Gradually he did acknowledge to himself that it was her doom to die early,—almost acknowledged to himself that she was dying. Nevertheless he still thought that it would have been fit that they should be married. "If I knew that she were my own even on her deathbed," he once said to Mrs. Roden, "there would be a comfort to me in it." He was so eager in this that Mrs. Roden was almost convinced. The Quaker was willing that it should be so,—but willing also that it should not be so. He would not even try to persuade his girl as to anything. It was his doom to see her go, and he, having realized that, could not bring himself to use a word in opposition to her word. But Marion herself was sternly determined against the suggestion. It was unfitting, she said, and would be wicked. It was not the meaning of marriage. She could not bring herself to disturb the last thoughts of her life, not only by the empty assumption of a grand name, but by the sounding of that name in her ears from the eager lips of those around her. "I will be your love to the end," she said, "your own Marion. But I will not be made a Countess, only in order that a vain name may be carved over my grave." "God has provided a bitter cup for your lips, my love," she wrote again, "in having put it into your head to love one whom you must lose so soon. And mine is bitter because yours is bitter. But we cannot rid ourselves of the bitterness by pretences. Would it make your heart light to see me dressed up for a bridal ceremony, knowing, as you would know, that it was all for nothing? My lord, my love, let us take it as God has provided it. It is only because you grieve that I grieve;—for you and my poor father. If you could only bring yourself to be reconciled, then it would be so much to me to have had you to love me in my last moments,—to love me and to be loved."
He could not but accept her decision. Her father and Mrs. Roden accepted it, and he was forced to do so also. He acknowledged to himself now that there was no appeal from it. Her very weakness gave her a strength which dominated him. There was an end of all his arguments and his strong phrases. He was aware that they had been of no service to him,—that her soft words had been stronger than all his reasonings. But not on that account did he cease to wish that it might be as he had once wished, since he had first acknowledged to himself his love. "Of course I will not drive her," he said to Mrs. Roden, when that lady urged upon him the propriety of abstaining from a renewal of his request. "Had I any power of driving her, as you say, I would not do so. I think it would be better. That is all. Of course it must be as she shall decide."
"It would be a comfort to her to think that you and she thought alike about all things," said Mrs. Roden.
"There are points on which I cannot alter my convictions even for her comfort," he answered. "She bids me love some other woman. Can I comfort her by doing that? She bids me seek another wife. Can I do that;—or say that I will do it at some future time? It would comfort her to know that I have no wound,—that I am not lame and sick and sore and weary. It would comfort her to know that my heart is not broken. How am I to do that for her?"
"No;"—said Mrs. Roden—"no."
"There is no comfort. Her imagination paints for her some future bliss, which shall not be so far away as to be made dim by distance,—in enjoying which we two shall be together, as we are here, with our hands free to grasp each other, and our lips free to kiss;—a heaven, but still a heaven of this world, in which we can hang upon each other's necks and be warm to each other's hearts. That is to be, to her, the reward of her innocence, and in the ecstacy of her faith she believes in it, as though it were here. I do think,—I do think,—that if I told her that it should be so, that I trusted to renew my gaze upon her beauty after a few short years, then she would be happy entirely. It would be for an eternity, and without the fear of separation."
"Then why not profess as she does?"
"A lie? As I know her truth when she tells me her creed, so would she know my falsehood, and the lie would be vain."
"Is there then to be no future world, Lord Hampstead?"
"Who has said so? Certainly not I. I cannot conceive that I shall perish altogether. I do not think that if, while I am here, I can tame the selfishness of self, I shall reach a step upwards in that world which shall come next after this. As to happiness, I do not venture to think much of it. If I can only be somewhat nobler,—somewhat more like the Christ whom we worship,—that will be enough without happiness. If there be truth in this story, He was not happy. Why should I look for happiness,—unless it be when the struggle of many worlds shall have altogether purified my spirit? But thinking like that,—believing like that,—how can I enter into the sweet Epicurean Paradise which that child has prepared for herself?"