On this occasion Mr. and Mrs. Hittaway were the guests of old Lady Pierrepoint, in Dumfries. There was nothing special to recommend Lady Pierrepoint except that she had a large house and a good income, and that she liked to have people with her of whom everybody knew something. So far was Lady Pierrepoint from being high in the Hittaway world, that Mrs. Hittaway felt herself called upon to explain to her friends that she was forced to go to Dumdum House by the duties of old friendship. Dear old Lady Pierrepoint had been insisting on it for the last ten years. And there was this advantage, that Dumfriesshire is next to Ayrshire, that Dumdum was not very far, — some twenty or thirty miles, — from Portray, and that she might learn something about Lizzie Eustace in her country house.
It was nearly the end of August when the Hittaways left London to stay an entire month with Lady Pierrepoint. Mr. Hittaway had very frequently explained his defalcation as to fashion, — in that he was remaining in London for three weeks after Parliament had broken up, — by the peculiar exigencies of the Board of Appeals in that year. To one or two very intimate friends Mrs. Hittaway had hinted that everything must be made to give way to this horrid business of Fawn’s marriage. “Whatever happens, and at whatever cost, that must be stopped,” she had ventured to say to Lady Glencora Palliser, — who, however, could hardly be called one of her very intimate friends. “I don’t see it at all,” said Lady Glencora. “I think Lady Eustace is very nice. And why shouldn’t she marry Lord Fawn if she’s engaged to him?” “But you have heard of the necklace, Lady Glencora?” “Yes, I’ve heard of it. I wish anybody would come to me and try and get my diamonds! They should hear what I would say.” Mrs. Hittaway greatly admired Lady Glencora, but not the less was she determined to persevere.
Had Lord Fawn been altogether candid and open with his family at this time, some trouble might have been saved; for he had almost altogether resolved that, let the consequences be what they might, he would not marry Lizzie Eustace. But he was afraid to say this even to his own sister. He had promised to marry the woman, and he must walk very warily, or the objurgations of the world would be too many for him. “It must depend altogether on her conduct, Clara,” he had said when last his sister had persecuted him on the subject. She was not, however, sorry to have an opportunity of learning something of the lady’s doings. Mr. Hittaway had more than once called on Mr. Camperdown. “Yes,” Mr. Camperdown had said in answer to a question from Lord Fawn’s brother-in-law; “she would play old gooseberry with the property if we hadn’t some one to look after it. There’s a fellow named Gowran who has lived there all his life, and we depend very much upon him.”
It is certainly true, that as to many points of conduct, women are less nice than men. Mr. Hittaway would not probably have condescended himself to employ espionage, but Mrs. Hittaway was less scrupulous. She actually went down to Troon and had an interview with Mr. Gowran, using freely the names of Mr. Camperdown and of Lord Fawn; and some ten days afterwards Mr. Gowran travelled as far as Dumfries, and Dumdum, and had an interview with Mrs. Hittaway. The result of all this, and of further inquiries, will be shown by the following letter from Mrs. Hittaway to her sister Amelia: —
Dumdum, 9th September, 18––.
My dear Amelia,
Here we are, and here we have to remain to the end of the month. Of course it suits, and all that; but it is awfully dull. Richmond for this time of the year is a paradise to it; and as for coming to Scotland every autumn, I am sick of it. Only what is one to do if one lives in London? If it wasn’t for Orlando and the children, I’d brazen it out, and let people say what they pleased. As for health, I’m never so well as at home, and I do like having my own things about me. Orlando has literally nothing to do here. There is no shooting, except pheasants, and that doesn’t begin till October.
But I’m very glad I’ve come as to Frederic, and the more so, as I have learned the truth as to that Mr. Greystock. She, Lady Eustace, is a bad creature in every way. She still pretends that she is engaged to Frederic, and tells everybody that the marriage is not broken off, and yet she has her cousin with her, making love to him in the most indecent way. People used to say in her favour that at any rate she never flirted. I never quite know what people mean when they talk of flirting. But you may take my word for it that she allows her cousin to embrace her, and embraces him. I would not say it if I could not prove it. It is horrible to think of it, when one remembers that she is almost justified in saying that Frederic is engaged to her.
No doubt he was engaged to her. It was a great misfortune, but, thank God, is not yet past remedy. He has some foolish feeling of what he calls honour; as if a man can be bound in honour to marry a woman who has deceived him in every point! She still sticks to the diamonds, — if she has not sold them, as I believe she has; and Mr. Camperdown is going to bring an action against her in the High Court of Chancery. But still Frederic will not absolutely declare the thing off. I feel, therefore, that it is my duty to let him know what I have learned. I should be the last to stir in such a matter unless I was sure I could prove it. But I don’t quite like to write to Frederic. Will mamma see him, and tell him what I say? Of course you will show this letter to mamma. If not, I must postpone it till I am in town; — but I think it would come better from mamma. Mamma may be sure that she is a bad woman.
And now what do you think of your Mr. Greystock? As sure as I am here he was seen with his arm round his cousin’s waist, sitting out of doors, — kissing her! I was never taken in by that story of his marrying Lucy Morris. He is the last man in the world to marry a governess. He is over head and ears in debt, and if he marries at all, he must marry some one with money. I really think that mamma, and you, and all of you have been soft about that girl. I believe she has been a good governess, — that is, good after mamma’s easy fashion; and I don’t for a moment suppose that she is doing anything underhand. But a governess with a lover never does suit, and I’m sure it won’t suit in this case. If I were you I would tell her. I think it would be the best charity. Whether they mean to marry I can’t tell, — Mr. Greystock, that is, and this woman; but they ought to mean it; — that’s all.
Let me know at once whether mamma will see Frederic, and speak to him openly. She is quite at liberty to use my name; only nobody but mamma should see this letter.
Love to them all,
Your most affectionate sister,
Clara Hittaway.
In writing to Amelia instead of to her mother, Mrs. Hittaway was sure that she was communicating her ideas to at least two persons at Fawn Court, and that therefore there would be discussion. Had she written to her mother, her mother might probably have held her peace, and done nothing.
CHAPTER XXXIII
“It Won’t Be True”
Mrs. Greystock, in making her proposition respecting Lady Linlithgow, wrote to Lady Fawn, and by the same post Frank wrote to Lucy. But before those letters reached Fawn Court there had come that other dreadful letter from Mrs. Hittaway. The consternation caused at Fawn Court in respect to Mr. Greystock’s treachery almost robbed of its importance the suggestion made as to Lord Fawn. Could it be possible that this man, who had so openly and in so manly a manner engaged himself to Lucy Morris, should now be proposing to himself a marriage with his rich cousin? Lady Fawn did not believe that it was possible. Clara had not seen those horrid things with her own eyes, and other people might be liars. But Amelia shook her head. Amelia evidently believed that all manner of iniquities were possible to man. “You see, mamma, the sacrifice he was making was so very great!” “But he made it!” pleaded Lady Fawn. “No, mamma, he said he would make it. Men do these things. It is very horrid, but I think they do them more now than they used to. It seems to me that nobody cares now what he does, if he’s not to be put into prison.” It was resolved between these two wise ones that nothing at the present should be said to Lucy or to any one of the family. They would wait awhile, and in the meantime they attempted, — as far as it was possible to make the attempt witho
ut express words, — to let Lucy understand that she might remain at Fawn Court if she pleased. While this was going on, Lord Fawn did come down once again, and on that occasion Lucy simply absented herself from the dinner-table and from the family circle for that evening. “He’s coming in, and you’ve got to go to prison again,” Nina said to her, with a kiss.
The matter to which Mrs. Hittaway’s letter more specially alluded was debated between the mother and daughter at great length. They, indeed, were less brave and less energetic than was the married daughter of the family; but as they saw Lord Fawn more frequently, they knew better than Mrs. Hittaway the real state of the case. They felt sure that he was already sufficiently embittered against Lady Eustace, and thought that therefore the peculiarly unpleasant task assigned to Lady Fawn need not be performed. Lady Fawn had not the advantage of living so much in the world as her daughter, and was oppressed by, perhaps, a squeamish delicacy. “I really could not tell him about her sitting and — and kissing the man. Could I, my dear?” “I couldn’t,” said Amelia; — “but Clara would.”
“And to tell the truth,” continued Lady Fawn, “I shouldn’t care a bit about it if it was not for poor Lucy. What will become of her if that man is untrue to her?”
“Nothing on earth would make her believe it, unless it came from himself,” said Amelia, — who really did know something of Lucy’s character. “Till he tells her, or till she knows that he’s married, she’ll never believe it.”
Then, after a few days, there came those other letters from Bobsborough, — one from the dean’s wife and the other from Frank. The matter there proposed it was necessary that they should discuss with Lucy, as the suggestion had reached Lucy as well as themselves. She at once came to Lady Fawn with her lover’s letter, and with a gentle merry laughing face declared that the thing would do very well. “I am sure I should get on with her, and I should know that it wouldn’t be for long,” said Lucy.
“The truth is, we don’t want you to go at all,” said Lady Fawn.
“Oh, but I must,” said Lucy in her sharp, decided tone. “I must go. I was bound to wait till I heard from Mr. Greystock, because it is my first duty to obey him. But of course I cannot stay here after what has passed. As Nina says, it is simply going to prison when Lord Fawn comes here.”
“Nina is an impertinent little chit,” said Amelia.
“She is the dearest little friend in all the world,” said Lucy, “and always tells the exact truth. I do go to prison, and when he comes I feel that I ought to go to prison. Of course, I must go away. What does it matter? Lady Linlithgow won’t be exactly like you,” — and she put her little hand upon Lady Fawn’s fat arm caressingly, “and I sha’n’t have you all to spoil me; but I shall be simply waiting till he comes. Everything now must be no more than waiting till he comes.”
If it was to be that “he” would never come, this was very dreadful. Amelia clearly thought that “he” would never come, and Lady Fawn was apt to think her daughter wiser than herself. And if Mr. Greystock were such as Mrs. Hittaway had described him to be, — if there were to be no such coming as that for which Lucy fondly waited, — then there would be reason ten-fold strong why she should not leave Fawn Court and go to Lady Linlithgow. In such case, — when that blow should fall, — Lucy would require very different treatment than might be expected for her from the hands of Lady Linlithgow. She would fade and fall to the earth like a flower with an insect at its root. She would be like a wounded branch, into which no sap would run. With such misfortune and wretchedness possibly before her, Lady Fawn could not endure the idea that Lucy should be turned out to encounter it all beneath the cold shade of Lady Linlithgow’s indifference. “My dear,” she said, “let bygones be bygones. Come down and meet Lord Fawn. Nobody will say anything. After all, you were provoked very much, and there has been quite enough about it.”
This, from Lady Fawn, was almost miraculous, — from Lady Fawn, to whom her son had ever been the highest of human beings! But Lucy had told the tale to her lover, and her lover approved of her going. Perhaps there was acting upon her mind some feeling, of which she was hardly conscious, that as long as she remained at Fawn Court she would not see her lover. She had told him that she could make herself supremely happy in the simple knowledge that he loved her. But we all know how far such declarations should be taken as true. Of course, she was longing to see him. “If he would only pass by the road,” she would say to herself, “so that I might peep at him through the gate!” She had no formed idea in her own mind that she would be able to see him should she go to Lady Linlithgow, but still there would be the chances of her altered life! She would tell Lady Linlithgow the truth, and why should Lady Linlithgow refuse her so rational a pleasure? There was, of course, a reason why Frank should not come to Fawn Court; but the house in Bruton Street need not be closed to him. “I hardly know how to love you enough,” she said to Lady Fawn, “but indeed I must go. I do so hope the time may come when you and Mr. Greystock may be friends. Of course, it will come. Shall it not?”
“Who can look into the future?” said the wise Amelia.
“Of course, if he is your husband, we shall love him,” said the less wise Lady Fawn.
“He is to be my husband,” said Lucy, springing up. “What do you mean? Do you mean anything?” Lady Fawn, who was not at all wise, protested that she meant nothing.
What were they to do? On that special day they merely stipulated that there should be a day’s delay before Lady Fawn answered Mrs. Greystock’s letter, — so that she might sleep upon it. The sleeping on it meant that further discussion which was to take place between Lady Fawn and her second daughter in her ladyship’s bed-room that night. During all this period the general discomfort of Fawn Court was increased by a certain sullenness on the part of Augusta, the elder daughter, who knew that letters had come and that consultations were being held, — but who was not admitted to those consultations. Since the day on which poor Augusta had been handed over to Lizzie Eustace as her peculiar friend in the family, there had always existed a feeling that she, by her position, was debarred from sympathising in the general desire to be quit of Lizzie; and then, too, poor Augusta was never thoroughly trusted by that great guide of the family, Mrs. Hittaway. “She couldn’t keep it to herself if you’d give her gold to do it,” Mrs. Hittaway would say. Consequently Augusta was sullen and conscious of ill-usage. “Have you fixed upon anything?” she said to Lucy that evening.
“Not quite; — only I am to go away.”
“I don’t see why you should go away at all. Frederic doesn’t come here so very often, and when he does come he doesn’t say much to any one. I suppose it’s all Amelia’s doing.”
“Nobody wants me to go, only I feel that I ought. Mr. Greystock thinks it best.”
“I suppose he’s going to quarrel with us all.”
“No, dear. I don’t think he wants to quarrel with any one; — but above all he must not quarrel with me. Lord Fawn has quarrelled with him, and that’s a misfortune, — just for the present.”
“And where are you going?”
“Nothing has been settled yet; but we are talking of Lady Linlithgow, — if she will take me.”
“Lady Linlithgow! Oh dear!”
“Won’t it do?”
“They say she is the most dreadful old woman in London. Lady Eustace told such stories about her.”
“Do you know, I think I shall rather like it.”
But things were very different with Lucy the next morning. That discussion in Lady Fawn’s room was protracted till midnight, and then it was decided that just a word should be said to Lucy, so that, if possible, she might be induced to remain at Fawn Court. Lady Fawn was to say the word, and on the following morning she was closeted with Lucy. “My dear,” she began, “we all want you to do us a particular favour.” As she said this, she held Lucy by the hand, and no one looking at them would have thought that Lucy was a governess and that Lady Fawn was her employer.
“D
ear Lady Fawn, indeed it is better that I should go.”
“Stay just one month.”
“I couldn’t do that, because then this chance of a home would be gone. Of course, we can’t wait a month before we let Mrs. Greystock know.”
“We must write to her, of course.”
“And then, you see, Mr. Greystock wishes it.” Lady Fawn knew that Lucy could be very firm, and had hardly hoped that anything could be done by simple persuasion. They had long been accustomed among themselves to call her obstinate, and knew that even in her acts of obedience she had a way of obeying after her own fashion. It was as well, therefore, that the thing to be said should be said at once.
“My dear Lucy, has it ever occurred to you that there may be a slip between the cup and the lip?”
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