The Palliser Novels (299 page)

“Yes,” she said. “Thank goodness, I shall get out of this frightful place to-morrow, and soon have once more a roof of my own over my head. What an experience I have had since I have been here!”

“We have all had an experience,” said Lord George, still looking at her with that half-comic turn of his face, — almost as though he were investigating some curious animal of which so remarkable a specimen had never before come under his notice.

“No woman ever intended to show a more disinterested friendship than I have done; and what has been my return?”

“You mean to me? — disinterested friendship to me?” And Lord George tapped his breast lightly with his fingers. His head was still a little on one side, and there was still the smile upon his face.

“I was alluding particularly to Mrs. Carbuncle.”

“Lady Eustace, I cannot take charge of Mrs. Carbuncle’s friendships. I have enough to do to look after my own. If you have any complaint to make against me, — I will at least listen to it.”

“God knows I do not want to make complaints,” said Lizzie, covering her face with her hands.

“They don’t do much good; — do they? It’s better to take people as you find ‘em, and then make the best of ‘em. They’re a queer lot; — ain’t they, — the sort of people one meets about in the world?”

“I don’t know what you mean by that, Lord George.”

“Just what you were saying, when you talked of your experiences. These experiences do surprise one. I have knocked about the world a great deal, and would have almost said that nothing would surprise me. You are no more than a child to me, but you have surprised me.”

“I hope I have not injured you, Lord George.”

“Do you remember how you rode to hounds the day your cousin took that other man’s horse? That surprised me.”

“Oh, Lord George, that was the happiest day of my life. How little happiness there is for people!”

“And when Tewett got that girl to say she’d marry him, the coolness with which you bore all the abomination of it in your house, — for people who were nothing to you; — that surprised me!”

“I meant to be so kind to you all.”

“And when I found that you always travelled with ten thousand pounds’ worth of diamonds in a box, that surprised me very much. I thought that you were a very dangerous companion.”

“Pray don’t talk about the horrid necklace.”

“Then came the robbery, and you seemed to lose your diamonds without being at all unhappy about them. Of course, we understand that now.” On hearing this, Lizzie smiled, but did not say a word. “Then I perceived that I — I was supposed to be the thief. You — you yourself couldn’t have suspected me of taking the diamonds, because — because you’d got them, you know, all safe in your pocket. But you might as well own the truth now. Didn’t you think that it was I who stole the box?”

“I wish it had been you,” said Lizzie laughing.

“All that surprised me. The police were watching me every day as a cat watches a mouse, and thought that they surely had got the thief when they found that I had dealings with Benjamin. Well; you — you were laughing at me in your sleeve all the time.”

“Not laughing, Lord George.”

“Yes, you were. You had got the kernel yourself, and thought that I had taken all the trouble to crack the nut and had found myself with nothing but the shell. Then, when you found you couldn’t eat the kernel, that you couldn’t get rid of the swag without assistance, you came to me to help you. I began to think then that you were too many for all of us. By Jove, I did! Then I heard of the second robbery, and, of course, I thought you had managed that too.”

“Oh, no,” said Lizzie

“Unfortunately you didn’t; but I thought you did. And you thought that I had done it! Mr. Benjamin was too clever for us both, and now he is going to have penal servitude for the rest of his life. I wonder who will be the better of it all. Who’ll have the diamonds at last?”

“I do not in the least care. I hate the diamonds. Of course I would not give them up, because they were my own.”

“The end of it seems to be that you have lost your property, and sworn ever so many false oaths, and have brought all your friends into trouble, and have got nothing by it. What was the good of being so clever?”

“You need not come here to tease me, Lord George.”

“I came here because you sent for me. There’s my poor friend, Mrs. Carbuncle, declares that all her credit is destroyed, and her niece unable to marry, and her house taken away from her, — all because of her connexion with you.”

“Mrs. Carbuncle is — is — is — Oh, Lord George, don’t you know what she is?”

“I know that Mrs. Carbuncle is in a very bad way, and that that girl has gone crazy, and that poor Griff has taken himself off to Japan, and that I am so knocked about that I don’t know where to go; and somehow it seems all to have come from your little manœuvres. You see, we have, all of us, been made remarkable; haven’t we?”

“You are always remarkable, Lord George.”

“And it is all your doing. To be sure you have lost your diamonds for your pains. I wouldn’t mind it so much if anybody were the better for it. I shouldn’t have begrudged even Benjamin the pull, if he’d got it.”

He stood there, still looking down upon her, speaking with a sarcastic subrisive tone, and, as she felt, intending to be severe to her. She had sent for him, and now she didn’t know what to say to him. Though she believed that she hated him, she would have liked to get up some show of an affectionate farewell, some scene in which there might have been tears, and tenderness, and poetry, — and, perhaps, a parting caress. But with his jeering words, and sneering face, he was as hard to her as a rock. He was now silent, but still looking down upon her as he stood motionless upon the rug, — so that she was compelled to speak again. “I sent for you, Lord George, because I did not like the idea of parting with you for ever, without one word of adieu.”

“You are going to tear yourself away; — are you?”

“I am going to Portray on Monday.”

“And never coming back any more? You’ll be up here before the season is over, with fifty more wonderful schemes in your little head. So Lord Fawn is done with, is he?”

“I have told Lord Fawn that nothing shall induce me ever to see him again.”

“And cousin Frank?”

“My cousin attends me down to Scotland.”

“Oh-h. That makes it altogether another thing. He attends you down to Scotland; — does he? Does Mr. Emilius go too?”

“I believe you are trying to insult me, sir.”

“You can’t expect but what a man should be a little jealous, when he has been so completely cut out himself. There was a time, you know, when even cousin Frank wasn’t a better fellow than myself.”

“Much you thought about it, Lord George.”

“Well; — I did. I thought about it a good deal, my lady. And I liked the idea of it very much.” Lizzie pricked up her ears. In spite of all his harshness, could it be that he should be the Corsair still? “I am a rambling, uneasy, ill-to-do sort of man; but still I thought about it. You are pretty, you know, — uncommonly pretty.”

“Don’t, Lord George.”

“And I’ll acknowledge that the income goes for much. I suppose that’s real at any rate?”

“Well; — I hope so. Of course it’s real. And so is the prettiness, Lord George; — if there is any.”

“I never doubted that, Lady Eustace. But when it came to my thinking that you had stolen the diamonds, and you thinking that I had stolen the box — ! I’m not a man to stand on trifles, but, by George, it wouldn’t do then.”

“Who wanted it to do?” said Lizzie. “Go away. You are very unkind to me. I hope I may never see you again. I believe you care more for that odious vulgar woman down-stairs than you do for anybody else in the world.”

“Ah, dear! I have known her for many years, Lizzie, and that both covers and discovers many faults. One learns to know how bad one’s old friends are, but then one forgives them, because they are old friends.”

“You can’t forgive me, — because I’m bad, and only a new friend.”

“Yes, I will. I forgive you all, and hope you may do well yet. If I may give you one bit of advice at parting, it is to caution you against being clever when there is nothing to get by it.”

“I ain’t clever at all,” said Lizzie, beginning to whimper.

“Good-bye, my dear.”

“Good-bye,” said Lizzie. He took her hand in one of his; patted her on the head with the other, as though she had been a child, and then he left her.

Frank Greystock, the writer fears, will not have recommended himself to those readers of this tale who think the part of lover to the heroine should be always filled by a young man with heroic attributes. And yet the young member for Bobsborough was by no means deficient in fine qualities, and perhaps was quite as capable of heroism as the majority of barristers and members of Parliament among whom he consorted, and who were to him — the world. A man born to great wealth may, — without injury to himself or friends, — do pretty nearly what he likes in regard to marriage, always presuming that the wife he selects be of his own rank. He need not marry for money, nor need he abstain from marriage because he can’t support a wife without money. And the very poor man, who has no pretension to rank or standing, other than that which honesty may give him, can do the same. His wife’s fortune will consist in the labour of her hands, and in her ability to assist him in his home. But between these there is a middle class of men, who, by reason of their education, are peculiarly susceptible to the charms of womanhood, but who literally cannot marry for love, because their earnings will do no more than support themselves. As to this special young man, it must be confessed that his earnings should have done much more than that; but not the less did he find himself in a position in which marriage with a penniless girl seemed to threaten him and her with ruin. All his friends told Frank Greystock that he would be ruined were he to marry Lucy Morris; — and his friends were people supposed to be very good and wise. The dean, and the dean’s wife, his father and mother, were very clear that it would be so. Old Lady Linlithgow had spoken of such a marriage as quite out of the question. The Bishop of Bobsborough, when it was mentioned in his hearing, had declared that such a marriage would be a thousand pities. And even dear old Lady Fawn, though she wished it for Lucy’s sake, had many times prophesied that such a thing was quite impossible. When the rumour of the marriage reached Lady Glencora, Lady Glencora told her friend, Madame Max Goesler, that that young man was going to blow his brains out. To her thinking, the two actions were equivalent. It is only when we read of such men that we feel that truth to his sweetheart is the first duty of man. I am afraid that it is not the advice which we give to our sons.

But it was the advice which Frank Greystock had most persistently given to himself since he had first known Lucy Morris. Doubtless he had vacillated, but, on the balance of his convictions as to his own future conduct, he had been much nobler than his friends. He had never hesitated for a moment as to the value of Lucy Morris. She was not beautiful. She had no wonderful gifts of nature. There was nothing of a goddess about her. She was absolutely penniless. She had never been what the world calls well-dressed. And yet she had been everything to him. There had grown up a sympathy between them quite as strong on his part as on hers, and he had acknowledged it to himself. He had never doubted his own love, — and when he had been most near to convincing himself that in his peculiar position he ought to marry his rich cousin, because of her wealth, then, at those moments, he had most strongly felt that to have Lucy Morris close to him was the greatest charm in existence. Hitherto his cousin’s money, joined to flatteries and caresses, — which, if a young man can resist, he is almost more than a young man, — had tempted him; but he had combated the temptation. On one memorable evening his love for Lucy had tempted him. To that temptation he had yielded, and the letter by which he became engaged to her had been written. He had never meant to evade it; — had always told himself that it should not be evaded; but, gradually, days had been added to days, and months to months, and he had allowed her to languish without seeing him, and almost without hearing from him.

She, too, had heard from all sides that she was deserted by him, and she had written to him to give him back his troth; but she had not sent her letters. She did not doubt that the thing was over, — she hardly doubted. And yet she would not send any letter. Perhaps it would be better that the matter should be allowed to drop without any letter-writing. She would never reproach him, — though she would ever think him to be a traitor. Would not she have starved herself for him, could she so have served him? And yet he could bear for her sake no touch of delay in his prosperity! Would she not have been content to wait, and always to wait, — so that he with some word of love would have told her that he waited also? But he would not only desert her, — but would give himself to that false, infamous woman, who was so wholly unfitted to be his wife. For Lucy, though to herself she would call him a traitor, — and would think him to be a traitor, still regarded him as the best of mankind, as one who, in marrying such a one as Lizzie Eustace, would destroy all his excellence, as a man might mar his strength and beauty by falling into a pit. For Lizzie Eustace Lucy Morris had now no forgiveness. Lucy had almost forgotten Lizzie’s lies, and her proffered bribe, and all her meanness, when she made that visit to Hertford Street. Then, when Lizzie claimed this man as her lover, a full remembrance of all the woman’s iniquities came back on Lucy’s mind. The statement that Lizzie then made, Lucy did believe. She did think that Frank, her Frank, the man whom she worshipped, was to take this harpy to his bosom as his wife. And if it were to be so, was it not better that she should be so told? But, from that moment, poor Lizzie’s sins were ranker to Lucy Morris than even to Mr. Camperdown or Mrs. Hittaway. She could not refrain from saying a word even to old Lady Linlithgow. The countess had called her niece a little liar. “Liar!” said Lucy. “I do not think Satan himself can lie as she does.” “Heighty-tighty,” said the countess. “I suppose, then, there’s to be a match between Lady Satan and her cousin Frank?” “They can do as they like about that,” said Lucy, walking out of the room.