The Palliser Novels

by Anthony Trollope

  “You are going to tear yourself away; — are you?”

  “I am going to Portray on Monday.”

  “And never coming back any more? You’ll be up here before the season is over, with fifty more wonderful schemes in your little head. So Lord Fawn is done with, is he?”

  “I have told Lord Fawn that nothing shall induce me ever to see him again.”

  “And cousin Frank?”

  “My cousin attends me down to Scotland.”

  “Oh-h. That makes it altogether another thing. He attends you down to Scotland; — does he? Does Mr. Emilius go too?”

  “I believe you are trying to insult me, sir.”

  “You can’t expect but what a man should be a little jealous, when he has been so completely cut out himself. There was a time, you know, when even cousin Frank wasn’t a better fellow than myself.”

  “Much you thought about it, Lord George.”

  “Well; — I did. I thought about it a good deal, my lady. And I liked the idea of it very much.” Lizzie pricked up her ears. In spite of all his harshness, could it be that he should be the Corsair still? “I am a rambling, uneasy, ill-to-do sort of man; but still I thought about it. You are pretty, you know, — uncommonly pretty.”

  “Don’t, Lord George.”

  “And I’ll acknowledge that the income goes for much. I suppose that’s real at any rate?”

  “Well; — I hope so. Of course it’s real. And so is the prettiness, Lord George; — if there is any.”

  “I never doubted that, Lady Eustace. But when it came to my thinking that you had stolen the diamonds, and you thinking that I had stolen the box — ! I’m not a man to stand on trifles, but, by George, it wouldn’t do then.”

  “Who wanted it to do?” said Lizzie. “Go away. You are very unkind to me. I hope I may never see you again. I believe you care more for that odious vulgar woman down-stairs than you do for anybody else in the world.”

  “Ah, dear! I have known her for many years, Lizzie, and that both covers and discovers many faults. One learns to know how bad one’s old friends are, but then one forgives them, because they are old friends.”

  “You can’t forgive me, — because I’m bad, and only a new friend.”

  “Yes, I will. I forgive you all, and hope you may do well yet. If I may give you one bit of advice at parting, it is to caution you against being clever when there is nothing to get by it.”

  “I ain’t clever at all,” said Lizzie, beginning to whimper.

  “Good-bye, my dear.”

  “Good-bye,” said Lizzie. He took her hand in one of his; patted her on the head with the other, as though she had been a child, and then he left her.

  CHAPTER LXXVI

  Lizzie Returns to Scotland

  Frank Greystock, the writer fears, will not have recommended himself to those readers of this tale who think the part of lover to the heroine should be always filled by a young man with heroic attributes. And yet the young member for Bobsborough was by no means deficient in fine qualities, and perhaps was quite as capable of heroism as the majority of barristers and members of Parliament among whom he consorted, and who were to him — the world. A man born to great wealth may, — without injury to himself or friends, — do pretty nearly what he likes in regard to marriage, always presuming that the wife he selects be of his own rank. He need not marry for money, nor need he abstain from marriage because he can’t support a wife without money. And the very poor man, who has no pretension to rank or standing, other than that which honesty may give him, can do the same. His wife’s fortune will consist in the labour of her hands, and in her ability to assist him in his home. But between these there is a middle class of men, who, by reason of their education, are peculiarly susceptible to the charms of womanhood, but who literally cannot marry for love, because their earnings will do no more than support themselves. As to this special young man, it must be confessed that his earnings should have done much more than that; but not the less did he find himself in a position in which marriage with a penniless girl seemed to threaten him and her with ruin. All his friends told Frank Greystock that he would be ruined were he to marry Lucy Morris; — and his friends were people supposed to be very good and wise. The dean, and the dean’s wife, his father and mother, were very clear that it would be so. Old Lady Linlithgow had spoken of such a marriage as quite out of the question. The Bishop of Bobsborough, when it was mentioned in his hearing, had declared that such a marriage would be a thousand pities. And even dear old Lady Fawn, though she wished it for Lucy’s sake, had many times prophesied that such a thing was quite impossible. When the rumour of the marriage reached Lady Glencora, Lady Glencora told her friend, Madame Max Goesler, that that young man was going to blow his brains out. To her thinking, the two actions were equivalent. It is only when we read of such men that we feel that truth to his sweetheart is the first duty of man. I am afraid that it is not the advice which we give to our sons.

  But it was the advice which Frank Greystock had most persistently given to himself since he had first known Lucy Morris. Doubtless he had vacillated, but, on the balance of his convictions as to his own future conduct, he had been much nobler than his friends. He had never hesitated for a moment as to the value of Lucy Morris. She was not beautiful. She had no wonderful gifts of nature. There was nothing of a goddess about her. She was absolutely penniless. She had never been what the world calls well-dressed. And yet she had been everything to him. There had grown up a sympathy between them quite as strong on his part as on hers, and he had acknowledged it to himself. He had never doubted his own love, — and when he had been most near to convincing himself that in his peculiar position he ought to marry his rich cousin, because of her wealth, then, at those moments, he had most strongly felt that to have Lucy Morris close to him was the greatest charm in existence. Hitherto his cousin’s money, joined to flatteries and caresses, — which, if a young man can resist, he is almost more than a young man, — had tempted him; but he had combated the temptation. On one memorable evening his love for Lucy had tempted him. To that temptation he had yielded, and the letter by which he became engaged to her had been written. He had never meant to evade it; — had always told himself that it should not be evaded; but, gradually, days had been added to days, and months to months, and he had allowed her to languish without seeing him, and almost without hearing from him.

  She, too, had heard from all sides that she was deserted by him, and she had written to him to give him back his troth; but she had not sent her letters. She did not doubt that the thing was over, — she hardly doubted. And yet she would not send any letter. Perhaps it would be better that the matter should be allowed to drop without any letter-writing. She would never reproach him, — though she would ever think him to be a traitor. Would not she have starved herself for him, could she so have served him? And yet he could bear for her sake no touch of delay in his prosperity! Would she not have been content to wait, and always to wait, — so that he with some word of love would have told her that he waited also? But he would not only desert her, — but would give himself to that false, infamous woman, who was so wholly unfitted to be his wife. For Lucy, though to herself she would call him a traitor, — and would think him to be a traitor, still regarded him as the best of mankind, as one who, in marrying such a one as Lizzie Eustace, would destroy all his excellence, as a man might mar his strength and beauty by falling into a pit. For Lizzie Eustace Lucy Morris had now no forgiveness. Lucy had almost forgotten Lizzie’s lies, and her proffered bribe, and all her meanness, when she made that visit to Hertford Street. Then, when Lizzie claimed this man as her lover, a full remembrance of all the woman’s iniquities came back on Lucy’s mind. The statement that Lizzie then made, Lucy did believe. She did think that Frank, her Frank, the man whom she worshipped, was to take this harpy to his bosom as his wife. And if it were to be so, was it not better that she should be so told? But, from that moment, poor Lizzie’s sins were ranker to Lucy Morris than even t
o Mr. Camperdown or Mrs. Hittaway. She could not refrain from saying a word even to old Lady Linlithgow. The countess had called her niece a little liar. “Liar!” said Lucy. “I do not think Satan himself can lie as she does.” “Heighty-tighty,” said the countess. “I suppose, then, there’s to be a match between Lady Satan and her cousin Frank?” “They can do as they like about that,” said Lucy, walking out of the room.

  Then came the paragraph in the fashionable evening newspaper; after that, the report of the examination before the magistrate, and then certain information that Lady Eustace was about to proceed to Scotland together with her cousin Mr. Greystock, the Member for Bobsborough. “It is a large income,” said the countess; “but, upon my word, she’s dear at the money.” Lucy did not speak, but she bit her lip till the blood ran into her mouth. She was going down to Fawn Court almost immediately, to stay there with her old friends till she should be able to find some permanent home for herself. Once, and once only, would she endure discussion, and then the matter should be banished for ever from her tongue.

  Early on the appointed morning Frank Greystock, with a couple of cabs, was at Mrs. Carbuncle’s door in Hertford Street. Lizzie had agreed to start by a very early train, — at eight a.m., — so that she might get through to Portray in one day. It had been thought expedient, both by herself and by her cousin, that for the present there should be no more sleeping at the Carlisle hotel. The robbery was probably still talked about in that establishment; and the report of the proceedings at the police-court had, no doubt, travelled as far north as the border city. It was to be a long day, and could hardly be other than sad. Lizzie, understanding this, feeling that though she had been in a great measure triumphant over her difficulties before the magistrate, she ought still to consider herself, for a short while, as being under a cloud, crept down into the cab and seated herself beside her cousin almost without a word. She was again dressed in black, and again wore the thick veil. Her maid, with the luggage, followed them, and they were driven to Euston Square almost without a word. On this occasion no tall footman accompanied them. “Oh, Frank; dear Frank,” she had said, and that was all. He had been active about the luggage and useful in giving orders; — but beyond his directions and inquiries as to the journey, he spoke not a word. Had she breakfasted? Would she have a cup of tea at the station? Should he take any luncheon for her? At every question she only looked into his face and shook her head. All thoughts as to creature-comforts were over with her now for ever. Tranquillity, a little poetry, and her darling boy, were all that she needed for the short remainder of her sojourn upon earth. These were the sentiments which she intended to convey when she shook her head and looked up into his eyes. The world was over for her. She had had her day of pleasure, and found how vain it was. Now she would devote herself to her child. “I shall see my boy again to-night,” she said, as she took her seat in the carriage.

  Such was the state of mind, or such, rather, the resolutions, with which she commenced her journey. Should he become bright, communicative, and pleasant, or even tenderly silent, or, perhaps, now at length affectionate and demonstrative, she, no doubt, might be able to change as he changed. He had been cousinly, but gloomy, at the police-court; in the same mood when he brought her home; and, as she saw with the first glance of her eye, in the same mood again when she met him in the hall this morning. Of course she must play his tunes. Is it not the fate of women to play the tunes which men dictate, — except in some rare case in which the woman can make herself the dictator? Lizzie loved to be a dictator; but at the present moment she knew that circumstances were against her.

  She watched him, — so closely. At first he slept a good deal. He was never in bed very early, and on this morning had been up at six. At Rugby he got out and ate what he said was his breakfast. Would not she have a cup of tea? Again she shook her head and smiled. She smiled as some women smile when you offer them a third glass of champagne. “You are joking with me, I know. You cannot think that I would take it.” That was the meaning of Lizzie’s smile. He went into the refreshment-room, growled at the heat of the tea and the abominable nastiness of the food provided, and then, after the allotted five minutes, took himself to a smoking-carriage. He did not rejoin his cousin till they were at Crewe. When he went back to his old seat, she only smiled again. He asked her whether she had slept, and again she shook her head. She had been repeating to herself the address to Ianthe’s soul, and her whole being was pervaded with poetry.

  It was absolutely necessary, as he thought, that she should eat something, and he insisted that she should dine upon the road, somewhere. He, of course, was not aware that she had been nibbling biscuits and chocolate while he had been smoking, and had had recourse even to the comfort of a sherry-flask which she carried in her dressing-bag. When he talked of dinner she did more than smile and refuse. She expostulated. For she well knew that the twenty minutes for dinner were allowed at the Carlisle station; and even if there had been no chocolate and no sherry, she would have endured on, even up to absolute inanition, rather than step out upon this well-remembered platform. “You must eat, or you’ll be starved,” he said. “I’ll fetch you something.” So he bribed a special waiter, and she was supplied with cold chicken and more sherry. After this Frank smoked again, and did not reappear till they had reached Dumfries.

  Hitherto there had been no tenderness, — nothing but the coldest cousinship. He clearly meant her to understand that he had submitted to the task of accompanying her back to Portray Castle as a duty, but that he had nothing to say to one who had so misbehaved herself. This was very irritating. She could have taken herself home to Portray without his company, and have made the journey more endurable without him than with him, if this were to be his conduct throughout. They had had the carriage to themselves all the way from Crewe to Carlisle, and he had hardly spoken a word to her. If he would have rated her soundly for her wickednesses, she could have made something of that. She could have thrown herself on her knees, and implored his pardon; or, if hard pressed, have suggested the propriety of throwing herself out of the carriage-window. She could have brought him round if he would only have talked to her, but there is no doing anything with a silent man. He was not her master. He had no power over her. She was the lady of Portray, and he could not interfere with her. If he intended to be sullen with her to the end, and to show his contempt for her, she would turn against him. “The worm will turn,” she said to herself. And yet she did not think herself a worm.

  A few stations beyond Dumfries they were again alone. It was now quite dark, and they had already been travelling over ten hours. They would not reach their own station till eight, and then again there would be the journey to Portray. At last he spoke to her. “Are you tired, Lizzie?”

  “Oh, so tired!”

  “You have slept, I think.”

  “No, not once; not a wink. You have slept.” This she said in a tone of reproach.

  “Indeed I have.”

  “I have endeavoured to read, but one cannot command one’s mind at all times. Oh, I am so weary. Is it much further? I have lost all reckoning as to time and place.”

  “We change at the next station but one. It will soon be over now. Will you have a glass of sherry? I have some in my flask.” Again she shook her head. “It is a long way down to Portray, I must own.”

  “Oh, I am so sorry that I have given you the trouble to accompany me.”

  “I was not thinking of myself. I don’t mind it. It was better that you should have somebody with you, — just for this journey.”

  “I don’t know why this journey should be different from any other,” said Lizzie crossly. She had not done anything that made it necessary that she should be taken care of, — like a naughty girl.

  “I’ll see you to the end of it now, anyway.”

  “And you’ll stay a few days with me, Frank? You won’t go away at once? Say you’ll stay a week. Dear, dear Frank; say you’ll stay a week. I know that the House doesn’t meet for e
ver so long. Oh, Frank, I do so wish you’d be more like yourself.” There was no reason why she should not make one other effort, and as she made it every sign of fatigue passed away from her.

  “I’ll stay over to-morrow certainly,” he replied.

  “Only one day!”

  “Days with me mean money, Lizzie, and money is a thing which is at present very necessary to me.”

  “I hate money.”

  “That’s very well for you, because you have plenty of it.”

  “I hate money. It is the only thing that one has that one cannot give to those one loves. I could give you anything else; — though it cost a thousand pounds.”

  “Pray don’t. Most people like presents, but they only bore me.”

  “Because you are so indifferent, Frank; — so cold. Do you remember giving me a little ring?”

  “Very well indeed. It cost eight and sixpence.”

  “I never thought what it cost; — but there it is.” This she said, drawing off her glove and showing him her finger. “And when I am dead, there it will be. You say you want money, Frank. May I not give it you? Are not we brother and sister?”

  “My dear Lizzie, you say you hate money. Don’t talk about it.”

  “It is you that talk about it. I only talk about it because I want to give it you; — yes, all that I have. When I first knew what was the real meaning of my husband’s will, my only thought was to be of assistance to you.”

  In real truth Frank was becoming very sick of her. It seemed to him now to have been almost impossible that he should ever soberly have thought of making her his wife. The charm was all gone, and even her prettiness had in his eyes lost its value. He looked at her, asking himself whether in truth she was pretty. She had been travelling all day, and perhaps the scrutiny was not fair. But he thought that even after the longest day’s journey Lucy would not have been soiled, haggard, dishevelled, and unclean, as was this woman.