Marion Fay. Anthony Trollope
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be true what your mother has told me?" This took place at the house in Park Lane, to which the Marquis had summoned his son.
"Do you mean about Frances and George Roden?"
"Of course I mean that."
"I supposed you did, sir. I imagined that when you sent for me it was in regard to them. No doubt it is true."
"What is true? You speak as though you absolutely approved it."
"Then my voice has belied me, for I disapprove of it."
"You feel, I hope, how utterly impossible it is."
"Not that."
"Not that?"
"I cannot say that I think it to be impossible—or even improbable. Knowing the two, as I do, I feel the probability to be on their side."
"That they—should be married?"
"That is what they intend. I never knew either of them to mean anything which did not sooner or later get itself accomplished."
"You'll have to learn it on this occasion. How on earth can it have been brought about?" Lord Hampstead shrugged his shoulders. "Somebody has been very much to blame."
"You mean me, sir?"
"Somebody has been very much to blame."
"Of course, you mean me. I cannot take any blame in the matter. In introducing George Roden to you, and to my mother, and to Frances, I brought you to the knowledge of a highly-educated and extremely well-mannered young man."
"Good God!"
"I did to my friend what every young man, I suppose, does to his. I should be ashamed of myself to associate with any one who was not a proper guest for my father's table. One does not calculate before that a young man and a young woman shall fall in love with each other."
"You see what has happened."
"It was extremely natural, no doubt—though I had not anticipated it. As I told you, I am very sorry. It will cause many heartburns, and some unhappiness."
"Unhappiness! I should think so. I must go away—in the middle of the Session."
"It will be worse for her, poor girl."
"It will be very bad for her," said the Marquis, speaking as though his mind were quite made up on that matter.
"But nobody, as far as I can see, has done anything wrong," continued Lord Hampstead. "When two young people get together whose tastes are similar, and opinions—whose educations and habits of thought have been the same—"
"Habits the same!"
"Habits of thought, I said, sir."
"You would talk the hind legs off a dog," said the Marquis, bouncing out of the room. It was not unusual with him, in the absolute privacy of his own circle, to revert to language which he would have felt to be unbecoming to him as Marquis of Kingsbury among ordinary people.
CHAPTER III.
THE MARCHIONESS.
Though the departure of the Marquis was much hurried, there were other meetings between Hampstead and the family before the flitting was actually made.
"No doubt I will. I am quite with you there," the son said to the father, who had desired him to explain to the young man the impossibility of such a marriage. "I think it would be a misfortune to them both, which should be avoided—if they can get over their present feelings."
"Feelings!"
"I suppose there are such feelings, sir?"
"Of course he is looking for position—and money."
"Not in the least. That might probably be the idea with some young nobleman who would wish to marry into his own class, and to improve his fortune at the same time. With such a one that would be fair enough. He would give and take. With George that would not be honest;—nor would such accusation be true. The position, as you call it, he would feel to be burdensome. As to money, he does not know whether Frances has a shilling or not."
"Not a shilling—unless I give it to her."
"He would not think of such a matter."
"Then he must be a very imprudent young man, and unfit to have a wife at all."
"I cannot admit that—but suppose he is?"
"And yet you think—?"
"I think, sir, that it is unfortunate. I have said so ever since I first heard it. I shall tell him exactly what I think. You will have Frances with you, and will of course express your own opinion."
The Marquis was far from satisfied with his son, but did not dare to go on further with the argument. In all such discussions he was wont to feel that his son was "talking the hind legs off a dog." His own ideas on concrete points were clear enough to him—as this present idea that his daughter, Lady Frances Trafford, would outrage all propriety, all fitness, all decency, if she were to give herself in marriage to George Roden, the Post Office clerk. But words were not plenty with him—or, when plenty, not efficacious—and he was prone to feel, when beaten in argument, that his opponent was taking an unfair advantage. Thus it was that he often thought, and sometimes said, that those who oppressed him with words would "talk the hind legs off a dog."
The Marchioness also expressed her opinion to Hampstead. She was a lady stronger than her husband;—stronger in this, that she never allowed herself to be worsted in any encounter. If words would not serve her occasion at the moment, her countenance would do so—and if not that, her absence. She could be very eloquent with silence, and strike an adversary dumb by the way in which she would leave a room. She was a tall, handsome woman, with a sublime gait.—"Vera incessu patuit Dea." She had heard, if not the words, then some translation of the words, and had taken them to heart, and borne them with her as her secret motto. To be every inch an aristocrat, in look as in thought, was the object of her life. That such was her highest duty was quite fixed in her mind. It had pleased God to make her a Marchioness—and should she derogate from God's wish? It had been her one misfortune that God should not also have made her the mother of a future Marquis. Her face, though handsome, was quite impassive, showing nothing of her sorrows or her joys; and her voice was equally under control. No one had ever imagined, not even her husband, that she felt acutely that one blow of fortune. Though Hampstead's politics had been to her abominable, treasonable, blasphemous, she treated him with an extreme courtesy. If there were anything that he wished about the house she would have it done for him. She would endeavour to interest herself about his hunting. And she would pay him a great respect—to him most onerous—as being second in all things to the Marquis. Though a Republican blasphemous rebel—so she thought of him—he was second to the Marquis. She would fain have taught her little boys to respect him—as the future head of the family—had he not been so accustomed to romp with them, to pull them out of their little beds, and toss them about in their night-shirts, that they loved him much too well for respect. It was in vain that their mother strove to teach them to call him Hampstead.
Lady Frances had never been specially in her way, but to Lady Frances the stepmother had been perhaps harder than to the stepson, of whose presence as an absolute block to her ambition she was well aware. Lady Frances had no claim to a respect higher than that which was due to her own children. Primogeniture had done nothing for her. She was a Marquis's daughter, but her mother had been only the offspring of a commoner. There was perhaps something of conscience in her feelings towards the two. As Lord Hampstead was undoubtedly in her way, it occurred to her to think that she should not on that account be inimical to him. Lady Frances was not in her way—and therefore was open to depreciation and dislike without wounds to her conscience; and then, though Hampstead was abominable because of his Republicanism, his implied treason, and blasphemy, yet he was entitled to some excuse as being a man. These things were abominable no