Lady Eustace had been rather cross on the journey down to Scotland, and had almost driven the unfortunate Macnulty to think that Lady Linlithgow or the workhouse would be better than this young tyrant; but on her arrival at her own house she was for a while all smiles and kindness. During the journey she had been angry without thought, but was almost entitled to be excused for her anger. Could Miss Macnulty have realised the amount of oppression inflicted on her patroness by the box of diamonds, she would have forgiven anything. Hitherto there had been some secrecy, or at any rate some privacy, attached to the matter; but now that odious lawyer had discussed the matter aloud, in the very streets, in the presence of servants, and Lady Eustace had felt that it was discussed also by every porter on the railway from London down to Troon, the station in Scotland at which her own carriage met her to take her to her own castle. The night at Carlisle had been terrible to her, and the diamonds had never been for a moment off her mind. Perhaps the worst of it all was that her own man-servant and maid-servant had heard the claim which had been so violently made by Mr. Camperdown. There are people in that respect very fortunately circumstanced, whose servants, as a matter of course, know all their affairs, have an interest in their concerns, sympathise with their demands, feel their wants, and are absolutely at one with them. But in such cases the servants are really known, and are almost as completely a part of the family as the sons and daughters. There may be disruptions and quarrels; causes may arise for ending the existing condition of things; but while this condition lasts the servants in such households are for the most part only too well inclined to fight the battles of their employers. Mr. Binns, the butler, would almost foam at the mouth if it were suggested to him that the plate at Silvercup Hall was not the undoubted property of the old squire; and Mrs. Pouncebox could not be made to believe, by any amount of human evidence, that the jewels which her lady has worn for the last fifteen years are not her ladyship’s very own. Binns would fight for the plate, and so would Pouncebox for the jewels, almost till they were cut to pieces. The preservation of these treasures on behalf of those who paid them their wages and fed them, who occasionally scolded them, but always succoured them, would be their point of honour. No torture would get the key of the cellar from Binns; no threats extract from Pouncebox a secret of the toilet. But poor Lizzie Eustace had no Binns and no Pouncebox. They are plants that grow slowly. There was still too much of the mushroom about Lady Eustace to permit of her possessing such treasures. Her footman was six feet high, was not bad-looking, and was called Thomas. She knew no more about him, and was far too wise to expect sympathy from him, or other aid than the work for which she paid him. Her own maid was somewhat nearer to her; but not much nearer. The girl’s name was Patience Crabstick, and she could do hair well. Lizzie knew but little more of her than that.
Lizzie considered herself to be still engaged to be married to Lord Fawn, but there was no sympathy to be had in that quarter. Frank Greystock might be induced to sympathise with her, but hardly after the fashion which Lizzie desired. And then sympathy in that direction would be so dangerous should she decide upon going on with the Fawn marriage. For the present she had quarrelled with Lord Fawn; but the very bitterness of that quarrel, and the decision with which her betrothed had declared his intention of breaking off the match, made her the more resolute that she would marry him. During her journey to Portray she had again determined that he should be her husband; and, if so, advanced sympathy — sympathy that would be pleasantly tender with her cousin Frank — would be dangerous. She would be quite willing to accept even Miss Macnulty’s sympathy if that humble lady would give it to her of the kind she wanted. She declared to herself that she could pour herself out on Miss Macnulty’s bosom, and mingle her tears even with Miss Macnulty’s if only Miss Macnulty would believe in her. If Miss Macnulty would be enthusiastic about the jewels, enthusiastic as to the wickedness of Lord Fawn, enthusiastic in praising Lizzie herself, Lizzie — so she told herself — would have showered all the sweets of female friendship even on Miss Macnulty’s head. But Miss Macnulty was as hard as a deal board. She did as she was bidden, thereby earning her bread. But there was no tenderness in her; no delicacy; no feeling; no comprehension. It was thus that Lady Eustace judged her humble companion; and in one respect she judged her rightly. Miss Macnulty did not believe in Lady Eustace, and was not sufficiently gifted to act up to a belief which she did not entertain.
Poor Lizzie! The world, in judging of people who are false, and bad, and selfish, and prosperous to outward appearances, is apt to be hard upon them, and to forget the punishments which generally accompany such faults. Lizzie Eustace was very false, and bad, and selfish, and, we may say, very prosperous also; but in the midst of all she was thoroughly uncomfortable. She was never at ease. There was no green spot in her life with which she could be contented. And though, after a fashion, she knew herself to be false and bad, she was thoroughly convinced that she was ill-used by everybody about her. She was being very badly treated by Lord Fawn; but she flattered herself that she would be able to make Lord Fawn know more of her character before she had done with him.
Portray Castle was really a castle, not simply a country mansion so called, but a stone edifice with battlements and a round tower at one corner, and a gate which looked as if it might have had a portcullis, and narrow windows in a portion of it, and a cannon mounted upon a low roof, and an excavation called the moat, but which was now a fantastic and somewhat picturesque garden, running round two sides of it. In very truth, though a portion of the castle was undoubtedly old and had been built when strength was needed for defence and probably for the custody of booty, the battlements, and the round tower, and the awe-inspiring gateway had all been added by one of the late Sir Florians. But the castle looked like a castle, and was interesting. As a house it was not particularly eligible, the castle form of domestic architecture being exigent in its nature, and demanding that space, which in less ambitious houses can be applied to comfort, shall be surrendered to magnificence. There was a great hall, and a fine dining-room, with plate-glass windows looking out upon the sea; but the other sitting-rooms were insignificant, and the bedrooms were here and there, and were for the most part small and dark. That, however, which Lizzie had appropriated to her own use was a grand chamber, looking also out upon the open sea.
The castle stood upon a bluff of land, with a fine prospect of the Firth of Clyde, and with a distant view of the Isle of Arran. When the air was clear, as it often is clear there, the Arran hills could be seen from Lizzie’s window, and she was proud of talking of the prospect. In other respects, perhaps, the castle was somewhat desolate. There were a few stunted trees around it, but timber had not prospered there. There was a grand kitchen garden, or rather a kitchen garden which had been intended to be grand; but since Lizzie’s reign had been commenced, the grandeur had been neglected. Grand kitchen gardens are expensive, and Lizzie had at once been firm in reducing the under-gardeners from five men to one and a boy. The head gardener had of course left her at once; but that had not broken her heart, and she had hired a modest man at a guinea a week instead of a scientific artist, who was by no means modest, with a hundred and twenty pounds a year, and coals, house, milk, and all other horticultural luxuries. Though Lizzie was prosperous and had a fine income, she was already aware that she could not keep up a town and country establishment and be a rich woman on four thousand a year. There was a flower garden and small shrubbery within the so-called moat; but, otherwise, the grounds of Portray Castle were not alluring. The place was sombre, exposed, and in winter very cold; and except that the expanse of sea beneath the hill on which stood the castle was fine and open, it had no great claim to praise on the score of scenery. Behind the castle, and away from the sea, the low mountains belonging to the estate stretched for some eight or ten miles; and toward the further end of them, where stood a shooting-lodge, called always The Cottage, the landscape became rough and grand. It was in this cottage that Frank Greystock was to be sheltered with his friend, when he came down to shoot what Lady Eustace had called her three annual grouse.
She ought to have been happy and comfortable. There will, of course, be some to say that a young widow should not be happy and comfortable — that she should be weeping her lost lord, and subject to the desolation of bereavement. But as the world goes now, young widows are not miserable; and there is, perhaps, a growing tendency in society to claim from them year by year still less of any misery that may be avoidable. Suttee propensities of all sorts, from burning alive down to bombazine and hideous forms of clothing, are becoming less and less popular among the nations, and women are beginning to learn that, let what misfortunes will come upon them, it is well for them to be as happy as their nature will allow them to be. A woman may thoroughly respect her husband, and mourn him truly, honestly, with her whole heart, and yet enjoy thoroughly the good things which he has left behind for her use. It was not, at any rate, sorrow for the lost Sir Florian that made Lady Eustace uncomfortable. She had her child. She had her income. She had her youth and beauty. She had Portray Castle. She had a new lover, and, if she chose to be quit of him, not liking him well enough for the purpose, she might undoubtedly have another whom she would like better. She had hitherto been thoroughly successful in her life. And yet she was unhappy. What was it that she wanted?
She had been a very clever child — a clever, crafty child; and now she was becoming a clever woman. Her craft remained with her; but so keen was her outlook upon the world, that she was beginning to perceive that craft, let it be never so crafty, will in the long run miss its own object. She actually envied the simplicity of Lucy Morris, for whom she delighted to find evil names, calling her demure, a prig, a sly puss, and so on. But she could see — or half see — that Lucy with her simplicity was stronger than was she with her craft. She had nearly captivated Frank Greystock with her wiles, but without any wiles Lucy had captivated him altogether. And a man captivated by wiles was only captivated for a time, whereas a man won by simplicity would be won for ever — if he himself were worth the winning. And this too she felt — that let her success be what it might, she could not be happy unless she could win a man’s heart. She had won Sir Florian’s, but that had been but for an hour — for a month or two. And then Sir Florian had never really won hers. Could not she be simple? Could not she act simplicity so well that the thing acted should be as powerful as the thing itself; perhaps even more powerful? Poor Lizzie Eustace! In thinking over all this she saw a great deal. It was wonderful that she should see so much and tell herself so many home truths. But there was one truth she could not see, and therefore could not tell it to herself. She had not a heart to give. It had become petrified during those lessons of early craft in which she had taught herself how to get the better of Messrs. Harter & Benjamin, of Sir Florian Eustace, of Lady Linlithgow, and of Mr. Camperdown.
Her ladyship had now come down to her country house, leaving London and all its charms before the end of the season, actuated by various motives. In the first place, the house in Mount Street was taken furnished, by the month, and the servants were hired after the same fashion, and the horses jobbed. Lady Eustace was already sufficiently intimate with her accounts to know that she would save two hundred pounds by not remaining another month or three weeks in London, and sufficiently observant of her own affairs to have perceived that such saving was needed. And then it appeared to her that her battle with Lord Fawn could be better fought from a distance than at close quarters. London, too, was becoming absolutely distasteful to her. There were many things there that tended to make her unhappy, and so few that she could enjoy. She was afraid of Mr. Camperdown, and ever on the rack lest some dreadful thing should come upon her in respect of the necklace, some horrible paper served upon her from a magistrate, ordering her appearance at Newgate, or perhaps before the Lord Chancellor, or a visit from policemen who would be empowered to search for and carry off the iron box. And then there was so little in her London life to gratify her! It is pleasant to win in a fight; but to be always fighting is not pleasant. Except in those moments, few and far between, in which she was alone with her cousin Frank — and perhaps in those other moments in which she wore her diamonds — she had but little in London that she enjoyed. She still thought that a time would come when it would be otherwise. Under these influences she had actually made herself believe that she was sighing for the country, and for solitude; for the wide expanse of her own bright waves — as she had called them — and for the rocks of dear Portray. She had told Miss Macnulty and Augusta Fawn that she thirsted for the breezes of Ayrshire, so that she might return to her books and her thoughts. Amid the whirl of London it was impossible either to read or to think. And she believed it too herself. She so believed it that on the first morning of her arrival she took a little volume in her pocket, containing Shelley’s “Queen Mab,” and essayed to go down upon the rocks. She had actually breakfasted at nine, and was out on the sloping grounds below the castle before ten, having made some boast to Miss Macnulty about the morning air.
She scrambled down, not very far down, but a little way beneath the garden gate, to a spot on which a knob of rock cropped out from the scanty herbage of the incipient cliff. Fifty yards lower the real rocks began; and, though the real rocks were not very rocky, not precipitous or even bold, and were partially covered with salt-fed mosses down almost to the sea, nevertheless they justified her in talking about her rock-bound shore. The shore was hers, for her life, and it was rock-bound, This knob she had espied from her windows; and, indeed, had been thinking of it for the last week, as a place appropriate to solitude and Shelley. She had stood on it before, and had stretched her arms with enthusiasm toward the just-visible mountains of Arran. On that occasion the weather, perhaps, had been cool; but now a blazing sun was overhead, and when she had been seated half a minute, and “Queen Mab” had been withdrawn from her pocket, she found that it would not do. It would not do even with the canopy she could make for herself with her parasol. So she stood up and looked about herself for shade; for shade in some spot in which she could still look out upon “her dear wide ocean with its glittering smile.” For it was thus that she would talk about the mouth of the Clyde. Shelter near her there was none. The scrubby trees lay nearly half a mile to the right, and up the hill too. She had once clambered down to the actual shore, and might do so again. But she doubted that there would be shelter even there; and the clambering up on that former occasion had been a nuisance, and would be a worse nuisance now. Thinking of all this, and feeling the sun keenly, she gradually retraced her steps to the garden within the moat, and seated herself, Shelley in hand, within the summer-house. The bench was narrow, hard, and broken; and there were some snails which discomposed her; but, nevertheless, she would make the best of it. Her darling “Queen Mab” must be read without the coarse, inappropriate, every-day surroundings of a drawing-room; and it was now manifest to her that unless she could get up much earlier in the morning, or come out to her reading after sunset, the knob of rock would not avail her.
She began her reading, resolved that she would enjoy her poetry in spite of the narrow seat. She had often talked of “Queen Mab,” and perhaps she thought she had read it. This, however, was in truth her first attempt at that work. “How wonderful is Death, Death and his brother Sleep.” Then she half-closed the volume, and thought that she enjoyed the idea. Death-and his brother Sleep! She did not know why they should be more wonderful than Action, or Life, or Thought; but the words were of a nature which would enable her to remember them, and they would be good for quoting. “Sudden arose Ianthe’s soul; it stood All beautiful in naked purity.” The name of Ianthe suited her exactly. And the antithesis conveyed to her mind by naked purity struck her strongly, and she determined to learn the passage by heart. Eight or nine lines were printed separately, like a stanza, and the labour would not be great, and the task, when done, would be complete. “Instinct with inexpressible beauty and grace, Each stain of earthliness Had passed away, it reassumed Its native dignity, and stood Immortal amid ruin.” Which was instinct with beauty, the stain or the soul, she did not stop to inquire, and may be excused for not understanding. “Ah,” she exclaimed to herself, “how true it is; how one feels it; how it comes home to one!— Sudden arose Ianthe’s soul.’” And then she walked about the garden, repeating the words to herself, and almost forgetting the heat. “‘Each stain of earthliness had passed away.’ Ha; yes. They will pass away and become instinct with beauty and grace.” A dim idea came upon her that when this happy time should arrive, no one would claim her necklace from her, and that the man at the stables would not be so disagreeably punctual in sending in his bill. “‘All beautiful in naked purity!’” What a tawdry world was this in which clothes and food and houses are necessary! How perfectly that boy poet had understood it all. “‘Immortal amid ruin’!” She liked the idea of the ruin almost as well as that of the immortality, and the stains quite as well as the purity. As immortality must come, and as stains were instinct with grace, why be afraid of ruin? But then, if people go wrong — at least women — they are not asked out anywhere! “‘Sudden arose Ianthe’s soul; it stood all beautiful ——.’” And so the piece was learned, and Lizzie felt that she had devoted her hour to poetry in a quite rapturous manner. At any rate she had a bit to quote; and though in truth she did not understand the exact bearing of the image, she had so studied her gestures and so modulated her voice, that she knew that she could be effective. She did not then care to carry her reading further, but returned with the volume into the house. Though the passage about Ianthe’s soul comes very early in the work, she was now quite familiar with the poem, and when in after days she spoke of it as a thing of beauty that she had made her own by long study, she actually did not know that she was lying. As she grew older, however, she quickly became wiser, and was aware that in learning one passage of a poem it is expedient to select one in the middle or at the end. The world is so cruelly observant nowadays that even men and women who have not themselves read their “Queen Mab” will know from what part of the poem a morsel is extracted, and will not give you credit for a page beyond that from which your passage comes.
After lunch Lizzie invited Miss Macnulty to sit at the open window of the drawing-room and look out upon the “glittering waves.” In giving Miss Macnulty her due we must acknowledge that, though she owned no actual cleverness herself, had no cultivated tastes, read but little, and that little of a colourless kind, and thought nothing of her hours but that she might get rid of them and live, yet she had a certain power of insight, and could see a thing. Lizzie Eustace was utterly powerless to impose upon her. Such as Lizzie was, Miss Macnulty was willing to put up with her and accept her bread. The people whom she had known had been either worthless — as had been her own father, or cruel — like Lady Linlithgow, or false — as was Lady Eustace. Miss Macnulty knew that worthlessness, cruelty, and falseness had to be endured by such as she. And she could bear them without caring much about them; not condemning them, even within her own heart, very heavily. But she was strangely deficient in this, that she could not call these qualities by other names, even to the owners of them. She was unable to pretend to believe Lizzie’s rhapsodies. It was hardly conscience or a grand spirit of truth that actuated her, as much as a want of the courage needed for lying. She had not had the face to call old Lady Linlithgow kind, and therefore old Lady Linlithgow had turned her out of the house. When Lady Eustace called on her for sympathy, she had not courage enough to dare to attempt the bit of acting which would be necessary for sympathetic expression. She was like a dog or a child, and was unable not to be true. Lizzie was longing for a little mock sympathy — was longing to show off her Shelley, and was very kind to Miss Macnulty when she got the poor lady into the recess of the window. “This is nice; is it not?” she said, as she spread her hand out through the open space toward the “wide expanse of glittering waves.”
“Very nice, only it glares so,” said Miss Macnulty.
“Ah, I love the full warmth of the real summer. With me it always seems that the sun is needed to bring to true ripeness the fruit of the heart.” Nevertheless she had been much troubled both by the heat and by the midges when she tried to sit on the stone. “I always think of those few glorious days which I passed with my darling Florian at Naples; days too glorious because they were so few.” Now Miss Macnulty knew some of the history of those days and of their glory, and knew also how the widow had borne her loss.
“I suppose the bay of Naples is fine,” she said.
“It is not only the bay. There are scenes there which ravish you, only it is necessary that there should be some one with you that can understand you. ‘Soul of Ianthe!’” she said, meaning to apostrophise that of the deceased Sir Florian. “You have read ‘Queen Mab’?”
“I don’t know that I ever did. If I have, I have forgotten it.”
“Ah, you should read it. I know nothing in the English language that brings home to one so often one’s own best feelings and aspirations. ‘It stands all beautiful in naked purity,’” she continued, still alluding to poor Sir Florian’s soul. “‘Instinct with inexpressible beauty and grace, each stain of earthliness had passed away.’ I can see him now in all his manly beauty, as we used to sit together by the hour, looking over the waters. Oh, Julia, the thing itself has gone, the earthly reality; but the memory of it will live forever.”
“He was a very handsome man certainly,” said Miss Macnulty, finding herself forced to say something.
“I see him now,” she went on, still gazing out upon the shining water. “‘It reassumed its native dignity and stood primeval amid ruin.’ Is not that a glorious idea, gloriously worded?” She had forgotten one word and used a wrong epithet; but it sounded just as well. Primeval seemed to her to be a very poetical word.
“To tell the truth,” said Miss Macnulty, “I never understand poetry when it is quoted unless I happen to know the passage beforehand. I think I’ll go away from this, for the light is too much for my poor old eyes.” Certainly Miss Macnulty had fallen into a profession for which she was not suited.
Lady Eustace could make nothing of Miss Macnulty in the way of sympathy, and could not bear her disappointment with patience. It was hardly to be expected that she should do so. She paid a great deal for Miss Macnulty. In a moment of rash generosity, and at a time when she hardly knew what money meant, she had promised Miss Macnulty seventy pounds for the first year and seventy for the second, should the arrangement last longer than a twelvemonth. The second year had been now commenced, and Lady Eustace was beginning to think that seventy pounds was a great deal of money when so very little was given in return. Lady Linlithgow had paid her dependent no fixed salary. And then there was the lady’s “keep” and first-class travelling when they went up and down to Scotland, and cab-fares in London when it was desirable that Miss Macnulty should absent herself. Lizzie, reckoning all up, and thinking that for so much her friend ought to be ready to discuss Ianthe’s soul, or any other kindred subject, at a moment’s warning, would become angry and would tell herself that she was being swindled out of her money. She knew how necessary it was that she should have some companion at the present emergency of her life, and therefore could not at once send Miss Macnulty away; but she would sometimes become very cross and would tell poor Macnulty that she was — a fool. Upon the whole, however, to be called a fool was less objectionable to Miss Macnulty than were demands for sympathy which she did not know how to give.
Those first ten days of August went very slowly with Lady Eustace. “Queen Mab” got itself poked away, and was heard of no more. But there were other books. A huge box full of novels had come down, and Miss Macnulty was a great devourer of novels. If Lady Eustace would talk to her about the sorrows of the poorest heroine that ever saw her lover murdered before her eyes, and then come to life again with ten thousand pounds a year, for a period of three weeks — or till another heroine, who had herself been murdered, obliterated the former horrors from her plastic mind — Miss Macnulty could discuss the catastrophe with the keenest interest. And Lizzie, finding herself to be, as she told herself, unstrung, fell also into novel-reading. She had intended during this vacant time to master the “Faery Queen”; but the “Faery Queen” fared even worse than “Queen Mab”; and the studies of Portray Castle were confined to novels. For poor Macnulty, if she could only be left alone, this was well enough. To have her meals, and her daily walk, and her fill of novels, and to be left alone, was all that she asked of the gods. But it was not so with Lady Eustace, She asked much more than that, and was now thoroughly discontented with her own idleness. She was sure that she could have read Spenser from sunrise to sundown, with no other break than an hour or two given to Shelley, if only there had been some one to sympathise with her in her readings. But there was no one, and she was very cross. Then there came a letter to her from her cousin, which for that morning brought some life back to the castle. “I have seen Lord Fawn,” said the letter, “and I have also seen Mr. Camperdown. As it would be very hard to explain what took place at these interviews by letter, and as I shall be at Portray Castle on the 20th, I will not make the attempt. We shall go down by the night train, and I will get over to you as soon as I have dressed and had my breakfast. I suppose I can find some kind of a pony for the journey. The ‘we’ consists of myself and my friend Mr. Herriot, a man whom I think you will like, if you will condescend to see him, though he is a barrister like myself. You need express no immediate condescension in his favour, as I shall of course come over alone on Wednesday morning. Yours always affectionately, F. G.”
The letter she received on the Sunday morning, and as the Wednesday named for Frank’s coming was the next Wednesday, and was close at hand, she was in rather a better humour than she had displayed since the poets had failed her. “What a blessing it will be,” she said, “to have somebody to speak to.”
This was not complimentary, but Miss Macnulty did not want compliments. “Yes, indeed,” she said. “Of course you will be glad to see your cousin.”
“I shall be glad to see anything in the shape of a man. I declare I have felt almost inclined to ask the minister from Craigie to elope with me.”
“He has got seven children,” said Miss Macnulty.
“Yes, poor man, and a wife, and not more than enough to live upon. I daresay he would have come. By the by, I wonder whether there’s a pony about the place.”
“A pony!” Miss Macnulty of course supposed that it was needed for the purpose of the suggested elopement.
“Yes; I suppose you know what a pony is? Of course there ought to be a shooting pony at the cottage for these men. My poor head has so many things to work upon that I had forgotten it; and you’re never any good at thinking of things.”
“I didn’t know that gentlemen wanted ponies for shooting.”
“I wonder what you do know? Of course there must be a pony.”
“I suppose you’ll want two?”
“No, I sha’n’t. You don’t suppose that men always go riding about. But I want one. What had I better do?” Miss Macnulty suggested that Gowran should be consulted. Now Gowran was the steward, and bailiff, and manager, and factotum about the place, who bought a cow or sold one if occasion required, and saw that nobody stole anything, and who knew the boundaries of the farms, and all about the tenants, and looked after the pipes when frost came, and was an honest, domineering, hard-working, intelligent Scotchman, who had been brought up to love the Eustaces, and who hated his present mistress with all his heart. He did not leave her service, having an idea in his mind that it was now the great duty of his life to save Portray from her ravages. Lizzie fully returned the compliment of the hatred, and was determined to rid herself of Andy Gowran’s services as soon as possible. He had been called Andy by the late Sir Florian, and, though every one else about the place called him Mr. Gowran, Lady Eustace thought it became her, as the man’s mistress, to treat him as he had been treated by the late master. So she called him Andy. But she was resolved to get rid of him, as soon as she should dare. There were things which it was essential that somebody about the place should know, and no one knew them but Mr. Gowran. Every servant in the castle might rob her, were it not for the protection afforded by Mr. Gowran. In that affair of the garden it was Mr. Gowran who had enabled her to conquer the horticultural Leviathan who had oppressed her, and who, in point of wages, had been a much bigger man than Mr. Gowran himself. She trusted Mr. Gowran and hated him, whereas Mr. Gowran hated her, and did not trust her.
“I believe you think that nothing can be done at Portray except by that man,” said Lady Eustace.
“He’ll know how much you ought to pay for the pony.”
“Yes, and get some brute not fit for my cousin to ride, on purpose, perhaps, to break his neck.”
“Then I should ask Mr. Macallum, the postmaster of Troon, for I have seen three or four very quiet-looking ponies standing in the carts at his door.”
“Macnulty, if there ever was an idiot you are one,” said Lady Eustace, throwing up her hands. “To think that I should get a pony for my cousin Frank out of one of the mail carts.”
“I daresay I am an idiot,” said Miss Macnulty, resuming her novel.
Lady Eustace was, of course, obliged to have recourse to Gowran, to whom she applied on the Monday morning. Not even Lizzie Eustace, on behalf of her cousin Frank, would have dared to disturb Mr. Gowran with considerations respecting a pony on the Sabbath. On the Monday morning she found Mr. Gowran superintending four boys and three old women, who were making a bit of her ladyship’s hay on the ground above the castle. The ground about the castle was poor and exposed, and her ladyship’s hay was apt to be late.
“Andy,” she said, “I shall want to get a pony for the gentlemen who are coming to the cottage. It must be there by Tuesday evening.”
“A pownie, my leddie?”
“Yes; a pony. I suppose a pony may be purchased in Ayrshire, though of all places in the world it seems to have the fewest of the comforts of life.”
“Them as find it like that, my leddie, needn’t bide there.”
“Never mind. You will have the kindness to have a pony purchased and put into the stables of the cottage on Tuesday afternoon. There are stables, no doubt.”
“Oh, ay, there’s shelter, nae doot, for mair pownies than they’s ride. When the cottage was biggit, my leddie, there was nae cause for sparing nowt.” Andy Gowran was continually throwing her comparative poverty in poor Lizzie’s teeth, and there was nothing he could do which displeased her more.
“And I needn’t spare my cousin the use of a pony,” she said grandiloquently, but feeling as she did so that she was exposing herself before the man. “You’ll have the goodness to procure one for him on Tuesday.”
“But there ain’t aits nor yet fother, nor nowt for bedding down. And wha’s to tent the pownie? There’s mair in keeping a pownie than your leddyship thinks. It’ll be a matter of auchten and saxpence a week, will a pownie.” Mr. Gowran, as he expressed his prudential scruples, put a very strong emphasis indeed on the sixpence.
“Very well. Let it be so.”
“And there’ll be the beastie to buy, my leddie. He’ll be — a lump of money, my leddie. Pownies ain’t to be had for nowt in Ayrshire, as was ance, my leddie.”
“Of course, I must pay for him.”
“He’ll be a matter of — ten pound, my leddie.”
“Very well.”
“Or may be twal; just as likely.” And Mr. Gowran shook his head at his mistress in a most uncomfortable way. It was not strange that she should hate him.
“You must give the proper price — of course.”
“There ain’t no proper prices for pownies — as there is for jew’ls and sich like.” If this was intended for sarcasm upon Lady Eustace in regard to her diamonds, Mr. Gowran ought to have been dismissed on the spot. In such a case no English jury would have given him his current wages. “And he’ll be to sell again, my leddie?”
“We shall see about that afterwards.”
“Ye’ll never let him eat his head off there a’ the winter! He’ll be to sell. And the gentles’ll ride him, may be, ance across the hillside, out and back. As to the grouse, they can’t cotch them with the pownie, for there ain’t none to cotch.” There had been two keepers on the mountains — men who were paid five or six shillings a week to look after the game in addition to their other callings, and one of these had been sent away, actually in obedience to Gowran’s advice; so that this blow was cruel and unmanly. He made it, too, as severe as he could by another shake of his head.
“Do you mean to tell me that my cousin cannot be supplied with an animal to ride upon?”
“My leddie, I’ve said nowt o’ the kind. There ain’t no useful animal as I kens the name and nature of as he can’t have in Ayrshire — for paying for it, my leddie; horse, pownie, or ass, just whichever you please, my leddie. But there’ll be a seddle —”
“A what?”
There can be no doubt that Gowran purposely slurred the word so that his mistress should not understand him. “Seddles don’t come for nowt, my leddie, though it be Ayrshire.”
“I don’t understand what it is that you say, Andy.”
“A seddle, my leddie,” said he, shouting the word at her at the top of his voice —“and a briddle. I suppose as your leddy-ship’s cousin don’t ride bareback up in Lunnon?”
“Of course there must be the necessary horse-furniture,” said Lady Eustace, retiring to the castle. Andy Gowran had certainly ill-used her, and she swore that she would have revenge. Nor when, she was informed on the Tuesday that an adequate pony had been hired for eighteen pence a day, saddle, bridle, groom, and all included, was her heart at all softened towards Mr. Gowran.
Had Frank Greystock known all that his cousin endured for his comfort, would he have been grateful? Women, when they are fond of men, do think much of men’s comfort in small matters, and men are apt to take the good things provided almost as a matter of course. When Frank Greystock and Herriot reached the cottage about nine o’clock in the morning, having left London over night by the limited mail train, the pony at once presented itself to them. It was a little shaggy, black beast, with a boy almost as shaggy as itself, but they were both good of their kind. “Oh, you’re the laddie with the pownie, are you?” said Frank, in answer to an announcement made to him by the boy. He did at once perceive that Lizzie had taken notice of the word in his note in which he had suggested that some means of getting over to Portray would be needed, and he learned from the fact that she was thinking of him and anxious to see him.
His friend was a man a couple of years younger than himself, who had hitherto achieved no success at the bar, but who was nevertheless a clever, diligent, well-instructed man. He was what the world calls penniless, having an income from his father just sufficient to keep him like a gentleman. He was not much known as a sportsman, his opportunities for shooting not having been great; but he dearly loved the hills and fresh air, and the few grouse which were — or were not — on Lady Eustace’s mountains would go as far with him as they would with any man. Before he had consented to come with Frank, he had specially inquired whether there was a game-keeper, and it was not till he had been assured that there was no officer attached to the estate worthy of such a name, that he had consented to come upon his present expedition. “I don’t clearly know what a gillie is,” he said in answer to one of Frank’s explanations. “If a gillie means a lad without any breeches on, I don’t mind; but I couldn’t stand a severe man got up in well-made velveteens, who would see through my ignorance in a moment, and make known by comment the fact that he had done so.” Greystock had promised that there should be, no severity, and Herriot had come. Greystock brought with him two guns, two fishing-rods, a man-servant, and a huge hamper from Fortnum and Mason’s. Arthur Herriot, whom the attorneys had not yet loved, brought some very thick boots, a pair of knickerbockers, together with Stone and Toddy’s “Digest of the Common Law.” The best of the legal profession consists in this — that when you get fairly at work you may give over working. An aspirant must learn everything; but a man may make his fortune at it, and know almost nothing. He may examine a witness with judgment, see through a case with precision, address a jury with eloquence, and yet be altogether ignorant of law. But he must be believed to be a very pundit before he will get a chance of exercising his judgment, his precision, or his eloquence. The men whose names are always in the newspapers never look at their Stone and Toddy — care for it not at all — have their Stone and Toddy got up for them by their juniors when cases require that reference shall be made to precedents. But till that blessed time has come, a barrister who means success should carry his Stone and Toddy with him everywhere. Greystock never thought of the law now, unless he had some special case in hand; but Herriot could not afford to go out on a holiday without two volumes of Stone and Toddy’s Digest in his portmanteau.
“You won’t mind being left alone for the first morning?” said Frank, as soon as they had finished the contents of one of the pots from Fortnum and Mason.
“Not in the least. Stone and Toddy will carry me through.”
“I’d go on the mountain if I were you, and get into a habit of steady loading.”
“Perhaps I will take a turn — just to find out how I feel in the knickerbockers. At what time shall I dine if you don’t come back?”
“I shall certainly be here to dinner,” said Frank, “unless the pony fails me or I get lost on the mountain.” Then he started, and Herriot at once went to work on Stone and Toddy, with a pipe in his mouth. He had travelled all night, and it is hardly necessary to say that in five minutes he was fast asleep.
So also had Frank travelled all night, but the pony and the fresh air kept him awake. The boy had offered to go with him, but that he had altogether refused; and, therefore, to his other cares was that of finding his way. The sweep of the valleys, however, is long and not abrupt, and he could hardly miss his road if he would only make one judicious turn through a gap in a certain wall which lay half way between the cottage and the castle. He was thinking of the work in hand, and he found the gap without difficulty. When through that he ascended the hill for two miles, and then the sea was before him, and Portray Castle, lying, as it seemed to him at that distance, close upon the seashore. “Upon my word, Lizzie has not done badly with herself,” he said almost aloud, as he looked down upon the fair sight beneath him, and round upon the mountains, and remembered that, for her life at least, it was all hers, and after her death would belong to her son. What more does any human being desire of such a property than that?
He rode down to the great doorway — the mountain track, which fell on to the road about half a mile from the castle, having been plain enough — and there he gave up the pony into the hands of no less a man that Mr. Gowran himself. Gowran had watched the pony coming down the mountain side, and had desired to see of what like was “her leddyship’s” cousin. In telling the whole truth of Mr. Gowran it must be acknowledged that he thought that his late master had made a very great mistake in the matter of his marriage. He could not imagine bad things enough of Lady Eustace, and almost believed that she was not now, and hadn’t been before her marriage, any better than she should be. The name of Admiral Greystock, as having been the father of his mistress, had indeed reached his ears, but Andy Gowran was a suspicious man and felt no confidence even in an admiral — in regard to whom he heard nothing of his having, or having had, a wife.
“It’s my fer-rm opeenion she’s jist naebody — and waur,” he had said more than once to his own wife, nodding his head with great emphasis at the last word. He was very anxious, therefore, to see “her leddyship’s” cousin. Mr. Gowran thought that he knew a gentleman when he saw one. He thought, also, that he knew a lady, and that he didn’t see one when he was engaged with his mistress. Cousin, indeed! “For the matter o’ that, ony man that comes the way may be ca’ed a coosin.” So Mr. Gowran was on the grand sweep before the garden gate and took the pony from Frank’s hand.
“Is Lady Eustace at home?” Frank asked. Mr. Gowran perceived that Frank was a gentleman, and was disappointed. And Frank didn’t come as a man comes who calls himself by a false name, and pretends to be an honest cousin, when in fact he is something — oh, ever so wicked! Mr. Gowran, who was a stern moralist, was certainly disappointed at Frank’s appearance.
Lizzie was in a little sitting-room, reached by a long passage with steps in the middle, at some corner of the castle which seemed a long way from the great door. It was a cheerful little room, with chintz curtains, and a few shelves laden with brightly-bound books, which had been prepared for Lizzie immediately on her marriage. It looked out upon the sea, and she had almost taught herself to think that here she had sat with her adored Florian gazing in mutual ecstasy upon the “wide expanse of glittering waves.” She was lying back in a low armchair as her cousin entered, and she did not rise to receive him. Of course she was alone, Miss Macnulty having received a suggestion that it would be well that she should do a little gardening in the moat. “Well, Frank,” she said, with her sweetest smile, as she gave him her hand. She felt and understood the extreme intimacy which would be implied by her not rising to receive him. As she could not rush into his arms, there was no device by which she could more clearly show to him how close she regarded his friendship.
“So I am at Portray Castle at last,” he said, still holding her hand.
“Yes — at the dullest, dreariest, deadliest spot in all Christendom, I think — if Ayrshire be Christendom. But never mind about that now. Perhaps, as you are at the other side of the mountain at the cottage, we shall find it less dull here at the castle.”
“I thought you were to be so happy here!”
“Sit down and we’ll talk it all over by degrees. What will you have — breakfast or lunch?”
“Neither, thank you.”
“Of course you’ll stay to dinner?”
“No, indeed. I’ve a man there at the cottage with me who would cut his throat in his solitude.”
“Let him cut his throat; but never mind now. As for being happy, women are never happy without men. I needn’t tell any lies to you, you know. What makes me sure that this fuss about making men and women all the same must be wrong is just the fact that men can get along without women, and women can’t without men. My life has been a burden to me. But never mind. Tell me about my lord — my lord and master.”
“Lord Fawn?”
“Who else? What other lord and master? My bosom’s own; my heart’s best hope; my spot of terra firma; my cool running brook of fresh water; my rock; my love; my lord; my all. Is he always thinking of his absent Lizzie? Does he still toil at Downing Street? Oh, dear; do you remember, Frank, when he told us that ‘one of us must remain in town’?”
“I have seen him.”
“So you wrote me word.”
“And I have seen a very obstinate, pig-headed, but nevertheless honest and truth-speaking gentleman.”
“Frank, I don’t care twopence for his honesty and truth. If he ill-treats me ——.” Then she paused; looking into his face, she had seen at once by the manner in which he had taken her badinage, without a smile, that it was necessary that she should be serious as to her matrimonial prospects. “I suppose I had better let you tell your story,” she said, “and I will sit still and listen.”
“He means to ill-treat you.”
“And you will let him?”
“You had better listen, as you promised, Lizzie. He declares that the marriage must be off at once unless you will send those diamonds to Mr. Camperdown or to the jewellers.”
“And by what law or rule does he justify himself in a decision so monstrous? Is he prepared to prove that the property is not my own?”
“If you ask me my opinion as a lawyer, I doubt whether any such proof can be shown. But as a man and a friend I do advise you to give them up.”
“Never.”
“You must, of course, judge for yourself, but that is my advice. You had better, however, hear my whole story.”
“Certainly,” said Lizzie. Her whole manner was now changed. She had extricated herself from the crouching position in which her feet, her curl, her arms, her whole body had been so arranged as to combine the charm of her beauty with the charm of proffered intimacy. Her dress was such as a woman would wear to receive her brother, and yet it had been studied. She had no gems about her but what she might well wear in her ordinary life, and yet the very rings on her fingers had not been put on without reference to her cousin Frank. Her position had been one of lounging ease, such as a woman might adopt when all alone, giving herself all the luxuries of solitude; but she had adopted it in special reference to cousin Frank. Now she was in earnest, with business before her; and though it may be said of her that she could never forget her appearance in presence of a man whom she desired to please, her curl and rings, and attitude were for the moment in the background. She had seated herself on a common chair, with her hands upon the table, and was looking into Frank’s face with eager, eloquent, and combative eyes. She would take his law, because she believed in it; but, as far as she could see as yet, she would not take his advice unless it were backed by his law.
“Mr. Camperdown,” continued Greystock, “has consented to prepare a case for opinion, though he will not agree that the Eustace estate shall be bound by that opinion.”
“Then what’s the good of it?”
“We shall at least know, all of us, what is the opinion of some lawyer qualified to understand the circumstances of the case.”
“Why isn’t your opinion as good as that of any lawyer?”
“I couldn’t give an opinion; not otherwise than as a private friend to you, which is worth nothing unless for your private guidance. Mr. Camperdown ——”
“I don’t care one straw for Mr. Camperdown.”
“Just let me finish.”
“Oh, certainly; and you mustn’t be angry with me, Frank. The matter is so much to me; isn’t it?”
“I won’t be angry. Do I look as if I were angry? Mr. Camperdown is right.”
“I dare say he may be what you call right. But I don’t care about Mr. Camperdown a bit.”
“He has no power, nor has John Eustace any power, to decide that the property which may belong to a third person shall be jeopardised by any arbitration. The third person could not be made to lose his legal right by any such arbitration, and his claim, if made, would still have to be tried.”
“Who is the third person, Frank?”
“Your own child at present.”
“And will not he have it any way?”
“Camperdown and John Eustace say that it belongs to him at present. It is a point that, no doubt, should be settled.”
“To whom do you say that it belongs?”
“That is a question I am not prepared to answer.”
“To whom do you think that it belongs?”
“I have refused to look at a single paper on the subject, and my opinion is worth nothing. From what I have heard in conversation with Mr. Camperdown and John Eustace, I cannot find that they make their case good.”
“Nor can I,” said Lizzie.,
“A case is to be prepared for Mr. Dove.”
“Who is Mr. Dove?”
“Mr. Dove is a barrister, and no doubt a very clever fellow. If his opinion be such as Mr. Camperdown expects, he will at once proceed against you at law for the immediate recovery of the necklace.”
“I shall be ready for him,” said Lizzie, and as she spoke all her little feminine softnesses were for the moment laid aside.
“If Mr. Dove’s opinion be in your favour ——”
“Well,” said Lizzie, “what then?”
“In that case Mr. Camperdown, acting on behalf of John Eustace and young Florian ——”
“How dreadful it is to hear of my bitterest enemy acting on behalf of my own child!” said Lizzie, holding up her hands piteously. “Well?”
“In that case Mr. Camperdown will serve you with some notice that the jewels are not yours, to part with them as you may please.”
“But they will be mine.”
“He says not; but in such case he will content himself with taking steps which may prevent you from selling them.”
“Who says that I want to sell them?” demanded Lizzie indignantly.
“Or from giving them away, say to a second husband.”
“How little they know me!”
“Now I have told you all about Mr. Camperdown.”
“Yes.”
“And the next thing is to tell you about Lord Fawn.”
“That is everything. I care nothing for Mr. Camperdown; nor yet for Mr. Dove — if that is his absurd name. Lord Fawn is of more moment to me, though, indeed, he has given me but little cause to say so.”
“In the first place, I must explain to you that Lord Fawn is very unhappy.”
“He may thank himself for it.”
“He is pulled this way and that, and is half distraught; but he has stated with as much positive assurance as such a man can assume, that the match must be regarded as broken off unless you will at once restore the necklace.”
“He does?”
“He has commissioned me to give you that message; and it is my duty, Lizzie, as your friend, to tell you my conviction that he repents his engagement.”
She now rose from her chair and began to walk about the room. “He shall not go back from it. He shall learn that I am not a creature at his own disposal in that way. He shall find that I have some strength if you have none.”
“What would you have had me do?”
“Taken him by the throat,” said Lizzie.
“Taking by the throat in these days seldom forwards any object, unless the taken one be known to the police. I think Lord Fawn is behaving very badly, and I have told him so. No doubt he is under the influence of others — mother and sisters — who are not friendly to you.”
“False-faced idiots!” said Lizzie.
“He himself is somewhat afraid of me — is much afraid of you — is afraid of what people will say of him; and, to give him his due, is afraid also of doing what is wrong. He is timid, weak, conscientious, and wretched. If you have set your heart upon marrying him ——”
“My heart!” said Lizzie scornfully.
“Or your mind, you can have him by simply sending the diamonds to the jewellers. Whatever may be his wishes, in that case he will redeem his word.”
“Not for him or all that belongs to him! It wouldn’t be much. He’s just a pauper with a name.”
“Then your loss will be so much the less.”
“But what right has he to treat me so? Did you ever before hear of such a thing? Why is he to be allowed to go back, without punishment, more than another?”
“What punishment would you wish?”
“That he should be beaten within an inch of his life; and if the inch were not there, I should not complain.”
“And I am to do it, to my absolute ruin and to your great injury?”
“I think I could almost do it myself.” And Lizzie raised her hand as though there were some weapon in it. “But, Frank, there must be something. You wouldn’t have me sit down and bear it. All the world has been told of the engagement. There must be some punishment.”
“You would not wish to have an action brought for breach of promise?”
“I would wish to do whatever would hurt him most without hurting myself,” said Lizzie.
“You won’t give up the necklace?” said Frank.
“Certainly not,” said Lizzie. “Give it up for his sake — a man that I have always despised?”
“Then you had better let him go.”
“I will not let him go. What, to be pointed at as the woman that Lord Fawn had jilted? Never! My necklace should be nothing more to him than this ring.” And she drew from her finger a little circlet of gold with a stone, for which she had owed Messrs. Harter & Benjamin five-and-thirty pounds till Sir Florian had settled that account for her. “What cause can he give for such treatment?”
“He acknowledges that there is no cause which he can state openly.”
“And I am to bear it? And it is you that tell me so? Oh, Frank!”
“Let us understand each other, Lizzie. I will not fight him, that is, with pistols; nor will I attempt to thrash him. It would be useless to argue whether public opinion is right or wrong; but public opinion is now so much opposed to that kind of thing that it is out of the question. I should injure your position and destroy my own. If you mean to quarrel with me on that score, you had better say so.”
Perhaps at that moment he almost wished that she would quarrel with him, but she was otherwise disposed. “Oh, Frank,” she said, “do not desert me.”
“I will not desert you.”
“You feel that I am ill-used, Frank.”
“I do. I think that his conduct is inexcusable.”
“And there is to be no punishment?” she asked, with that strong indignation at injustice which the unjust always feel when they are injured.
“If you carry yourself well, quietly and with dignity, the world will punish him.”
“I don’t believe a bit of it. I am not a Patient Grizel who can content myself with heaping benefits on those who injure me, and then thinking that they are coals of fire. Lucy Morris is one of that sort.” Frank ought to have resented the attack, but he did not. “I have no such tame virtues. I’ll tell him to his face what he is. I’ll lead him such a life that he shall be sick of the very name of a necklace.”
“You cannot ask him to marry you.”
“I will. What, not ask a man to keep his promise when you are engaged to him? I am not going to be such a girl as that.”
“Do you love him, then?”
“Love him! I hate him. I always despised him, and now I hate him.”
“And yet you would marry him?”
“Not for worlds, Frank. No. Because you advised me I thought that I would do so. Yes, you did, Frank. But for you I would never have dreamed of taking him. You know, Frank, how it was, when you told me of him and wouldn’t come to me yourself.” Now again she was sitting close to him and had her hand upon his arm. “No, Frank; even to please you I could not marry him now. But I’ll tell you what I’ll do. He shall ask me again. In spite of those idiots at Richmond he shall kneel at my feet, necklace or no necklace; and then — then I’ll tell him what I think of him. Marry him! I would not touch him with a pair of tongs.” As she said this she was holding her cousin fast by the hand.
It had not been much after noon when Frank Greystock reached Portray Castle, and it was very nearly five when he left it. Of course he had lunched with the two ladies, and as the conversation before lunch had been long and interesting, they did not sit down till near three. Then Lizzie had taken him out to show him the grounds and garden, and they had clambered together down to the sea-beach. “Leave me here,” she had said when he insisted on going because of his friend at the cottage. When he suggested that she would want help to climb back up the rocks to the castle, she shook her head as though her heart was too full to admit of a consideration so trifling. “My thoughts flow more freely here with the surge of the water in my ears than they will with that old woman droning to me. I come here often, and know every rock and every stone.” That was not exactly true, as she had never been down but once before. “You mean to come again.” He told her that of course he should come again. “I will name neither day nor hour. I have nothing to take me away. If I am not at the castle, I shall be at this spot. Good-by, Frank.” He took her in his arm? and kissed her, of course as a brother; and then he clambered up, got on his pony, and rode away.
“I dinna ken just what to mak’ o’ him,” said Gowran to his wife. “May be he is her coosin; but coosins are nae that sib that a weeder is to be hailed aboot jist ane as though she were ony quean at a fair.” From which it may be inferred that Mr. Gowran had watched the pair as they were descending together toward the shore.
Frank had so much to think of, riding back to the cottage, that when he came to the gap, instead of turning round along the wall down the valley, he took the track right on across the mountain and lost his way. He had meant to be back at the cottage by three or four, and yet had made his visit to the castle so long that without any losing of his way he could not have been there before seven. As it was, when that hour arrived, he was up on the top of a hill and could again see Portray Castle clustering down close upon the sea, and the thin belt of trees and the shining water beyond; but of the road to the cottage he knew nothing. For a moment he thought of returning to Portray, till he had taught himself to perceive that the distance was much greater than it had been from the spot at which he had first seen the castle in the morning; and then he turned his pony round and descended on the other side.
His mind was very full of Lizzie Eustace, and full also of Lucy Morris. If it were to be asserted here that a young man may be perfectly true to a first young woman while he is falling n love with a second, the readers of this story would probably be offended. But undoubtedly many men believe themselves to be quite true while undergoing this process, and many young women expect nothing else from their lovers. If only he will come right at last, they are contented. And if he don’t come right at all, it is the way of the world, and the game has to be played over again. Lucy Morris, no doubt, had lived a life too retired for the learning of such useful forbearance, but Frank Greystock was quite a proficient. He still considered himself to be true to Lucy Morris, with a truth seldom found in this degenerate age — with a truth to which he intended to sacrifice some of the brightest hopes of his life — with a truth which, after much thought, he had generously preferred to his ambition. Perhaps there was found some shade of regret to tinge the merit which he assumed on this head, in respect of the bright things which it would be necessary that he should abandon; but if so, the feeling only assisted him in defending his present conduct from any aspersions his conscience might bring against it. He intended to marry Lucy Morris, without a shilling, without position, a girl who had earned her bread as a governess, simply because he loved her. It was a wonder to himself that he, a lawyer, a man of the world, a member of Parliament, one who had been steeped up to his shoulders in the ways of the world, should still be so pure as to be capable of such, a sacrifice. But it was so; and the sacrifice would undoubtedly be made some day. It would be absurd in one conscious of such high merit to be afraid of the ordinary social incidents of life. It is the debauched broken drunkard who should become a teetotaller, and not the healthy, hard-working father of a family who never drinks a drop of wine till dinner-time. He need not be afraid of a glass of champagne when, on a chance occasion, he goes to a picnic. Frank Greystock was now going to his picnic; and, though he meant to be true to Lucy Morris, he had enjoyed his glass of champagne with Lizzie Eustace under the rocks. He was thinking a good deal of his champagne when he lost his way.
What a wonderful woman was his cousin Lizzie, and so unlike any other girl he had ever seen! How full she was of energy, how courageous, and, then, how beautiful! No doubt her special treatment of him was sheer flattery. He told himself that it was so. But, after all, flattery is agreeable. That she did like him better than anybody else was probable. He could have no feeling of the injustice he might do to the heart of a woman who at the very moment that she was expressing her partiality for him was also expressing her anger that another man would not consent to marry her. And then women who have had one husband already are not like young girls in respect to their hearts. So at least thought Frank Greystock. Then he remembered the time at which he had intended to ask Lizzie to be his wife — the very day on which he would have done so had he been able to get away from that early division at the House — and he asked himself whether he felt any regret on that score. It would have been very nice to come down to Portray Castle as to his own mansion after the work of the courts and of the session. Had Lizzie become his wife, her fortune would have helped him to the very highest steps beneath the throne. At present he was almost nobody — because he was so poor, and in debt. It was so, undoubtedly; but what did all that matter in comparison with the love of Lucy Morris? A man is bound to be true. And he would be true. Only, as a matter of course, Lucy must wait.
When he had first kissed his cousin up in London, she suggested that the kiss was given as by a brother, and asserted that it was accepted as by a sister. He had not demurred, having been allowed the kiss. Nothing of the kind had been said under the rocks today; but then that fraternal arrangement, when once made and accepted, remains, no doubt, in force for a long time. He did like his cousin Lizzie. He liked to feel that he could be her friend, with the power of domineering over her. She, also, was fond of her own way, and loved to domineer herself; but the moment that he suggested to her that there might be a quarrel, she was reduced to a prayer that he would not desert her. Such a friendship has charms for a young man, especially if the lady be pretty. As to Lizzie’s prettiness, no man or woman could entertain a doubt. And she had a way of making the most of herself which it was very hard to resist. Some young women, when they clamber over rocks, are awkward, heavy, unattractive, and troublesome. But Lizzie had at one moment touched him as a fairy might have done; had sprung at another from stone to stone, requiring no help; and then, on a sudden, had become so powerless that he had been forced almost to carry her in his arms. That, probably, must have been the moment which induced Mr. Gowran to liken her to a quean at a fair.
But, undoubtedly, there might be trouble. Frank was sufficiently experienced in the ways of the world to know that trouble would sometimes come from young ladies who treat young men like their brothers, when those young men are engaged to other young ladies. The other young ladies are apt to disapprove of brothers who are not brothers by absolute right of birth. He knew also that all the circumstances of his cousin’s position would make it expedient that she should marry a second husband. As he could not be that second husband — that matter was settled, whether for good or bad — was he not creating trouble, both for her and for himself? Then there arose in his mind a feeling, very strange, but by no means uncommon, that prudence on his part would be mean, because by such prudence he would be securing safety for himself as well as for her. What he was doing was not only imprudent, but wrong also, He knew that it was so. But Lizzie Eustace was a pretty young woman; and when a pretty young woman is in the case, a man is bound to think neither of what is prudent nor of what is right. Such was — perhaps his instinct rather than his theory. For her sake, if not for his own, he should have abstained. She was his cousin, and was so placed in the world as specially to require some strong hand to help her. He knew her to be, in truth, heartless, false, and greedy; but she had so lived that even yet her future life might be successful. He had called himself her friend as well as cousin, and was bound to protect her from evil, if protection were possible. But he was adding to all her difficulties, because she pretended to be in love with him. He knew that it was pretence; and yet, because she was pretty, and because he was a man, he could not save her from herself. “It doesn’t do to be wiser than other men,” he said to himself as he looked round about on the bare hill-side. In the mean time he had altogether lost his way.
It was between nine and ten when he reached the cottage. “Of course you have dined?” said Herriot.
“Not a bit of it. I left before five, being sure that I could get here in an hour and a half. I have been riding up and down these dreary hills for nearly five hours. You have dined?”
“There was a neck of mutton and a chicken. She said the neck of mutton would keep hot best, so I took the chicken. I hope you like lukewarm neck of mutton?”
“I am hungry enough to eat anything; not but what I had a first-rate luncheon. What have you done all day?”
“Stone and Toddy,” said Herriot.
“Stick to that. If anything can pull you through, Stone and Toddy will. I lived upon them for two years.”
“Stone and Toddy, with a little tobacco, have been all my comfort. I began, however, by sleeping for a few hours. Then I went upon the mountains.”
“Did you take a gun?”
“I took it out of the case, but it didn’t come right, and so I left it. A man came to me and said that he was the keeper.”
“He’d have put the gun right for you.”
“I was too bashful for that. I persuaded him that I wanted to go out alone and see what birds there were, and at last I induced him to stay here with the old woman. He’s to be at the cottage at nine tomorrow. I hope that is all right.”
In the evening, as they smoked and drank whiskey and water — probably supposing that to be correct in Ayrshire — they were led on by the combined warmth of the spirit, the tobacco, and their friendship, to talk about women. Frank, some month or six weeks since, in a moment of soft confidence, had told his friend of his engagement with Lucy Morris. Of Lizzie Eustace he had spoken only as of a cousin whose interests were dear to him. Her engagement with Lord Fawn was known to all London, and was, therefore, known to Arthur Herriot. Some distant rumour, however, had reached him that the course of true love was not running quite smooth, and therefore on that subject he would not speak, at any rate till Greystock should first mention it. “How odd it is to find two women living all alone in a great house like that,” Frank had said.
“Because so few women have the means to live in large houses, unless they live with fathers or husbands.”
“The truth is,” said Frank, “that women don’t do well alone. There is always a savour of misfortune — or, at least, of melancholy — about a household which has no man to look after it. With us, generally, old maids don’t keep houses, and widows marry again. No doubt it was an unconscious appreciation of this feeling which brought about the burning of Indian widows. There is an unfitness in women for solitude. A female Prometheus, even without a vulture, would indicate cruelty worse even than Jove’s. A woman should marry — once, twice, and thrice if necessary.”
“Women can’t marry without men to marry them.”
Frank Greystock filled his pipe as he went on with his lecture. “That idea as to the greater number of women is all nonsense. Of course we are speaking of our own kind of men and women, and the disproportion of the numbers in so small a division of the population amounts to nothing. We have no statistics to tell us whether there be any such disproportion in classes where men do not die early from overwork.”
“More females are born than males.”
“That’s more than I know. As one of the legislators of the country I am prepared to state that statistics are always false. What we have to do is to induce men to marry. We can’t do it by statute.”
“No, thank God.”
“Nor yet by fashion.”
“Fashion seems to be going the other way,” said Herriot.
“It can be only done by education and conscience. Take men of forty all round — men of our own class — you believe that the married men are happier than the unmarried? I want an answer, you know, just for the sake of the argument.”
“I think the married men are the happier. But you speak as the fox who had lost his tail; or, at any rate, as a fox in the act of losing it.”
“Never mind my tail. If morality in life and enlarged affections are conducive to happiness, it must be so.”
“Short commons and unpaid bills are conducive to misery. That’s what I should say if I wanted to oppose you.”
“I never came across a man willing to speak the truth who did not admit that, in the long run, married men are the happier. As regards women, there isn’t even ground for an argument. And yet men don’t marry.”
“They can’t.”
“You mean there isn’t food enough in the world.”
“The man fears that he won’t get enough of what there is. for his wife and family.”
“The labourer with twelve shillings a week has no such fear. And if he did marry, the food would come. It isn’t that. The man is unconscientious and ignorant as to the sources of true happiness, and won’t submit himself to cold mutton and three clean shirts a week — not because he dislikes mutton and dirty linen himself, but because the world says they are vulgar. That’s the feeling that keeps you from marrying, Herriot.”
“As for me,” said Herriot, “I regard myself as so placed that I do not dare to think of a young woman of my own rank except as a creature that must be foreign to me. I cannot make such a one my friend as I would a man, because I should be in love with her at once. And I do not dare to be in love because I would not see a wife and children starve. I regard my position as one of enforced monasticism, and myself as a monk under the cruellest compulsion. I often wish that I had been brought up as a journeyman hatter.”
“Why a hatter?”
“I’m told it’s an active sort of life. You’re fast asleep, and I was just now, when you were preaching. We’d better go to bed. Nine o’clock for breakfast, I suppose?”
Mr. Thomas Dove, familiarly known among clubmen, attorney’s clerks, and, perhaps, even among judges when very far from their seats of judgment, as Turtle Dove, was a counsel learned in the law. He was a counsel so learned in the law, that there was no question within the limits of an attorney’s capability of putting to him that he could not answer with the aid of his books. And when he had once given an opinion, all Westminster could not move him from it — nor could Chancery Lane and Lincoln’s Inn and the Temple added to Westminster. When Mr. Dove had once been positive, no man on earth was more positive. It behooved him, therefore, to be right when he was positive; and though, whether wrong or right, he was equally stubborn, it must be acknowledged that he was seldom proved to be wrong. Consequently the attorneys believed in him, and he prospered. He was a thin man, over fifty years of age, very full of scorn and wrath, impatient of a fool, and thinking most men to be fools; afraid of nothing on earth — and, so his enemies said, of nothing elsewhere; eaten up by conceit; fond of law, but fonder, perhaps, of dominion; soft as milk to those who acknowledged his power, but a tyrant to all who contested it; conscientious, thoughtful, sarcastic, bright-witted, and laborious. He was a man who never spared himself. If he had a case in hand, though the interest to himself in it was almost nothing, he would rob himself of rest for a week, should a point arise which required such labour. It was the theory of Mr. Dove’s life that he would never be beaten. Perhaps it was some fear in this respect that had kept him from Parliament and confined him to the courts and the company of attorneys. He was, in truth, a married man with a family; but they who knew him as the terror of opponents and as the divulger of legal opinions heard nothing of his wife and children. He kept all such matters quite to himself, and was not given to much social intercourse with those among whom his work lay. Out at Streatham, where he lived, Mrs. Dove probably had her circle of acquaintance; but Mr. Dove’s domestic life and his forensic life were kept quite separate.
At the present moment Mr. Dove is interesting to us solely as being the learned counsel in whom Mr. Camperdown trusted — to whom Mr. Camperdown was willing to trust for an opinion in so grave a matter as that of the Eustace diamonds. A case was made out and submitted to Mr. Dove immediately after that scene on the pavement in Mount Street at which Mr. Camperdown had endeavoured to induce Lizzie to give up the necklace; and the following is the opinion which Mr. Dove gave:
“There is much error about heirlooms. Many think that any chattel may be made an heirloom by any owner of it. This is not the case. The law, however, does recognise heirlooms; as to which the Exors. or Admors. are excluded in favour of the successor; and when there are such heirlooms they go to the heir by special custom. Any devise of an heirloom is necessarily void, for the will takes place after death, and the heirloom is already vested in the heir by custom. We have it from Littleton that law prefers custom to devise.
“Brooke says that the best thing of every sort may be an heirloom — such as the best bed, the best table, the best pot or pan.
“Coke says that heirlooms are so by custom, and not by law.
“Spelman says, in denning an heirloom, that it may be ‘Omne utensil robustius;’ which would exclude a necklace.
“In the ‘Termes de Ley,’ it is denned as, ‘Ascun parcel des utensils.’
“We are told in ‘Coke upon Littleton’ that crown jewels are heirlooms, which decision — as far as it goes — denies the right to other jewels.
“Certain chattels may undoubtedly be held and claimed as being in the nature of heirlooms — as swords, pennons of honour, garter and collar of S.S. See case of the Earl of Northumberland; and that of the Pusey horn — Pusey v. Pusey. The journals of the House of Lords, delivered officially to peers, may be so claimed. See Upton v. Lord Ferrers.
“A devisor may clearly devise or limit the possession of chattels, making them inalienable by devisees in succession. But in such cases they will become the absolute possession of the first person seized in tail, even though an infant, and in case of death without will would go to the Exors. Such arrangement, therefore, can only hold good for lives in existence and for 21 years afterwards. Chattels so secured would not be heirlooms. See Carr v. Lord Errol, 14 Vesey, and Rowland v. Morgan.
“Lord Eldon remarks that such chattels held in families are ‘rather favourites of the court.’ This was in the Ormonde case. Executors, therefore, even when setting aside any claim as for heirlooms, ought not to apply such property in payment of debts unless obliged.
“The law allows of claims for paraphernalia for widows, and, having adjusted such claims, seems to show that the claim may be limited.
“If a man deliver cloth to his wife, and die, she shall have it, though she had not fashioned it into the garment intended.
“Pearls and jewels, even though only worn on state occasions, may go to the widow as paraphernalia, but with a limit. In the case of Lady Douglas, she being the daughter of an Irish Earl and widow of the King’s sergeant (temp. Car. I.), it was held that ￡370 was not too much, and she was allowed a diamond and a pearl chain to that value.
“In 1674 Lord Keeper Finch declared that he would never allow paraphernalia, except to the widow of a nobleman.
“But in 1721 Lord Macclesfield gave Mistress Tipping paraphernalia to the value or ￡200 — whether so persuaded by law and precedent, or otherwise, may be uncertain.
“Lord Talbot allowed a gold watch as paraphernalia.
“Lord Hardwicke went much further, and decided that Mrs. Northey was entitled to wear jewels to the value of ￡3,000, saying that value made no difference; but seems to have limited the nature of her possession in the jewels by declaring her to be entitled to wear them only when full-dressed.
“It is, I think, clear that the Eustace estate cannot claim the jewels as an heirloom. They are last mentioned, and, so far as I know, only mentioned as an heirloom in the will of the great-grandfather of the present baronet, if these be the diamonds then named by him. As such he could not have devised them to the present claimant, as he died in 1820, and the present claimant is not yet two years old.
“Whether the widow could claim them as paraphernalia is more doubtful. I do not know that Lord Hardwicke’s ruling would decide the case; but if so, she would, I think, be debarred from selling, as he limits the use of jewels of lesser value than these to the wearing of them when full-dressed. The use being limited, possession with power of alienation cannot be intended.
“The lady’s claim to them as a gift from her husband amounts to nothing. If they are not hers by will, and it seems that they are not so, she can only hold them as paraphernalia belonging to her station.
“I presume it to be capable of proof that the diamonds were not in Scotland when Sir Florian made his will or when he died. The former fact might be used as tending to show his intention when the will was made. I understand that he did leave to his widow by will all the chattels in Portray Castle. J. D.
“15 August, 18 —.”
When Mr. Camperdown had twice read this opinion, he sat in his chair an unhappy old man. It was undoubtedly the case that he had been a lawyer for upward of forty years, and had always believed that any gentleman could make any article of value an heirloom in his family. The title-deeds of vast estates had been confided to his keeping, and he had had much to do with property of every kind; and now he was told that in reference to property of a certain description — property which by its nature could belong only to such as they who were his clients — he had been long without any knowledge whatsoever. He had called this necklace an heirloom to John Eustace above a score of times; and now he was told by Mr. Dove not only that the necklace was not an heirloom, but that it couldn’t have been an heirloom. He was a man who trusted much in a barrister, as was natural with an attorney; but he was now almost inclined to doubt Mr. Dove. And he was hardly more at ease in regard to the other clauses of the opinion. Not only could not the estate claim the necklace as an heirloom, but that greedy siren, that heartless snake, that harpy of a widow — for it was thus that Mr. Camperdown in his solitude spoke to himself of poor Lizzie, perhaps throwing in a harder word or two — that female swindler could claim it as — paraphernalia!
There was a crumb of comfort for him in the thought that he could force her to claim that privilege from a decision of the Court of Queen’s Bench, and that her greed would be exposed should she do so. And she could be prevented from selling the diamonds. Mr. Dove seemed to make that quite clear. But then there came that other question as to the inheritance of the property under the husband’s will. That Sir Florian had not intended that she should inherit the necklace, Mr. Camperdown was quite certain. On that point he suffered no doubt. But would he be able to prove that the diamonds had never been in Scotland since Sir Florian’s marriage? He had traced their history from that date with all the diligence he could use, and he thought that he knew it. But it might be doubtful whether he could prove it. Lady Eustace had first stated — had so stated before she had learned the importance of any other statement — that Sir Florian had given her the diamonds in London as they passed through London from Scotland to Italy, and that she had carried them thence to Naples, where Sir Florian had died. If this were so, they could not have been at Portray Castle till she took them there as a widow, and they would undoubtedly be regarded as a portion of that property which Sir Florian habitually kept in London. That this was so Mr. Camperdown. entertained no doubt. But now the widow alleged that Sir Florian had given the necklace to her in Scotland, whither they had gone immediately after their marriage, and that she herself had brought them up to London. They had been married on the 5th of September; and by the jewellers’ books it was hard to tell whether the trinket had been given up to Sir Florian on the 4th or 24th of September. On the 24th Sir Florian and his young bride had undoubtedly been in London. Mr. Camperdown anathematised the carelessness of everybody connected with Messrs. Garnett’s establishment. “Those sort of people have no more idea of accuracy than — than —;” than he had had of heirlooms, his conscience whispered to him, filling up the blank.
Nevertheless he thought he could prove that the necklace was first put into Lizzie’s hands in London. The middle-aged and very discreet man at Messrs. Garnett’s, who had given up the jewel-case to Sir Florian, was sure that he had known Sir Florian to be a married man when he did so. The lady’s maid who had been in Scotland with Lady Eustace, and who was now living in Turin, having married a courier, had given evidence before an Italian man of law, stating that she had never seen the necklace till she came to London. There were, moreover, the probabilities of the case. Was it likely that Sir Florian should take such a thing down in his pocket to Scotland? And there was the statement as first made by Lady Eustace herself to her cousin Frank, repeated by him to John Eustace, and not to be denied by any one. It was all very well for her now to say that she had forgotten; but would any one believe that on such a subject she could forget?
But still the whole thing was very uncomfortable. Mr. Dove’s opinion, if seen by Lady Eustace and her friends, would rather fortify them than frighten them. Were she once to get hold of that word paraphernalia, it would be as a tower of strength to her. Mr. Camperdown specially felt this, that whereas he had hitherto believed that no respectable attorney would take up such a case as that of Lady Eustace, he could not now but confess to himself that any lawyer seeing Mr. Dove’s opinion would be justified in taking it up. And yet he was as certain as ever that the woman was robbing the estate which it was his duty to guard, and that should he cease to be active in the matter the necklace would be broken up and the property sold and scattered before a year was out, and then the woman would have got the better of him! “She shall find that we have not done with her yet,” he said to himself, as he wrote a line to John Eustace.
But John Eustace was out of town, as a matter of course; and on the next day Mr. Camperdown himself went down and joined his wife and family at a little cottage which he had at Dawlish. The necklace, however, interfered much with his holiday.
Frank Greystock certainly went over to Portray too often — so often that the pony was proved to be quite necessary. Miss Macnulty held her tongue and was gloomy, believing that Lady Eustace was still engaged to Lord Fawn, and feeling that in that case there should not be so many visits to the rocks. Mr. Gowran was very attentive, and could tell on any day, to five minutes, how long the two cousins were sitting together on the seashore. Arthur Herriot, who cared nothing for Lady Eustace, but who knew that his friend had promised to marry Lucy Morris, was inclined to be serious on the subject; but — as is always the case with men — was not willing to speak about it.
Once, and once only, the two men dined together at the castle, for the doing of which it was necessary that a gig should be hired all the way from Prestwick. Herriot had not been anxious to go over, alleging various excuses — the absence of dress clothes, the calls of Stone and Toddy, his bashfulness, and the absurdity of paying fifteen shillings for a gig. But he went at last, constrained by his friend, and a very dull evening he passed. Lizzie was quite unlike her usual self, was silent, grave, and solemnly courteous; Miss Macnulty had not a word to say for herself; and even Frank was dull. Arthur Herriot had not tried to exert himself, and the dinner had been a failure.
“You don’t think much of my cousin, I dare say,” said Frank, as they were driving back.
“She is a very pretty woman.”
“And I should say that she does not think much of you.”
“Probably not.”
“Why on earth wouldn’t you speak to her? I went on making speeches to Miss Macnulty on purpose to give you a chance. Lizzie generally talks about as well — as any young woman I know; but you had not a word to say to her, nor she to you.”
“Because you devoted yourself to Miss Mac —— whatever her name is.”
“That’s nonsense,” said Frank; “Lizzie and I are more like brother and sister than anything else. She has no one else belonging to her, and she has to come to me for advice, and all that sort of thing. I wanted you to like her.”
“I never like people and people never like me. There is an old saying that you should know a man seven years before you poke his fire. I want to know persons seven years before I can ask them how they do. To take me out to dine in this way was of all things the most hopeless.”
“But you do dine out in London.”
“That’s different. There’s a certain routine of conversation going, and one falls into it. At such affairs as that this evening one has to be intimate or it is a bore. I don’t mean to say anything against Lady Eustace. Her beauty is undeniable, and I don’t doubt her cleverness.”
“She is sometimes too clever,” said Frank.
“I hope she is not becoming too clever for you. You’ve got to remember that you’re due elsewhere; eh, old fellow?” This was the first word that Herriot had said on the subject, and to that word Frank Greystock made no answer. But it had its effect, as also did the gloomy looks of Miss Macnulty, and the not unobserved presence of Mr. Andy Gowran on various occasions.
Between them they shot more grouse — so the keeper swore — than had ever been shot on these mountains before. Herriot absolutely killed one or two himself, to his own great delight, and Frank, who was fairly skilful, would get four or five in a day. There were excursions to be made, and the air of the hills was in itself a treat to both of them. Though Greystock was so often away at the castle, Herriot did not find the time hang heavily on his hands, and was sorry when his fortnight was over. “I think I shall stay a couple of days longer,” Frank said, when Herriot spoke of their return. “The truth is, I must see Lizzie again. She is bothered by business, and I have to see her about a letter that came this morning. You needn’t pull such a long face. There’s nothing of the kind you’re thinking of.”
“I thought so much of what you once said to me about another girl that I hope she at any rate may never be in trouble.”
“I hope she never may, on my account,” said Frank. “And what troubles she may have, as life will be troublesome, I trust that I may share and lessen.”
On that evening Herriot went, and on the next morning Frank Greystock again rode over to Portray Castle; but when he was alone after Herriot’s departure he wrote a letter to Lucy Morris. He had expressed a hope that he might never be a cause of trouble to Lucy Morris, and he knew that his silence would trouble her. There could be no human being less inclined to be suspicious than Lucy Morris. Of that Frank was sure. But there had been an express stipulation with Lady Fawn that she should be allowed to receive letters from him, and she would naturally be vexed when he did not write to her. So he wrote.
“PORTRAY COTTAGE, September 3, 18 —.
“DEAREST LUCY: We have been here for a fortnight, shooting grouse, wandering about the mountains, and going to sleep on the hillsides. You will say that there never was a time so fit for the writing of letters, but that will be because you have not learned yet that the idler people are the more inclined they are to be idle. We hear of lord chancellors writing letters to their mothers every day of their lives; but men who have nothing on earth to do cannot bring themselves to face a sheet of paper. I would promise that when I am lord chancellor I would write to you every day were it not that when that time comes I shall hope to be always with you.
“And, in truth, I have had to pay constant visits to my cousin, who lives in a big castle on the seaside, ten miles from here, over the mountains, and who is in a peck of troubles; in spite of her prosperity one of the unhappiest women, I should say, that you could meet anywhere. You know so much of her affairs that without breach of trust I may say so much. I Wish she had a father or a brother to manage her matters for her; but she has none, and I cannot desert her. Your Lord Fawn is behaving badly to her; and so, as far as I can see, are the people who manage the Eustace property. Lizzie, as you know, is not the most tractable of women, and altogether I have more to do in the matter than I like. Riding ten times backwards and forwards so often over the same route on a little pony is not good fun, but I am almost glad the distance is not less. Otherwise I might have been always there. I know you don’t quite like Lizzie, but she is to be pitied.
“I go up to London on Friday, but shall only be there for one or two days, that is, for one night. I go almost entirely on her business, and must, I fear, be here again, or at the castle, before I can settle myself either for work or happiness. On Sunday night I go down to Bobsborough, where, indeed, I ought to have been earlier. I fear I cannot go to Richmond on the Saturday, and on the Sunday Lady Fawn would hardly make me welcome. I shall be at Bobsborough for about three weeks, and there, if you have commands to give, I will obey them.
“I may, however, tell you the truth at once — though it is a truth you must keep very much to yourself. In the position in which I now stand as to Lord Fawn — being absolutely forced to quarrel with him on Lizzie’s behalf — Lady Fawn could hardly receive me with comfort to herself. She is the best of women; and, as she is your dear friend, nothing is further from me than any idea of quarrelling with her; but of course she takes her son’s part, and I hardly know how all allusion to the subject could be avoided.
“This, however, dearest, need ruffle no feather between you and me, who love each other better than we love either the Fawns or the Lizzies. Let me find a line at my chambers to say that it is so and always shall be so.
“God bless my own darling.
“Ever and always your own,
“F. G.”
On the following day he rode over to the castle. He had received a letter from John Eustace, who had found himself forced to run up to London to meet Mr. Camperdown. The lawyer had thought to postpone further consideration of the whole matter till he and everybody else would be naturally in London — till November that might be, or perhaps even till after Christmas. But his mind was ill at ease; and he knew that so much might be done with the diamonds in four months! They might even now be in the hands of some Benjamin or of some Harter, and it might soon be beyond the power either of lawyers or of policemen to trace them. He therefore went up from Dawlish and persuaded John Eustace to come from Yorkshire. It was a great nuisance, and Eustace freely anathematised the necklace. “If only some one would steal it, so that we might hear no more of the thing,” he said. But, as Mr. Camperdown had frequently remarked, the value was too great for trifling, and Eustace went up to London. Mr. Camperdown put into his hands the Turtle Dove’s opinion, explaining that it was by no means expedient that it should be shown to the other party. Eustace thought that the opinion should be common to them all. “We pay for it,” said Mr. Camperdown, “and they can get their opinion from any other barrister if they please.” But what was to be done? Eustace declared that as to the present whereabouts of the necklace he did not in the least doubt that he could get the truth from Frank Greystock. He therefore wrote to Greystock, and with that letter in his pocket Frank rode over to the castle for the last time.
He, too, was heartily sick of the necklace; but unfortunately he was not equally sick of her who held it in possession. And he was, too, better alive to the importance of the value of the trinket than John Eustace, though not so keenly as was Mr. Camperdown. Lady Eustace was out somewhere among the cliffs, the servant said. He regretted this as he followed her, but he was obliged to follow her. Half-way down to the seashore, much below the knob on which she had attempted to sit with her Shelley, but yet not below the need of assistance, he found her seated in a little ravine. “I knew you would come,” she said. Of course she had known that he would come. She did not rise, or even give him her hand, but there was a spot close beside her on which it was to be presumed that he would seat himself. She had a volume of Byron in her hand — the “Corsair,” “Lara,” and the “Giaour”— a kind of poetry which was in truth more intelligible to her than “Queen Mab.” “You go tomorrow?”
“Yes; I go tomorrow.”
“And Lubin has gone?” Arthur Herriot was Lubin.
“Lubin has gone. Though why Lubin I cannot guess. The normal Lubin to me is a stupid fellow always in love. Herriot is not stupid and is never in love.”
“Nevertheless, he is Lubin if I choose to call him so. Why did he twiddle his thumbs instead of talking? Have you heard anything of Lord Fawn?”
“I have had a letter from your brother-inlaw.”
“And what is John the Just pleased to say?”
“John the Just, which is a better name for the man than the other, has been called up to London, much against his will, by Mr. Camperdown.”
“Who is Samuel the Unjust.” Mr. Camperdown’s name was Samuel.
“And now wants to know where this terrible necklace is at this present moment.” He paused a moment, but Lizzie did not answer him. “I suppose you have no objection to telling me where it is.”
“None in the least, or to giving it you to keep for me, only that I would not so far trouble you. But I have an objection to telling them. They are my enemies. Let them find out.”
“You are wrong, Lizzie. You do not want, or at any rate should not want, to have any secret in the matter.”
“They are here, in the castle; in the very place in which Sir Florian kept them when he gave them to me. Where should my own jewels be but in my own house? What does that Mr. Dove say who was to be asked about them? No doubt they can pay a barrister to say anything.”
“Lizzie, you think too hardly of people.”
“And do not people think too hardly of me? Does not all this amount to an accusation against me that I am a thief? Am I not persecuted among them? Did not this impudent attorney stop me in the public street and accuse me of theft before my very servants? Have they not so far succeeded in misrepresenting me that the very man who is engaged to be my husband betrays me? And now you are turning against me? Can you wonder that I am hard?”
“I am not turning against you.”
“Yes; you are. You take their part and not mine in everything. I tell you what, Frank, I would go out in that boat that you see yonder and drop the bauble into the sea did I not know that they’d drag it up again with their devilish ingenuity. If the stones would burn I would burn them. But the worst of it all is that you are becoming my enemy.” Then she burst into violent and almost hysteric tears.
“It will be better that you should give them into the keeping of some one whom you can both trust, till the law has decided to whom they belong.”
“I will never give them up. What does Mr. Dove say?”
“I have not seen what Mr. Dove says. It is clear that the necklace is not an heirloom.”
“Then how dare Mr. Camperdown say so often that it was?”
“He said what he thought,” pleaded Frank.
“And he is a lawyer!”
“I am a lawyer, and I did not know what is or what is not an heirloom. But Mr. Dove is clearly of opinion that such a property could not have been given away simply by a word of mouth.” John Eustace in his letter had made no allusion to that complicated question of paraphernalia.
“But it was,” said Lizzie. “Who can know but myself, when no one else was present?”
“The jewels are here now?”
“Not in my pocket. I do not carry them about with me. They are in the castle.”
“And will they go back with you to London?”
“Was ever lady so interrogated? I do not know yet that I shall go back to London. Why am I asked such questions? As to you, Frank, I would tell you everything, my whole heart, if only you cared to know it. But why is John Eustace to make inquiry as to personal ornaments which are my own property? If I go to London I will take them there, and wear them at every house I enter. I will do so in defiance of Mr. Camperdown and Lord Fawn. I think, Frank, that no woman was ever so ill-treated as I am.”
He himself thought that she was ill-treated. She had so pleaded her case, and had been so lovely in her tears and her indignation, that he began to feel something like true sympathy for her cause. What right had he, or had Mr. Camperdown, or any one, to say that the jewels did not belong to her? And if her claim to them was just, why should she be persuaded to give up the possession of them? He knew well that were she to surrender them with the idea that they should be restored to her if her claim were found to be just, she would not get them back very soon. If once the jewels were safe, locked up in Mr. Garnett’s strong box, Mr. Camperdown would not care how long it might be before a jury or a judge should have decided on the case. The burden of proof would then be thrown upon Lady Eustace. In order that she might recover her own property she would have to thrust herself forward as a witness, and appear before the world a claimant, greedy for rich ornaments. Why should he advise her to give them up? “I am only thinking,” said he, “what may be the best for your own peace.”
“Peace!” she exclaimed. “How am I to have peace? Remember the condition in which I find myself! Remember the manner in which that man is treating me, when all the world has been told of my engagement to him! When I think of it my heart is so bitter that I am inclined to throw, not the diamonds, but myself, from off the rocks. All that remains to me is the triumph of getting the better of my enemies. Mr. Camperdown shall never have the diamonds. Even if they could prove that they did not belong to me they should find them — gone.”
“I don’t think they can prove it.”
“I’ll flaunt them in the eyes of all of them till they do; and then — they shall be gone. And I’ll have such revenge on Lord Fawn before I have done with him that he shall know that it may be worse to have to fight a woman than a man. Oh, Frank, I do not think that I am hard by nature, but these things make a woman hard.” As she spoke she took his hand in hers, and looked up into his eyes through her tears. “I know that you do not care for me and you know how much I care for you.”
“Not care for you, Lizzie?”
“No; that little thing at Richmond is everything to you. She is tame and quiet, a cat that will sleep on the rug before the fire, and you think that she will never scratch. Do not suppose that I mean to abuse her. She was my dear friend before you had ever seen her. And men, I know, have tastes which women do not understand. You want what you call — repose.”
“We seldom know what we want, I fancy. We take what the gods send us.” Frank’s words were perhaps more true than wise. At the present moment the gods had clearly sent Lizzie Eustace to him, and unless he could call up some increased strength of his own, quite independent of the gods, or of what we may perhaps call chance, he would have to put up with the article sent.
Lizzie had declared that she would not touch Lord Fawn with a pair of tongs, and in saying so had resolved that she could not and would not now marry his lordship, even were his lordship in her power. It had been decided by her as quickly as thoughts flash, but it was decided. She would torture the unfortunate lord, but not torture him by becoming his wife. And, so much being fixed as the stars in heaven, might it be possible that she should even yet induce her cousin to take the place that had been intended for Lord Fawn? After all that had passed between them she need hardly hesitate to tell him of her love. And with the same flashing thoughts she declared to herself that she did love him, and that therefore this arrangement would be so much better than that other one which she had proposed to herself. The reader, perhaps, by this time, has not a high opinion of Lady Eustace, and may believe that among other drawbacks on her character there is especially this, that she was heartless. But that was by no means her own opinion of herself. She would have described herself — and would have meant to do so with truth — as being all heart. She probably thought that an over — amount of heart was the malady under which she specially suffered. Her heart was overflowing now toward the man who was sitting by her side. And then it would be so pleasant to punish that little chit who had spurned her gift and had dared to call her mean! This man, too, was needy, and she was wealthy. Surely were she to offer herself to him the generosity of the thing would make it noble. She was still dissolved in tears and was still hysteric. “Oh, Frank!” she said, and threw herself upon his breast.
Frank Greystock felt his position to be one of intense difficulty, but whether this difficulty was increased or diminished by the appearance of Mr. Andy Gowran’s head over a rock at the entrance of the little cave in which they were sitting it might be difficult to determine. But there was the head. And it was not a head that just popped itself up and then retreated, as a head would do that was discovered doing that which made it ashamed of itself. The head, with its eyes wide open, held its own, and seemed to say, “Ay, I’ve caught you, have I?” And the head did speak, though not exactly in those words. “Coosins!” said the head; and then the head was wagged. In the meantime Lizzie Eustace, whose back was turned to the head, raised her own, and looked up into Greystock’s eyes for love. She perceived at once that something was amiss, and, starting to her feet, turned quickly round.
“How dare you intrude here?” she said to the head.
“Coosins!” replied the head, wagging itself.
It was clearly necessary that Greystock should take some steps, if only with the object of proving to the impudent factotum that he was not altogether overcome by the awkwardness of his position. That he was a good deal annoyed, and that he felt not altogether quite equal to the occasion, must be acknowledged. “What is it that the man wants?” he said, glaring at the head.
“Coosins!” said the head, wagging itself again.
“If you don’t take yourself off, I shall have to thrash you,” said Frank.
“Coosins!” said Andy Gowran, stepping from behind the rock and showing his full figure. Andy was a man on the wrong side of fifty, and therefore, on the score of age, hardly fit for thrashing. And he was compact, short, broad, and as hard as flint; a man bad to thrash, look at it from what side you would. “Coosins!” he said yet again. “Ye’re mair couthie than coosinly, I’m thinking.”
“Andy Gowran, I dismiss you from my service for your impertinence,” said Lady Eustace.
“It’s ae one to Andy Gowran for that, my leddie. There’s timber and a world o’ things aboot the place as wants proteection on behalf o’ the heir. If your leddieship is minded to be quit o’ my services, I’ll find a maister in Mr. Camperdoon, as’ll nae allow me to be thrown out o’ employ. Coosins!”
“Walk off from this,” said Frank Greystock, coming forward and putting his hand upon the man’s breast. Mr. Gowran repeated the objectionable word yet once again, and then retired.
Frank Greystock immediately felt how very bad for him was his position. For the lady, if only she could succeed in her object, the annoyance of the interruption would not matter much after its first absurdity had been endured. When she had become the wife of Frank Greystock there would be nothing remarkable in the fact that she had been found sitting with him in a cavern by the seashore. But for Frank the difficulty of extricating himself from his dilemma was great, not in regard to Mr. Gowran, but in reference to his cousin Lizzie. He might, it was true, tell her that he was engaged to Lucy Morris; but then why had he not told her so before? He had not told her so; nor did he tell her on this occasion. When he attempted to lead her away up the cliff she insisted on being left where she was. “I can find my way alone,” she said, endeavouring to smile through her tears. “The man has annoyed me by his impudence, that is all. Go, if you are going.”
Of course he was going; but he could not go without a word of tenderness. “Dear, dear Lizzie,” he said, embracing her.
“Frank, you’ll be true to me?”
“I will be true to you.”
“Then go now,” she said. And he went his way up the cliff, and got his pony, and rode back to the cottage, very uneasy in his mind.
Lucy Morris got her letter and was contented. She wanted some demonstration of love from her lover, but very little sufficed for her comfort. With her it was almost impossible that a man should be loved and suspected at the same time. She could not have loved the man, or at any rate confessed her love, without thinking well of him; and she could not think good and evil at the same time. She had longed for some word from him since she last saw him; and now she had got a word. She had known that he was close to his fair cousin — the cousin whom she despised, and whom, with womanly instinct, she had almost regarded as a rival. But to her the man had spoken out; and though he was far away from her, living close to the fair cousin, she would not allow a thought of trouble on that score to annoy her. He was her own, and let Lizzie Eustace do her worst, he would remain her own. But she had longed to be told that he was thinking of her, and at last the letter had come. She answered it that same night with the sweetest, prettiest little letter, very short, full of love and full of confidence. Lady Fawn, she said, was the dearest of women; but what was Lady Fawn to her, or all the Fawns, compared with her lover? If he could come to Richmond without disturbance to himself, let him come; but if he felt that, in the present unhappy condition of affairs between him and Lord Fawn, it was better that he should stay away, she had not a word to say in the way of urging him. To see him would be a great delight. But had she not the greater delight of knowing that he loved her? That was quite enough to make her happy. Then there was a little prayer that God might bless him, and an assurance that she was in all things his own, own Lucy. When she was writing her letter she was in all respects a happy girl.
But on the very next day there came a cloud upon her happiness, not in the least, however, affecting her full confidence in her lover. It was a Saturday, and Lord Fawn came down to Richmond. Lord Fawn had seen Mr. Greystock in London on that day, and the interview had been by no means pleasant to him. The Under-Secretary of State for India was as dark as a November day when he reached his mother’s house, and there fell upon every one the unintermittent cold drizzling shower of his displeasure from the moment in which he entered the house. There was never much reticence among the ladies at Richmond in Lucy’s presence, and since the completion of Lizzie’s unfortunate visit to Fawn Court they had not hesitated to express open opinions adverse to the prospects of the proposed bride. Lucy herself could say but little in defence of her old friend, who had lost all claim upon that friendship since the offer of the bribe had been made, so that it was understood among them all that Lizzie was to be regarded as a black sheep; but hitherto Lord Fawn himself had concealed his feelings before Lucy. Now unfortunately he spoke out, and in speaking was especially bitter against Frank. “Mr. Greystock has been most insolent,” he said as they were all sitting together in the library after dinner. Lady Fawn made a sign to him and shook her head. Lucy felt the hot blood fly into both her cheeks, but at the moment she did not speak. Lydia Fawn put out her hand beneath the table and took hold of Lucy’s.
“We must all remember that he is her cousin,” said Augusta,
“His relationship to Lady Eustace cannot justify ungentlemanlike impertinence to me,” said Lord Fawn. “He has dared to use words to me which would make it necessary that I should call him out, only —”
“Frederic, you shall do nothing of the kind,” said Lady Fawn, jumping up from her chair.
“Oh, Frederic, pray, pray don’t,” said Augusta, springing on to her brother’s shoulder.
“I am sure Frederic does not mean that,” said Amelia.
“Only that nobody does call anybody out now,” added the pacific lord. “But nothing on earth shall ever induce me to speak again to a man who is so little like a gentleman.” Lydia now held Lucy’s hand still tighter, as though to prevent her rising. “He has never forgiven me,” continued Lord Fawn, “because he was so ridiculously wrong about the Sawab.”
“I am sure that had nothing to do with it,” said Lucy.
“Miss Morris, I shall venture to hold my own opinion,” said Lord Fawn.
“And I shall hold mine,” said Lucy bravely. “The Sawab of Mygawb had nothing to do with what Mr. Greystock may have said or done about his cousin. I am quite sure of it.”
“Lucy, you are forgetting yourself,” said Lady Fawn.
“Lucy, dear, you shouldn’t contradict my brother,” said Augusta.
“Take my advice, Lucy, and let it pass by,” said Amelia.
“How can I hear such things said and not notice them?” demanded Lucy. “Why does Lord Fawn say them when I am by?”
Lord Fawn had now condescended to be full of wrath against his mother’s governess. “I suppose I may express my own opinion, Miss Morris, in my mother’s house.”
“And I shall express mine,” said Lucy. “Mr. Greystock is a gentleman. If you say that he is not a gentleman, it is not true.” Upon hearing these terrible words spoken, Lord Fawn rose from his seat and slowly left the room. Augusta followed him with both her arms stretched out. Lady Fawn covered her face with her hands, and even Amelia was dismayed.
“Oh, Lucy! why could you not hold your tongue?” said Lydia.
“I won’t hold my tongue,” said Lucy, bursting out into tears. “He is a gentleman.”
Then there was great commotion at Fawn Court. After a few moments Lady Fawn followed her son without having said a word to Lucy, and Amelia went with her. Poor Lucy was left with the younger girls, and was no doubt very unhappy. But she was still indignant and would yield nothing. When Georgina, the fourth daughter, pointed out to her that, in accordance with all rules of good breeding, she should have abstained from asserting that her brother had spoken an untruth, she blazed up again. “It was untrue,” she said.
“But, Lucy, people never accuse each other of untruth. No lady should use such a word to a gentleman.”
“He should not have said so. He knows that Mr. Greystock is more to me than all the world.”
“If I had a lover,” said Nina, “and anybody were to say a word against him, I know I’d fly at them. I don’t know why Frederic is to have it all his own way.”
“Nina, you’re a fool,” said Diana.
“I do think it was very hard for Lucy to bear,” said Lydia. “And I won’t bear it,” exclaimed Lucy. “To think that Mr. Greystock should be so mean as to bear malice about a thing like that wild Indian because he takes his own cousin’s part! Of course I’d better go away. You all think that Mr. Greystock is an enemy now; but he never can be an enemy to me.”
“We think that Lady Eustace is an enemy,” said Cecilia, “and a very nasty enemy, too.”
“I did not say a word about Lady Eustace,” said Lucy. “But Mr. Greystock is a gentleman.”
About an hour after this Lady Fawn sent for Lucy, and the two were closeted together for a long time. Lord Fawn was very angry, and had hitherto altogether declined to overlook the insult offered. “I am bound to tell you,” declared Lady Fawn, with much emphasis, “that nothing can justify you in having accused Lord Fawn of telling an untruth. Of course, I was sorry that Mr. Greystock’s name should have been mentioned in your presence; but as it was mentioned, you should have borne what was said with patience.”
“I couldn’t be patient, Lady Fawn.”
“That is what wicked people say when they commit murder, and then they are hung for it.”
“I’ll go away, Lady Fawn —”
“That is ungrateful, my dear. You know that I don’t wish you to go away. But if you behave badly, of course I must tell you of it.”
“I’d sooner go away. Everybody here thinks ill of Mr. Greystock. But I don’t think ill of Mr. Greystock, and I never shall. Why did Lord Fawn say such very hard things about him?”
It was suggested to her that she should be down-stairs early the next morning, and apologise to Lord Fawn for her rudeness; but she would not, on that night, undertake to do any such thing. Let Lady Fawn say what she might, Lucy thought that the injury had been done to her, and not to his lordship. And so they parted hardly friends. Lady Fawn gave her no kiss as she went, and Lucy, with obstinate pride, altogether refused to own her fault. She would only say that she had better go, and when Lady Fawn over and over again pointed out to her that the last thing that such a one as Lord Fawn could bear was to be accused of an untruth, she would continue to say that in that case he should be careful to say nothing that was untrue. All this was very dreadful, and created great confusion and unhappiness at Fawn Court. Lydia came into her room that night, and the two girls talked the matter over for hours. In the morning Lucy was up early, and found Lord Fawn walking in the grounds. She had been told that he would probably be found walking in the grounds, if she were willing to tender to him any apology.
Her mind had been very full of the subject — not only in reference to her lover, but as it regarded her own conduct. One of the elder Fawn girls had assured her that under no circumstances could a lady be justified in telling a gentleman that he had spoken an untruth, and she was not quite sure but that the law so laid down was right. And then she could not but remember that the gentleman in question was Lord Fawn, and that she was Lady Fawn’s governess. But Mr. Greystock was her affianced lover, and her first duty was to him. And then, granting that she herself had been wrong in accusing Lord Fawn of untruth, she could not refrain from asking herself whether he had not been much more wrong in saying in her hearing that Mr. Greystock was not a gentleman? And his offence had preceded her offence, and had caused it! She hardly knew whether she did or did not owe an apology to Lord Fawn, but she was quite sure that Lord Fawn owed an apology to her.
She walked straight up to Lord Fawn, and met him beneath the trees. He was still black and solemn, and was evidently brooding over his grievance; but he bowed to her, and stood still as she approached him. “My lord,” said she, “I am very sorry for what happened last night.”
“And so was I, very sorry, Miss Morris.”
“I think you know that I am engaged to marry Mr. Greystock?”
“I cannot allow that that has anything to do with it.”
“When you think that he must be dearer to me than all the world, you will acknowledge that I couldn’t hear hard things said of him without speaking.” His face became blacker than ever, but he made no reply. He wanted an abject begging of unconditional pardon from the little girl who loved his enemy. If that were done, he would vouchsafe his forgiveness; but he was too small by nature to grant it on other terms. “Of course,” continued Lucy, “I am bound to treat you with special respect in Lady Fawn’s house.” She looked almost beseechingly into his face as she paused for a moment.
“But you treated me with especial disrespect,” said Lord Fawn.
“And how did you treat me, Lord Fawn?”
“Miss Morris, I must be allowed, in discussing matters with my mother, to express my own opinions in such language as I may think fit to use. Mr. Greystock’s conduct to me was — was — was altogether most ungentlemanlike.”
“Mr. Greystock is a gentleman.”
“His conduct was most offensive, and most ungentlemanlike. Mr. Greystock disgraced himself.”
“It isn’t true,” said Lucy. Lord Fawn gave one start, and then walked off to the house as quick as his legs could carry him.
The scene between Lord Fawn and Greystock had taken place in Mr. Camperdown’s chambers, and John Eustace had also been present. The lawyer had suffered considerable annoyance, before the arrival of the two first-named gentlemen, from reiterated assertions made by Eustace that he would take no further trouble whatsoever about the jewels. Mr. Camperdown had in vain pointed out to him that a plain duty lay upon him as executor and guardian to protect the property on behalf of his nephew; but Eustace had asserted that, though he himself was comparatively a poor man, he would sooner replace the necklace out of his own property than be subject to the nuisance of such a continued quarrel. “My dear John; ten thousand pounds!” Mr. Camperdown had said. “It is a fortune for a younger son.”
“The boy is only two years old, and will have time enough to make fortunes for his own younger sons, if he does not squander everything. If he does, ten thousand pounds will make no difference.”
“But the justice of the thing, John!”
“Justice may be purchased too dearly.”
“Such a harpy as she is, too!” pleaded the lawyer. Then Lord Fawn had come in, and Greystock had followed immediately afterwards.
“I may as well say at once,” said Greystock, “that Lady Eustace is determined to maintain her right to the property; and that she will not give up the diamonds till some adequate court of law shall have decided that she is mistaken in her views. Stop one moment, Mr. Camperdown. I feel myself bound to go further than that, and express my own opinion that she is right.”
“I can hardly understand such an opinion as coming from you,” said Mr. Camperdown.
“You have changed your mind, at any rate,” said John Eustace.
“Not so, Eustace. Mr. Camperdown, you’ll be good enough to understand that my opinion expressed here is that of a friend, and not that of a lawyer. And you must understand, Eustace,” continued Greystock, “that I am speaking now of my cousin’s right to the property. Though the value be great, I have advised her to give up the custody of it for a while, till the matter shall be clearly decided. That has still been my advice to her, and I have in no respect changed my mind. But she feels that she is being cruelly used, and with a woman’s spirit will not, in such circumstances, yield anything. Mr. Camperdown actually stopped her carriage in the street.”
“She would not answer a line that anybody wrote to her,” said the lawyer.
“And I may say plainly — for all here know the circumstances — that Lady Eustace feels the strongest possible indignation at the manner in which she is being treated by Lord Fawn.”
“I have only asked her to give up the diamonds till the question should be settled,” said Lord Fawn.
“And you backed your request, my lord, by a threat! My cousin is naturally most indignant; and, my lord, you must allow me to tell you that I fully share the feeling.”
“There is no use in making a quarrel about it,” said Eustace.
“The quarrel is already made,” replied Greystock. “I am here to tell Lord Fawn in your presence, and in the presence of Mr. Camperdown, that he is behaving to a lady with ill-usage, which he would not dare to exercise did he not know that her position saves him from legal punishment, as do the present usages of society from other consequences.”
“I have behaved to her with every possible consideration,” said Lord Fawn.
“That is a simple assertion,” said the other. “I have made one assertion, and you have made another. The world will have to judge between us. What right have you to take upon yourself to decide whether this thing or that belongs to Lady Eustace or to any one else?”
“When the thing was talked about I was obliged to have an opinion,” said Lord Fawn, who was still thinking of words in which to reply to the insult offered him by Greystock without injury to his dignity as an Under-Secretary of State.
“Your conduct, sir, has been altogether inexcusable.” Then Frank turned to the attorney. “I have been given to understand that you are desirous of knowing where this diamond necklace is at present. It is at Lady Eustace’s house in Scotland; at Portray Castle.” Then he shook hands with John Eustace, bowed to Mr. Camperdown, and succeeded in leaving the room before Lord Fawn had so far collected his senses as to be able to frame his anger into definite words.
“I will never willingly speak to that man again,” said Lord Fawn. But as it was not probable that Greystock would greatly desire any further conversation with Lord Fawn, this threat did not carry with it any powerful feeling of severity.
Mr. Camperdown groaned over the matter with thorough vexation of spirit. It seemed to him as though the harpy, as he called her, would really make good her case against him, at any rate would make it seem to be good for so long a time that all the triumph of success would be hers. He knew that she was already in debt, and gave her credit for a propensity to fast living, which almost did her an injustice. Of course the jewels would be sold for half their value, and the harpy would triumph. Of what use to him or to the estate would be a decision of the courts in his favour when the diamonds should have been broken up and scattered to the winds of heaven? Ten thousand pounds! It was, to Mr. Camperdown’s mind, a thing quite terrible that, in a country which boasts of its laws and of the execution of its laws, such an impostor as was this widow should be able to lay her dirty, grasping fingers on so great an amount of property, and that there should be no means of punishing her. That Lizzie Eustace had stolen the diamonds, as a pickpocket steals a watch, was a fact as to which Mr. Camperdown had in his mind no shadow of a doubt. And, as the reader knows, he was right. She had stolen them. Mr. Camperdown knew that she had stolen them, and was a wretched man. From the first moment of the late Sir Florian’s infatuation about this woman, she had worked woe for Mr. Camperdown. Mr. Camperdown had striven hard, to the great and almost permanent offence of Sir Florian, to save Portray from its present condition of degradation; but he had striven in vain. Portray belonged to the harpy for her life; and moreover, he himself had been forced to be instrumental in paying over to the harpy a large sum of Eustace money almost immediately on her becoming a widow. Then had come the affair of the diamonds — an affair of ten thousand pounds!— as Mr. Camperdown would exclaim to himself, throwing his eyes up to the ceiling. And now it seemed that she was to get the better of him even in that, although there could not be a shadow of doubt as to her falsehood and fraudulent dishonesty! His luck in the matter was so bad! John Eustace had no backbone, no spirit, no proper feeling as to his own family. Lord Fawn was as weak as water, and almost disgraced the cause by the accident of his adherence to it. Greystock, who would have been a tower of strength, had turned against him, and was now prepared to maintain that the harpy was right. Mr. Camperdown knew that the harpy was wrong, that she was a harpy, and he would not abandon the cause; but the difficulties in his way were great and the annoyance to which he was subjected was excessive. His wife and daughters were still at Dawlish, and he was up in town in September, simply because the harpy had the present possession of these diamonds.
Mr. Camperdown was a man turned sixty, handsome, grey-haired, healthy, somewhat florid, and carrying in his face and person external signs of prosperity and that kind of self-assertion which prosperity always produces. But they who knew him best were aware that he did not bear trouble well. In any trouble, such as was this about the necklace, there would come over his face a look of weakness which betrayed the want of real inner strength. How many faces one sees which, in ordinary circumstances, are comfortable, self-asserting, sufficient, and even bold; the lines of which, under difficulties, collapse and become mean, spiritless, and insignificant. There are faces which, in their usual form, seem to bluster with prosperity, but which the loss of a dozen points at whist will reduce to that currish aspect which reminds one of a dog-whip. Mr. Camperdown’s countenance, when Lord Fawn and Mr. Eustace left him, had fallen away into this meanness of appearance. He no longer carried himself as a man owning a dog-whip, but rather as the hound that feared it.
A better attorney for the purposes to which his life was devoted did not exist in London than Mr. Camperdown. To say that he was honest is nothing. To describe him simply as zealous would be to fall very short of his merits. The interests of his clients were his own interests, and the legal rights of the properties of which he had the legal charge were as dear to him as his own blood. But it could not be said of him that he was a learned lawyer. Perhaps in that branch of a solicitor’s profession in which he had been called upon to work, experience goes further than learning. It may be doubted, indeed, whether it is not so in every branch of every profession. But it might, perhaps, have been better for Mr. Camperdown had he devoted more hours of his youth to reading books on conveyancing. He was now too old for such studies, and could trust only to the reading of other people. The reading, however, of other people was always at his command, and his clients were rich men who did not mind paying for an opinion. To have an opinion from Mr. Dove, or some other learned gentleman, was the every-day practice of his life; and when he obtained, as he often did, little coigns of legal vantage and subtle definitions as to property which were comfortable to him, he would rejoice to think that he could always have a Dove at his hand to tell him exactly how far he was justified in going in defence of his clients’ interests. But now there had come to him no comfort from his corner of legal knowledge. Mr. Dove had taken extraordinary pains in the matter, and had simply succeeded in throwing over his employer. “A necklace can’t be an heirloom!” said Mr. Camperdown to himself, telling off on his fingers half a dozen instances in which he had either known or had heard that the head of a family had so arranged the future possession of the family jewels. Then he again read Mr. Dove’s opinion, and actually took a law-book off his shelves with the view of testing the correctness of the barrister in reference to some special assertion. A pot or a pan might be an heirloom, but not a necklace! Mr. Camperdown could hardly bring himself to believe that this was law. And then as to paraphernalia! Up to this moment, though he had been called upon to arrange great dealings in reference to widows, he had never as yet heard of a claim made by a widow for paraphernalia. But then the widows with whom he had been called upon to deal had been ladies quite content to accept the good things settled upon them by the liberal prudence of their friends and husbands, not greedy, blood-sucking harpies such as this Lady Eustace. It was quite terrible to Mr. Camperdown that one of his clients should have fallen into such a pit. Mors omnibus est communis. But to have left such a widow behind one!
“John,” he said, opening his door. John was his son and partner, and John came to him, having been summoned by a clerk from another room. “Just shut the door. I’ve had such a scene here; Lord Fawn and Mr. Greystock almost coming to blows about that horrid woman.”
“The Upper House would have got the worst of it, as it usually does,” said the younger attorney.
“And there is John Eustace cares no more what becomes of the property than if he had nothing to do with it; absolutely talks of replacing the diamonds out of his own pocket; a man whose personal interest in the estate is by no means equal to her own.”
“He wouldn’t do it, you know,” said Camperdown Junior, who did not know the family.
“It’s just what he would do,” said the father, who did. “There’s nothing they wouldn’t give away when once the idea takes them. Think of that woman having the whole Portray estate, perhaps for the next sixty years — nearly the fee-simple of the property — just because she made eyes to Sir Florian.”
“That’s done and gone, father.”
“And here’s Dove tells us that a necklace can’t be an heirloom unless it belongs to the Crown.”
“Whatever he says, you’d better take his word for it.”
“I’m not so sure of that! It can’t be. I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll go over and see him. We can file a bill in Chancery, I don’t doubt, and prove that the property belongs to the family and must go by the will. But she’ll sell them before we can get the custody of them.”
“Perhaps she has done that already.”
“Greystock says they are Portray, and I believe they are. She was wearing them in London only in July, a day or two before I saw her as she was leaving town. If anybody like a jeweller had been down at the castle, I should have heard of it. She hasn’t sold ’em yet, but she will.”
“She could do that just the same if they were an heirloom.”
“No, John. I think not. We could have acted much more quickly and have frightened her.”
“If I were you, father, I’d drop the matter altogether and let John Eustace replace them if he pleases. We all know that he would never be called on to do anything of the kind. It isn’t our sort of business.”
“Not ten thousand pounds!” said Camperdown Senior, to whom the magnitude of the larceny almost ennobled the otherwise mean duty of catching the thief. Then Mr. Camperdown rose, and slowly walked across the New Square, Lincoln’s Inn, under the low archway, by the entrance to the old court in which Lord Eldon used to sit, to the Old Square, in which the Turtle Dove had built his legal nest on a first floor, close to the old gateway.
Mr. Dove was a gentleman who spent a very great portion of his life in this somewhat gloomy abode of learning. It was not now term time, and most of his brethren were absent from London, recruiting their strength among the Alps, or drinking in vigour for fresh campaigns with the salt sea breezes off Kent and Sussex, or perhaps shooting deer in Scotland, or catching fish in Connemara. But Mr. Dove was a man of iron, who wanted no such recreation. To be absent from his law-books and the black, littered, ink-stained old table on which he was wont to write his opinions, was, to him, to be wretched. The only exercise necessary to him was that of putting on his wig and going into one of the courts that were close to his chambers; but even that was almost distasteful to him. He preferred sitting in his old arm-chair, turning over his old books in search of old cases, and producing opinions which he would be prepared to back against all the world of Lincoln’s Inn. He and Mr. Camperdown had known each other intimately for many years, and though the rank of the two men in their profession differed much, they were able to discuss questions of law without any appreciation of that difference between themselves. The one man knew much, and the other little; the one was not only learned, but possessed also of great gifts, while the other was simply an ordinary clear-headed man of business; but they had sympathies in common which made them friends; they were both honest and unwilling to sell their services to dishonest customers; and they equally entertained a deep-rooted contempt for that portion of mankind who thought that property could be managed and protected without the intervention of lawyers. The outside world to them was a world of pretty, laughing, ignorant children; and lawyers were the parents, guardians, pastors, and masters, by whom the children should be protected from the evils incident to their childishness.
“Yes, sir; he’s here,” said the Turtle Dove’s clerk. “He is talking of going away, but he won’t go. He’s told me I can have a week, but I don’t know that I like to leave him. Mrs. Dove and the children are down at Ramsgate, and he’s here all night. He hadn’t been out for so long that when he wanted to go as far as the Temple yesterday we couldn’t find his hat.” Then the clerk opened the door, and ushered Mr. Camperdown into the room. Mr. Dove was the younger man by five or six years, and his hair was still black. Mr. Camperdown’s was nearer white than gray; but, nevertheless, Mr. Camperdown looked as though he were the younger man. Mr. Dove was a long, thin man, with a stoop in his shoulders, with deep-set, hollow eyes, and lantern cheeks, and sallow complexion, with long, thin hands, who seemed to acknowledge by every movement of his body and every tone of his voice that old age was creeping on him; whereas the attorney’s step was still elastic, and his speech brisk. Mr. Camperdown wore a blue frock-coat, and a coloured cravat, and a light waist-coat. With Mr. Dove every visible article of his raiment was black, except his shirt, and he had that peculiar blackness which a man achieves when he wears a dress-coat over a high black waistcoat in the morning.
“You didn’t make much, I fear, of what I sent you about heirlooms,” said Mr. Dove, divining the purport of Mr. Camperdown’s visit.
“A great deal more than I wanted, I can assure you, Mr. Dove.”
“There is a common error about heirlooms.”
“Very common, indeed, I should say. God bless my soul! when one knows how often the word occurs in family deeds, it does startle one to be told that there isn’t any such thing.”
“I don’t think I said quite so much as that. Indeed, I was careful to point out that the law does acknowledge heirlooms.”
“But not diamonds,” said the attorney.
“I doubt whether I went quite so far as that.”
“Only the Crown diamonds.”
“I don’t think I even debarred all other diamonds. A diamond in a star of honour might form a part of an heirloom; but I do not think that a diamond itself could be an heirloom.”
“If in a star of honour, why not in a necklace?” argued Mr. Camperdown almost triumphantly.
“Because a star of honour, unless tampered with by fraud, would naturally be maintained in its original form. The setting of a necklace will probably be altered from generation to generation. The one, like a picture or a precious piece of furniture ——”
“Or a pot or a pan,” said Mr. Camperdown, with sarcasm.
“Pots and pans may be precious, too,” replied Mr. Dove. “Such things can be traced, and can be held as heirlooms without imposing too great difficulties on their guardians. The Law is generally very wise and prudent, Mr. Camperdown; much more so often than are they who attempt to improve it.”
“I quite agree with you there, Mr. Dove.”
“Would the Law do a service, do you think, if it lent its authority to the special preservation in special hands of trinkets only to be used for vanity and ornament? Is that a kind of property over which an owner should have a power of disposition more lasting, more autocratic, than is given him even in regard to land? The land, at any rate, can be traced. It is a thing fixed and known. A string of pearls is not only alterable, but constantly altered, and cannot easily be traced.”
“Property of such enormous value should, at any rate, be protected,” said Mr. Camperdown indignantly.
“All property is protected, Mr. Camperdown; although, as we know too well, such protection can never be perfect. But the system of heirlooms, if there can be said to be such a system, was not devised for what you and I mean when we talk of protection of property.”
“I should have said that that was just what it was devised for.”
“I think not. It was devised with the more picturesque idea of maintaining chivalric associations. Heirlooms have become so, not that the future owners of them may be assured of so much wealth, whatever the value of the thing so settled may be, but that the son or grandson or descendant may enjoy the satisfaction which is derived from saying, My father or my grandfather or my ancestor sat in that chair, or looked as he now looks in that picture, or was graced by wearing on his breast that very ornament which you now see lying beneath the glass. Crown jewels are heirlooms in the same way, as representing not the possession of the sovereign, but the time-honoured dignity of the Crown. The Law, which, in general, concerns itself with our property or lives and our liberties, has in this matter bowed gracefully to the spirit of chivalry and has lent its aid to romance! but it certainly did not do so to enable the discordant heirs of a rich man to settle a simple dirty question of money, which, with ordinary prudence, the rich-man should himself have settled before he died.”
The Turtle Dove had spoken with emphasis and had spoken well, and Mr. Camperdown had not ventured to interrupt him while he was speaking. He was sitting far back on his chair, but with his neck bent and with his head forward, rubbing his long thin hands slowly over each other, and with his deep bright eyes firmly fixed on his companion’s face. Mr. Camperdown had not unfrequently heard him speak in the same fashion before, and was accustomed to his manner of unravelling the mysteries and searching into the causes of Law with a spirit which almost lent a poetry to the subject. When Mr. Dove would do so, Mr. Camperdown would not quite understand the words spoken, but he would listen to them with an undoubting reverence. And he did understand them in part, and was conscious of an infusion of a certain amount of poetic spirit into his own bosom. He would think of these speeches afterwards, and would entertain high but somewhat cloudy ideas of the beauty and the majesty of Law. Mr. Dove’s speeches did Mr. Camperdown good, and helped to preserve him from that worst of all diseases, a low idea of humanity.
“You think, then, we had better not claim them as heirlooms?” he asked.
“I think you had better not.”
“And you think that she could claim them — as paraphernalia?”
“That question has hardly been put to me, though I allowed myself to wander into it. But for my intimacy with you, I should hardly have ventured to stray so far.”
“I need hardly say how much obliged we are. But we will submit one or two other cases to you.”
“I am inclined to think the court would not allow them to her as paraphernalia, seeing that their value is excessive as compared with her income and degree; but if it did, it would do so in a fashion that would guard them from alienation.”
“She would sell them — under the rose.”
“Then she would be guilty of stealing them, which she would hardly attempt, even if not restrained by honesty, knowing, as she would know, that the greatness of the value would almost assuredly lead to detection. The same feeling would prevent buyers from purchasing.”
“She says, you know, that they were given to her, absolutely.”
“I should like to know the circumstances.”
“Yes; of course.”
“But I should be disposed to think that in equity no allegation by the receiver of such a gift, unsubstantiated either by evidence or by deed, would be allowed to stand. The gentleman left behind him a will, and regular settlements. I should think that the possession of these diamonds — not, I presume, touched on in the settlements —-”
“Oh dear no; not a word about them.”
“I should think, then, that, subject to any claim to paraphernalia, the possession of the diamonds would be ruled by the will.” Mr. Camperdown was rushing into the further difficulty of chattels in Scotland and those in England, when the Turtle Dove stopped him, declaring that he could not venture to discuss matters as to which he knew none of the facts.
“Of course not; of course not,” said Mr. Camperdown. “We’ll have cases prepared. I’d apologise for coming at all, only that I get so much from a few words.”
“I’m always delighted to see you, Mr. Camperdown,” said the Turtle Dove, bowing.
When Lord Fawn gave a sudden jump and stalked away towards the house on that Sunday morning before breakfast, Lucy Morris was a very unhappy girl. She had a second time accused Lord Fawn of speaking an untruth. She did not quite understand the usages of the world in the matter; but she did know that the one offence which a gentleman is supposed never to commit is that of speaking an untruth. The offence may be one committed oftener than any other by gentlemen — as also by all other people; but, nevertheless, it is regarded by the usages of society as being the one thing which a gentleman never does. Of all this Lucy understood something. The word “lie” she knew to be utterly abominable. That Lizzie Eustace was a little liar had been acknowledged between herself and the Fawn girls very often; but to have told Lady Eustace that any word spoken by her was a lie would have been a worse crime than the lie itself. To have brought such an accusation, in that form, against Lord Fawn, would have been to degrade herself forever. Was there any difference between a lie and an untruth? That one must be, and that the other need not be, intentional, she did feel; but she felt also that the less offensive word had come to mean a lie — the world having been driven so to use it because the world did not dare to talk about lies; and this word, bearing such a meaning in common parlance, she had twice applied to Lord Fawn. And yet, as she was well aware, Lord Fawn had told no lie. He had himself believed every word that he had spoken against Frank Greystock. That he had been guilty of unmanly cruelty in so speaking of her lover in her presence Lucy still thought, but she should not therefore have accused him of falsehood. “It was untrue all the same,” she said to herself, as she stood still on the gravel walk, watching the rapid disappearance of Lord Fawn, and endeavouring to think what she had better now do with herself. Of course Lord Fawn, like a great child, would at once go and tell his mother what that wicked governess had said to him.
In the hall she met her friend Lydia. “Oh, Lucy, what is the matter with Frederic?” she asked.
“Lord Fawn is very angry indeed.”
“With you?”
“Yes; with me. He is so angry that I am sure he would not sit down to breakfast with me. So I won’t come down. Will you tell your mamma? If she likes to send to me, of course I’ll go to her at once.”
“What have you done, Lucy?”
“I’ve told him again that what he said wasn’t true.”
“But why?”
“Because — oh, how can I say why? Why does any person do everything that she ought not to do? It’s the fall of Adam, I suppose.”
“You shouldn’t make a joke of it, Lucy.”
“You can have no conception how unhappy I am about it. Of course Lady Fawn will tell me to go away. I went out on purpose to beg his pardon for what I said last night, and I just said the very same thing again.”
“But why did you say it?”
“And I should say it again and again and again, if he were to go on telling me that Mr. Greystock isn’t a gentleman. I don’t think he ought to have done it. Of course I have been very wrong; I know that. But I think he has been wrong too. But I must own it and he needn’t. I’ll go up now and stay in my own room till your mamma sends for me.”
“And I’ll get Jane to bring you some breakfast.”
“I don’t care a bit about breakfast,” said Lucy.
Lord Fawn did tell his mother, and Lady Fawn was perplexed in the extreme. She was divided in her judgment and feelings between the privilege due to Lucy as a girl possessed of an authorised lover — a privilege which no doubt existed, but which was not extensive — and the very much greater privilege which attached to Lord Fawn as a man, as a peer, as an Under-Secretary of State, but which attached to him especially as the head and only man belonging to the Fawn family. Such a one, when, moved by filial duty, he condescends to come once a week to his mother’s house, is entitled to say whatever he pleases, and should on no account be contradicted by any one. Lucy no doubt had a lover, an authorised lover; but perhaps that fact could not be taken as more than a balancing weight against the inferiority of her position as a governess. Lady Fawn was of course obliged to take her son’s part and would scold Lucy. Lucy must be scolded very seriously. But it would be a thing so desirable if Lucy could be induced to accept her scolding and have done with it, and not to make matters worse by talking of going away! “You don’t mean that she came out into the shrubbery, having made up her mind to be rude to you?” said Lady Fawn to her son.
“No; I do not think that. But her temper is so ungovernable, and she has, if I may say so, been so spoiled 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 thundercloud.
Lady Fawn and Lucy sat opposite to each other in church, but ihey 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 tomorrow 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 dare say 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 mean time 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 happened 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 dullness 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 schoolroom work and bedroom 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 schoolroom.
“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 son 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.”
“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.
“You shouldn’t say that, mamma, now; for it’s fixed,” said Ellinor Greystock.
“But I do say it, my dear. Things sometimes are fixed which must be unfixed. You know your brother.”
“Frank is earning a large income, mamma.”
“Did you ever know a Greystock who didn’t want more than his income?”
“I hope I don’t, mamma, and mine is very small.”
“You’re a Jackson. Frank is Greystock to the very backbone. If he marries Lucy Morris he must give up Parliament. That’s all.”
The dean himself was more reticent and less given to interference than his wife; but he felt it also. He would not for the world have hinted to his son that it might be well to marry money; but he thought that it was a good thing that his son should go where money was. He knew that Frank was apt to spend his guineas faster than he got them. All his life long the dean had seen what came of such spending. Frank had gone out into the world and had prospered, but he could hardly continue to prosper unless he married money. Of course there had been regrets when the news came of that fatal engagement with Lucy Morris. “It can’t be for the next ten years, at any rate,” said Mrs. Greystock.
“I thought at one time that he would have made a match with his cousin,” said the dean.
“Of course; so did everybody,” replied Mrs. Dean.
Then Frank came among them. He had intended staying some weeks, perhaps for a month, and great preparations were made for him; but immediately on his arrival he announced the necessity that was incumbent on him of going down again to Scotland in ten days. “You’ve heard about Lizzie, of course,” he said. They had heard that Lizzie was to become Lady Fawn, but beyond that they had heard nothing. “You know about the necklace?” asked Frank. Something of a tale of a necklace had made its way even down to quiet Bobsborough. They had been informed that there was a dispute between the widow and the executors of the late Sir Florian about some diamonds. “Lord Fawn is behaving about it in the most atrocious manner,” continued Frank, “and the long and the short of it is that there will be no marriage!”
“No marriage!” exclaimed Mrs. Greystock.
“And what is the truth about the diamonds?” asked the dean.
“Ah; it will give the lawyers a job before they decide that. They’re very valuable; worth about ten thousand pounds, I’m told; but the most of it will go among some of my friends at the Chancery bar. It’s a pity that I should be out of the scramble myself.”
“But why should you be out?” asked his mother with tender regrets, not thinking of the matter as her son was thinking of it, but feeling that when there was so much wealth so very near him, he ought not to let it all go past him.
“As far as I can see,” continued Frank, “she has a fair claim to them. I suppose they’ll file a bill in Chancery, and then it will be out of my line altogether. She says her husband gave them to her, absolutely put them on her neck himself, and told her that they were hers. As to their being an heirloom, that turns out to be impossible. I didn’t know it, but it seems you can’t make diamonds an heirloom. What astonishes me is, that Fawn should object to the necklace. However, he has objected, and has simply told her that he won’t marry her unless she gives them up.”
“And what does she say?”
“Storms and raves, as of course any woman would. I don’t think she is behaving badly. What she wants is, to reduce him to obedience, and then to dismiss him. I think that is no more than fair. Nothing on earth would make her marry him now.”
“Did she ever care for him?”
“I don’t think she ever did. She found her position to be troublesome, and she thought she had better marry. And then he’s a lord, which always goes for something.”
“I am sorry you should have so much trouble,” said Mrs. Greystock. But in truth the mother was not sorry. She did not declare to herself that it would be a good thing that her son should be false to Lucy Morris in order that he might marry his rich cousin; but she did feel it to be an advantage that he should be on terms of intimacy with so large an income as that belonging to Lady Eustace. “Doan’t thou marry for munny, but goa where munny is.” Mrs. Greystock would have repudiated the idea of mercenary marriages in any ordinary conversation, and would have been severe on any gentleman who was false to a young lady. But it is so hard to bring one’s general principles to bear on one’s own conduct or in one’s own family; and then the Greystocks were so peculiar a people! When her son told her that he must go down to Scotland again very shortly, she reconciled herself to his loss. Had he left Bobsborough for the sake of being near Lucy at Richmond, she would have felt it very keenly.
Days passed by, and nothing was said about poor Lucy. Mrs. Greystock had made up her mind that she would say nothing on the subject. Lucy had behaved badly in allowing herself to be loved by a man who ought to have loved money, and Mrs. Greystock had resolved that she would show her feelings by silence. The dean had formed no fixed determination, but he had thought that it might be, perhaps, as well to drop the subject. Frank himself was unhappy about it; but from morning to evening, and from day to day, he allowed it to pass by without a word. He knew that it should not be so, that silence was in truth treachery to Lucy; but he was silent. What had he meant when, as he left Lizzie Eustace among the rocks at Portray, in that last moment, he had assured her that he would be true to her? And what had been Lizzie’s meaning? He was more sure of Lizzie’s meaning than he was of his own. “It’s a very rough world to live in,” he said to himself in these days, as he thought of his difficulties.
But when he had been nearly a week at the deanery, and when the day of his going was so near as to be a matter of concern, his sister did at last venture to say a word about Lucy. “I suppose there is nothing settled about your own marriage, Frank?”
“Nothing at all.”
“Nor will be for some while?”
“Nor will be for some while.” This he said in a tone which he himself felt to be ill-humoured and almost petulant. And he felt also that such ill-humour on such a subject was unkind, not to his sister, but to Lucy. It seemed to imply that the matter of his marriage was distasteful to him. “The truth is,” he said, “that nothing can be fixed. Lucy understands that as well as I do. I am not in a position at once to marry a girl who has nothing. It’s a pity, perhaps, that one can’t train one’s self to like some girl best that has got money; but as I haven’t, there must be some delay. She is to stay where she is, at any rate for a twelvemonth.”
“But you mean to see her?”
“Well, yes; I hardly know how I can see her, as I have quarrelled to the knife with Lord Fawn; and Lord Fawn is recognised by his mother and sister as the one living Jupiter upon earth.”
“I like them for that,” said Ellinor.
“Only it prevents my going to Richmond; and poor Fawn himself is such an indifferent Jupiter.”
That was all that was said about Lucy at Bobsborough, till there came a letter from Lucy to her lover acquainting him with the circumstances of her unfortunate position at Richmond. She did not tell him quite all the circumstances. She did not repeat the strong expressions which Lord Fawn had used, nor did she clearly explain how wrathful she had been herself. “Lord Fawn has been here,” she said, “and there has been ever so much unpleasantness. He is very angry with you about Lady Eustace, and of course Lady Fawn takes his part. I need not tell you whose part I take. And so there have been what the servants call ‘just a few words.’ It is very dreadful, isn’t it? And, after all, Lady Fawn has been as kind as possible. But the upshot of it is that I am not to stay here. You mustn’t suppose that I’m to be turned out at twelve hours’ notice. I am to stay till arrangements have been made, and everybody will be kind to me. But what had I better do? I’ll try and get another situation at once if you think it best, only I suppose I should have to explain how long I could stay. Lady Fawn knows that I am writing to you to ask you what you think best.”
On receipt of this Greystock was very much puzzled. What a little fool Lucy had been, and yet what a dear little fool! Who cared for Lord Fawn and his hard words? Of course Lord Fawn would say all manner of evil things of him, and would crow valiantly in his own farmyard; but it would have been so much wiser on Lucy’s part to have put up with the crowing, and to have disregarded altogether the words of a man so weak and insignificant! But the evil was done, and he must make some arrangement for poor Lucy’s comfort. Had he known exactly how matters stood, that the proposition as to Lucy’s departure had come wholly from herself, and that at the present time all the ladies at Fawn Court — of course in the absence of Lord Fawn — were quite disposed to forgive Lucy if Lucy would only be forgiven, and hide herself when Lord Fawn should come; had Frank known all this, he might, perhaps, have counselled her to remain at Richmond. But he believed that Lady Fawn had insisted on Lucy’s departure; and of course, in such a case, Lucy must depart. He showed the letter to his sister, and asked for advice.
“How very unfortunate!” said Ellinor.
“Yes; is it not?”
“I wonder what she said to Lord Fawn?”
“She would speak out very plainly.”
“I suppose she has spoken out plainly, or otherwise they would never have told her to go away. It seems so unlike what I have always heard of Lady Fawn.”
“Lucy can be very headstrong if she pleases,” said Lucy’s lover. “What on earth had I better do for her? I don’t suppose she can get another place that would suit.”
“If she is to be your wife I don’t think she should go into another place. If it is quite fixed,” she said, and then she looked into her brother’s face.
“Well; what then?”
“If you are sure you mean it ——”
“Of course I mean it.”
“Then she had better come here. As for her going out as a governess, and telling the people that she is to be your wife in a few months, that is out of the question. And it would, I think, be equally so that she should go into any house and not tell the truth. Of course this would be the place for her.” It was at last decided that Ellinor should discuss the matter with her mother.
When the whole matter was unfolded to Mrs. Greystock that lady was more troubled than ever. If Lucy were to come to the deanery, she must come as Frank’s affianced bride, and must be treated as such by all Bobsborough. The dean would be giving his express sanction to the marriage, and so would Mrs. Greystock herself. She knew well that she had no power of refusing her sanction. Frank must do as he pleased about marrying. Were Lucy once his wife, of course she would be made welcome to the best the deanery could give her. There was no doubt about Lucy being as good as gold; only that real gold, vile as it is, was the one thing that Frank so much needed. The mother thought that she had discovered in her son something which seemed to indicate a possibility that this very imprudent match might at last be abandoned; and if there were such possibility, surely Lucy ought not now to be brought to the deanery. Nevertheless, if Frank were to insist upon her coming, she must come.
But Mrs. Greystock had a plan. “Oh, mamma,” said Ellinor, when the plan was proposed to her, “do not you think that would be cruel?”
“Cruel, my dear! no; certainly not cruel.”
“She is such a virago.”
“You think that because Lizzie Eustace has said so. I don’t know that she’s a virago at all. I believe her to be a very good sort of woman.”
“Do you remember, mamma, what the admiral used to say of her?”
“The admiral, my dear, tried to borrow her money, as he did everybody’s, and when she wouldn’t give him any, then he said severe things. The poor admiral was never to be trusted in such matters.”
“I don’t think Frank would like it,” said Ellinor. The plan was this. Lady Linlithgow, who, through her brother-inlaw, the late Admiral Greystock, was connected with the dean’s family, had made known her desire to have a new companion for six months. The lady was to be treated like a lady, but was to have no salary. Her travelling expenses were to be paid for her and no duties were to be expected from her, except that of talking and listening to the countess.
“I really think it’s the very thing for her,” said Mrs. Greystock. “It’s not like being a governess. She’s not to have any salary.”
“I don’t know whether that makes it better, mamma.”
“It would just be a visit to Lady Linlithgow. It is that which makes the difference, my dear.”
Ellinor felt sure that her brother would not hear of such an engagement, but he did hear of it, and, after various objections, gave a sort of sanction to it. It was not to be pressed upon Lucy if Lucy disliked it. Lady Linlithgow was to be made to understand that Lucy might leave whenever she pleased. It was to be an invitation, which Lucy might accept if she were so minded. Lucy’s position as an honourable guest was to be assured to her. It was thought better that Lady Linlithgow should not be told of Lucy’s engagement unless she asked questions, or unless Lucy should choose to tell her. Every precaution was to be taken, and then Frank gave his sanction. He could understand, he said, that it might be inexpedient that Lucy should come at once to the deanery, as, were she to do so, she must remain there till her marriage, let the time be ever so long. “It might be two years,” said the mother.
“Hardly so long as that,” said the son.
“I don’t think it would be — quite fair — to papa,” said the mother. It was well that the argument was used behind the dean’s back, as, had it been made in his hearing, the dean would have upset it at once. The dean was so short-sighted and imprudent that he would have professed delight at the idea of having Lucy Morris as a resident at the deanery. Frank acceded to the argument, and was ashamed of himself for acceding. Ellinor did not accede, nor did her sisters, but it was necessary that they should yield. Mrs. Greystock at once wrote to Lady Linlithgow, and Frank wrote by the same post to Lucy Morris.
“As there must be a year’s delay,” he wrote, “we all here think it best that your visit to us should be postponed for a while. But if you object to the Linlithgow plan, say so at once. You shall be asked to do nothing disagreeable.” He found the letter very difficult to write. He knew that she ought to have been welcomed at once to Bobsborough. And he knew, too, the reason on which his mother’s objection was founded. But it might be two years before he could possibly marry Lucy Morris, or it might be three. Would it be proper that she should be desired to make the deanery her home for so long and so indefinite a time? And when an engagement was for so long, could it be well that everybody should know it, as everybody would if Lucy were to take up her residence permanently at the deanery? Some consideration, certainly, was due to his father.
And, moreover, it was absolutely necessary that he and Lizzie Eustace should understand each other as to that mutual pledge of truth which had passed between them.
In the meantime he received the following letter from Messrs. Camperdown:
“62 NEW SQUARE, LINCOLN’S INN, September 15, 18 —.
“DEAR SIR,— After what passed in our chambers the other day, we think it best to let you know that we have been instructed by the executor of the late Sir Florian Eustace to file a bill in Chancery against the widow, Lady Eustace, for the recovery of valuable diamonds. You will oblige us by making the necessary communication to her ladyship, and will perhaps tell us the names of her ladyship’s solicitors.
“We are, dear sir,
“Your very obedient servants,
“CAMPERDOWN & SON.
“F. GREYSTOCK, ESQ., M.P.”
A few days after the receipt of this letter Frank started for Scotland.