LADY ANNA'S RECEPTION.
The Countess went into the City to meet her daughter at the Saracen's
Head, whither the York coach used to run, and received her almost in
silence. "Oh, mamma, dear mamma," said Lady Anna, "I am so glad to
be back with you again." Sarah, the lady's-maid, was there, useless,
officious, and long-eared. The Countess said almost nothing; she
submitted to be kissed, and she asked after the luggage. At that time
she had heard the whole story about Daniel Thwaite.
The Solicitor-General had disregarded altogether his client's
injunctions as to secrecy. He had felt that in a matter of so great
importance it behoved him to look to his client's interests, rather
than his client's instructions. This promise of a marriage with the
tailor's son must be annihilated. On behalf of the whole Lovel family
it was his duty, as he thought, to see that this should be effected,
if possible,--and as quickly as possible. This was his duty, not only
as a lawyer employed in a particular case, but as a man who would be
bound to prevent any great evil which he saw looming in the future.
In his view of the case the marriage of Lady Anna Lovel, with a
colossal fortune, to Daniel Thwaite the tailor, would be a grievous
injury to the social world of his country,--and it was one of
those evils which may probably be intercepted by due and discreet
precautions. No doubt the tailor wanted money. The man was entitled
to some considerable reward for all that he had done and all that he
had suffered in the cause. But Sir William could not himself propose
the reward. He could not chaffer for terms with the tailor. He could
not be seen in that matter. But having heard the secret from the
Earl, he thought that he could get the work done. So he sent for Mr.
Flick, the attorney, and told Mr. Flick all that he knew. "Gone and
engaged herself to the tailor!" said Mr. Flick, holding up both his
hands. Then Sir William took Lady Anna's part. After all, such an
engagement was not,--as he thought,--unnatural. It had been made
while she was very young, when she knew no other man of her own age
in life, when she was greatly indebted to this man, when she had
had no opportunity of measuring a young tailor against a young lord.
She had done it probably in gratitude;--so said Sir William;--and
now clung to it from good faith rather than affection. Neither was
he severe upon the tailor. He was a man especially given to make
excuses for poor weak, erring, unlearned mortals, ignorant of the
law,--unless when a witness attempted to be impervious;--and now he
made excuses for Daniel Thwaite. The man might have done so much
worse than he was doing. There seemed already to be a noble reliance
on himself in his conduct. Lord Lovel thought that there had been no
correspondence while the young lady had been at Yoxham. There might
have been, but had not been, a clandestine marriage. Other reasons
he gave why Daniel Thwaite should not be regarded as altogether
villanous. But, nevertheless, the tailor must not be allowed to carry
off the prize. The prize was too great for him. What must be done?
Sir William condescended to ask Mr. Flick what he thought ought to be
done. "No doubt we should be very much guided by you, Mr. Solicitor,"
said Mr. Flick.
"One thing is, I think, plain, Mr. Flick. You must see the Countess
and tell her, or get Mr. Goffe to do so. It is clear that she has
been kept in the dark between them. At present they are all living
together in the same house. She had better leave the place and go
elsewhere. They should be kept apart, and the girl, if necessary,
should be carried abroad."
"I take it there is a difficulty about money, Mr. Solicitor."
"There ought to be none,--and I will take it upon myself to say that
there need be none. It is a case in which the court will willingly
allow money out of the income of the property. The thing is so large
that there should be no grudging of money for needful purposes.
Seeing what primâ facie claims these ladies have, they are bound to
allow them to live decently, in accordance with their alleged rank,
till the case is settled. No doubt she is the heiress."
"You feel quite sure, Sir William?"
"I do;--though, as I have said before, it is a case of feeling sure,
and not being sure. Had that Italian woman been really the widow,
somebody would have brought her case forward more loudly."
"But if the other Italian woman who died was the wife?"
"You would have found it out when you were there. Somebody from the
country would have come to us with evidence, knowing how much we
could afford to pay for it. Mind you, the matter has been tried
before, in another shape. The old Earl was indicted for bigamy and
acquitted. We are bound to regard that young woman as Lady Anna
Lovel, and we are bound to regard her and her mother conjointly as
co-heiresses, in different degrees, to all the personal property
which the old Earl left behind him. We can't with safety take any
other view. There will still be difficulties in their way;--and very
serious difficulties, were she to marry this tailor; but, between you
and me, he would eventually get the money. Perhaps, Mr. Flick, you
had better see him. You would know how to get at his views without
compromising anybody. But, in the first place, let the Countess know
everything. After what has been done, you won't have any difficulty
in meeting Mr. Goffe."
Mr. Flick had no difficulty in seeing Mr. Goffe,--though he felt that
there would be very much difficulty in seeing Mr. Daniel Thwaite.
He did tell Mr. Goffe the story of the wicked tailor,--by no means
making those excuses which the Solicitor-General had made for the
man's presumptuous covetousness. "I knew the trouble we should have
with that man," said Mr. Goffe, who had always disliked the Thwaites.
Then Mr. Flick went on to say that Mr. Goffe had better tell the
Countess,--and Mr. Goffe on this point agreed with his adversary. Two
or three days after that, but subsequently to the date of the last
letter which the mother had written to her daughter, Lady Lovel was
told that Lady Anna was engaged to marry Mr. Daniel Thwaite.
She had suspected how it might be; her heart had for the last month
been heavy with the dread of this great calamity; she had made her
plans with the view of keeping the two apart; she had asked her
daughter questions founded on this very fear;--and yet she could not
for a while be brought to believe it. How did Mr. Goffe know? Mr.
Goffe had heard it from Mr. Flick, who had heard it from Sir William
Patterson; to whom the tale had been told by Lord Lovel. "And who
told Lord Lovel?" said the Countess flashing up in anger.
"No doubt Lady Anna did so," said the attorney. But in spite of her
indignation she could retain her doubts. The attorney, however, was
certain. "There could be no hope but that it was so." She still
pretended not to believe it, though fully intending to take all due
precautions in the matter. Since Mr. Goffe thought that it would be
prudent, she would remove to other lodgings. She would think of that
plan of going abroad. She would be on her guard, she said. But she
would not admit it to be possible that Lady Anna Lovel, the daughter
of Earl Lovel, her daughter, should have so far disgraced herself.
But she did believe it. Her heart had in truth told her that it was
true at the first word the lawyer had spoken to her. How blind she
must have been not to have known it! How grossly stupid not to have
understood those asseverations from the girl, that the marriage with
her cousin was impossible! Her child had not only deceived her, but
had possessed cunning enough to maintain her deception. It must have
been going on for at least the last twelvemonth, and she, the while,
had been kept in the dark by the manoeuvres of a simple girl! And
then she thought of the depth of the degradation which was prepared
for her. Had she passed twenty years of unintermittent combat for
this,--that when all had been done, when at last success was won,
when the rank and wealth of her child had been made positively
secure before the world, when she was about to see the unquestioned
coronet of a Countess placed upon her child's brow,--all should be
destroyed through a passion so mean as this! Would it not have been
better to have died in poverty and obscurity,--while there were yet
doubts,--before any assured disgrace had rested on her? But, oh! to
have proved that she was a Countess, and her child the heiress of
an Earl, in order that the Lady Anna Lovel might become the wife of
Daniel Thwaite, the tailor!
She made many resolutions; but the first was this, that she would
never smile upon the girl again till this baseness should have been
abandoned. She loved her girl as only mothers do love. More devoted
than the pelican, she would have given her heart's blood,--had given
all her life,--not only to nurture, but to aggrandize her child. The
establishment of her own position, her own honour, her own name, was
to her but the incidental result of her daughter's emblazonment in
the world. The child which she had borne to Earl Lovel, and which the
father had stigmatised as a bastard, should by her means be known as
the Lady Anna, the heiress of that father's wealth,--the wealthiest,
the fairest, the most noble of England's daughters. Then there had
come the sweet idea that this high-born heiress of the Lovels, should
herself become Countess Lovel, and the mother had risen higher in her
delighted pride. It had all been for her child! Had she not loved as
a mother, and with all a mother's tenderness? And for what?
She would love still, but she would never again be tender till her
daughter should have repudiated her base,--her monstrous engagement.
She bound up all her faculties to harshness, and a stern resolution.
Her daughter had been deceitful, and she would now be ruthless. There
might be suffering, but had not she suffered? There might be sorrow,
but had not she sorrowed? There might be a contest, but had not she
ever been contesting? Sooner than that the tailor should reap the
fruit of her labours,--labours which had been commenced when she
first gave herself in marriage to that dark, dreadful man,--sooner
than that her child should make ignoble the blood which it had cost
her so much to ennoble, she would do deeds which should make even
the wickedness of her husband child's play in the world's esteem. It
was in this mood of mind that she went to meet her daughter at the
Saracen's Head.
She had taken fresh lodgings very suddenly,--in Keppel Street, near
Russell Square, a long way from Wyndham Street. She had asked Mr.
Goffe to recommend her a place, and he had sent her to an old lady
with whom he himself had lodged in his bachelor's days. Keppel
Street cannot be called fashionable, and Russell Square is not much
affected by the nobility. Nevertheless the house was superior in
all qualifications to that which she was now leaving, and the rent
was considerably higher. But the affairs of the Countess in regard
to money were in the ascendant; and Mr. Goffe did not scruple to
take for her a "genteel" suite of drawing-rooms,--two rooms with
folding-doors, that is,--with the bedrooms above, first-class
lodging-house attendance, and a garret for the lady's-maid. "And then
it will be quite close to Mrs. Bluestone," said Mr. Goffe, who knew
of that intimacy.
The drive in a glass coach home from the coach-yard to Keppel Street
was horrible to Lady Anna. Not a word was spoken, as Sarah, the
lady's-maid, sat with them in the carriage. Once or twice the poor
girl tried to get hold of her mother's hand, in order that she might
entice something of a caress. But the Countess would admit of no such
softness, and at last withdrew her hand roughly. "Oh mamma!" said
Lady Anna, unable to suppress her dismay. But the Countess said never
a word. Sarah, the lady's-maid, began to think that there must be a
second lover. "Is this Wyndham Street?" said Lady Anna when the coach
stopped.
"No, my dear;--this is not Wyndham Street. I have taken another
abode. This is where we are to live. If you will get out I will
follow you, and Sarah will look to the luggage." Then the daughter
entered the house, and met the old woman curtseying to her. She at
once felt that she had been removed from contact with Daniel Thwaite,
and was sure that her mother knew her story. "That is your room,"
said her mother. "You had better get your things off. Are you tired?"
"Oh! so tired!" and Lady Anna burst into tears.
"What will you have?"
"Oh, nothing! I think I will go to bed, mamma. Why are you unkind to
me? Do tell me. Anything is better than that you should be unkind."
"Anna,--have not you been unkind to me?"
"Never, mamma;--never. I have never meant to be unkind. I love you
better than all the world. I have never been unkind. But, you;--Oh,
mamma, if you look at me like that, I shall die."
"Is it true that you have promised that you would be the wife of Mr.
Daniel Thwaite?"
"Mamma!"
"Is it true? I will be open with you. Mr. Goffe tells me that you
have refused Lord Lovel, telling him that you must do so because you
were engaged to Mr. Daniel Thwaite. Is that true?"
"Yes, mamma;--it is true."
"And you have given your word to that man?"
"I have, mamma."
"And yet you told me that there was no one else when I spoke to you
of Lord Lovel? You lied to me?" The girl sat confounded, astounded,
without power of utterance. She had travelled from York to London,
inside one of those awful vehicles of which we used to be so proud
when we talked of our stage coaches. She was thoroughly weary and
worn out. She had not breakfasted that morning, and was sick and
ill at ease, not only in heart, but in body also. Of course it was
so. Her mother knew that it was so. But this was no time for fond
compassion. It would be better, far better that she should die
than that she should not be compelled to abandon this grovelling
abasement. "Then you lied to me?" repeated the Countess still
standing over her.
"Oh, mamma, you mean to kill me."
"I would sooner die here, at your feet, this moment, and know that
you must follow me within an hour, than see you married to such a one
as that. You shall never marry him. Though I went into court myself
and swore that I was that lord's mistress,--that I knew it when I
went to him,--that you were born a brat beyond the law, that I had
lived a life of perjury, I would prevent such greater disgrace as
this. It shall never be. I will take you away where he shall never
hear of you. As to the money, it shall go to the winds, so that he
shall never touch it. Do you think that it is you that he cares for?
He has heard of all this wealth,--and you are but the bait upon his
hook to catch it."
"You do not know him, mamma."
"Will you tell me of him, that I do not know him; impudent slut!
Did I not know him before you were born? Have I not known him all
through? Will you give me your word of honour that you will never see
him again?" Lady Anna tried to think, but her mind would not act for
her. Everything was turning round, and she became giddy and threw
herself on the bed. "Answer me, Anna. Will you give me your word of
honour that you will never see him again?"
She might still have said yes. She felt that enough of speech was
left to her for so small an effort,--and she knew that if she did so
the agony of the moment would pass away from her. With that one word
spoken her mother would be kind to her, and would wait upon her;
would bring her tea, and would sit by her bedside, and caress her.
But she too was a Lovel, and she was, moreover, the daughter of her
who once had been Josephine Murray.
"I cannot say that, mamma," she said, "because I have promised."
Her mother dashed from the room, and she was left alone upon the bed.