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Marion Fay

<h3>CHAPTER VI.</h3> <h4>"BUT HE IS;—HE IS."  </h4> George Roden had come to a decision as to his title, and had told every one concerned that he meant to be as he always had been,—George Roden, a clerk in the Post Office. When spoken to, on this side and the other, as to the propriety,—or rather impropriety,—of his decision, he had smiled for the most part, and had said but little, but had been very confident in himself. To none of the arguments used against him would he yield in the least. As to his mother's name, he said, no one had doubted, and no one would doubt it for a moment. His mother's name had been settled by herself, and she had borne it for a quarter of a century. She had not herself thought of changing it. For her to blaze out into the world as a Duchess,—it would be contrary to her feelings, to her taste, and to her comfort! She would have no means of maintaining the title,—and would be reduced to the necessity of still living in Paradise Row, with the simple addition of an absurd nickname. As to that, no question had been raised. It was only for him that she required the new appellation. As for herself, the whole thing had been settled at once by her own good judgment. As for himself, he said, the arguments were still stronger against the absurd use of the grand title. It was imperative on him to earn his bread, and his only means of doing so was by doing his work as a clerk in the Post Office. Everybody admitted that it would not be becoming that a Duke should be a clerk in the Post Office. It would be so unbecoming, he declared, that he doubted whether any man could be found brave enough to go through the world with such a fool's cap on his head. At any rate he had no such courage. Moreover, no Englishman, as he had been told, could at his own will and pleasure call himself by a foreign title. It was his pleasure to be an Englishman. He had always been an Englishman. As an inhabitant of Holloway he had voted for two Radical members for the Borough of Islington. He would not stultify his own proceedings, and declare that everything which he had done was wrong. It was thus that he argued the matter; and, as it seemed, no one could take upon himself to prove that he was an Italian, or to prove that he was a Duke. But, though he seemed to be, if not logical, at any rate rational, the world generally did not agree with him. Wherever he was encountered there seemed to be an opinion that he ought to assume whatever name and whatever rights belonged to his father. Even at the Post Office the world was against him. "I don't quite know why you couldn't do it," said Sir Boreas, when Roden put it to him whether it would be practicable that a young man calling himself Duca di Crinola should take his place as a clerk in Mr. Jerningham's room. It may be remembered that Sir Boreas had himself expressed some difficulty in the matter. He had told Mr. Jerningham that he did not think that they could get on very well with a real Duke among them. It was thus that the matter had at first struck him. But he was a brave man, and, when he came to look at it all round, he did not see that there would be any impossibility. It would be a nine days' wonder, no doubt. But the man would be there just the same,—the Post Office clerk inside the Duke. The work would be done, and after a little time even he would become used to having a Duke among his subordinates. As to whether the Duke were a foreigner or an Englishman,—that, he declared, would not matter in the least, as far as the Post Office was concerned. "I really don't see why you shouldn't try it," said Sir Boreas. "The absurdity would be so great that it would crush me, sir. I shouldn't be worth my salt," said Roden. "That's a kind of thing that wears itself out very quickly. You would feel odd at first,—and so would the other men, and the messengers. I should feel a little odd when I asked some one to send the Duca di Crinola to me, for we are not in the habit of sending for Dukes. But there is nothing that you can't get used to. If your father had been a Prince I don't think I should break down under it after the first month." "What good would it do me, Sir Boreas?" "I think it would do you good. It is difficult to explain the good,—particularly to a man who is so violently opposed as you to all ideas of rank. But—." "You mean that I should get promoted quicker because of my title?" "I think it probable that the Civil Service generally would find itself able to do something more for a good officer with a high name than for a good officer without one." "Then, Sir Boreas, the Civil Service ought to be ashamed of itself." "Perhaps so;—but such would be the fact. Somebody would interfere to prevent the anomaly of the Duca di Crinola sitting at the same table with Mr. Crocker. I will not dispute it with you,—whether it ought to be so;—but, if it be probable, there is no reason why you should not take advantage of your good fortune, if you have capacity and courage enough to act up to it. Of course what we all want in life is success. If a chance comes in your way I don't see why you should fling it away." This was the wisdom of Sir Boreas; but Roden would not take advantage of it. He thanked the great man for his kindness and sympathy, but declined to reconsider his decision. In the outer office,—in the room, for instance, in which Mr. Jerningham sat with Crocker and Bobbin and Geraghty, the feeling was very much stronger in favour of the title, and was expressed in stronger language. Crocker could not contain himself when he heard that there was a doubt upon the subject. On Roden's first arrival at the office Crocker almost flung himself into his friend's arms, with just a single exclamation. "Duca, Duca, Duca!" he had said, and had then fallen back into his own seat overcome by his emotions. Roden had passed this by without remark. It was very distasteful to him, and disgusting. He would fain have been able to sit down at his own desk, and go on with his own work, without any special notice of the occasion, other than the ordinary greeting occasioned by his return. It was distressing to him that anything should have been known about his father and his father's title. But that it should be known was natural. The world had heard of it. The world had put it into the newspapers, and the world had talked about it. Of course Mr. Jerningham also would talk of it, and the two younger clerks,—and Crocker. Crocker would of course talk of it louder than any one else. That was to be expected. A certain amount of misconduct was to be expected from Crocker, and must be forgiven. Therefore he passed over the ecstatic and almost hysterical repetition of the title which his father had borne, hoping that Crocker might be overcome by the effort, and be tranquil. But Crocker was not so easily overcome. He did sit for a moment or two on his seat with his mouth open; but he was only preparing himself for his great demonstration. "We are very glad to see you again,—sir," said Mr. Jerningham; not at first quite knowing how it would become him to address his fellow-clerk. "Thank you, Mr. Jerningham. I have got back again safe." "I am sure we are all delighted to hear—what we have heard," said Mr. Jerningham cautiously. "By George, yes," said Bobbin. "I suppose it's true; isn't it? Such a beautiful name!" "There are so many things are true, and so many are false, that I don't quite know how to answer you," said Roden. "But you are—?" asked Geraghty; and then he stopped, not quite daring to trust himself with the grand title. "No;—that's just what I'm not," replied the other. "But he is," shouted Crocker, jumping from his seat. "He is! He is! It's quite true. He is Duca di Crinola. Of course we'll call him so, Mr. Jerningham;—eh?" "I am sure I don't know," said Mr. Jerningham with great caution. "You'll allow me to know my own name," said Roden. "No! no!" continued Crocker. "It's all very well for your modesty, but it's a kind of thing which your friends can't stand. We are quite sure that you're the Duca." There was something in the Italian title which was peculiarly soothing to Crocker's ears. "A man has to be called by what he is, not by what he chooses. If the Duke of Middlesex called himself Mr. Smith, he'd be Duke all the same;—wouldn't he, Mr. Jerningham? All the world would call him Duke. So it must be with you. I wouldn't call your Grace Mr. ——; you know what I mean, but I won't pronounce it ever again;—not for ever so much." Roden's brow became very black as he found himself subjected to the effects of the man's folly. "I call upon the whole office," continued Crocker, "for the sake of its own honour, to give our dear and highly-esteemed friend his proper name on all occasions. Here's to the health of the Duca di Crinola!" Just at that moment Crocker's lunch had been brought in, consisting of bread and cheese and a pint of stout. The pewter pot was put to his mouth and the toast was drank to the honour and glory of the drinker's noble friend with no feeling of intended ridicule. It was a grand thing to Crocker to have been brought into contact with a man possessed of so noble a title. In his heart of hearts he reverenced "The Duca." He would willingly have stayed there till six or seven o'clock and have done all the Duca's work for him,—because the Duca was a Duca. He would not have done it satisfactorily, because it was not in his nature to do any work well, but he would have done it as well as he did his own. He hated work; but he would have sooner worked all night than see a Duca do it,—so great was his reverence for the aristocracy generally. "Mr. Crocker," said Mr. Jerningham severely, "you are making yourself a nuisance. You generally do." "A nuisance!" "Yes; a nuisance. When you see that a gentleman doesn't wish a thing, you oughtn't to do it." "But when a man's name is his name!" "Never mind. When he doesn't wish it, you oughtn't to do it!" "If it's a man's own real name!" "Never mind," said Mr. Jerningham. "If it shoots a gintleman to be incognito, why isn't he to do as he plaises?" asked Geraghty. "If the Duke of Middlesex did call himself Mr. Smith," said Bobbin, "any gentleman that was a gentleman would fall in with his views." Crocker, not conquered, but for the moment silenced, seated himself in a dudgeon at his desk. It might do very well for poor fellows, weak creatures like Jerningham, Bobbin, and Geraghty, thus to be done out of their prey;—but he would not be cheated in that way. The Duca di Crinola should be Duca di Crinola as far as he, Crocker, could make his voice heard; and all that heard him should know that the Duca was his own old peculiar friend. In Paradise Row the world was decidedly against Roden; and not only were the Demijohns and Duffers against him, but also his own mother and her friend Mrs. Vincent. On the first Monday after Mrs. Roden's return Mrs. Vincent came to the Row as usual,—on this occasion to welcome her cousin, and to hear all the news of the family as it had been at last brought back from Italy. There was a great deal to be told. Many things had been brought to light which had had their commencement in Mrs. Vincent's days. There was something of the continuation of a mild triumph for her in every word that was spoken. She had been against the Di Crinola marriage, when it had been first discussed more than a quarter of a century ago. She had never believed in the Duca di Crinola, and her want of faith had been altogether justified. She did not, after all those years, bear hardly on her friend,—but there was still that well-known tone of gentle censure and of gentle self-applause. "I told you so," said the elder crow to the younger crow. When does the old crow cease to remind the younger crow that it was so? "A sad, sad story," said Mrs. Vincent, shaking her head. "All our stories I suppose have much in them that is sad. I have got my son, and no mother can have more reason to be proud of a son." Mrs. Vincent shook her head. "I say it is so," repeated the mother; "and having such a son, I will not admit that it has all been sad." "I wish he were more ready to perform his religious duties," said Mrs. Vincent. "We cannot all agree about everything. I do not know that that need be brought up now." "It is a matter that should be brought up every hour and every day, Mary,—if the bringing of it up is to do any good." But it was not on this matter that Mrs. Roden now wished to get assistance from her cousin;—certainly not with any present view towards the amelioration of her son's religious faith. That might come afterwards perhaps. But it was her present object to induce her cousin to agree with her, that her son should permit himself to be called by his father's title. "But you think he should take his father's name?" she asked. Mrs. Vincent shook her head and tried to look wise. The question was one on which her feelings were very much divided. It was of course proper that the son should be called by his father's name. All the proprieties of the world, as known to Mrs. Vincent, declared that it should be so. She was a woman, too, who by no means despised rank, and who considered that much reverence was due to those who were privileged to carry titles. Dukes and lords were certainly very great in her estimation, and even the humblest knight was respected by her, as having been in some degree lifted above the community by the will of his Sovereign. And though she was always in some degree hostile to George Roden, because of the liberties he took in regard to certain religious matters, yet she was good enough and kind enough to wish well to her own cousin. Had there been a question in regard to an English title she certainly would not have shaken her head. But as to this outlandish Italian title, she had her doubts. It did not seem to her to be right that an Englishman should be called a Duca. If it had been Baron, or even Count, the name would have been less offensive. And then to her mind hereditary titles, as she had known them, had been recommended by hereditary possessions. There was something to her almost irreligious in the idea of a Duke without an acre. She could therefore only again shake her head. "He has as much right to it," continued Mrs. Roden, "as has the eldest son of the greatest peer in England." "I dare say he has, my dear, but—." "But what?" "I dare say you're right, only—; only it's not just like an English peer, you know." "The privilege of succession is the same." "He never could sit in the House of Lords, my dear." "Of course not. He would assume only what is his own. Why should he be ashamed to take an Italian title any more than his friend Lord Hampstead is to take an English one? It is not as though it would prevent his living here. Many foreign noblemen live in England." "I suppose he could live here," said Mrs. Vincent as though she were making a great admission. "I don't think that there would be any law to turn him out of the country." "Nor out of the Post Office, if he chooses to remain there," said Mrs. Roden. "I don't know how that may be." "Even if they did, I should prefer that it should be so. According to my thinking, no man should fling away a privilege that is his own, or should be ashamed of assuming a nobility that belongs to him. If not for his own sake, he should do it for the sake of his children. He at any rate has nothing to be ashamed of in the name. It belonged to his father and to his grandfather, and to his ancestors through many generations. Think how men fight for a title in this country; how they struggle for it when there is a doubt as to who may properly have inherited it! Here there is no doubt. Here there need be no struggle." Convinced by the weight of this argument Mrs. Vincent gave in her adhesion, and at last expressed an opinion that her cousin should at once call himself by his father's name. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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