Travellers again entered the carriage, and they went on with a crowd of persons till they reached the platform at which they changed the carriage for Troon. Then they were again alone, for a few minutes, and Lizzie with infinite courage determined that she would make her last attempt. “Frank,” she said, “you know what it is that I mean. You cannot feel that I am ungenerous. You have made me love you. Will you have all that I have to give?” She was leaning over, close to him, and he was observing that her long lock of hair was out of curl and untidy, — a thing that ought not to have been there during such a journey as this.
“Do you not know,” he said, “that I am engaged to marry Lucy Morris?”
“No; — I do not know it.”
“I have told you so more than once.”
“You cannot afford to marry her.”
“Then I shall do it without affording.” Lizzie was about to speak, — had already pronounced her rival’s name in that tone of contempt which she so well knew how to use, when he stopped her. “Do not say anything against her, Lizzie, in my hearing, for I will not bear it. It would force me to leave you at the Troon station, and I had better see you now to the end of the journey.” Lizzie flung herself back into the corner of her carriage, and did not utter another word till she reached Portray Castle. He handed her out of the railway carriage, and into her own vehicle which was waiting for them, attended to the maid, and got the luggage; but still she did not speak. It would be better that she should quarrel with him. That little snake, Lucy, would of course now tell him of the meeting between them in Hertford Street, after which anything but quarrelling would be impossible. What a fool the man must be, what an idiot, what a soft-hearted, mean-spirited fellow! Lucy, by her sly, quiet little stratagems, had got him once to speak the word, and now he had not courage enough to go back from it! He had less strength of will even than Lord Fawn! What she offered to him would be the making of him. With his position, his seat in Parliament, such a country house as Portray Castle, and the income which she would give him, there was nothing that he might not reach! And he was so infirm of purpose, that though he had hankered after it all, he would not open his hand to take it, — because he was afraid of such a little thing as Lucy Morris! It was thus that she thought of him as she leaned back in the carriage without speaking. In giving her all that is due to her, we must acknowledge that she had less feeling of the injury done to her charms as a woman than might have been expected. That she hated Lucy was a matter of course; — and equally so that she should be very angry with Frank Greystock. But the anger arose from general disappointment, rather than from any sense of her own despised beauty. “Ah, now I shall see my child,” she said, as the carriage stopped at the castle-gate.
When Frank Greystock went to his supper, Miss Macnulty brought to him his cousin’s compliments with a message saying that she was too weary to see him again that night. The message had been intended to be curt and uncourteous, but Miss Macnulty had softened it, — so that no harm was done. “She must be very weary,” said Frank.
“I suppose though that nothing would ever really tire Lady Eustace,” said Miss Macnulty. “When she is excited nothing will tire her. Perhaps the journey has been dull.”
“Exceedingly dull,” said Frank, as he helped himself to the collops which the Portray cook had prepared for his supper.
Miss Macnulty was very attentive to him, and had many questions to ask. About the necklace she hardly dared to speak, merely observing how sad it was that all those precious diamonds should have been lost for ever. “Very sad indeed,” said Frank with his mouth full. She then went on to the marriage, — the marriage that was no marriage. Was not that very dreadful? Was it true that Miss Roanoke was really — out of her mind? Frank acknowledged that it was dreadful, but thought that the marriage had it been completed would have been more so. As for the young lady, he only knew that she had been taken somewhere out of the way. Sir Griffin, he had been told, had gone to Japan.
“To Japan!” said Miss Macnulty, really interested. Had Sir Griffin gone no further than Boulogne, her pleasure in the news would certainly have been much less. Then she asked some single question about Lord George, and from that came to the real marrow of her anxiety. Had Mr. Greystock lately seen the — the Rev. Mr. Emilius? Frank had not seen the clergyman, and could only say of him that had Lucinda Roanoke and Sir Griffin Tewett been made one, the knot would have been tied by Mr. Emilius.
“Would it indeed? Did you not think Mr. Emilius very clever when you met him down here?”
“I don’t doubt but what he is a sharp sort of fellow.”
“Oh, Mr. Greystock, I don’t think that that’s the word for him at all. He did promise me when he was here that he would write to me occasionally, but I suppose that the increasing duties of his position have rendered that impossible.” Frank, who had no idea of the extent of the preacher’s ambition, assured Miss Macnulty that among his multifarious clerical labours it was out of the question that Mr. Emilius should find time to write letters.
Frank had consented to stay one day at Portray, and did not now like to run away without again seeing his cousin. Though much tempted to go at once, he did stay the day, and had an opportunity of speaking a few words to Mr. Gowran. Mr. Gowran was very gracious, but said nothing of his journey up to London. He asked various questions concerning her “leddyship’s” appearance at the police-court, as to which tidings had already reached Ayrshire, and pretended to be greatly shocked at the loss of the diamonds. “When they talk o’ ten thoosand poond, that’s a lee, nae doobt?” asked Andy.
“No lie at all, I believe,” said Greystock.
“And her leddyship wad tak’ aboot wi’ her ten thoosand poond — in a box?” Andy still showed much doubt by the angry glance of his eye and the close compression of his lips, and the great severity of his demeanour as he asked the question.
“I know nothing about diamonds myself, but that is what they say they were worth.”
“Her leddyship’s her ain sell seems nae to ha’ been in ain story aboot the box, Muster Greystock?” But Frank could not stand to be cross-questioned on this delicate matter, and walked off, saying that as the thieves had not yet been tried for the robbery, the less said about it the better.
At four o’clock on that afternoon he had not seen Lizzie, and then he received a message from her to the effect that she was still so unwell from the fatigue of her journey that she could bear no one with her but her child. She hoped that her cousin was quite comfortable, and that she might be able to see him after breakfast on the following day. But Frank was determined to leave Portray very early on the following day, and therefore wrote a note to his cousin. He begged that she would not disturb herself, that he would leave the castle the next morning before she could be up, and that he had only further to remind her that she must come up to London at once as soon as she should be summoned for the trial of Mr. Benjamin and his comrade. It had seemed to Frank that she had almost concluded that her labours connected with that disagreeable matter were at an end. “The examination may be long, and I will attend you if you wish it,” said her cousin. Upon receiving this she thought it expedient to come down to him, and there was an interview for about a quarter of an hour in her own little sitting-room looking out upon the sea. She had formed a project, and at once suggested it to him. If she found herself ill when the day of the trial came, could they make her go up and give her evidence? Frank told her that they could, and that they would. She was very clever about it. “They couldn’t go back to what I said at Carlisle, you know; because they already have made me tell all that myself.” As she had been called upon to criminate herself, she could not now be tried for the crime. Frank, however, would not listen to this, and told her that she must come. “Very well, Frank. I know you like to have your own way. You always did. And you think so little of my feelings! I shall make inquiry, and if I must, — why I suppose I must.”
“You’d better make up your mind to come.”
“Very well. And now, Frank, as I am so very tired, if you please I’ll say good-bye to you. I am very much obliged to you for coming with me. Good-bye.” And so they parted.
CHAPTER LXXVII
The Story of Lucy Morris Is Concluded
On the day appointed, Lucy Morris went back from the house of the old countess to Fawn Court. “My dear,” said Lady Linlithgow, “I am sorry that you are going. Perhaps you’ll think I haven’t been very kind to you, but I never am kind. People have always been hard to me, and I’m hard. But I do like you.”
“I’m glad you like me, as we have lived together so long.”
“You may go on staying here, if you choose, and I’ll try to make it better.”
“It hasn’t been bad at all, — only that there’s nothing particular to do. But I must go. I shall get another place as a governess somewhere, and that will suit me best.”
“Because of the money, you mean.”
“Well; — that in part.”
“I mean to pay you something,” said the countess, opening her pocket-book, and fumbling for two bank-notes which she had deposited there.
“Oh, dear, no. I haven’t earned anything.”
“I always gave Macnulty something, and she was not near so nice as you.” And then the countess produced two ten-pound notes. But Lucy would have none of her money, and when she was pressed, became proud and almost indignant in her denial. She had earned nothing, and she would take nothing; and it was in vain that the old lady spread the clean bits of paper before her. “And so you’ll go and be a governess again; will you?”
“When I can get a place.”
“I’ll tell you what, my dear. If I were Frank Greystock, I’d stick to my bargain.” Lucy at once fell a-crying, but she smiled upon the old woman through her tears. “Of course he’s going to marry that little limb of the devil.”
“Oh, Lady Linlithgow, — if you can, prevent that!”
“How am I to prevent it, my dear? I’ve nothing to say to either of them.”
“It isn’t for myself I’m speaking. If I can’t — if I can’t — can’t have things go as I thought they would by myself, I will never ask any one to help me. It is not that I mean. I have given all that up.”
“You have given it up?”
“Yes; — I have. But nevertheless I think of him. She is bad, and he will never be happy if he marries her. When he asked me to be his wife, he was mistaken as to what would be good for him. He ought not to have made such a mistake. For my sake he ought not.”
“That’s quite true, my dear.”
“But I do not wish him to be unhappy all his life. He is not bad, but she is very bad. I would not for worlds that anybody should tell him that he owed me anything; but if he could be saved from her, — oh, I should be so-glad.”
“You won’t have my money, then?”
“No, — Lady Linlithgow.”
“You’d better. It is honestly your own.”
“I will not take it, thank you.”
“Then I may as well put it up again.” And the countess replaced the notes in her pocket-book. When this conversation took place, Frank Greystock was travelling back alone from Portray to London. On the same day the Fawn carriage came to fetch Lucy away. As Lucy was in peculiar distress, Lady Fawn would not allow her to come by any other conveyance. She did not exactly think that the carriage would console her poor favourite; but she did it as she would have ordered something specially nice to eat for any one who had broken his leg. Her soft heart had compassion for misery, though she would sometimes show her sympathy by strange expressions. Lady Linlithgow was almost angry about the carriage. “How many carriages and how many horses does Lady Fawn keep?” she asked.
“One carriage and two horses.”
“She’s very fond of sending them up into the streets of London, I think.” Lucy said nothing more, knowing that it would be impossible to soften the heart of this dowager in regard to the other. But she kissed the old woman at parting, and then was taken down to Richmond in state.
She had made up her mind to have one discussion with Lady Fawn about her engagement, — the engagement which was no longer an engagement, — and then to have done with it. She would ask Lady Fawn to ask the girls never to mention Mr. Greystock’s name in her hearing. Lady Fawn had also made up her mind to the same effect. She felt that the subject should be mentioned once, — and once only. Of course Lucy must have another place, but there need be no hurry about that. She fully recognised her young friend’s feeling of independence, and was herself aware that she would be wrong to offer to the girl a permanent home among her own daughters, and therefore she could not abandon the idea of a future place; but Lucy would, of course, remain till a situation should have been found for her that would be in every sense unexceptionable. There need, however, be no haste, — and, in the meantime, the few words about Frank Greystock must be spoken. They need not, however, be spoken quite immediately. Let there be smiles, and joy, and a merry ring of laughter on this the first day of the return of their old friend. As Lucy had the same feelings on that afternoon, they did talk pleasantly and were merry. The girls asked questions about the Vulturess, — as they had heard her called by Lizzie Eustace, — and laughed at Lucy to her face when she swore that, after a fashion, she liked the old woman.
“You’d like anybody, then,” said Nina.
“Indeed I don’t,” said Lucy, thinking at once of Lizzie Eustace.
Lady Fawn planned out the next day with great precision. After breakfast, Lucy and the girls were to spend the morning in the old school-room, so that there might be a general explanation as to the doings of the last six months. They were to dine at three, and after dinner there should be the discussion. “Will you come up to my room at four o’clock, my dear?” said Lady Fawn, patting Lucy’s shoulder, in the breakfast-parlour. Lucy knew well why her presence was required. Of course she would come. It would be wise to get it over and have done with it.
At noon Lady Fawn, with her three eldest daughters, went out in the carriage, and Lucy was busy among the others with books and maps and sheets of scribbled music. Nothing was done on that day in the way of instruction; but there was much of half-jocose acknowledgement of past idleness, and a profusion of resolutions of future diligence. One or two of the girls were going to commence a course of reading that would have broken the back of any professor, and suggestions were made as to very rigid rules as to the talking of French and German. “But as we can’t talk German,” said Nina, “we should simply be dumb.” “You’d talk High Dutch, Nina, sooner than submit to that,” said one of the sisters.
The conclave was still sitting in full deliberation, when one of the maids entered the room with a very long face. There was a gentleman in the drawing-room asking for Miss Morris! Lucy, who at the moment was standing at a table on which were spread an infinity of books, became at once as white as a sheet. Her fast friend, Lydia Fawn, who was standing by her, immediately took hold of her hand quite tightly. The face of the maid was fit for a funeral. She knew that Miss Morris had had a “follower,” — that the follower had come, — and that then Miss Morris had gone away. Miss Morris had been allowed to come back; and now, on the very first day, just when my lady’s back was turned, here was the follower again! Before she had come up with her message, there had been an unanimous expression of opinion in the kitchen that the fat would all be in the fire. Lucy was as white as marble, and felt such a sudden shock at her heart, that she could not speak. And yet she never doubted for a moment that Frank Greystock was the man. And with what purpose but one could he have come there? She had on the old, old frock in which, before her visit to Lady Linlithgow, she used to pass the morning amidst her labours with the girls, — a pale, grey, well-worn frock, to which must have been imparted some attraction from the milliner’s art, because everybody liked it so well, — but which she had put on this very morning as a testimony, to all the world around her, that she had abandoned the idea of being anything exc
ept a governess. Lady Fawn had understood the frock well. “Here is the dear little old woman just the same as ever,” Lydia had said, embracing her. “She looks as if she’d gone to bed before the winter, and had a long sleep, like a dormouse,” said Cecilia. Lucy had liked it all, and thoroughly appreciated the loving-kindness; but she had known what it all meant. She had left them as the engaged bride of Mr. Greystock, the member for Bobsborough; and now she had come back as Lucy Morris, the governess, again. “Just the same as ever,” Lucy had said, with the sweetest smile. They all understood that, in so saying, she renounced her lover.
And now there stood the maid, inside the room, who, having announced that there was a gentleman asking for Miss Morris, was waiting for an answer. Was the follower to be sent about his business, with a flea in his ear, having come, slyly, craftily, and wickedly, in Lady Fawn’s absence; or would Miss Morris brazen it out, and go and see him?
“Who is the gentleman?” asked Diana, who was the eldest of the Fawn girls present.
“It’s he as used to come after Miss Morris before,” said the maid.
“It is Mr. Greystock,” said Lucy, recovering herself with an effort. “I had better go down to him. Will you tell him, Mary, that I’ll be with him almost immediately?”
“You ought to have put on the other frock, after all,” said Nina, whispering into her ear.
“He has not lost much time in coming to see you,” said Lydia.
“I suppose it was all because he didn’t like Lady Linlithgow,” said Cecilia. Lucy had not a word to say. She stood for a minute among them, trying to think, and then she slowly left the room.
She would not condescend to alter her dress by the aid of a single pin, or by the adjustment of a ribbon. It might well be that, after the mingled work and play of the morning, her hair should not be smooth; but she was too proud to look at her hair. The man whom she had loved, who had loved her but had neglected her, was in the house. He would surely not have followed her thither did he not intend to make reparation for his neglect. But she would use no art with him; — nor would she make any entreaty. It might be that, after all, he had the courage to come and tell her, in a manly, straightforward way, that the thing must be all over, — that he had made a mistake, and would beg her pardon. If it were so, there should be no word of reproach. She would be quite quiet with him; but there should be no word of reproach. But if — In that other case she could not be sure of her behaviour, but she knew well that he would not have to ask long for forgiveness. As for her dress, — he had chosen to love her in that frock before, and she did not think that he would pay much attention to her dress on the present occasion.
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