The Palliser Novels (263 page)

“Very well, then,” said Lizzie. “You won’t be surprised if I ask you to take the journey for me.” Then they all laughed, and were very much amused. It was quite agreed among them that Lizzie bore her loss very well.

“I shouldn’t care the least for losing them,” said Lizzie, — “only that Florian gave them to me. They have been such a vexation to me that to be without them will be a comfort.” Her desk had been brought into the carriage and was now used as a foot-stool in place of the box which was gone.

They arrived at Mrs. Carbuncle’s house in Hertford Street quite late, between ten and eleven; — but a note had been sent from Lizzie to her cousin Frank’s address from the Euston Square station by a commissionaire. Indeed, two notes were sent, — one to the House of Commons, and the other to the Grosvenor Hotel. “My necklace has been stolen. Come to me early to-morrow at Mrs. Carbuncle’s house, No. — , Hertford Street.” And he did come, — before Lizzie was up. Crabstick brought her mistress word that Mr. Greystock was in the parlour soon after nine o’clock. Lizzie again hurried on her clothes so that she might see her cousin, taking care as she did so that though her toilet might betray haste, it should not be other than charming. And as she dressed she endeavoured to come to some conclusion. Would it not be best for her that she should tell everything to her cousin, and throw herself upon his mercy, trusting to his ingenuity to extricate her from her difficulties? She had been thinking of her position almost through the entire night, and had remembered that at Carlisle she had committed perjury. She had sworn that the diamonds had been left by her in the box. And should they be found with her it might be that they would put her in gaol for stealing them. Little mercy could she expect from Mr. Camperdown should she fall into that gentleman’s hands! But Frank, if she would even yet tell him everything honestly, might probably save her.

“What is this about the diamonds?” he asked as soon as he saw her. She had flown almost into his arms as though carried there by the excitement of the moment. “You don’t really mean that they have been stolen?”

“I do, Frank.”

“On the journey?”

“Yes, Frank; — at the inn at Carlisle.”

“Box and all?” Then she told him the whole story; — not the true story, but the story as it was believed by all the world. She found it to be impossible to tell him the true story. “And the box was broken open, and left in the street?”

“Under an archway,” said Lizzie.

“And what do the police think?”

“I don’t know what they think. Lord George says that they believe he is the thief.”

“He knew of them,” said Frank, as though he imagined that the suggestion was not altogether absurd.

“Oh, yes; — he knew of them.”

“And what is to be done?”

“I don’t know. I’ve sent for you to tell me.” Then Frank averred that information should be immediately given to Mr. Camperdown. He would himself call on Mr. Camperdown, and would also see the head of the London police. He did not doubt but that all the circumstances were already known in London at the police office; — but it might be well that he should see the officer. He was acquainted with the gentleman, and might perhaps learn something. Lizzie at once acceded, and Frank went direct to Mr. Camperdown’s offices. “If I had lost ten thousand pounds in that way,” said Mrs. Carbuncle, “I think I should have broken my heart.” Lizzie felt that her heart was bursting rather than being broken, because the ten thousand pounds’ worth of diamonds was not really lost.

Lucy Morris went to Lady Linlithgow early in October, and was still with Lady Linlithgow when Lizzie Eustace returned to London in January. During these three months she certainly had not been happy. In the first place, she had not once seen her lover. This had aroused no anger or suspicion in her bosom against him, because the old countess had told her that she would have no lover come to the house, and that, above all, she would not allow a young man with whom she herself was connected to come in that guise to her companion. “From all I hear,” said Lady Linlithgow, “it’s not at all likely to be a match; — and at any rate it can’t go on here.” Lucy thought that she would be doing no more than standing up properly for her lover by asserting her conviction that it would be a match; — and she did assert it bravely; but she made no petition for his presence, and bore that trouble bravely. In the next place, Frank was not a satisfactory correspondent. He did write to her occasionally; — and he wrote also to the old countess immediately on his return to town from Bobsborough a letter which was intended as an answer to that which she had written to Mrs. Greystock. What was said in that letter Lucy never knew; — but she did know that Frank’s few letters to herself were not full and hearty, — were not such thorough-going love-letters as lovers write to each other when they feel unlimited satisfaction in the work. She excused him, — telling herself that he was overworked, that with his double trade of legislator and lawyer he could hardly be expected to write letters, — that men, in respect of letter-writing, are not as women are, and the like; but still there grew at her heart a little weed of care, which from week to week spread its noxious, heavy-scented leaves, and robbed her of her joyousness. To be loved by her lover, and to feel that she was his, — to have a lover of her own to whom she could thoroughly devote herself, — to be conscious that she was one of those happy women in the world who find a mate worthy of worship as well as love, — this to her was so great a joy that even the sadness of her present position could not utterly depress her. From day to day she assured herself that she did not doubt and would not doubt, — that there was no cause for doubt; — that she would herself be base were she to admit any shadow of suspicion. But yet his absence, — and the shortness of those little notes, which came perhaps once a fortnight, did tell upon her in opposition to her own convictions. Each note as it came was answered, — instantly; but she would not write except when the notes came. She would not seem to reproach him by writing oftener than he wrote. When he had given her so much, and she had nothing but her confidence to give in return, would she stint him in that? There can be no love, she said, without confidence, and it was the pride of her heart to love him.

The circumstances of her present life were desperately weary to her. She could hardly understand why it was that Lady Linlithgow should desire her presence. She was required to do nothing. She had no duties to perform, and, as it seemed to her, was of no use to any one. The countess would not even allow her to be of ordinary service in the house. Lady Linlithgow, as she had said of herself, poked her own fires, carved her own meat, lit her own candles, opened and shut the doors for herself, wrote her own letters, — and did not even like to have books read to her. She simply chose to have some one sitting with her to whom she could speak and make little cross-grained, sarcastic, and ill-natured remarks. There was no company at the house in Brook Street, and when the countess herself went out, she went out alone. Even when she had a cab to go shopping, or to make calls, she rarely asked Lucy to go with her, — and was benevolent chiefly in this, — that if Lucy chose to walk round the square, or as far as the park, her ladyship’s maid was allowed to accompany her for protection. Poor Lucy often told herself that such a life would be unbearable, — were it not for the supreme satisfaction she had in remembering her lover. And then the arrangement had been made only for six months. She did not feel quite assured of her fate at the end of those six months, but she believed that there would come to her a residence in a sort of outer garden to that sweet Elysium in which she was to pass her life. The Elysium would be Frank’s house; and the outer garden was the deanery at Bobsborough.

Twice during the three months Lady Fawn, with two of the girls, came to call upon her. On the first occasion she was unluckily out, taking advantage of the protection of her ladyship’s maid in getting a little air. Lady Linlithgow had also been away, and Lady Fawn had seen no one. Afterwards, both Lucy and her ladyship were found at home, and Lady Fawn was full of graciousness and affection. “I daresay you’ve got something to say to each other,” said Lady Linlithgow, “and I’ll go away.”

“Pray don’t let us disturb you,” said Lady Fawn.

“You’d only abuse me if I didn’t,” said Lady Linlithgow.

As soon as she was gone Lucy rushed into her friend’s arms.

“It is so nice to see you again.”

“Yes, my dear, isn’t it? I did come before, you know.”

“You have been so good to me! To see you again is like the violets and primroses.” She was crouching close to Lady Fawn, with her hand in that of her friend Lydia. “I haven’t a word to say against Lady Linlithgow, but it is like winter here, after dear Richmond.”

“Well; — we think we’re prettier at Richmond,” said Lady Fawn.

“There were such hundreds of things to do there,” said Lucy. “After all, what a comfort it is to have things to do.”

“Why did you come away?” said Lydia.

“Oh, I was obliged. You mustn’t scold me now that you have come to see me.”

There were a hundred things to be said about Fawn Court and the children, and a hundred more things about Lady Linlithgow and Bruton Street. Then, at last, Lady Fawn asked the one important question. “And now, my dear, what about Mr. Greystock?”

“Oh, — I don’t know; — nothing particular, Lady Fawn. It’s just as it was, and I am — quite satisfied.”

“You see him sometimes?”

“No, never. I have not seen him since the last time he came down to Richmond. Lady Linlithgow doesn’t allow — followers.” There was a pleasant little spark of laughter in Lucy’s eye as she said this, which would have told to any bystander the whole story of the affection which existed between her and Lady Fawn.

“That’s very ill-natured,” said Lydia.

“And he’s a sort of cousin, too,” said Lady Fawn.

“That’s just the reason why,” said Lucy, explaining. “Of course, Lady Linlithgow thinks that her sister’s nephew can do better than marry her companion. It’s a matter of course she should think so. What I am most afraid of is that the dean and Mrs. Greystock should think so too.”

No doubt the dean and Mrs. Greystock would think so; — Lady Fawn was very sure of that. Lady Fawn was one of the best women breathing, — unselfish, motherly, affectionate, appreciative, and never happy unless she was doing good to somebody. It was her nature to be soft, and kind, and beneficent. But she knew very well that if she had had a son, — a second son, — situated as was Frank Greystock, she would not wish him to marry a girl without a penny, who was forced to earn her bread by being a governess. The sacrifice on Mr. Greystock’s part would, in her estimation, be so great, that she did not believe that it would be made. Woman-like, she regarded the man as being so much more important than the woman, that she could not think that Frank Greystock would devote himself simply to such a one as Lucy Morris. Had Lady Fawn been asked which was the better creature of the two, her late governess or the rising barrister who had declared himself to be that governess’s lover, she would have said that no man could be better than Lucy. She knew Lucy’s worth and goodness so well that she was ready herself to do any act of friendship on behalf of one so sweet and excellent. For herself and her girls Lucy was a companion and friend in every way satisfactory. But was it probable that a man of the world, such as was Frank Greystock, a rising man, a member of Parliament, one who, as everybody knew, was especially in want of money, — was it probable that such a man as this would make her his wife just because she was good, and worthy, and sweet-natured? No doubt the man had said that he would do so, — and Lady Fawn’s fears betrayed on her ladyship’s part a very bad opinion of men in general. It may seem to be a paradox to assert that such bad opinion sprung from the high idea which she entertained of the importance of men in general; — but it was so. She had but one son, and of all her children he was the least worthy; but he was more important to her than all her daughters. Between her own girls and Lucy she hardly made any difference; — but when her son had chosen to quarrel with Lucy it had been necessary to send Lucy to eat her meals up-stairs. She could not believe that Mr. Greystock should think so much of such a little girl as to marry her. Mr. Greystock would no doubt behave very badly in not doing so; — but then men do so often behave very badly! And at the bottom of her heart she almost thought that they might be excused for doing so. According to her view of things, a man out in the world had so many things to think of, and was so very important, that he could hardly be expected to act at all times with truth and sincerity.

Lucy had suggested that the dean and Mrs. Greystock would dislike the marriage, and upon that hint Lady Fawn spoke. “Nothing is settled, I suppose, as to where you are to go when the six months are over?”

“Nothing as yet, Lady Fawn.”

“They haven’t asked you to go to Bobsborough?”

Lucy would have given the world not to blush as she answered, but she did blush. “Nothing is fixed, Lady Fawn.”

“Something should be fixed, Lucy. It should be settled by this time; — shouldn’t it, dear? What will you do without a home, if at the end of the six months Lady Linlithgow should say that she doesn’t want you any more?”

Lucy certainly did not look forward to a condition in which Lady Linlithgow should be the arbitress of her destiny. The idea of staying with the countess was almost as bad to her as that of finding herself altogether homeless. She was still blushing, feeling herself to be hot and embarrassed. But Lady Fawn sat, waiting for an answer. To Lucy there was only one answer possible. “I will ask Mr. Greystock what I am to do.” Lady Fawn shook her head. “You don’t believe in Mr. Greystock, Lady Fawn; but I do.”

“My darling girl,” said her ladyship, making the special speech for the sake of making which she had travelled up from Richmond, — “it is not exactly a question of belief, but one of common prudence. No girl should allow herself to depend on a man before she is married to him. By doing so she will be apt to lose even his respect.”