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Marion Fay

<h3>CHAPTER XVII.</h3> <h4>AT GORSE HALL.  </h4> Hampstead, when he was turned out into Paradise Row, walked once or twice up the street, thinking what he might best do next, regardless of the eyes at No. 10 and No. 15;—knowing that No. 11 was absent, where alone he could have found assistance had the inhabitant been there. As far as he could remember he had never seen a woman faint before. The way in which she had fallen through from his arms on to the sofa when he had tried to sustain her, had been dreadful to him; and almost more dreadful the idea that the stout old woman with whom he had left her should be more powerful than he to help her. He walked once or twice up and down, thinking what he had best now do, while Clara Demijohn was lost in wonder as to what could have happened at No. 17. It was quite intelligible to her that the lover should come in the father's absence and be entertained,—for a whole afternoon if it might be so; though she was scandalized by the audacity of the girl who had required no screen of darkness under the protection of which her lover's presence might be hidden from the inquiries of neighbours. All that, however, would have been intelligible. There is so much honour in having a lord to court one that perhaps it is well to have him seen. But why was the lord walking up and down the street with that demented air? It was now four o'clock, and Hampstead had heard the Quaker say that he never left his office till five. It would take him nearly an hour to come down in an omnibus from the City. Nevertheless Hampstead could not go till he had spoken to Marion's father. There was the "Duchess of Edinburgh," and he could no doubt find shelter there. But to get through two hours at the "Duchess of Edinburgh" would, he thought, be beyond his powers. To consume the time with walking might be better. He started off, therefore, and tramped along the road till he came nearly to Finchley, and then back again. It was dark as he returned, and he fancied that he could wait about without being perceived. "There he is again," said Clara, who had in the mean time gone over to Mrs. Duffer. "What can it all mean?" "It's my belief he's quarrelled with her," said Mrs. Duffer. "Then he'd never wander about the place in that way. There's old Zachary just come round the corner. Now we shall see what he does." "Fainted, has she?" said Zachary, as they walked together up to the house. "I never knew my girl do that before. Some of them can faint just as they please; but that's not the way with Marion." Hampstead protested that there had been no affectation on this occasion; that Marion had been so ill as to frighten him, and that, though he had gone out of the house at the woman's bidding, he had found it impossible to leave the neighbourhood till he should have learnt something as to her condition. "Thou shalt hear all I can tell thee, my friend," said the Quaker, as they entered the house together. Hampstead was shown into the little parlour, while the Quaker went up to inquire after the state of his daughter. "No; thou canst not well see her," said he, returning, "as she has taken herself to her bed. That she should have been excited by what passed between you is no more than natural. I cannot tell thee now when thou mayst come again; but I will write thee word from my office to-morrow." Upon this Lord Hampstead would have promised to call himself at King's Court on the next day, had not the Quaker declared himself in favour of writing rather than of speaking. The post, he said, was very punctual; and on the next evening his lordship would certainly receive tidings as to Marion. "Of course I cannot say what we can do about Gorse Hall till I hear from Mr. Fay," said Hampstead to his sister when he reached home. "Everything must depend on Marion Fay." That his sister should have packed all her things in vain seemed to him to be nothing while Marion's health was in question; but when the Quaker's letter arrived the matter was at once settled. They would start for Gorse Hall on the following day, the Quaker's letter having been as follows;—   <blockquote> My Lord,— I trust I may be justified in telling thee that there is not much to ail my girl. She was up to-day, and about the house before I left her, and assured me with many protestations that I need not take any special steps for her comfort or recovery. Nor indeed could I see in her face anything which could cause me to do so. Of course I mentioned thy name to her, and it was natural that the colour should come and go over her cheeks as I did so. I think she partly told me what had passed between you two, but only in part. As to the future, when I spoke of it, she told me that there was no need of any arrangement, as everything had been said that needed speech. But I guess that such is not thy reading of the matter; and that after what has passed between thee and me I am bound to offer to thee an opportunity of seeing her again shouldst thou wish to do so. But this must not be at once. It will certainly be better for her and, may be, for thee also that she should rest awhile before she be again asked to see thee. I would suggest, therefore, that thou shouldst leave her to her own thoughts for some weeks to come. If thou will'st write to me and name a day some time early in March I will endeavour to bring her round so far as to see thee when thou comest. I am, my lord, Thy very faithful friend, Zachary Fay.   </blockquote> It cannot be said that Lord Hampstead was by any means satisfied with the arrangement which had been made for him, but he was forced to acknowledge to himself that he could not do better than accede to it. He could of course write to the Quaker, and write also to Marion; but he could not well show himself in Paradise Row before the time fixed, unless unexpected circumstances should arise. He did send three loving words to Marion—"his own, own, dearest Marion," and sent them under cover to her father, to whom he wrote, saying that he would be guided by the Quaker's counsels. "I will write to you on the first of March," he said, "but I do trust that if in the mean time anything should happen,—if, for instance, Marion should be ill,—you will tell me at once as being one as much concerned in her health as you are yourself." He was nervous and ill-at-ease, but not thoroughly unhappy. She had told him how dear he was to her, and he would not have been a man had he not been gratified. And there had been no word of objection raised on any matter beyond that one absurd objection as to which he thought himself entitled to demand that his wishes should be allowed to prevail. She had been very determined; how absolutely determined he was not probably himself aware. She had, however, made him understand that her conviction was very strong. But this had been as to a point on which he did not doubt that he was right, and as to which her own father was altogether on his side. After hearing the strong protestation of her affection he could not think that she would be finally obdurate when the reasons for her obduracy were so utterly valueless. But still there were vague fears about her health. Why had she fainted and fallen through his arms? Whence had come that peculiar brightness of complexion which would have charmed him had it not frightened him? A dim dread of something that was not intelligible to him pervaded him, and robbed him of a portion of the triumph which had come to him from her avowal. <div class="center"> ****** </div> As the days went on at Gorse Hall his triumph became stronger than his fears, and the time did not pass unpleasantly with him. Young Lord Hautboy came to hunt with him, bringing his sister Lady Amaldina, and after a few days Vivian found them. The conduct of Lady Frances in reference to George Roden was no doubt very much blamed, but the disgrace did not loom so large in the eyes of Lady Persiflage as in those of her sister the Marchioness. Amaldina was, therefore, suffered to amuse herself, even as the guest of her wicked friend;—even though the host were himself nearly equally wicked. It suited young Hautboy very well to have free stables for his horses, and occasionally an extra mount when his own two steeds were insufficient for the necessary amount of hunting to be performed. Vivian, who had the liberal allowance of a private secretary to a Cabinet Minister to fall back upon, had three horses of his own. So that among them they got a great deal of hunting,—in which Lady Amaldina would have taken a conspicuous part had not Lord Llwddythlw entertained strong opinions as to the expediency of ladies riding to hounds. "He is so absurdly strict, you know," she said to Lady Frances. "I think he is quite right," said the other. "I don't believe in girls trying to do all the things that men do." "But what is the difference in jumping just over a hedge or two? I call it downright tyranny. Would you do anything Mr. Roden told you?" "Anything on earth,—except jump over the hedges. But our temptations are not likely to be in that way." "I think it very hard because I almost never see Llwddythlw." "But you will when you are married." "I don't believe I shall;—unless I go and look at him from behind the grating in the House of Commons. You know we have settled upon August." "I had not heard it." "Oh yes. I nailed him at last. But then I had to get David. You don't know David?" "No special modern David." "Our David is not very modern. He is Lord David Powell, and my brother that is to be. I had to persuade him to do something instead of his brother, and I had to swear that we couldn't ever be married unless he would consent. I suppose Mr. Roden could get married any day he pleased." Nevertheless Lady Amaldina was better than nobody to make the hours pass when the men are away hunting. But at last there came a grand day, on which the man of business was to come out hunting himself. Lord Llwddythlw had come into the neighbourhood, and was determined to have a day's pleasure. Gorse Hall was full, and Hautboy, though his sister was very eager in beseeching him, refused to give way to his future magnificent brother-in-law. "Do him all the good in the world," said Hautboy, "to put up at the pot-house. He'll find out all about whiskey and beer and gin, and know exactly how many beds the landlady makes up." Lord Llwddythlw, therefore, slept at a neighbouring hotel, and no doubt did turn his spare moments to some profit. Lord Llwddythlw was a man who had always horses, though he very rarely hunted; who had guns, though he never fired them; and fishing-rods, though nobody knew where they were. He kept up a great establishment, regretting nothing in regard to it except the necessity of being sometimes present at the festivities for which it was used. On the present occasion he had been enticed into Northamptonshire no doubt with the purpose of laying some first bricks, or opening some completed institution, or eating some dinner,—on any one of which occasions he would be able to tell the neighbours something as to the constitution of their country. Then the presence of his lady-love seemed to make this a fitting occasion for, perhaps, the one day's sport of the year. He came to Gorse Hall to breakfast, and then rode to the meet along with the open carriage in which the two ladies were sitting. "Llwddythlw," said his lady-love, "I do hope you mean to ride." "Being on horseback, Amy, I shall have no other alternative." Lady Amaldina turned round to her friend, as though to ask whether she had ever seen such an absurd creature in her life. "You know what I mean by riding, Llwddythlw," she said. "I suppose I do. You want me to break my neck." "Oh, heavens! Indeed I don't." "Or, perhaps, only to see me in a ditch." "I can't have that pleasure," she said, "because you won't allow me to hunt." "I have taken upon myself no such liberty as even to ask you not to do so. I have only suggested that tumbling into ditches, however salutary it may be for middle-aged gentlemen like myself, is not a becoming amusement for young ladies." "Llwddythlw," said Hautboy, coming up to his future brother-in-law, "that's a tidy animal of yours." "I don't quite know what tidy means as applied to a horse, my boy; but if it's complimentary, I am much obliged to you." "It means that I should like to have the riding of him for the rest of the season." "But what shall I do for myself if you take my tidy horse?" "You'll be up in Parliament, or down at Quarter Sessions, or doing your duty somewhere like a Briton." "I hope I may do my duty not the less because I intend to keep the tidy horse myself. When I am quite sure that I shall not want him any more, then I'll let you know." There was the usual trotting about from covert to covert, and the usual absence of foxes. The misery of sportsmen on these days is sometimes so great that we wonder that any man, having experienced the bitterness of hunting disappointment, should ever go out again. On such occasions the huntsman is declared among private friends to be of no use whatever. The master is an absolute muff. All honour as to preserving has been banished from the country. The gamekeepers destroy the foxes. The owners of coverts encourage them. "Things have come to such a pass," says Walker to Watson, "that I mean to give it up. There's no good keeping horses for this sort of thing." All this is very sad, and the only consolation comes from the evident delight of those who take pleasure in trotting about without having to incur the labour and peril of riding to hounds. At two o'clock on this day the ladies went home, having been driven about as long as the coachmen had thought it good for their horses. The men of course went on, knowing that they could not in honour liberate themselves from the toil of the day till the last covert shall have been drawn at half-past three o'clock. It is certainly true as to hunting that there are so many hours in which the spirit is vexed by a sense of failure, that the joy when it does come should be very great to compensate the evils endured. It is not simply that foxes will not dwell in every spinney, or break as soon as found, or always run when they do break. These are the minor pangs. But when the fox is found, and will break, and does run, when the scent suffices, and the hounds do their duty, when the best country which the Shires afford is open to you, when your best horse is under you, when your nerves are even somewhat above the usual mark,—even then there is so much of failure! You are on the wrong side of the wood, and getting a bad start are never with them for a yard; or your horse, good as he is, won't have that bit of water; or you lose your stirrup-leather, or your way; or you don't see the hounds turn, and you go astray with others as blind as yourself; or, perhaps, when there comes the run of the season, on that very day you have taken a liberty with your chosen employment, and have lain in bed. Look back upon your hunting lives, brother sportsmen, and think how few and how far between the perfect days have been. In spite of all that was gone this was one of those perfect days to those who had the pleasure afterwards of remembering it. "Taking it all in all, I think that Lord Llwddythlw had the best of it from first to last," said Vivian, when they were again talking of it in the drawing-room after they had come in from their wine. "To think that you should be such a hero!" said Lady Amaldina, much gratified. "I didn't believe you would take so much trouble about such a thing." "It was what Hautboy called the tidiness of the horse." "By George, yes; I wish you'd lend him to me. I got my brute in between two rails, and it took me half-an-hour to smash a way through. I never saw anything of it after that." Poor Hautboy almost cried as he gave this account of his own misfortune. "You were the only fellow I saw try them after Crasher," said Vivian. "Crasher came on his head, and I should think he must be there still. I don't know where Hampstead got through." "I never know where I've been," said Hampstead, who had, in truth, led the way over the double rails which had so confounded Crasher and had so perplexed Hautboy. But when a man is too forward to be seen, he is always supposed to be somewhere behind. Then there was an opinion expressed by Walker that Tolleyboy, the huntsman, had on that special occasion stuck very well to his hounds, to which Watson gave his cordial assent. Walker and Watson had both been asked to dinner, and during the day had been heard to express to each other all that adverse criticism as to the affairs of the hunt in general which appeared a few lines back. Walker and Watson were very good fellows, popular in the hunt, and of all men the most unlikely to give it up. When that run was talked about afterwards, as it often was, it was always admitted that Lord Llwddythlw had been the hero of the day. But no one ever heard him talk of it. Such a trifle was altogether beneath his notice. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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