“What do you mean, Lady Fawn?”
“That sometimes engagements take place which never become more than engagements. Look at Lord Fawn and Lady Eustace.”
“Mr. Greystock and I are not like that,” said Lucy, proudly.
“Such things are very dreadful, Lucy, but they do happen.”
“Do you mean anything; — anything real, Lady Fawn?”
“I have so strong a reliance on your good sense, that I will tell you just what I do mean. A rumour has reached me that Mr. Greystock is — paying more attention than he ought to do to Lady Eustace.”
“His own cousin!”
“But people marry their cousins, Lucy.”
“To whom he has always been just like a brother! I do think that is the cruellest thing. Because he sacrifices his time and his money and all his holidays to go and look after her affairs, this is to be said of him! She hasn’t another human being to look after her, and, therefore, he is obliged to do it. Of course he has told me all about it. I do think, Lady Fawn, — I do think that is the greatest shame I ever heard!”
“But if it should be true — ?”
“It isn’t true.”
“But just for the sake of showing you, Lucy — ; if it was to be true.”
“It won’t be true.”
“Surely I may speak to you as your friend, Lucy. You needn’t be so abrupt with me. Will you listen to me, Lucy?”
“Of course I will listen; — only nothing that anybody on earth could say about that would make me believe a word of it.”
“Very well! Now just let me go on. If it were to be so — “
“Oh-h, Lady Fawn!”
“Don’t be foolish, Lucy. I will say what I’ve got to say. If — if — Let me see. Where was I? I mean just this. You had better remain here till things are a little more settled. Even if it be only a rumour, — and I’m sure I don’t believe it’s anything more, — you had better hear about it with us, — with friends round you, than with a perfect stranger like Lady Linlithgow. If anything were to go wrong there, you wouldn’t know where to go for comfort. If anything were wrong with you here, you could come to me as though I were your mother. — Couldn’t you, now?”
“Indeed, indeed I could! And I will; — I always will. Lady Fawn, I love you and the dear darling girls better than all the world — except Mr. Greystock. If anything like that were to happen, I think I should creep here and ask to die in your house. But it won’t. And just now it will be better that I should go away.”
It was found at last that Lucy must have her way, and letters were written both to Mrs. Greystock and to Frank, requesting that the suggested overtures might at once be made to Lady Linlithgow. Lucy, in her letter to her lover, was more than ordinarily cheerful and jocose. She had a good deal to say about Lady Linlithgow that was really droll, and not a word to say indicative of the slightest fear in the direction of Lady Eustace. She spoke of poor Lizzie, and declared her conviction that that marriage never could come off now. “You mustn’t be angry when I say that I can’t break my heart for them, for I never did think that they were very much in love. As for Lord Fawn, of course he is my — ENEMY!” And she wrote the word in big letters. “And as for Lizzie, — she’s your cousin, and all that. And she’s ever so pretty, and all that. And she’s as rich as Crœsus, and all that. But I don’t think she’ll break her own heart. I would break mine; only — only — only — You will understand the rest. If it should come to pass, I wonder whether ‘the duchess’ would ever let a poor creature see a friend of hers in Bruton Street?” Frank had once called Lady Linlithgow the duchess, after a certain popular picture in a certain popular book, and Lucy never forgot anything that Frank had said.
It did come to pass. Mrs. Greystock at once corresponded with Lady Linlithgow, and Lady Linlithgow, who was at Ramsgate for her autumn vacation, requested that Lucy Morris might be brought to see her at her house in London on the 2nd of October. Lady Linlithgow’s autumn holiday always ended on the last day of September. On the 2nd of October Lady Fawn herself took Lucy up to Bruton Street, and Lady Linlithgow appeared. “Miss Morris,” said Lady Fawn, “thinks it right that you should be told that she’s engaged to be married.” “Who to?” demanded the countess. Lucy was as red as fire, although she had especially made up her mind that she would not blush when the communication was made. “I don’t know that she wishes me to mention the gentleman’s name, just at present; but I can assure you that he is all that he ought to be.” “I hate mysteries,” said the countess. “If Lady Linlithgow — ” began Lucy. “Oh, it’s nothing to me,” continued the old woman. “It won’t come off for six months, I suppose?” Lucy gave a mute assurance that there would be no such difficulty as that. “And he can’t come here, Miss Morris.” To this Lucy said nothing. Perhaps she might win over even the countess, and if not, she must bear her six months of prolonged exclusion from the light of day. And so the matter was settled. Lucy was to be taken back to Richmond, and to come again on the following Monday. “I don’t like this parting at all, Lucy,” Lady Fawn said on her way home.
“It is better so, Lady Fawn.”
“I hate people going away; but, somehow, you don’t feel it as we do.”
“You wouldn’t say that if you really knew what I do feel.”
“There was no reason why you should go. Frederic was getting not to care for it at all. What’s Nina to do now? I can’t get another governess after you. I hate all these sudden breaks up. And all for such a trumpery thing. If Frederic hasn’t forgotten all about it, he ought.”
“It hasn’t come altogether from him, Lady Fawn.”
“How has it come, then?”
“I suppose it is because of Mr. Greystock. I suppose when a girl has engaged herself to marry a man she must think more of him than of anything else.”
“Why couldn’t you think of him at Fawn Court?”
“Because — because things have been unfortunate. He isn’t your friend, — not as yet. Can’t you understand, Lady Fawn, that, dear as you all must be to me, I must live in his friendships, and take his part when there is a part?”
“Then I suppose that you mean to hate all of us?” Lucy could only cry at hearing this; — whereupon Lady Fawn also burst into tears.
On the Sunday before Lucy took her departure, Lord Fawn was again at Richmond. “Of course, you’ll come down, — just as if nothing had happened,” said Lydia. “We’ll see,” said Lucy. “Mamma will be very angry if you don’t,” said Lydia.
But Lucy had a little plot in her head, and her appearance at the dinner-table on that Sunday must depend on the manner in which her plot was executed. After church, Lord Fawn would always hang about the grounds for awhile before going into the house; and on this morning Lucy also remained outside. She soon found her opportunity, and walked straight up to him, following him on the path. “Lord Fawn,” she said, “I have come to beg your pardon.”
He had turned round hearing footsteps behind him, but still was startled and unready. “It does not matter at all,” he said.
“It matters to me, because I behaved badly.”
“What I said about Mr. Greystock wasn’t intended to be said to you, you know.”
“Even if it was it would make no matter. I don’t mean to think of that now. I beg your pardon because I said what I ought not to have said.”
“You see, Miss Morris, that as the head of this family — “
“If I had said it to Juniper, I would have begged his pardon.” Now Juniper was the gardener, and Lord Fawn did not quite like the way in which the thing was put to him. The cloud came across his brow, and he began to fear that she would again insult him. “I oughtn’t to accuse anybody of an untruth, — not in that way; and I am very sorry for what I did, and I beg your pardon.” Then she turned as though she were going back to the house.
But he stopped her. “Miss Morris, if it will suit you to stay with my mother, I will never say a word against it.”
“It is quite set
tled that I am to go to-morrow, Lord Fawn. Only for that I would not have troubled you again.”
Then she did turn towards the house, but he recalled her. “We will shake hands, at any rate,” he said, “and not part as enemies.” So they shook hands, and Lucy came down and sat in his company at the dinner-table.
CHAPTER XXXIV
Lady Linlithgow at Home
Lucy, in her letter to her lover, had distinctly asked whether she might tell Lady Linlithgow the name of her future husband, but had received no reply when she was taken to Bruton Street. The parting at Richmond was very painful, and Lady Fawn had declared herself quite unable to make another journey up to London with the ungrateful runagate. Though there was no diminution of affection among the Fawns, there was a general feeling that Lucy was behaving badly. That obstinacy of hers was getting the better of her. Why should she have gone? Even Lord Fawn had expressed his desire that she should remain. And then, in the breasts of the wise ones, all faith in the Greystock engagement had nearly vanished. Another letter had come from Mrs. Hittaway, who now declared that it was already understood about Portray that Lady Eustace intended to marry her cousin. This was described as a terrible crime on the part of Lizzie, though the antagonistic crime of a remaining desire to marry Lord Fawn was still imputed to her. And, of course, the one crime heightened the other. So that words from the eloquent pen of Mrs. Hittaway failed to make dark enough the blackness of poor Lizzie’s character. As for Mr. Greystock, he was simply a heartless man of the world, wishing to feather his nest. Mrs. Hittaway did not for a moment believe that he had ever dreamed of marrying Lucy Morris. Men always have three or four little excitements of that kind going on for the amusement of their leisure hours, — so, at least, said Mrs. Hittaway. “The girl had better be told at once.” Such was her decision about poor Lucy. “I can’t do more than I have done,” said Lady Fawn to Augusta. “She’ll never get over it, mamma; never,” said Augusta.
Nothing more was said, and Lucy was sent off in the family carriage. Lydia and Nina were sent with her, and though there was some weeping on the journey, there was also much laughing. The character of the “duchess” was discussed very much at large, and many promises were made as to long letters. Lucy, in truth, was not unhappy. She would be nearer to Frank; and then it had been almost promised her that she should go to the deanery, after a residence of six months with Lady Linlithgow. At the deanery of course she would see Frank; and she also understood that a long visit to the deanery would be the surest prelude to that home of her own of which she was always dreaming.
“Dear me; — sent you up in the carriage, has she? Why shouldn’t you have come by the railway?”
“Lady Fawn thought the carriage best. She is so very kind.”
“It’s what I call twaddle, you know. I hope you ain’t afraid of going in a cab.”
“Not in the least, Lady Linlithgow.”
“You can’t have the carriage to go about here. Indeed, I never have a pair of horses till after Christmas. I hope you know that I’m as poor as Job.”
“I didn’t know.”
“I am, then. You’ll get nothing beyond wholesome food with me. And I’m not sure it is wholesome always. The butchers are scoundrels, and the bakers are worse. What used you to do at Lady Fawn’s?”
“I still did lessons with the two youngest girls.”
“You won’t have any lessons to do here, unless you do ‘em with me. You had a salary there?”
“Oh yes.”
“Fifty pounds a year, I suppose.”
“I had eighty.”
“Had you, indeed; eighty pounds; — and a coach to ride in!”
“I had a great deal more than that, Lady Linlithgow.”
“How do you mean?”
“I had downright love and affection. They were just so many dear friends. I don’t suppose any governess was ever so treated before. It was just like being at home. The more I laughed, the better every one liked it.”
“You won’t find anything to laugh at here; at least, I don’t. If you want to laugh, you can laugh up-stairs, or down in the parlour.”
“I can do without laughing for a while.”
“That’s lucky, Miss Morris. If they were all so good to you, what made you come away? They sent you away, didn’t they?”
“Well; — I don’t know that I can explain it just all. There were a great many things together. No; — they didn’t send me away. I came away because it suited.”
“It was something to do with your having a lover, I suppose.” To this Lucy thought it best to make no answer, and the conversation for a while was dropped.
Lucy had arrived at about half-past three, and Lady Linlithgow was then sitting in the drawing-room. After the first series of questions and answers, Lucy was allowed to go up to her room, and on her return to the drawing-room, found the countess still sitting upright in her chair. She was now busy with accounts, and at first took no notice of Lucy’s return. What were to be the companion’s duties? What tasks in the house were to be assigned to her? What hours were to be her own; and what was to be done in those of which the countess would demand the use? Up to the present moment nothing had been said of all this. She had simply been told that she was to be Lady Linlithgow’s companion, — without salary, indeed, — but receiving shelter, guardianship, and bread and meat in return for her services. She took up a book from the table and sat with it for ten minutes. It was Tupper’s great poem, and she attempted to read it. Lady Linlithgow sat, totting up her figures, but said nothing. She had not spoken a word since Lucy’s return to the room; and as the great poem did not at first fascinate the new companion, — whose mind not unnaturally was somewhat disturbed, — Lucy ventured upon a question. “Is there anything I can do for you, Lady Linlithgow?”
“Do you know about figures?”
“Oh, yes. I consider myself quite a ready-reckoner.”
“Can you make two and two come to five on one side of the sheet, and only come to three on the other?”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that, and prove it afterwards.”
“Then you ain’t worth anything to me.” Having so declared, Lady Linlithgow went on with her accounts and Lucy relapsed into her great poem.
“No, my dear,” said the countess, when she had completed her work. “There isn’t anything for you to do. I hope you haven’t come here with that mistaken idea. There won’t be any sort of work of any kind expected from you. I poke my own fires, and I carve my own bit of mutton. And I haven’t got a nasty little dog to be washed. And I don’t care twopence about worsted work. I have a maid to darn my stockings, and because she has to work, I pay her wages. I don’t like being alone, so I get you to come and live with me. I breakfast at nine, and if you don’t manage to be down by that time, I shall be cross.”
“I’m always up long before that.”
“There’s lunch at two, — just bread and butter and cheese, and perhaps a bit of cold meat. There’s dinner at seven; — and very bad it is, because they don’t have any good meat in London. Down in Fifeshire the meat’s a deal better than it is here, only I never go there now. At half-past ten I go to bed. It’s a pity you’re so young, because I don’t know what you’ll do about going out. Perhaps, as you ain’t pretty, it won’t signify.”
“Not at all, I should think,” said Lucy.
“Perhaps you consider yourself pretty. It’s all altered now since I was young. Girls make monsters of themselves, and I’m told the men like it; — going about with unclean, frowsy structures on their heads, enough to make a dog sick. They used to be clean and sweet and nice, — what one would like to kiss. How a man can like to kiss a face with a dirty horse’s tail all whizzing about it, is what I can’t at all understand. I don’t think they do like it, but they have to do it.”
“I haven’t even a pony’s tail,” said Lucy.
“They do like to kiss you, I daresay.”
“No, they don’t,” ejaculated Lucy, not knowing what answ
er to make.
“I haven’t hardly looked at you, but you didn’t seem to me to be a beauty.”
“You’re quite right about that, Lady Linlithgow.”
“I hate beauties. My niece, Lizzie Eustace, is a beauty; and I think that, of all the heartless creatures in the world, she is the most heartless.”
“I know Lady Eustace very well.”
“Of course you do. She was a Greystock, and you know the Greystocks. And she was down staying with old Lady Fawn at Richmond. I should think old Lady Fawn had a time with her; — hadn’t she?”
“It didn’t go off very well.”
“Lizzie would be too much for the Fawns, I should think. She was too much for me, I know. She’s about as bad as anybody ever was. She’s false, dishonest, heartless, cruel, irreligious, ungrateful, mean, ignorant, greedy, and vile!”
“Good gracious, Lady Linlithgow!”
“She’s all that, and a great deal worse. But she is handsome. I don’t know that I ever saw a prettier woman. I generally go out in a cab at three o’clock, but I sha’n’t want you to go with me. I don’t know what you can do. Macnulty used to walk round Grosvenor Square and think that people mistook her for a lady of quality. You mustn’t go and walk round Grosvenor Square by yourself, you know. Not that I care.”
“I’m not a bit afraid of anybody,” said Lucy.
“Now you know all about it. There isn’t anything for you to do. There are Miss Edgeworth’s novels down-stairs, and ‘Pride and Prejudice’ in my bed-room. I don’t subscribe to Mudie’s, because when I asked for ‘Adam Bede,’ they always sent me the ‘Bandit Chief.’ Perhaps you can borrow books from your friends at Richmond. I daresay Mrs. Greystock has told you that I’m very cross.”
“I haven’t seen Mrs. Greystock for ever so long.”
“Then Lady Fawn has told you, — or somebody. When the wind is east, or north-east, or even north, I am cross, for I have the lumbago. It’s all very well talking about being good-humoured. You can’t be good-humoured with the lumbago. And I have the gout sometimes in my knee. I’m cross enough then, and so you’d be. And, among ‘em all, I don’t get much above half what I ought to have out of my jointure. That makes me very cross. My teeth are bad, and I like to have the meat tender. But it’s always tough, and that makes me cross. And when people go against the grain with me, as Lizzie Eustace always did, then I’m very cross.”
The Palliser Novels Page 200