<p><SPAN name="c2-21" id="c2-21"></SPAN> </p>
<p> </p>
<h3>CHAPTER XXI.</h3>
<h4>DI CRINOLA.<br/> </h4>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.
Vincent died. But before that event took place Mary Roden had become
a wife.</p>
<p>At Verona, at first at the house of her own cousin,—which was of
course her own home,—and afterwards in the society of the place to
which the Vincents had been made welcome,—Mary met a young man who
was known to all the world as the Duca di Crinola. No young man more
beautiful to look at, more charming in manners, more ready in
conversation, was then known in those parts of Italy than this young
nobleman. In addition to these good gifts, he was supposed to have in
his veins the very best blood in all Europe. It was declared on his
behalf that he was related to the Bourbons and to the Hapsburgh
family. Indeed there was very little of the best blood which Europe
had produced in the last dozen centuries of which some small
proportion was not running in his veins. He was too the eldest son of
his father, who, though he possessed the most magnificent palace in
Verona, had another equally magnificent in Venice, in which it suited
him to live with his Duchessa. As the old nobleman did not come often
to Verona, and as the young nobleman never went to Venice, the father
and son did not see much of each other, an arrangement which was
supposed to have its own comforts, as the young man was not disturbed
in the possession of his hotel, and as the old man was reported in
Verona generally to be arbitrary, hot-tempered, and tyrannical. It
was therefore said of the young Duke by his friends that he was
nearly as well off as though he had no father at all.</p>
<p>But there were other things in the history of the young Duke which,
as they became known to the Vincents, did not seem to be altogether
so charming. Though of all the palaces in Verona that in which he
lived was by far the most beautiful to look at from the outside, it
was not supposed to be furnished in a manner conformable to its
external appearance. It was, indeed, declared that the rooms were for
the most part bare; and the young Duke never gave the lie to these
assertions by throwing them open to his friends. It was said of him
also that his income was so small and so precarious that it amounted
almost to nothing, that the cross old Duke at Venice never allowed
him a shilling, and that he had done everything in his power to
destroy the hopes of a future inheritance. Nevertheless, he was
beautiful to look at in regard to his outward attire, and could
hardly have been better dressed had he been able to pay his tailor
and shirt-maker quarterly. And he was a man of great accomplishments,
who could talk various languages, who could paint, and model, and
write sonnets, and dance to perfection. And he could talk of virtue,
and in some sort seem to believe in it,—though he would sometimes
confess of himself that Nature had not endowed him with the strength
necessary for the performance of all the good things which he so
thoroughly appreciated.</p>
<p>Such as he was he entirely gained the affection of Mary Roden. It is
unnecessary here to tell the efforts that were made by Mrs. Vincent
to prevent the marriage. Had she been less austere she might,
perhaps, have prevailed with the girl. But as she began by pointing
out to her cousin the horror of giving herself, who had been born and
bred a Protestant, to a Roman Catholic,—and also of bestowing her
English money upon an Italian,—all that she said was without effect.
The state of Mr. Vincent's health made it impossible for them to
move, or Mary might perhaps have been carried back to England. When
she was told that the man was poor, she declared that there was so
much the more reason why her money should be given to relieve the
wants of the man she loved. It ended in their being married, and all
that Mr. Vincent was able to accomplish was to see that the marriage
ceremony should be performed after the fashion both of the Church of
England and of the Church of Rome. Mary at the time was more than
twenty-one, and was thus able, with all the romance of girlhood, to
pour her eight thousand pounds into the open hands of her
thrice-noble and thrice-beautiful lover.</p>
<p>The Duchino with his young Duchessina went their way rejoicing, and
left poor Mr. Vincent to die at Verona. Twelve months afterwards the
widow had settled herself at the house at Wimbledon, from which she
had in latter years paid her weekly visits to Paradise Row, and
tidings had come from the young wife which were not altogether
satisfactory. The news, indeed, which declared that a young little
Duke had been born to her was accompanied by expressions of joy which
the other surrounding incidents of her life were not permitted at the
moment altogether to embitter. Her baby, her well-born beautiful
baby, was for a few months allowed to be a joy to her, even though
things were otherwise very sorrowful. But things were very sorrowful.
The old Duke and the old Duchess would not acknowledge her. Then she
learned that the quarrel between the father and son had been carried
to such a pitch that no hope of reconciliation remained. Whatever was
left of family property was gone as far as any inheritance on the
part of the elder son was concerned. He had himself assisted in
making over to a second brother all right that he possessed in the
property belonging to the family. Then tidings of horror accumulated
itself upon her and her baby. Then came tidings that her husband had
been already married when he first met her,—which tidings did not
reach her till he had left her alone, somewhere up among the Lakes,
for an intended absence of three days. After that day she never saw
him again. The next she heard of him was from Italy, from whence he
wrote to her to tell her that she was an angel, and that he, devil as
he was, was not fit to appear in her presence. Other things had
occurred during the fifteen months in which they had lived together
to make her believe at any rate the truth of this last statement. It
was not that she ceased to love him, but that she knew that he was
not fit to be loved. When a woman is bad a man can generally get quit
of her from his heartstrings;—but a woman has no such remedy. She
can continue to love the dishonoured one without dishonour to
herself,—and does so.</p>
<p>Among other misfortunes was the loss of all her money. There she was,
in the little villa on the side of the lake, with no income,—and
with statements floating about her that she had not, and never had
had, a husband. It might well be that after that she should caution
Marion Fay as to the imprudence of an exalted marriage. But there
came to her assistance, if not friendship and love, in the midst of
her misfortunes. Her brother-in-law,—if she had a husband or a
brother-in-law,—came to her from the old Duke with terms of
surrender; and there came also a man of business, a lawyer, from
Venice, to make good the terms if they should be accepted. Though
money was very scarce with the family, or the power of raising money,
still such was the feeling of the old nobleman in her misfortunes
that the entire sum which had been given up to his eldest son should
be restored to trustees for her use and for the benefit of her baby,
on condition that she should leave Italy, and consent to drop the
title of the Di Crinola family. As to that question of a former
marriage, the old lawyer declared that he was unable to give any
certain information. The reprobate had no doubt gone through some
form of a ceremony with a girl of low birth at Venice. It very
probably was not a marriage. The young Duchino, the brother, declared
his belief that there had been no such marriage. But she, should she
cling to the name, could not make her title good to it without
obtaining proofs which they had not been able to find. No doubt she
could call herself Duchess. Had she means at command she might
probably cause herself to be received as such. But no property would
thus be affected,—nor would it rob him, the younger son, of his
right to call himself also by the title. The offer made to her was
not ungenerous. The family owed her nothing, but were willing to
sacrifice nearly half of all they had with the object of restoring to
her the money of which the profligate had robbed her,—which he had
been enabled to take from her by her own folly and credulity. In this
terrible emergency of her life, Mrs. Vincent sent over to her a
solicitor from London, between whom and the Italian man of business a
bargain was struck. The young wife undertook to drop her husband's
name, and to drop it also on behalf of her boy. Then the eight
thousand pounds was repaid, and Mrs. Roden, as she afterwards called
herself, went back to Wimbledon and to England with her baby.</p>
<p>So far the life of George Roden's mother had been most unfortunate.
After that, for a period of sixteen years time went with her, if not
altogether happily, at least quietly and comfortably. Then there came
a subject of disruption. George Roden took upon himself to have
opinions of his own; and would not hold his peace in the presence of
Mrs. Vincent, to whom those opinions were most unacceptable. And they
were the more unacceptable because the mother's tone of mind had
always taken something of the bent which appeared so strongly
afterwards in her son. George at any rate could not be induced to be
silent; nor,—which was worse,—could he after reaching his twentieth
year be made to go to church with that regularity which was necessary
for the elder lady's peace of mind. He at this time had achieved for
himself a place in the office ruled over by our friend Sir Boreas,
and had in this way become so much of a man as to be entitled to
judge for himself. In this way there had been no quarrel between Mrs.
Vincent and Mrs. Roden, but there had come a condition of things in
which it had been thought expedient that they should live apart. Mrs.
Roden had therefore taken for herself a house in Paradise Row, and
those weekly inter-visitings had been commenced between her and her
cousin.</p>
<p>Such had been the story of Mrs. Roden's life, till tidings were
received in England that her husband was dead. The information had
been sent to Mrs. Vincent by the younger son of the late old Duke,
who was now a nobleman well known in the political life of his own
country. He had stated that, to the best of his belief, his brother's
first union had not been a legal marriage. He thought it right, he
had said, to make this statement, and to say that as far as he was
concerned he was willing to withdraw that compact upon which his
father had insisted. If his sister-in-law wished to call herself by
the name and title of Di Crinola, she might do so. Or if the young
man of whom he spoke as his nephew wished to be known as Duca di
Crinola he would raise no objection. But it must be remembered that
he had nothing to offer to his relative but the barren tender of the
name. He himself had succeeded to but very little, and that which he
possessed had not been taken from his brother.</p>
<p>Then there were sundry meetings between Mrs. Vincent and Mrs. Roden,
at which it was decided that Mrs. Roden should go to Italy with her
son. Her brother-in-law had been courteous to her, and had offered to
receive her if she would come. Should she wish to use the name of Di
Crinola, he had promised that she should be called by it in his
house; so that the world around might know that she was recognized by
him and his wife and children. She determined that she would at any
rate make the journey, and that she would take her son with her.</p>
<p>George Roden had hitherto learnt nothing of his father or his family.
In the many consultations held between his mother and Mrs. Vincent it
had been decided that it would be better to keep him in the dark. Why
fill his young imagination with the glory of a great title in order
that he might learn at last, as might too probably be the case, that
he had no right to the name,—no right to consider himself even to be
his father's son? She, by her folly,—so she herself
acknowledged,—had done all that was possible to annihilate herself
as a woman. There was no name which she could give to her son as
certainly as her own. This, which had been hers before she had been
allured into a mock marriage, would at any rate not be disputed. And
thus he had been kept in ignorance of his mother's story. Of course
he had asked. It was no more than natural that he should ask. But
when told that it was for his mother's comfort that he should ask no
more, he had assented with that reticence which was peculiar to him.
Then chance had thrown him into friendship with the young English
nobleman, and the love of Lady Frances Trafford had followed.</p>
<p>His mother, when he consented to accompany her, had almost promised
him that all mysteries should be cleared up between them before their
return. In the train, before they reached Paris, a question was asked
and an answer given which served to tell much of the truth. As they
came down to breakfast that morning, early in the dark January
morning, he observed that his mother was dressed in deep mourning. It
had always been her custom to wear black raiment. He could not
remember that he had ever seen on her a coloured dress, or even a
bright ribbon. And she was not now dressed quite as is a widow
immediately on the death of her husband. It was now a quarter of a
century since she had seen the man who had so ill-used her. According
to the account which she had received, it was twelve months at least
since he had died in one of the Grecian islands. The full weeds of a
mourning widow would ill have befitted her condition of mind, or her
immediate purpose. But yet there was a speciality of blackness in her
garments which told him that she had dressed herself with a purpose
as of mourning. "Mother," he said to her in the train, "you are in
mourning,—as for a friend?" Then when she paused he asked again,
"May I not be told for whom it is done? Am I not right in saying that
it is so?"</p>
<p>"It is so, George."</p>
<p>"For whom then?"</p>
<p>They two were alone in the carriage, and why should his question not
be answered now? But it had come to pass that there was a horror to
her in mentioning the name of his father to him. "George," she said,
"it is more than twenty-five years since I saw your father."</p>
<p>"Is he dead—only now?"</p>
<p>"It is only now,—only the other day,—that I have heard of his
death."</p>
<p>"Why should not I also be in black?"</p>
<p>"I had not thought of it. But you never saw him since he had you in
his arms as a baby. You cannot mourn for him in heart."</p>
<p>"Do you?"</p>
<p>"It is hard to say for what we mourn sometimes. Of course I loved him
once. There is still present to me a memory of what I loved,—of the
man who won my heart by such gifts as belonged to him; and for that I
mourn. He was beautiful and clever, and he charmed me. It is hard to
say sometimes for what we mourn."</p>
<p>"Was he a foreigner, mother?"</p>
<p>"Yes, George. He was an Italian. You shall know it all soon now. But
do not you mourn. To you no memories are left. Were it not for the
necessity of the present moment, no idea of a father should ever be
presented to you." She vouchsafed to tell him no more at that moment,
and he pressed her with no further questions.</p>
<p> </p>
<h5>END OF VOL. II.</h5>
<hr class="narrow" />
<h6>BUNGAY: PRINTED BY CLAY AND TAYLOR.</h6>
<hr class="narrow" />
<p><SPAN name="v3" id="v3"></SPAN> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<h1 class="title">MARION FAY.</h1>
<h3>A Novel.</h3>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<h4>BY</h4>
<h2>ANTHONY TROLLOPE,</h2>
<h4>AUTHOR OF<br/>
<br/>
"FRAMLEY PARSONAGE," "ORLEY FARM," "THE WAY WE<br/>
<br/>
LIVE NOW," ETC., ETC.</h4>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<h3><i>IN THREE VOLUMES.</i></h3>
<h2>VOL. III.</h2>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<h4>London:<br/>
CHAPMAN & HALL, <span class="smallcaps">Limited</span>,
11, HENRIETTA ST.<br/>
1882.</h4>
<h5><i>[All Rights reserved.]</i></h5>
<p> </p>
<hr class="narrow" />
<p> </p>
<h5>Bungay:</h5>
<h6>CLAY AND TAYLOR, PRINTERS.</h6>
<p> </p>
<hr class="narrow" />
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<h3>CONTENTS OF VOLUME III.<br/> </h3>
<div class="center">
<table class="sm" style="margin: 0 auto" cellpadding="3">
<tr><td align="right" valign="top">I. </td> <td align="left"><SPAN href="#c3-1" >"I WILL COME BACK AS I WENT."</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td align="right" valign="top">II. </td> <td align="left"><SPAN href="#c3-2" >TRUE TIDINGS.</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td align="right" valign="top">III. </td> <td align="left"><SPAN href="#c3-3" >ALL THE WORLD KNOWS IT.</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td align="right" valign="top">IV. </td> <td align="left"><SPAN href="#c3-4" >"IT SHALL BE DONE."</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td align="right" valign="top">V. </td> <td align="left"><SPAN href="#c3-5" >MARION WILL CERTAINLY HAVE HER WAY.</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td align="right" valign="top">VI. </td> <td align="left"><SPAN href="#c3-6" >"BUT HE IS;—HE IS."</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td align="right" valign="top">VII. </td> <td align="left"><SPAN href="#c3-7" >THE GREAT QUESTION.</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td align="right" valign="top">VIII. </td> <td align="left"><SPAN href="#c3-8" >"I CANNOT COMPEL HER."</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td align="right" valign="top">IX. </td> <td align="left"><SPAN href="#c3-9" >IN PARK LANE.</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td align="right" valign="top">X. </td> <td align="left"><SPAN href="#c3-10" >AFTER ALL HE ISN'T.</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td align="right" valign="top">XI. </td> <td align="left"><SPAN href="#c3-11" >"OF COURSE THERE WAS A BITTERNESS."</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td align="right" valign="top">XII. </td> <td align="left"><SPAN href="#c3-12" >LORD HAMPSTEAD AGAIN WITH MRS. RODEN.</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td align="right" valign="top">XIII. </td> <td align="left"><SPAN href="#c3-13" >LORD HAMPSTEAD AGAIN WITH MARION.</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td align="right" valign="top">XIV. </td> <td align="left"><SPAN href="#c3-14" >CROCKER'S DISTRESS.</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td align="right" valign="top">XV. </td> <td align="left"><SPAN href="#c3-15" >"DISMISSAL. B. B."</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td align="right" valign="top">XVI. </td> <td align="left"><SPAN href="#c3-16" >PEGWELL BAY.</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td align="right" valign="top">XVII. </td> <td align="left"><SPAN href="#c3-17" >LADY AMALDINA'S WEDDING.</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td align="right" valign="top">XVIII. </td><td align="left"><SPAN href="#c3-18" >CROCKER'S TALE.</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td align="right" valign="top">XIX. </td> <td align="left"><SPAN href="#c3-19" >"MY MARION."</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td align="right" valign="top">XX. </td> <td align="left"><SPAN href="#c3-20" >MR. GREENWOOD'S LAST BATTLE.</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td align="right" valign="top">XXI. </td> <td align="left"><SPAN href="#c3-21" >THE REGISTRAR OF STATE RECORDS.</SPAN></td></tr>
</table></div>
<p> </p>
<hr class="narrow" />
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