Lucy Morris
Although the first two chapters of this new history have been
devoted to the fortunes and personal attributes of Lady Eustace,
the historian begs his readers not to believe that that opulent and
aristocratic Becky Sharp is to assume the dignity of heroine in the
forthcoming pages. That there shall be any heroine the historian will
not take upon himself to assert; but if there be a heroine, that
heroine shall not be Lady Eustace. Poor Lizzie Greystock!--as men
double her own age, and who had known her as a forward, capricious,
spoilt child in her father's lifetime, would still call her. She did
so many things, made so many efforts, caused so much suffering to
others, and suffered so much herself throughout the scenes with which
we are about to deal, that the story can hardly be told without
giving her that prominence of place which has been assigned to her in
the last two chapters.
Nor does the chronicler dare to put forward Lucy Morris as a heroine.
The real heroine, if it be found possible to arrange her drapery for
her becomingly, and to put that part which she enacted into properly
heroic words, shall stalk in among us at some considerably later
period of the narrative, when the writer shall have accustomed
himself to the flow of words, and have worked himself up to a state
of mind fit for the reception of noble acting and noble speaking. In
the meantime, let it be understood that poor little Lucy Morris was
a governess in the house of old Lady Fawn, when our beautiful young
widow established herself in Mount Street.
Lady Eustace and Lucy Morris had known each other for many
years,--had indeed been children together,--there having been some
old family friendship between the Greystocks and the Morrises. When
the admiral's wife was living, Lucy had, as a little girl of eight or
nine, been her guest. She had often been a guest at the deanery. When
Lady Eustace had gone down to the bishop's palace at Bobsborough, in
order that an heir to the Eustaces might be born under an auspicious
roof, Lucy Morris was with the Greystocks. Lucy, who was a year
younger than Lizzie, had at that time been an orphan for the last
four years. She too had been left penniless, but no such brilliant
future awaited her as that which Lizzie had earned for herself. There
was no countess-aunt to take her into her London house. The dean and
the dean's wife and the dean's daughters had been her best friends,
but they were not friends on whom she could be dependent. They were
in no way connected with her by blood. Therefore, at the age of
eighteen, she had gone out to be a child's governess. Then old Lady
Fawn had heard of her virtues,--Lady Fawn, who had seven unmarried
daughters running down from seven-and-twenty to thirteen, and Lucy
Morris had been hired to teach English, French, German, and something
of music to the two youngest Miss Fawns.
During that visit at the deanery, when the heir of the Eustaces was
being born, Lucy was undergoing a sort of probation for the Fawn
establishment. The proposed engagement with Lady Fawn was thought to
be a great thing for her. Lady Fawn was known as a miracle of Virtue,
Benevolence, and Persistency. Every good quality that she possessed
was so marked as to be worthy of being expressed with a capital.
But her virtues were of that extraordinarily high character that
there was no weakness in them,--no getting over them, no perverting
them with follies or even exaggerations. When she heard of the
excellencies of Miss Morris from the dean's wife, and then, after
minutest investigation, learned the exact qualities of the young
lady, she expressed herself willing to take Lucy into her house on
special conditions. She must be able to teach music up to a certain
point. "Then it's all over," said Lucy to the dean with her pretty
smile,--that smile which caused all the old and middle-aged men to
fall in love with her. "It's not over at all," said the dean. "You've
got four months. Our organist is about as good a teacher as there is
in England. You are clever and quick, and he shall teach you." So
Lucy went to Bobsborough, and was afterwards accepted by Lady Fawn.
While she was at the deanery there sprung up a renewed friendship
between her and Lizzie. It was, indeed, chiefly a one-sided
friendship; for Lucy, who was quick and unconsciously capable of
reading that book to which we alluded in a previous chapter, was
somewhat afraid of the rich widow. And when Lizzie talked to her
of their old childish days, and quoted poetry, and spoke of things
romantic,--as she was much given to do,--Lucy felt that the metal
did not ring true. And then Lizzie had an ugly habit of abusing all
her other friends behind their backs. Now Lucy did not like to hear
the Greystocks abused, and would say so. "That's all very well, you
little minx," Lizzie would say playfully, "but you know that they are
all asses!" Lucy by no means thought that the Greystocks were asses,
and was very strongly of opinion that one of them was as far removed
from being an ass as any human being she had ever known. This one was
Frank Greystock, the barrister. Of Frank Greystock some special--but,
let it be hoped, very short--description must be given by-and-by. For
the present it will be sufficient to declare that, during that short
Easter holiday which he spent at his father's house in Bobsborough,
he found Lucy Morris to be a most agreeable companion.
"Remember her position," said Mrs. Dean to her son.
"Her position! Well;--and what is her position mother?"
"You know what I mean, Frank. She is as sweet a girl as ever lived,
and a perfect lady. But with a governess, unless you mean to marry
her, you should be more careful than with another girl, because you
may do her such a world of mischief."
"I don't see that at all."
"If Lady Fawn knew that she had an admirer, Lady Fawn would not let
her come into her house."
"Then Lady Fawn is an idiot. If a girl be admirable, of course she
will be admired. Who can hinder it?"
"You know what I mean, Frank."
"Yes--I do; well. I don't suppose I can afford to marry Lucy Morris.
At any rate, mother, I will never say a word to raise a hope in
her,--if it would be a hope--"
"Of course it would be a hope."
"I don't know that at all. But I will never say any such word to
her,--unless I make up my mind that I can afford to marry her."
"Oh, Frank, it would be impossible!" said Mrs. Dean.
Mrs. Dean was a very good woman, but she had aspirations in the
direction of filthy lucre on behalf of her children, or at least on
behalf of this special child, and she did think it would be very
nice if Frank would marry an heiress. This, however, was a long time
ago, nearly two years ago; and many grave things had got themselves
transacted since Lucy's visit to the deanery. She had become quite
an old and an accustomed member of Lady Fawn's family. The youngest
Fawn girl was not yet fifteen, and it was understood that Lucy was to
remain with the Fawns for some quite indefinite time to come. Lady
Fawn's eldest daughter, Mrs. Hittaway, had a family of her own,
having been married ten or twelve years, and it was quite probable
that Lucy might be transferred. Lady Fawn fully appreciated her
treasure, and was, and ever had been, conscientiously anxious to make
Lucy's life happy. But she thought that a governess should not be
desirous of marrying, at any rate till a somewhat advanced period of
life. A governess, if she were given to falling in love, could hardly
perform her duties in life. No doubt, not to be a governess, but a
young lady free from the embarrassing necessity of earning bread,
free to have a lover and a husband, would be upon the whole nicer.
So it is nicer to be born to £10,000 a year than to have to wish for
£500. Lady Fawn could talk excellent sense on this subject by the
hour, and always admitted that much was due to a governess who knew
her place and did her duty. She was very fond of Lucy Morris, and
treated her dependent with affectionate consideration;--but she did
not approve of visits from Mr. Frank Greystock. Lucy, blushing up
to the eyes, had once declared that she desired to have no personal
visitors at Lady Fawn's house; but that, as regarded her own
friendships, the matter was one for her own bosom. "Dear Miss
Morris," Lady Fawn had said, "we understand each other so perfectly,
and you are so good, that I am quite sure everything will be as it
ought to be." Lady Fawn lived down at Richmond all the year through,
in a large old-fashioned house with a large old-fashioned garden,
called Fawn Court. After that speech of hers to Lucy, Frank Greystock
did not call again at Fawn Court for many months, and it is possible
that her ladyship had said a word also to him. But Lady Eustace, with
her pretty little pair of grey ponies, would sometimes drive down to
Richmond to see her "dear little old friend" Lucy, and her visits
were allowed. Lady Fawn had expressed an opinion among her daughters
that she did not see any harm in Lady Eustace. She thought that she
rather liked Lady Eustace. But then Lady Fawn hated Lady Linlithgow
as only two old women can hate each other;--and she had not heard the
story of the diamond necklace.
Lucy Morris certainly was a treasure,--a treasure though no heroine.
She was a sweetly social, genial little human being whose presence in
the house was ever felt to be like sunshine. She was never forward,
but never bashful. She was always open to familiar intercourse
without ever putting herself forward. There was no man or woman with
whom she would not so talk as to make the man or woman feel that
the conversation was remarkably pleasant,--and she could do the
same with any child. She was an active, mindful, bright, energetic
little thing to whom no work ever came amiss. She had catalogued
the library,--which had been collected by the late Lord Fawn with
peculiar reference to the Christian theology of the third and fourth
centuries. She had planned the new flower-garden,--though Lady Fawn
thought that she had done that herself. She had been invaluable
during Clara Fawn's long illness. She knew every rule at croquet,
and could play piquet. When the girls got up charades they had to
acknowledge that everything depended on Miss Morris. They were
good-natured, plain, unattractive girls, who spoke of her to her face
as one who could easily do anything to which she might put her hand.
Lady Fawn did really love her. Lord Fawn, the eldest son, a young man
of about thirty-five, a Peer of Parliament and an Under-Secretary
of State,--very prudent and very diligent,--of whom his mother and
sisters stood in great awe, consulted her frequently and made no
secret of his friendship. The mother knew her awful son well, and was
afraid of nothing wrong in that direction. Lord Fawn had suffered a
disappointment in love, but he had consoled himself with blue-books,
and mastered his passion by incessant attendance at the India Board.
The lady he had loved had been rich, and Lord Fawn was poor; but
nevertheless he had mastered his passion. There was no fear that his
feelings towards the governess would become too warm;--nor was it
likely that Miss Morris should encounter danger in regard to him. It
was quite an understood thing in the family that Lord Fawn must marry
money.
Lucy Morris was indeed a treasure. No brighter face ever looked into
another to seek sympathy there, either in mirth or woe. There was a
gleam in her eyes that was almost magnetic, so sure was she to obtain
by it that community of interest which she desired,--though it were
but for a moment. Lord Fawn was pompous, slow, dull, and careful;
but even he had given way to it at once. Lady Fawn, too, was very
careful, but she had owned to herself long since that she could not
bear to look forward to any permanent severance. Of course Lucy would
be made over to the Hittaways, whose mother lived in Warwick Square,
and whose father was Chairman of the Board of Civil Appeals. The
Hittaways were the only grandchildren with whom Lady Fawn had as yet
been blessed, and of course Lucy must go to the Hittaways.
She was but a little thing;--and it cannot be said of her, as of Lady
Eustace, that she was a beauty. The charm of her face consisted in
the peculiar, watery brightness of her eyes,--in the corners of which
it would always seem that a diamond of a tear was lurking whenever
any matter of excitement was afoot. Her light-brown hair was soft
and smooth and pretty. As hair it was very well, but it had no
speciality. Her mouth was somewhat large, but full of ever-varying
expression. Her forehead was low and broad, with prominent temples,
on which it was her habit to clasp tightly her little outstretched
fingers as she sat listening to you. Of listeners she was the very
best, for she would always be saying a word or two, just to help
you,--the best word that could be spoken, and then again she would
be hanging on your lips. There are listeners who show by their mode
of listening that they listen as a duty,--not because they are
interested. Lucy Morris was not such a one. She would take up your
subject, whatever it was, and make it her own. There was forward just
then a question as to whether the Sawab of Mygawb should have twenty
millions of rupees paid to him and be placed upon a throne, or
whether he should be kept in prison all his life. The British world
generally could not be made to interest itself about the Sawab, but
Lucy positively mastered the subject, and almost got Lord Fawn into a
difficulty by persuading him to stand up against his chief on behalf
of the injured prince.
What else can be said of her face or personal appearance that will
interest a reader? When she smiled, there was the daintiest little
dimple on her cheek. And when she laughed, that little nose, which
was not as well-shaped a nose as it might have been, would almost
change its shape and cock itself up in its mirth. Her hands were very
thin and long, and so were her feet,--by no means models as were
those of her friend Lady Eustace. She was a little, thin, quick,
graceful creature, whom it was impossible that you should see without
wishing to have near you. A most unselfish little creature she was,
but one who had a well-formed idea of her own identity. She was quite
resolved to be somebody among her fellow-creatures,--not somebody
in the way of marrying a lord or a rich man, or somebody in the way
of being a beauty, or somebody as a wit; but somebody as having a
purpose and a use in life. She was the humblest little thing in
the world in regard to any possible putting of herself forward or
needful putting of herself back; and yet, to herself, nobody was her
superior. What she had was her own, whether it was the old grey silk
dress which she had bought with the money she had earned, or the wit
which nature had given her. And Lord Fawn's title was his own, and
Lady Fawn's rank her own. She coveted no man's possessions,--and no
woman's; but she was minded to hold by her own. Of present advantages
or disadvantages,--whether she had the one or suffered from the
other,--she thought not at all. It was her fault that she had nothing
of feminine vanity. But no man or woman was ever more anxious
to be effective, to persuade, to obtain belief, sympathy, and
co-operation;--not for any result personal to herself, but because,
by obtaining these things, she could be effective in the object then
before her, be it what it might.
One other thing may be told of her. She had given her heart,--for
good and all, as she owned to herself,--to Frank Greystock. She
had owned to herself that it was so, and had owned to herself that
nothing could come of it. Frank was becoming a man of mark,--but was
becoming a man of mark without much money. Of all men he was the last
who could afford to marry a governess. And then, moreover, he had
never said a word to make her think that he loved her. He had called
on her once or twice at Fawn Court,--as why should he not? Seeing
that there had been friendship between the families for so many
years, who could complain of that? Lady Fawn, however, had--not
complained, but just said a word. A word in season, how good is
it? Lucy did not much regard the word spoken to herself; but
when she reflected that a word must also have been spoken to Mr.
Greystock,--otherwise how should it have been that he never came
again?--that she did not like.
In herself she regarded this passion of hers as a healthy man regards
the loss of a leg or an arm. It is a great nuisance, a loss that
maims the whole life,--a misfortune to be much regretted. But because
a leg is gone, everything is not gone. A man with a wooden leg may
stump about through much action, and may enjoy the keenest pleasures
of humanity. He has his eyes left to him, and his ears, and his
intellect. He will not break his heart for the loss of that leg. And
so it was with Lucy Morris. She would still stump about and be very
active. Eyes, ears, and intellect were left to her. Looking at her
position, she told herself that a happy love could hardly have been
her lot in life. Lady Fawn, she thought, was right. A governess
should make up her mind to do without a lover. She had given away her
heart, and yet she would do without a lover. When, on one dull, dark
afternoon, as she was thinking of all this, Lord Fawn suddenly put
into her hands a cruelly long printed document respecting the Sawab,
she went to work upon it immediately. As she read it, she could not
refrain from thinking how wonderfully Frank Greystock would plead the
cause of the Indian prince, if the privilege of pleading it could be
given to him.
The spring had come round, with May and the London butterflies, at
the time at which our story begins, and during six months Frank
Greystock had not been at Fawn Court. Then one day Lady Eustace came
down with her ponies, and her footman, and a new dear friend of hers,
Miss Macnulty. While Miss Macnulty was being honoured by Lady Fawn,
Lizzie had retreated to a corner with her old dear friend Lucy
Morris. It was pretty to see how so wealthy and fashionable a woman
as Lady Eustace could show so much friendship to a governess. "Have
you seen Frank, lately?" said Lady Eustace, referring to her cousin
the barrister.
"Not for ever so long," said Lucy, with her cheeriest smile.
"He is not going to prove a false knight?" asked Lady Eustace, in her
lowest whisper.
"I don't know that Mr. Greystock is much given to knighthood at all,"
said Lucy,--"unless it is to being made Sir Francis by his party."
"Nonsense, my dear; as if I didn't know. I suppose Lady Fawn has been
interfering--like an old cat as she is."
"She is not an old cat, Lizzie! and I won't hear her called so. If
you think so, you shouldn't come here. And she hasn't interfered.
That is, she has done nothing that she ought not to have done."
"Then she has interfered," said Lady Eustace, as she got up and
walked across the room, with a sweet smile to the old cat.