments which told him that she had dressed herself with a purposeas of mourning. "Mother," he said to her in the train, "you are inmourning,--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 thatit is so?"
"It is so, George."
"For whom then?"
They two were alone in the carriage, and why should his question notbe answered now? But it had come to pass that there was a horror toher 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 hisdeath."
"Why should not I also be in black?"
"I had not thought of it. But you never saw him since he had you inhis 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 himonce. There is still present to me a memory of what I loved,--of theman who won my heart by such gifts as belonged to him; and for that Imourn. He was beautiful and clever, and he charmed me. It is hard tosay sometimes for what we mourn."
"Was he a foreigner, mother?"
"Yes, George. He was an Italian. You shall know it all soon now. Butdo not you mourn. To you no memories are left. Were it not for thenecessity of the present moment, no idea of a father should ever bepresented 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.
Marion Fay: A Novel Page 44
