Before he finished this paragraph, he thought much of Andy Gowran and of the scene among the rocks of which he had heard. But he could not speak of it. He had found himself unable to examine the witness who had been brought to him, and had honestly told himself that he could not take that charge as proved. Andy Gowran might have lied. In his heart he believed that Andy Gowran had lied. The matter was distasteful to him, and he would not touch it. And yet he knew that the woman did not love him, and he longed to tell her so.
As to what we might each gain or each lose in a worldly point of view, either by marrying or not marrying, I will not say a word. You have rank and wealth, and therefore I can comfort myself by thinking that if I dissuade you from this marriage I shall rob you of neither. I acknowledge that I wish to dissuade you, as I believe that we should not make each other happy. As, however, I do consider that I am bound to keep my engagement to you if you demand that I shall do so, I leave the matter in your hands for decision.
I am, and shall remain,
> Your sincere friend,
Fawn.
He read the letter and copied it, and gave himself great credit for the composition. He thought that it was impossible that any woman after reading it should express a wish to become the wife of the man who wrote it; and yet, — so he believed, — no man or woman could find fault with him for writing it. There certainly was one view of the case which was very distressing. How would it be with him if, after all, she should say that she would marry him? After having given her her choice, — having put it all in writing, — he could not again go back from it. He would be in her power, and of what use would his life be to him? Would Parliament, or the India Office, or the eye of the public be able to comfort him then in the midst of his many miseries? What could he do with a wife whom he married with a declaration that he disliked her? With such feelings as were his, how could he stand before a clergyman and take an oath that he would love her and cherish her? Would she not ever be as an adder to him, — as an adder whom it would be impossible that he should admit into his bosom? Could he live in the same house with her; and if so, could he ask his mother and sisters to visit her? He remembered well what Mrs. Hittaway had called her; — a nasty, low, scheming, ill-conducted, dishonest little wretch! And he believed that she was so! Yet he was once again offering to marry her, should she choose to accept him.
Nevertheless, the letter was sent. There was, in truth, no alternative. He had promised that he would write such a letter, and all that had remained to him was the power of cramming into it every available argument against the marriage. This he had done, and, as he thought, had done well. It was impossible that she should desire to marry him after reading such a letter as that!
Lizzie received it in her bedroom, where she breakfasted, and told of its arrival to her friend Mrs. Carbuncle as soon as they met each other. “My lord has come down from his high horse at last,” she said, with the letter in her hand.
“What, — Lord Fawn?”
“Yes; Lord Fawn. What other lord? There is no other lord for me. He is my lord, my peer of Parliament, my Cabinet minister, my right honourable, my member of the Government, — my young man, too, as the maid-servants call them.”
“What does he say?”
“Say; — what should he say? — just that he has behaved very badly, and that he hopes I shall forgive him.”
“Not quite that; does he?”
“That’s what it all means. Of course, there is ever so much of it, — pages of it. It wouldn’t be Lord Fawn if he didn’t spin it all out like an Act of Parliament, with ‘whereas’ and ‘wherein,’ and ‘whereof.’ It is full of all that; but the meaning of it is that he’s at my feet again, and that I may pick him up if I choose to take him. I’d show you the letter, only perhaps it wouldn’t be fair to the poor man.”
“What excuse does he make?”
“Oh, — as to that he’s rational enough. He calls the necklace the — bone of contention. That’s rather good for Lord Fawn; isn’t it? The bone of contention, he says, has been removed; and, therefore, there is no reason why we shouldn’t marry if we like it. He shall hear enough about the bone of contention if we do ‘marry.’”
“And what shall you do now?”
“Ah, yes; that’s easily asked; is it not? The man’s a good sort of man in his way, you know. He doesn’t drink or gamble; and I don’t think there is a bit of the King David about him, — that I don’t.”
“Virtue personified, I should say.”
“And he isn’t extravagant.”
“Then why not have him and have done with it?” asked Mrs. Carbuncle.
“He is such a lumpy man,” said Lizzie; — “such an ass; such a load of Government waste-paper.”
“Come, my dear; — you’ve had troubles.”
“I have, indeed,” said Lizzie.
“And there’s no quite knowing yet how far they’re over.”
“What do you mean by that, Mrs. Carbuncle?”
“Nothing very much; — but still, you see, they may come again. As to Lord George, we all know that he has not got a penny-piece in the world that he can call his own.”
“If he had as many pennies as Judas, Lord George would be nothing to me,” said Lizzie.
“And your cousin really doesn’t seem to mean anything.”
“I know very well what my cousin means. He and I understand each other thoroughly; but cousins can love one another very well without marrying.”
“Of course you know your own business, but if I were you I would take Lord Fawn. I speak in true kindness, — as one woman to another. After all, what does love signify? How much real love do we ever see among married people? Does Lady Glencora Palliser really love her husband, who thinks of nothing in the world but putting taxes on and off?”
“Do you love your husband, Mrs. Carbuncle?”
“No; — but that is a different kind of thing. Circumstances have caused me to live apart from him. The man is a good man, and there is no reason why you should not respect him, and treat him well. He will give you a fixed position, — which really you want badly, Lady Eustace.”
“Tooriloo, tooriloo, tooriloo, looriloo,” said Lizzie, in contemptuous disdain of her friend’s caution.
“And then all this trouble about the diamonds and the robberies will be over,” continued Mrs. Carbuncle. Lizzie looked at her very intently. What should make Mrs. Carbuncle suppose that there need be, or, indeed, could be, any further trouble about the diamonds?
“So; — that’s your advice,” said Lizzie. “I’m half inclined to take it, and perhaps I shall. However, I have brought him round, and that’s something, my dear. And either one way or the other, I shall let him know that I like my triumph. I was determined to have it, and I’ve got it.”
Then she read the letter again very seriously. Could she possibly marry a man who in so many words told her that he didn’t want her? Well; — she thought she could. Was not everybody treating everybody else much in the same way? Had she not loved her Corsair truly, — and how had he treated her? Had she not been true, disinterested, and most affectionate to Frank Greystock; and what had she got from him? To manage her business wisely, and put herself upon firm ground; — that was her duty at present. Mrs. Carbuncle was right there. The very name of Lady Fawn would be a rock to her, — and she wanted a rock. She thought upon the whole that she could marry him; — unless Patience Crabstick and the police should again interfere with her prosperity.
CHAPTER LXVIII
The Major
Lady Eustace did not intend to take as much time in answering Lord Fawn’s letter as he had taken in writing it; but even she found that the subject was one which demanded a good deal of thought. Mrs. Carbuncle had very freely recommended her to take the man, supporting her advice by arguments which Lizzie felt to be valid; but then Mrs. Carbuncle did not know all the circumstances. Mrs. Carbuncle had not actually seen his lordship’s letter; and though the great part of the letter, the formal re
petition, namely, of the writer’s offer of marriage, had been truly told to her, still, as the reader will have perceived, she had been kept in the dark as to some of the details. Lizzie did sit at her desk with the object of putting a few words together in order that she might see how they looked, and she found that there was a difficulty. “My dear Lord Fawn. As we have been engaged to marry each other, and as all our friends have been told, I think that the thing had better go on.” That, after various attempts, was, she thought, the best letter that she could send, — if she should make up her mind to be Lady Fawn. But, on the morning of the 30th of March she had not sent her letter. She had told herself that she would take two days to think of her reply, — and, on the Friday morning the few words she had prepared were still lying in her desk.
What was she to get by marrying a man she absolutely disliked? That he also absolutely disliked her was not a matter much in her thoughts. The man would not ill-treat her because he disliked her; or, it might perhaps be juster to say, that the ill-treatment which she might fairly anticipate would not be of a nature which would much affect her comfort grievously. He would not beat her, nor rob her, nor lock her up, nor starve her. He would either neglect her, or preach sermons to her. For the first she could console herself by the attention of others; and should he preach, perhaps she could preach too, — as sharply if not as lengthily as his lordship. At any rate, she was not afraid of him. But what would she gain? It is very well to have a rock, as Mrs. Carbuncle had said, but a rock is not everything. She did not know whether she cared much for living upon a rock. Even stability may be purchased at too high a price. There was not a grain of poetry in the whole composition of Lord Fawn, and poetry was what her very soul craved; — poetry, together with houses, champagne, jewels, and admiration. Her income was still her own, and she did not quite see that the rock was so absolutely necessary to her. Then she wrote another note to Lord Fawn, a specimen of a note, so that she might have the opportunity of comparing the two. This note took her much longer than the one first written.
My Lord, —
I do not know how to acknowledge with sufficient humility the condescension and great kindness of your lordship’s letter. But perhaps its manly generosity is more conspicuous than either. The truth is, my lord, you want to escape from your engagement, but are too much afraid of the consequences to dare to do so by any act of your own; — therefore you throw it upon me. You are quite successful. I don’t think you ever read poetry, but perhaps you may understand the two following lines: —
“I am constrained to say, your lordship’s scullion
Should sooner be my husband than yourself.”
I see through you, and despise you thoroughly.
E. Eustace.
She was comparing the two answers together, very much in doubt as to which should be sent, when there came a message to her by a man whom she knew to be a policeman, though he did not announce himself as such, and was dressed in plain clothes. Major Mackintosh sent his compliments to her, and would wait upon her that afternoon at three o’clock, if she would have the kindness to receive him. At the first moment of seeing the man she felt that after all the rock was what she wanted. Mrs. Carbuncle was right. She had had troubles and might have more, and the rock was the thing. But then the more certainly did she become convinced of this by the presence of the major’s messenger, the more clearly did she see the difficulty of attaining the security which the rock offered. If this public exposure should fall upon her, Lord Fawn’s renewed offer, as she knew well, would stand for nothing. If once it were known that she had kept the necklace, — her own necklace, — under her pillow at Carlisle, he would want no further justification in repudiating her, were it for the tenth time.
She was very uncivil to the messenger, and the more so because she found that the man bore her rudeness without turning upon her and rending her. When she declared that the police had behaved very badly, and that Major Mackintosh was inexcusable in troubling her again, and that she had ceased to care twopence about the necklace, — the man made no remonstrance to her petulance. He owned that the trouble was very great, and the police very inefficient. He almost owned that the major was inexcusable. He did not care what he owned so that he achieved his object. But when Lizzie said that she could not see Major Mackintosh at three, and objected equally to two, four, or five; then the courteous messenger from Scotland Yard did say a word to make her understand that there must be a meeting, — and he hinted also that the major was doing a most unusually good-natured thing in coming to Hertford Street. Of course, Lizzie made the appointment. If the major chose to come, she would be at home at three.
As soon as the policeman was gone, she sat alone, with a manner very much changed from that which she had worn since the arrival of Lord Fawn’s letter, — with a fresh weight of care upon her, greater perhaps than she had ever hitherto borne. She had had bad moments, — when, for instance, she had been taken before the magistrates at Carlisle, when she found the police in her house on her return from the theatre, and when Lord George had forced her secret from her. But at each of these periods hope had come renewed before despair had crushed her. Now it seemed to her that the thing was done and that the game was over. This chief man of the London police no doubt knew the whole story. If she could only already have climbed upon some rock, so that there might be a man bound to defend her, — a man at any rate bound to put himself forward on her behalf and do whatever might be done in her defence, — she might have endured it!
What should she do now, — at this minute? She looked at her watch and found that it was already past one. Mrs. Carbuncle, as she knew, was closeted up-stairs with Lucinda, whose wedding was fixed for the following Monday. It was now Friday. Were she to call upon Mrs. Carbuncle for aid, no aid would be forthcoming unless she were to tell the whole truth. She almost thought that she would do so. But then, how great would have been her indiscretion if, after all, when the major should come, she should discover that he did not know the truth himself! That Mrs. Carbuncle would keep her secret she did not for a moment think. She longed for the comfort of some friend’s counsel, but she found at last that she could not purchase it by telling everything to a woman.
Might it not be possible that she should still run away? She did not know much of the law, but she thought that they could not punish her for breaking an appointment even with a man so high in authority as Major Mackintosh. She could leave a note saying that pressing business called her out. But whither should she go? She thought of taking a cab to the House of Commons, finding her cousin, and telling him everything. It would be so much better that he should see the major. But then again, it might be that she should be mistaken as to the amount of the major’s information. After a while she almost determined to fly off at once to Scotland, leaving word that she was obliged to go instantly to her child. But there was no direct train to Scotland before eight or nine in the evening, and during the intervening hours the police would have ample time to find her. What, indeed, could she do with herself during these intervening hours? Ah, if she had but a rock now, so that she need not be dependent altogether on the exercise of her own intellect!
Gradually the minutes passed by, and she became aware that she must face the major. Well! What had she done? She had stolen nothing. She had taken no person’s property. She had, indeed, been wickedly robbed, and the police had done nothing to get back for her her property, as they were bound to have done. She would take care to tell the major what she thought about the negligence of the police. The major should not have the talk all to himself.
If it had not been for one word with which Lord George had stunned her ears, she could still have borne it well. She had told a lie; — perhaps two or three lies. She knew that she had lied. But then people lie every day. She would not have minded it much if she were simply to be called a liar. But he had told her that she would be accused of — perjury. There was something frightful to her in the name. And there were, she knew not what, dreadful penal
ties attached to it. Lord George had told her that she might be put in prison, — whether he had said for years or for months she had forgotten. And she thought she had heard of people’s property being confiscated to the Crown when they had been made out to be guilty of certain great offences. Oh, how she wished that she had a rock!
When three o’clock came she had not started for Scotland or elsewhere, and at last she received the major. Could she have thoroughly trusted the servant, she would have denied herself at the last moment, but she feared that she might be betrayed, and she thought that her position would be rendered even worse than it was at present by a futile attempt. She was sitting alone, pale, haggard, trembling, when Major Mackintosh was shown into her room. It may be as well explained at once that, at this moment, the major knew, or thought that he knew, every circumstance of the two robberies, and that his surmises were in every respect right. Miss Crabstick and Mr. Cann were in comfortable quarters, and were prepared to tell all that they could tell. Mr. Smiler was in durance, and Mr. Benjamin was at Vienna, in the hands of the Austrian police, who were prepared to give him up to those who desired his society in England, on the completion of certain legal formalities. That Mr. Benjamin and Mr. Smiler would be prosecuted, the latter for the robbery and the former for conspiracy to rob, and for receiving stolen goods, was a matter of course. But what was to be done with Lady Eustace? That, at the present moment, was the prevailing trouble with the police. During the last three weeks every precaution had been taken to keep the matter secret, and it is hardly too much to say that Lizzie’s interests were handled not only with consideration but with tenderness.
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