Marion Fay: A Novel

by Anthony Trollope

"It is the same with me,—and will ever be so. Whether you live or die, I can have no other wife than Marion Fay. As to that I have a right to expect that you shall believe me. Whether I have a wife or not you must decide."

"Oh, dearest, do not kill me."

"It has to be so. If you can be firm so can I. As to my name and my family, it matters nothing. Could I be allowed to look forward and think that you would sit at my hearth, and that some child that should be my child should lie in your arms, then I could look forward to what you call a career. Not that he might be the last of a hundred Traffords, not that he might be an Earl or a Marquis like his forefathers, not that he might some day live to be a wealthy peer, would I have it so,—but because he would be yours and mine." Now she got up, and threw her arms around him, and stood leaning on him as he spoke. "I can look forward to that and think of a career. If that cannot be, the rest of it must provide for itself. There are others who can look after the Traffords,—and who will do so whether it be necessary or not. To have gone a little out of the beaten path, to have escaped some of the traditional absurdities, would have been something to me. To have let the world see how noble a Countess I could find for it—that would have satisfied me. And I had succeeded. I had found one that would really have graced the name. If it is not to be so,—why then let the name and family go on in the old beaten track. I shall not make another venture. I have made my choice, and it is to come to this."

"You must wait, dear;—you must wait. I had not thought it would be like this; but you must wait."

"What God may have in store for me, who can tell. You have told me your mind, Marion; and now I trust that you will understand mine. I do not accept your decision, but you will accept mine. Think of it all, and when you see me again in a day or two, then see whether you will not be able to join your lot to mine and make the best of it." Upon this he kissed her again, and left her without another word.

CHAPTER XIV.

CROCKER'S DISTRESS.

When Midsummer came Paradise Row was alive with various interests. There was no one there who did not know something of the sad story of Marion Fay and her love. It was impossible that such a one as Lord Hampstead should make repeated visits to the street without notice. When Marion returned home from Pegwell Bay, even the potboy at The Duchess of Edinburgh knew why she had come, and Clara Demijohn professed to be able to tell all that passed at the interview next day. And there was the great "Duca" matter;—so that Paradise Row generally conceived itself to be concerned on all questions of nobility, both Foreign and British. There were the Ducaites and the anti-Ducaites. The Demijohn faction generally, as being under the influence of Crocker, were of opinion that George Roden being a Duke could not rid himself of his ducal nature, and they were loud in their expression of the propriety of calling the Duke Duke whether he wished it or no. But Mrs. Grimley at The Duchess was warm on the other side. George Roden, according to her lights, being a clerk in the Post Office, must certainly be a Briton, and being a Briton, and therefore free, was entitled to call himself whatever he pleased. She was generally presumed to enunciate a properly constitutional theory in the matter, and, as she was a leading personage in the neighbourhood, the Duca was for the most part called by his old name; but there were contests, and on one occasion blows had been struck. All this helped to keep life alive in the Row.

But there had arisen another source of intense interest. Samuel Crocker was now regularly engaged to marry Miss Demijohn. There had been many difficulties before this could be arranged. Crocker not unnaturally wished that a portion of the enormous wealth which rumour attributed to Mrs. Demijohn should be made over to the bride on her marriage. But the discussions which had taken place between him and the old lady on the matter had been stormy and unsuccessful. "It's a sort of thing that one doesn't understand at all, you know," Crocker had said to Mrs. Grimley, giving the landlady to understand that he was not going to part with his own possession of himself without adequate consideration. Mrs. Grimley had comforted the young man by reminding him that the old lady was much given to hot brandy and water, and that she could not "take her money with her where she was going." Crocker had at last contented himself with an assurance that there should be a breakfast and a trousseau which was to cost £100. With the promise of this and the hope of what brandy-and-water might do for him, he had given in, and the match was made. Had there been no more than this in the matter the Row would not have been much stirred by it. The Row was so full of earls, marquises, and dukes that Crocker's love would have awakened no more than a passing attention, but for a concomitant incident which was touching in its nature, and interesting in its development. Daniel Tribbledale, junior clerk at Pogson and Littlebird's, had fought a battle with his passion for Clara Demijohn like a man; but, manly though the battle had been, Love had prevailed over him. He had at last found it impossible to give up the girl of his heart, and he had declared his intention of "punching Crocker's head" should he ever find him in the neighbourhood of the Row. With the object of doing this he frequented the Row constantly from ten in the evening till two in the morning, and spent a great deal more money than he ought to have done at The Duchess. He would occasionally knock at No. 10, and boldly ask to be allowed to see Miss Clara. On one or two of these occasions he had seen her, and tears had flown in great quantities. He had thrown himself at her feet, and she had assured him that it was in vain. He had fallen back at Pogson and Littlebird's to £120 a year, and there was no prospect of an increase. Moreover the betrothment with Crocker was complete. Clara had begged him to leave the vicinity of Holloway. Nothing, he had sworn, should divorce him from Paradise Row. Should that breakfast ever be given; should these hated nuptials ever take place; he would be heard of. It was in vain that Clara had threatened to die on the threshold of the church if anything rash were done. He was determined, and Clara, no doubt, was interested in the persistency of his affection. It was, however, specially worthy of remark that Crocker and Tribbledale never did meet in Paradise Row.