The Palliser Novels (243 page)

“No; — I do not think that. But her temper is so ungovernable, and she has, if I may say so, been so spoilt among you here, — I mean by the girls, of course, — that she does not know how to restrain herself.”

“She is as good as gold, you know, Frederic.” He shrugged his shoulders, and declared that he had not a word more to say about it. He could, of course, remain in London till it should suit Mr. Greystock to take his bride. “You’ll break my heart if you say that!” exclaimed the unhappy mother. “Of course, she shall leave the house if you wish it.”

“I wish nothing,” said Lord Fawn. “But I peculiarly object to be told that I am a — liar.” Then he stalked away along the corridor and went down to breakfast, as black as a thunder-cloud.

Lady Fawn and Lucy sat opposite to each other in church, but they did not speak till the afternoon. Lady Fawn went to church in the carriage and Lucy walked, and as Lucy retired to her room immediately on her return to the house, there had not been an opportunity even for a word. After lunch Amelia came up to her, and sat down for a long discussion. “Now, Lucy, something must be done, you know,” said Amelia.

“I suppose so.”

“Of course, mamma must see you. She can’t allow things to go on in this way. Mamma is very unhappy, and didn’t eat a morsel of breakfast.” By this latter assertion Amelia simply intended to imply that her mother had refused to be helped a second time to fried bacon, as was customary.

“Of course, I shall go to her the moment she sends for me. Oh, — I am so unhappy!”

“I don’t wonder at that, Lucy. So is my brother unhappy. These things make people unhappy. It is what the world calls — temper, you know, Lucy.”

“Why did he tell me that Mr. Greystock isn’t a gentleman? Mr. Greystock is a gentleman. I meant to say nothing more than that.”

“But you did say more, Lucy.”

“When he said that Mr. Greystock wasn’t a gentleman, I told him it wasn’t true. Why did he say it? He knows all about it. Everybody knows. Would you think it wise to come and abuse him to me, when you know what he is to me? I can’t bear it, and I won’t. I’ll go away to-morrow, if your mamma wishes it.” But that going away was just what Lady Fawn did not wish.

“I think you know, Lucy, you should express your deep sorrow at what has passed.”

“To your brother?”

“Yes.”

“Then he would abuse Mr. Greystock again, and it would all be as bad as ever. I’ll beg Lord Fawn’s pardon if he’ll promise beforehand not to say a word about Mr. Greystock.”

“You can’t expect him to make a bargain like that, Lucy.”

“I suppose not. I daresay I’m very wicked, and I must be left wicked. I’m too wicked to stay here. That’s the long and the short of it.”

“I’m afraid you’re proud, Lucy.”

“I suppose I am. If it wasn’t for all that I owe to everybody here, and that I love you all so much, I should be proud of being proud; — because of Mr. Greystock. Only it kills me to make Lady Fawn unhappy.”

Amelia left the culprit, feeling that no good had been done, and Lady Fawn did not see the delinquent till late in the afternoon. Lord Fawn had, in the meantime, wandered out along the river all alone to brood over the condition of his affairs. It had been an evil day for him in which he had first seen Lady Eustace. From the first moment of his engagement to her he had been an unhappy man. Her treatment of him, the stories which reached his ears from Mrs. Hittaway and others, Mr. Camperdown’s threats of law in regard to the diamonds, and Frank Greystock’s insults, altogether made him aware that he could not possibly marry Lady Eustace. But yet he had no proper and becoming way of escaping from the bonds of his engagement. He was a man with a conscience, and was made miserable by the idea of behaving badly to a woman. Perhaps it might have been difficult to analyse his misery, and to decide how much arose from the feeling that he was behaving badly, and how much from the conviction that the world would accuse him of doing so; but, between the two, he was wretched enough. The punishment of the offence had been commenced by Greystock’s unavenged insults; — and it now seemed to him that this girl’s conduct was a continuation of it. The world was already beginning to treat him with that want of respect which he so greatly dreaded. He knew that he was too weak to stand up against a widely-spread expression of opinion that he had behaved badly. There are men who can walk about the streets with composed countenances, take their seats in Parliament if they happen to have seats, work in their offices, or their chambers, or their counting-houses with diligence, and go about the world serenely, even though everybody be saying evil of them behind their backs. Such men can live down temporary calumny, and almost take a delight in the isolation which it will produce. Lord Fawn knew well that he was not such a man. He would have described his own weakness as caused, perhaps, by a too thin-skinned sensitiveness. Those who knew him were inclined to say that he lacked strength of character, and, perhaps, courage.

He had certainly engaged himself to marry this widow, and he was most desirous to do what was right. He had said that he would not marry her unless she would give up the necklace, and he was most desirous to be true to his word. He had been twice insulted, and he was anxious to support these injuries with dignity. Poor Lucy’s little offence against him rankled in his mind with the other great offences. That this humble friend of his mother’s should have been so insolent was a terrible thing to him. He was not sure even whether his own sisters did not treat him with scantier reverence than of yore. And yet he was so anxious to do right, and do his duty in that state of life to which it had pleased God to call him! As to much he was in doubt; but of two things he was quite sure, — that Frank Greystock was a scoundrel, and that Lucy Morris was the most impertinent young woman in England.

“What would you wish to have done, Frederic?” his mother said to him on his return.

“In what respect, mother?”

“About Lucy Morris? I have not seen her yet. I have thought it better that she should be left to herself for a while before I did so. I suppose she must come down to dinner. She always does.”

“I do not wish to interfere with the young lady’s meals.”

“No; — but about meeting her? If there is to be no talking it will be so very unpleasant. It will be unpleasant to us all, but I am thinking chiefly of you.”

“I do not wish anybody to be disturbed for my comfort.” A young woman coming down to dinner as though in disgrace, and not being spoken to by any one, would, in truth, have had rather a soothing effect upon Lord Fawn, who would have felt that the general silence and dulness had been produced as a sacrifice in his honour. “I can, of course, insist that she should apologise; but if she refuses, what shall I do then?”

“Let there be no more apologies, if you please, mother.”

“What shall I do then, Frederic?”

“Miss Morris’s idea of an apology is a repetition of her offence with increased rudeness. It is not for me to say what you should do. If it be true that she is engaged to that
man — “

“It is true, certainly.”

“No doubt that will make her quite independent of you, and I can understand that her presence here in such circumstances must be very uncomfortable to you all. No doubt she feels her power.”

“Indeed, Frederic, you do not know her.”

“I can hardly say that I desire to know her better. You cannot suppose that I can be anxious for further intimacy with a young lady who has twice given me the lie in your house. Such conduct is, at least, very unusual; and as no absolute punishment can be inflicted, the offender can only be avoided. It is thus, and thus only, that such offences can be punished. I shall be satisfied if you will give her to understand that I should prefer that she should not address me again.”

Poor Lady Fawn was beginning to think that Lucy was right in saying that there was no remedy for all these evils but that she should go away. But whither was she to go? She had no home but such home as she could earn for herself by her services as a governess, and in her present position it was almost out of the question that she should seek another place. Lady Fawn, too, felt that she had pledged herself to Mr. Greystock that till next year Lucy should have a home at Fawn Court. Mr. Greystock, indeed, was now an enemy to the family; but Lucy was not an enemy, and it was out of the question that she should be treated with real enmity. She might be scolded, and scowled at, and put into a kind of drawing-room Coventry for a time, — so that all kindly intercourse with her should be confined to school-room work and bed-room conferences. She could be generally “sat upon,” as Nina would call it. But as for quarrelling with her, — making a real enemy of one whom they all loved, one whom Lady Fawn knew to be “as good as gold,” one who had become so dear to the old lady that actual extrusion from their family affections would be like the cutting off of a limb, — that was simply impossible. “I suppose I had better go and see her,” said Lady Fawn, — “and I have got such a headache.”

“Do not see her on my account,” said Lord Fawn. The duty, however, was obligatory, and Lady Fawn with slow steps sought Lucy in the school-room.

“Lucy,” she said, seating herself, “what is to be the end of all this?”

Lucy came up to her and knelt at her feet. “If you knew how unhappy I am because I have vexed you!”

“I am unhappy, my dear, because I think you have been betrayed by warm temper into misbehaviour.”

“I know I have.”

“Then why do you not control your temper?”

“If anybody were to come to you, Lady Fawn, and make horrible accusations against Lord Fawn, or against Augusta, would not you be angry? Would you be able to stand it?”

Lady Fawn was not clear-headed; she was not clever; nor was she even always rational. But she was essentially honest. She knew that she would fly at anybody who should in her presence say such bitter things of any of her children as Lord Fawn had said of Mr. Greystock in Lucy’s hearing; — and she knew also that Lucy was entitled to hold Mr. Greystock as dearly as she held her own sons and daughters. Lord Fawn, at Fawn Court, could not do wrong. That was a tenet by which she was obliged to hold fast. And yet Lucy had been subjected to great cruelty. She thought awhile for a valid argument. “My dear,” she said, “your youth should make a difference.”

“Of course it should.”

“And though to me and to the girls you are as dear as any friend can be, and may say just what you please — Indeed, we all live here in such a way that we all do say just what we please, — young and old together. But you ought to know that Lord Fawn is different.”

“Ought he to say that Mr. Greystock is not a gentleman to me?”

“We are, of course, very sorry that there should be any quarrel. It is all the fault of that — nasty, false young woman.”

“So it is, Lady Fawn. Lady Fawn, I have been thinking about it all the day, and I am quite sure that I had better not stay here while you and the girls think badly of Mr. Greystock. It is not only about Lord Fawn, but because of the whole thing. I am always wanting to say something good about Mr. Greystock, and you are always thinking something bad about him. You have been to me, — oh, the very best friend that a girl ever had. Why you should have treated me so generously I never could know.”

“Because we have loved you.”

“But when a girl has got a man whom she loves, and has promised to marry, he must be her best friend of all. Is it not so, Lady Fawn?” The old woman stooped down and kissed the girl who had got the man. “It is not ingratitude to you that makes me think most of him; is it?”

“Certainly not, dear.”

“Then I had better go away.”

“But where will you go, Lucy?”

“I will consult Mr. Greystock.”

“But what can he do, Lucy? It will only be a trouble to him. He can’t find a home for you.”

“Perhaps they would have me at the deanery,” said Lucy slowly. She had evidently been thinking much of it all. “And, Lady Fawn, I will not go down-stairs while Lord Fawn is here; and when he comes, — if he does come again while I am here, — he shall not be troubled by seeing me. He may be sure of that. And you may tell him that I don’t defend myself, only I shall always think that he ought not to have said that Mr. Greystock wasn’t a gentleman before me.” When Lady Fawn left Lucy the matter was so far settled that Lucy had neither been asked to come down to dinner, nor had she been forbidden to seek another home.

Frank Greystock stayed the Sunday in London and went down to Bobsborough on the Monday. His father and mother and sister all knew of his engagement to Lucy, and they had heard also that Lady Eustace was to become Lady Fawn. Of the necklace they had hitherto heard very little, and of the quarrel between the two lovers they had heard nothing. There had been many misgivings at the deanery, and some regrets, about these marriages. Mrs. Greystock, Frank’s mother, was, as we are so wont to say of many women, the best woman in the world. She was unselfish, affectionate, charitable, and thoroughly feminine. But she did think that her son Frank, with all his advantages, — good looks, cleverness, general popularity, and seat in Parliament, — might just as well marry an heiress as a little girl without twopence in the world. As for herself, who had been born a Jackson, she could do with very little; but the Greystocks were all people who wanted money. For them there was never more than ninepence in a shilling, if so much. They were a race who could not pay their way with moderate incomes. Even the dear dean, who really had a conscience about money, and who hardly ever left Bobsborough, could not be kept quite clear of debt, let her do what she would. As for the admiral, the dean’s elder brother, he had been notorious for insolvency; and Frank was a Greystock all over. He was the very man to whom money with a wife was almost a necessity of existence.

And his pretty cousin, the widow, who was devoted to him, and would have married him at a word, had ever so many thousands a year! Of course, Lizzie Eustace was not just all that she should be; — but then who is? In one respect, at any rate, her conduct had always been proper. There was no rumour against her as to lovers or flirtations. She was very young, and Frank might have moulded her as he pleased. Of course there were regrets. Poor dear little Lucy Morris was as good as gold. Mrs. Greystock was quite willing to admit that. She was not good-looking; — so at least Mrs. Greystock said. She never would allow that Lucy was good-looking. And she didn’t see much in Lucy, who, according to her idea, was a little chit of a thing. Her position was simply that of a governess. Mrs. Greystock declared to her daughter that no one in the whole world had a higher respect for governesses than had she. But a governess is a governess; — and for a man in Frank’s position such a marriage would be simply suicide.