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Updated: May 23, 2025
It was said, for instance, that Oliver Marsham and his sister only possessed pittances of about a thousand a year apiece, while Tallyn, together with the vast bulk of Henry Marsham's fortune, had been willed to Lady Lucy, and lay, moreover, at her absolute disposal. Was this so, or no? Miss Drake's curiosity, for some time past, would have been glad to be informed.
"All right," said Chide; "so long as the Herald and the Flag do their duty. By-the-way, hasn't the Herald got a new editor?" "Yes; a man called Barrington a friend of Oliver's." "Ah! a good deal sounder on many points than Oliver!" grumbled Sir James. Ferrier did not reply. Chide noticed the invariable way in which Marsham's name dropped between them whenever it was introduced in this connection.
An orphan at fourteen, earning her own living from the first; self-dependent, self-protected; the friend, on perfectly equal terms, of a group of able men, interested in the same social ideals as herself; living alone, in contempt of all ordinary conventions, now in Kensington or Belgravia, and now in a back street of Stepney, or Poplar, and equally at home and her own mistress in both; exacting from a rich employer the full market value of the services she rendered him, and refusing to accept the smallest gift or favor beyond; a convinced Socialist and champion of the poor, who had within the past twelve months, to Marsham's knowledge, refused an offer of marriage from a man of large income, passionately devoted to her, whom she liked mainly, it was believed, because his wealth was based on sweated labor: such was the character sketched by Marsham for his neighbor in the intermittent conversation, which was all that Lady Niton allowed him.
And, Richard, go and see if the Dunscombe paper is come, and bring it up." The footman disappeared. As soon as the door was shut Marsham sank back into his cushions with a stifled groan. He was lying on a sofa in his own sitting-room. A fire burned in the grate, and Marsham's limbs were covered with a rug. Yet it was only the first week of September, and the afternoon was warm and sunny.
But at the mention of Sir James Chide, her face lit up. "He has been so kind to me!" she said, looking up into Marsham's face "so very kind!" Her eyes showed a touch of passion; the passion that some natures can throw into gratitude; whether for little or much. Marsham smiled. "He fell in love with you! Yes he is a dear old boy. One can well imagine that he has had a romance!" "Has he?"
At the same time, the state of feeling in the division was too strong; the paper which depended entirely on local support could not risk its very existence by countering it. Marsham's keen brain spared him nothing. His analysis of his own situation, made at leisure during the week which had elapsed since the election, had been as pitiless and as acute as that of any opponent could have been.
It was impossible that any woman of her type, who had gone through the experience that she had, should remain unmoved by the accounts now current as to Oliver Marsham's state. As they returned across the lawn to the house the two lovers came out to meet them. Sir James saw the look with which Diana watched them coming.
He pointed to Marsham's bedroom, now appropriated to the valet, while the master, for the sake of space and cheerfulness, had been moved into the sitting-room. The servant hesitated, protested, and was at last persuaded, being well aware of Marsham's liking for this queer, serviceable being. Lankester took various directions from him, and packed him off.
To Lady Lucy he never spoke of Oliver's opinions, except in a half-jesting way; to other people he did not speak of them at all. Ferrier's affections were deep and silent. He had not found it possible to love the mother without loving the son had played, indeed, a father's part to him since Henry Marsham's death. He knew the brilliant, flawed, unstable, attractive fellow through and through.
Outside the Catholic Church, the same need takes shape he thought in forms less suited to a woman's weakness, less conducive to her dignity. All through he resented the sacrifice of a being so noble, true, and tender to a love, in his eyes, so unfitting and derogatory. Not all the pathos of suffering could blunt his sense of Marsham's inferiority, or make him think it "worth while."
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