The Palliser Novels (278 page)

“Never thought there was, ma’am,” said Gager. “And there’s nothing wrong as I know of with the young woman.” Then the husband and wife consulted together, and Mr. Gager was asked to take a seat in a little parlour, while the woman ran up-stairs for half an instant. Gager looked about him quickly, and took in at a glance the system of the construction of the “Fiddle with One String.” He did sit down in the little parlour, with the door open, and remained there for perhaps a couple of minutes. Then he went to the front door, and glanced up at the roof. “It’s all right,” said the keeper of the house, following him. “She ain’t a-going to get away. She ain’t just very well, and she’s a-lying down.”

“You tell her, with my regards,” said Gager, “that she needn’t be a bit the worse because of me.” The man looked at him suspiciously. “You tell her what I say. And tell her, too, the quicker the better. She has a gentleman a-looking after her, I daresay. Perhaps I’d better be off before he comes.” The message was taken up to the lady, and Gager again seated himself in the little parlour.

We are often told that all is fair in love and war, and, perhaps, the operation on which Mr. Gager was now intent may be regarded as warlike. But he now took advantage of a certain softness in the character of the lady whom he wished to meet, which hardly seems to be justifiable even in a policeman. When Lizzie’s tall footman had been in trouble about the necklace, a photograph had been taken from him which had not been restored to him. This was a portrait of Patience Crabstick, which she, poor girl, in a tender moment, had given to him who, had not things gone roughly with them, was to have been her lover. The little picture had fallen into Gager’s hands, and he now pulled it from his pocket. He himself had never visited the house in Hertford Street till after the second robbery, and, in the flesh, had not as yet seen Miss Crabstick; but he had studied her face carefully, expecting, or, at any rate, hoping, that he might some day enjoy the pleasure of personal acquaintance. That pleasure was now about to come to him, and he prepared himself for it by making himself intimate with the lines of the lady’s face as the sun had portrayed them. There was even yet some delay, and Mr. Gager more than once testified uneasiness. “She ain’t a-going to get away,” said the mistress of the house, “but a lady as is going to see a gentleman can’t jump into her things as a man does.” Gager intimated his acquiescence in all this, and again waited.

“The sooner she comes the less trouble for her,” said Gager to the woman; “if you’ll only make her believe that.” At last, when he had been somewhat over an hour in the house, he was asked to walk up-stairs, and then, in a little sitting-room over the bar, he had the opportunity, so much desired, of making personal acquaintance with Patience Crabstick.

It may be imagined that the poor waiting-woman had not been in a happy state of mind since she had been told that a gentleman was waiting to see her down-stairs, who had declared himself to be a policeman immediately on entering the shop. To escape was of course her first idea, but she was soon made to understand that this was impracticable. In the first place there was but one staircase, at the bottom of which was the open door of the room in which the policeman was sitting; and then, the woman of the house was very firm in declaring that she would connive at nothing which might cost her and her husband their licence. “You’ve got to face it,” said the woman. “I suppose they can’t make me get out of bed unless I pleases,” said Patience firmly. But she knew that even that resource would fail her, and that a policeman, when aggravated, can take upon him all the duties of a lady’s maid. She had to face it, — and she did face it. “I’ve just got to have a few words with you, my dear,” said Gager.

“I suppose, then, we’d better be alone,” said Patience; whereupon the woman of the house discreetly left the room.

The interview was so long that the reader would be fatigued were he asked to study a record of all that was said on the occasion. The gentleman and lady were closeted together for more than an hour, and so amicably was the conversation carried on that when the time was half over Gager stepped down-stairs and interested himself in procuring Miss Crabstick’s breakfast. He even condescended himself to pick a few shrimps and drink a glass of beer in her company. A great deal was said, and something was even settled, as may be learned from a few concluding words of that very memorable conversation. “Just don’t you say anything about it, my dear, but leave word for him that you’ve gone up to town on business.”

“Lord love you, Mr. Gager, he’ll know all about it.”

“Let him know. Of course he’ll know, — if he comes down. It’s my belief he’ll never show himself at Ramsgate again.”

“But, Mr. Gager — “

“Well, my dear?”

“You aren’t a perjuring of yourself?”

“What; — about making you my wife? That I ain’t. I’m upright, and always was. There’s no mistake about me when you’ve got my word. As soon as this work is off my mind, you shall be Mrs. Gager, my dear. And you’ll be all right. You’ve been took in, that’s what you have.”

“That I have, Mr. Gager,” said Patience, wiping her eyes.

“You’ve been took in, and you must be forgiven.”

“I didn’t get — not nothing out of the necklace; and as for the other things, they’ve frighted me so, that I let ‘em all go for just what I tell you. And as for Mr. Smiler, — I never didn’t care for him; that I didn’t. He ain’t the man to touch my heart, — not at all; and it was not likely either. A plain fellow, — very, Mr. Gager.”

“He’ll be plainer before long, my dear.”

“But I’ve been that worrited among ‘em, Mr. Gager, since first they made their wicked prepositions, that I’ve been jest — I don’t know how I’ve been. And though my lady was not a lady as any girl could like, and did deserve to have her things took if anybody’s things ever should be took, still, Mr. Gager, I knows I did wrong. I do know it, — and I’m a-repenting of it in sackcloth and ashes; — so I am. But you’ll be as good as your word, Mr. Gager?”

It must be acknowledged that Mr. Gager had bidden high for success, and had allowed himself to be carried away by his zeal almost to the verge of imprudence. It was essential to him that he should take Patience Crabstick back with him to London, — and that he should take her as a witness and not as a criminal. Mr. Benjamin was the game at which he was flying, — Mr. Benjamin, and, if possible, Lord George; and he conceived that his net might be big enough to hold Smiler as well as the other two greater fishes, if he could induce Patience Crabstick and Billy Cann to co-operate with him cordially in his fishing.

But his mind was still disturbed on one point. Let him press his beloved Patience as closely as he might with questions, there was one point on which he could not get from her what he believed to be the truth. She persisted that Lord George de Bruce Carruthers had had no hand in either robbery, and Gager had so firmly committed himself to a belief on this matter, that he could not throw the idea away from him, even on the testimony of Patience Crabstick.

On that evening he returned triumphant to Scotland Yard with Patience Crabstick under his wing; and that lady was housed there with every comfort she could desire, except that of personal liberty.

In the meantime Mrs. Hittaway was diligently spreading a report that Lizzie Eustace either was engaged to marry her cousin Frank, — or ought to be so engaged. This she did, no doubt, with the sole object of saving her brother; but she did it with a zeal that dealt as freely with Frank’s name as with Lizzie’s. They, with all their friends, were her enemies, and she was quite sure that they were, altogether, a wicked, degraded set of people. Of Lord George and Mrs. Carbuncle, of Miss Roanoke and Sir Griffin Tewett, she believed all manner of evil. She had theories of her own about the jewels, stories, — probably of her own manufacture in part, although no doubt she believed them to be true, — as to the manner of living at Portray, little histories of Lizzie’s debts, and the great fact of the scene which Mr. Gowran had seen with his own eyes. Lizzie Eustace was an abomination to her, and this abominable woman her brother was again in danger of marrying! She was very loud in her denunciations, and took care that they should reach even Lady Linlithgow, so that poor Lucy Morris might know of what sort was the lover in whom she trusted. Andy Gowran had been sent for to town, and was on his journey while Mr. Gager was engaged at Ramsgate. It was at present the great object of Mrs. Hittaway’s life to induce her brother to see Mr. Gowran before he kept his appointment with Lady Eustace.

Poor Lucy received the wound which was intended for her. The enemy’s weapons had repeatedly struck her, but hitherto they had alighted on the strong shield of her faith. But let a shield be never so strong, it may at last be battered out of all form and service. On Lucy’s shield there had been much of such batterings, and the blows which had come from him in whom she most trusted had not been the lightest. She had not seen him for months, and his letters were short, unsatisfactory, and rare. She had declared to herself and to her friend Lady Fawn, that no concurrence of circumstances, no absence, however long, no rumours that might reach her ears, would make her doubt the man she loved. She was still steadfast in the same resolution; but in spite of her resolution her heart began to fail her. She became weary, unhappy, and ill at ease, and though she would never acknowledge to herself that she doubted, she did doubt.

“So, after all, your Mr. Greystock is to marry my niece, Lizzie Greystock.” This good-natured speech was made one morning to poor Lucy by her present patroness, Lady Linlithgow.

“I rather think not,” said Lucy plucking up her spirits and smiling as she spoke.

“Everybody says so. As for Lizzie, she has become quite a heroine. What with her necklace, and her two robberies, and her hunting, and her various lovers, — two lords and a member of Parliament, my dear, — there is nothing to equal her. Lady Glencora Palliser has been calling on her. She took care to let me know that. And I’m now told that she certainly is engaged to her cousin.”

“According to your own showing, Lady Linlithgow, she has got two other lovers. Couldn’t you oblige me by letting her marry one of the lords?”

“I’m afraid, my dear, that Mr. Greystock is to be the chosen one.” Then after a pause the old woman became serious. “What is the use, Miss Morris, of not looking the truth in the face? Mr. Greystock is neglecting you.”

“He is not neglecting me. You won’t let him come to see me.”

“Certainly not; — but if he were not neglecting you, you would not be here. And there he is with Lizzie Eustace every day of his life. He can’t afford to marry you, and he can afford to marry her. It’s a deal better that you should look it all in the face and know what it must all come to.”

“I shall just wait, — and never believe a word till he speaks it.”

“You hardly know what men are, my dear.”

“Very likely not, Lady Linlithgow. It may be that I shall have to pay dear for learning. Of course, I may be mistaken as well as another, — only I don’t believe I am mistaken.”

When this little scene took place, only a month remained of the time for which Lucy’s services were engaged to Lady Linlithgow, and no definite arrangement had been made as to her future residence. Lady Fawn was prepared to give her a home, and to Lady Fawn, as it seemed, she must go. Lady Linlithgow had declared herself unwilling to continue the existing arrangement because, as she said, it did not suit her that her companion should be engaged to marry her late sister’s nephew. Not a word had been said about the deanery for the last month or two, and Lucy, though her hopes in that direction had once been good, was far too high-spirited to make any suggestion herself as to her reception by her lover’s family. In the ordinary course of things she would have to look out for another situation, like any other governess in want of a place; but she could do this only by consulting Lady Fawn; and Lady Fawn when consulted would always settle the whole matter by simply bidding her young friend to come to Fawn Court.

There must be some end of her living at Fawn Court. So much Lucy told herself over and over again. It could be but a temporary measure. If — if it was to be her fate to be taken away from Fawn Court a happy, glorious, triumphant bride, then the additional obligation put upon her by her dear friends would not be more than she could bear. But to go to Fawn Court, and, by degrees, to have it acknowledged that another place must be found for her, would be very bad. She would infinitely prefer any intermediate hardship. How, then, should she know? As soon as she was able to escape from the countess, she went up to her own room, and wrote the following letter. She studied the words with great care as she wrote them, — sitting and thinking before she allowed her pen to run on the paper.
 

My dear Frank
,

It is a long time since we met; — is it not? I do not write this as a reproach; but because my friends tell me that I should not continue to think myself engaged to you. They say that, situated as you are, you cannot afford to marry a penniless girl, and that I ought not to wish you to sacrifice yourself. I do understand enough of your affairs to know that an imprudent marriage may ruin you, and I certainly do not wish to be the cause of injury to you. All I ask is that you should tell me the truth. It is not that I am impatient; but that I must decide what to do with myself when I leave Lady Linlithgow.

Your most affectionate friend,

Lucy Morris
.

March 2, 18––.
 

She read this letter over and over again, thinking of all that it said and of all that it omitted to say. She was at first half disposed to make protestations of forgiveness, — to assure him that not even within her own heart would she reproach him, should he feel himself bound to retract the promise he had made her. She longed to break out into love, but so to express her love that her lover should know that it was strong enough even to sacrifice itself for his sake. But though her heart longed to speak freely, her judgment told her that it would be better that she should be reticent and tranquil in her language. Any warmth on her part would be in itself a reproach to him. If she really wished to assist him in extricating himself from a difficulty into which he had fallen in her behalf, she would best do so by offering him his freedom in the fewest and plainest words which she could select.