The Palliser Novels (257 page)

But though Lizzie was in heaven, it behoved her to be careful. The Corsair was a very fine specimen of the Corsair breed; — about the best Corsair she had ever seen, and had been devoted to her for the day. But these Corsairs are known to be dangerous, and it would not be wise that she should sacrifice any future prospect of importance on behalf of a feeling, which, no doubt, was founded on poetry, but which might too probably have no possible beneficial result. As far as she knew, the Corsair had not even an island of his own in the Ægean Sea. And, if he had, might not the island too probably have a Medora or two of its own? In a ride across the country the Corsair was all that a Corsair should be; but knowing, as she did, but very little of the Corsair, she could not afford to throw over her cousin for his sake. As she was leaving the drawing-room, she managed to say one word to her cousin. “You were not angry with me because I got Lord George to ride with me instead of you?”

“Angry with you?”

“I knew I should only be a hindrance to you.”

“It was a matter of course. He knows all about it, and I know nothing. I am very glad that you liked it so much.”

“I did like it; — and so did you. I was so glad you got that poor man’s horse. You were not angry then?” They had now passed across the hall, and were on the bottom stair.

“Certainly not.”

“And you are not angry for what happened before?” She did not look into his face as she asked this question, but stood with her eyes fixed on the stair-carpet.

“Indeed no.”

“Good night, Frank.”

“Good night, Lizzie.” Then she went, and he returned to a room below which had been prepared for purposes of tobacco and soda-water and brandy.

“Why, Griff, you’re rather out of sorts to-night,” said Lord George to his friend, before Frank had joined them.

“So would you be out of sorts if you’d lost your run and had to pick a young woman out of the water. I don’t like young women when they’re damp and smell of mud.”

“You mean to marry her, I suppose?”

“How would you like me to ask you questions? Do you mean to marry the widow? And, if you do, what’ll Mrs. Carbuncle say? And if you don’t, what do you mean to do; and all the rest of it?”

“As for marrying the widow, I should like to know the facts first. As to Mrs. C., she wouldn’t object in the least. I generally have my horses so bitted that they can’t very well object. And as to the other question, I mean to stay here for the next fortnight, and I advise you to make it square with Miss Roanoke. Here’s my lady’s cousin; for a man who doesn’t ride often, he went very well to-day.”

“I wonder if he’d take a twenty-pound note if I sent it to him,” said Frank, when they broke up for the night. “I don’t like the idea of riding such a fellow’s horse for nothing.”

“He’ll bring an action against the railway, and then you can offer to pay if you like.” Mr. Nappie did bring an action against the railway, claiming exorbitant damages; — but with what result, we need not trouble ourselves to inquire.

Frank Greystock stayed till the following Monday at Portray, but could not be induced to hunt on the Saturday, — on which day the other sporting men and women went to the meet. He could not, he said, trust to that traitor MacFarlane, and he feared that his friend Mr. Nappie would not give him another mount on the grey horse. Lizzie offered him one of her two darlings, — an offer which he, of course, refused; and Lord George also proposed to put him up. But Frank averred that he had ridden his hunt for that season, and would not jeopardise the laurels he had gained. “And, moreover,” said he, “I should not dare to meet Mr. Nappie in the field.” So he remained at the castle and took a walk with Mr. Emilius. Mr. Emilius asked a good many questions about Portray, and exhibited the warmest sympathy with Lizzie’s widowed condition. He called her a “sweet, gay, unsophisticated, light-hearted young thing.” “She is very young,” replied her cousin. “Yes,” he continued, in answer to further questions; “Portray is certainly very nice. I don’t know what the income is. Well; yes. I should think it is over a thousand. Eight! No, I never heard it said that it was as much as that.” When Mr. Emilius put it down in his mind as five, he was not void of acuteness, as very little information had been given to him.

There was a joke throughout the castle that Mr. Emilius had fallen in love with Miss Macnulty. They had been a great deal together on those hunting days; and Miss Macnulty was unusually enthusiastic in praise of his manner and conversation. To her, also, had been addressed questions as to Portray and its income, all of which she had answered to the best of her ability; — not intending to betray any secret, for she had no secret to betray; but giving ordinary information on that commonest of all subjects, our friends’ incomes. Then there had risen a question whether there was a vacancy for such promotion to Miss Macnulty. Mrs. Carbuncle had certainly heard that there was a Mrs. Emilius. Lucinda was sure that there was not, — an assurance which might have been derived from a certain eagerness in the reverend gentleman’s demeanour to herself on a former occasion. To Lizzie, who at present was very good-natured, the idea of Miss Macnulty having a lover, whether he were a married man or not, was very delightful. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” said Miss Macnulty. “I don’t suppose Mr. Emilius had any idea of the kind.” Upon the whole, however, Miss Macnulty liked it.

On the Saturday nothing especial happened. Mr. Nappie was out on his grey horse, and condescended to a little conversation with Lord George. He wouldn’t have minded, he said, if Mr. Greystock had come forward; but he did think Mr. Greystock hadn’t come forward as he ought to have done. Lord George professed that he had observed the same thing; but then, as he whispered into Mr. Nappie’s ear, Mr. Greystock was particularly known as a bashful man. “He didn’t ride my ‘orse anyway bashful,” said Mr. Nappie; — all of which was told at dinner in the evening, amidst a great deal of laughter. There had been nothing special in the way of sport, and Lizzie’s enthusiasm for hunting, though still high, had gone down a few degrees below fever heat. Lord George had again coached her; but there had been no great need for coaching, no losing of her breath, no cutting down of Lucinda, no river, no big wall, — nothing, in short, very fast. They had been much in a big wood; but Lizzie, in giving an account of the day to her cousin, had acknowledged that she had not quite understood what they were doing at any time. “It was a blowing of horns and a galloping up and down all the day,” she said; “and then Morgan got cross again and scolded all the people. But there was one nice paling, and Dandy flew over it beautifully. Two men tumbled down, and one of them was a good deal hurt. It was very jolly; — but not at all like Wednesday.”

Nor had it been like Wednesday to Lucinda Roanoke, who did not fall into the water, and who did accept Sir Griffin when he again proposed to her in Sarkie wood. A great deal had been said to Lucinda on the Thursday and the Friday by Mrs. Carbuncle, — which had not been taken at all in good part by Lucinda. On those days Lucinda kept as much as she could out of Sir Griffin’s way, and almost snapped at the baronet when he spoke to her. Sir Griffin swore to himself that he wasn’t going to be treated that way. He’d have her, by George! There are men in whose love a good deal of hatred is mixed; — who love as the huntsman loves the fox, towards the killing of which he intends to use all his energies and intellects. Mrs. Carbuncle, who did not quite understand the sort of persistency by which a Sir Griffin can be possessed, feared greatly that Lucinda was about to lose her prize, and spoke out accordingly. “Will you, then, just have the kindness to tell me what it is you propose to yourself?” asked Mrs. Carbuncle.

“I don’t propose anything.”

“And where will you go when your money’s done?”

“Just where I am going now!” said Lucinda. By which it may be feared that she indicated a place to which she should not on such an occasion have made an allusion.

“You don’t like anybody else?” suggested Mrs. Carbuncle.

“I don’t like anybody or anything,” said Lucinda.

“Yes, you do; — you like horses to ride, and dresses to wear.”

“No, I don’t. I like hunting because, perhaps, some day I may break my neck. It’s no use your looking like that, Aunt Jane. I know what it all means. If I could break my neck it would be the best thing for me.”

“You’ll break my heart, Lucinda.”

“Mine’s broken long ago.”

“If you’ll accept Sir Griffin, and just get a home round yourself, you’ll find that everything will be happy. It all comes from the dreadful uncertainty. Do you think I have suffered nothing? Carbuncle is always threatening that he’ll go back to New York, and as for Lord George, he treats me that way I’m sometimes afraid to show my face.”

“Why should you care for Lord George?”

“It’s all very well to say, why should I care for him. I don’t care for him, only one doesn’t want to quarrel with one’s friends. Carbuncle says he owes him money.”

“I don’t believe it,” said Lucinda.

“And he says Carbuncle owes him money.”

“I do believe that,” said Lucinda.

“Between it all, I don’t know which way to be turning. And now, when there’s this great opening for you, you won’t know your own mind.”

“I know my mind well enough.”

“I tell you you’ll never have such another chance. Good looks isn’t everything. You’ve never a word to say to anybody; and when a man does come near you, you’re as savage and cross as a bear.”

“Go on, Aunt Jane.”

“What with your hatings and dislikings, one would suppose you didn’t think God Almighty made men at all.”

“He made some of ‘em very bad,” said Lucinda. “As for some others, they’re only half made. What can Sir Griffin do, do you suppose?”

“He’s a gentleman.”

“Then if I were a man, I should wish not to be a gentleman; that’s all. I’d a deal sooner marry a man like that huntsman, who has something to do and knows how to do it.” Again she said, “Don’t worry any more, Aunt Jane. It doesn’t do any good. It seems to me that to make myself Sir Griffin’s wife would be impossible; but I’m sure your talking won’t do it.” Then her aunt left her, and, having met Lord George, at his bidding went and made civil speeches to Lizzie Eustace.

That was on the Friday afternoon. On the Saturday afternoon Sir Griffin, biding his time, found himself, in a ride with Lucinda, sufficiently far from other horsemen for his purpose. He wasn’t going to stand any more nonsense. He was entitled to an answer, and he knew that he was entitled, by his rank and position, to a favourable answer. Here was a girl who, as far as he knew, was without a shilling, of whose birth and parentage nobody knew anything, who had nothing but her beauty to recommend her, — nothing but that and a certain capacity for carrying herself in the world as he thought ladies should carry themselves, — and she was to give herself airs with him, and expect him to propose to her half a dozen times! By George! — he had a very good mind to go away and let her find out her mistake. And he would have done so, — only that he was a man who always liked to have all that he wanted. It was intolerable to him that anybody should refuse him anything. “Miss Roanoke,” he said; and then he paused.

“Sir Griffin,” said Lucinda, bowing her head.

“Perhaps you will condescend to remember what I had the honour of saying to you as we rode into Kilmarnock last Wednesday.”

“I had just been dragged out of a river, Sir Griffin, and I don’t think any girl ought to be asked to remember what was said to her in that condition.”

“If I say it again now, will you remember?”

“I cannot promise, Sir Griffin.”

“Will you give me an answer?”

“That must depend.”

“Come; — I will have an answer. When a man tells a lady that he admires her, and asks her to be his wife, he has a right to an answer. Don’t you think that in such circumstances a man has a right to expect an answer?”

Lucinda hesitated for a moment, and he was beginning again to remonstrate impatiently, when she altered her tone, and replied to him seriously, “In such circumstances a gentleman has a right to expect an answer.”

“Then give me one. I admire you above all the world, and I ask you to be my wife. I’m quite in earnest.”

“I know that you are in earnest, Sir Griffin. I would do neither you nor myself the wrong of supposing that it could be otherwise.”

“Very well then. Will you accept the offer that I make you?”

Again she paused. “You have a right to an answer, — of course; but it may be so difficult to give it. It seems to me that you have hardly realised how serious a question it is.”

“Haven’t I, though! By George, it is serious!”

“Will it not be better for you to think it over again?”

He now hesitated for a moment. Perhaps it might be better. Should she take him at his word there would be no going back from it. But Lord George knew that he had proposed before. Lord George had learned this from Mrs. Carbuncle, and had shown that he knew it. And then, too, — he had made up his mind about it. He wanted her, and he meant to have her. “It requires no more thinking with me, Lucinda. I’m not a man who does things without thinking; and when I have thought I don’t want to think again. There’s my hand; — will you have it?”

“I will,” said Lucinda, putting her hand into his. He no sooner felt her assurance than his mind misgave him that he had been precipitate, that he had been rash, and that she had taken advantage of him. After all, how many things are there in the world more precious than a handsome girl. And she had never told him that she loved him.

“I suppose you love me?” he asked.

“H’sh! — here they all are.” The hand was withdrawn, but not before both Mrs. Carbuncle and Lady Eustace had seen it.

Mrs. Carbuncle, in her great anxiety, bided her time, keeping close to her niece. Perhaps she felt that if the two were engaged, it might be well to keep the lovers separated for awhile, lest they should quarrel before the engagement should have been so confirmed by the authority of friends as to be beyond the power of easy annihilation. Lucinda rode quite demurely with the crowd. Sir Griffin remained near her, but without speaking. Lizzie whispered to Lord George that there had been a proposal. Mrs. Carbuncle sat in stately dignity on her horse, as though there were nothing which at that moment especially engaged her attention. An hour almost had passed before she was able to ask the important question, “Well; — what have you said to him?”