"I hope so."
"I hate it from everybody. I can"t tell the servants not to do it.
They wouldn"t understand me. But from you! It seems always as though you were laughing at me."
"Laugh at you!"
"You may if you like it. What is it you may not do with me? If it were really a joke, if you were quizzing, I shouldn"t mind it." He held her hand the whole time, and she did not attempt to withdraw it.
What did her hand signify? If she could only so manage with him on that day that he should be satisfied to be happy, and not trouble her with any request. "Marion," he said, drawing her towards him.
"Sit down, my lord. Well. I won"t. You shan"t be called my lord to-day, because I am so happy to see you;--because you have had so great an escape."
"But I didn"t have any escape."
If only she could keep him in this way! If he would only talk to her about anything but his pa.s.sion! "It seemed to me so, of course.
Father was broken-hearted about it. He was as bad as I. Think of father going down without his tea to Hendon Hall, and driving the poor people there all out of their wits."
"Everybody was out of his wits."
"I was," she said, bobbing her head at him. She was just so far from him, she thought, as to be safe from any impetuous movement. "And Hannah was nearly as bad." Hannah was the old woman. "You may imagine we had a wretched night of it."
"And all about nothing," said he, falling into her mood in the moment. "But think of poor Walker."
"Yes, indeed! I suppose he has friends, too, who loved him, as--as some people love you. But he is not going to die?"
"I hope not. Who is that young woman opposite who rushed out to me in the street? She says she brought you the news first."
"Miss Demijohn."
"Is she a friend of yours?"
"No," said Marion, blushing as she spoke the word very firmly.
"I am rather glad of that, because I didn"t fall in love with her.
She introduced me to ever so many of the neighbours. The landlady of the public-house was one, I think."
"I am afraid they have offended you among them."
"Not in the least. I never take offence except when I think people mean it. But now, Marion, say one word to me."
"I have said many words. Have I not said nice words?"
"Every word out of your mouth is like music to me. But there is one word which I am dying to hear."
"What word?" she said. She knew that she should not have asked the question, but it was so necessary for her to put off the evil if it were only for a moment.
"It is whatever word you may choose to use when you speak to me as my wife. My mother used to call me John; the children call me Jack; my friends call me Hampstead. Invent something sweet for yourself.
I always call you Marion because I love the sound so dearly."
"Every one calls me Marion."
"No! I never did so till I had told myself that, if possible, you should be my own. Do you remember when you poked the fire for me at Hendon Hall?"
"I do;--I do. It was wrong of me; was it not;--when I hardly knew you?"
"It was beyond measure good of you; but I did not dare to call you Marion then, though I knew your name as well as I do now, Marion! I have it here, written all round my heart." What could she say to a man who spoke to her after this fashion? It was as though an angel from heaven were courting her! If only she could have gone on listening so that nothing further should come of it! "Find some name for me, and tell me that it shall be written round your heart."
"Indeed it is. You know it is, Lord Hampstead."
"But what name?"
"Your friend;--your friend of friends."
"It will not do. It is cold."
"Then it is untrue to her from whom it comes. Do you think that my friendship is cold for you?"
She had turned towards him, and was sitting before him with her face looking into his, with her hands clasped as though in a.s.surance of her truth;--when suddenly he had her in his arms and had pressed his lips to hers. In a moment she was standing in the middle of the room.
Though he was strong, her strength was sufficient for her. "My lord!"
she exclaimed.
"Ah, you are angry with me?"
"My lord, my lord,--I did not think you would treat me like that."
"But, Marion; do you not love me?"
"Have I not told you that I do? Have I not been true and honest to you? Do you not know it all?" But in truth he did not know it all.
"And now I must bid you never, never to come again."
"But I shall come. I will come. I will come always. You will not cease to love me?"
"No;--not that--I cannot do that. But you must not come. You have done that which makes me ashamed of myself." At that moment the door was opened, and Mrs. Roden came into the room.
CHAPTER XXI.
DI CRINOLA.
The reader must submit to have himself carried back some weeks,--to those days early in January, when Mrs. Roden called upon her son to accompany her to Italy. Indeed, he must be carried back a long way beyond that; but the time during which he need be so detained shall be short. A few pages will suffice to tell so much of the early life of this lady as will be necessary to account for her residence in Paradise Row.
Mary Roden, the lady whom we have known as Mrs. Roden, was left an orphan at the age of fifteen, her mother having died when she was little more than an infant. Her father was an Irish clergyman with no means of his own but what he secured from a small living; but his wife had inherited money amounting to about eight thousand pounds, and this had descended to Mary when her father died. The girl was then taken in charge by a cousin of her own, a lady ten years her senior who had lately married, and whom we have since met as Mrs.
Vincent, living at Wimbledon. Mr. Vincent had been well connected and well-to-do in the world, and till he died the household in which Mary Roden had been brought up had been luxurious as well as comfortable.
Nor did Mr. Vincent die till after his wife"s cousin had found a husband 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, rather on account of his health than for pleasure, and had then settled themselves at Verona for a winter,--a winter which eventually stretched itself into nearly a year, at the close of which Mr.