Showing What Frank Greystock Did
Frank Greystock escaped from the dovecote before Lady Fawn had
returned. He had not made his visit to Richmond with any purpose of
seeing Lucy Morris, or of saying to her when he did see her anything
special,--of saying anything that should, or anything that should
not, have been said. He had gone there, in truth, simply because his
cousin had asked him, and because it was almost a duty on his part to
see his cousin on the momentous occasion of this new engagement. But
he had declared to himself that old Lady Fawn was a fool, and that
to see Lucy again would be very pleasant. "See her;--of course I'll
see her," he had said. "Why should I be prevented from seeing her?"
Now he had seen her, and as he returned by the train to London, he
acknowledged to himself that it was no longer in his power to promote
his fortune by marriage. He had at last said that to Lucy which made
it impossible for him to offer his hand to any other woman. He had
not, in truth, asked her to be his wife; but he had told her that he
loved her, and could never love any other woman. He had asked for no
answer to this assurance, and then he had left her.
In the course of that afternoon he did question himself as to his
conduct to this girl, and subjected himself to some of the rigours
of a cross-examination. He was not a man who could think of a girl
as the one human being whom he loved above all others, and yet look
forward with equanimity to the idea of doing her an injury. He could
understand that a man unable to marry should be reticent as to his
feelings,--supposing him to have been weak enough to have succumbed
to a passion which could only mar his own prospects. He was frank
enough in owning to himself that he had been thus weak. The weakness
had come upon himself early in life,--and was there, an established
fact. The girl was to him unlike any other girl;--or any man. There
was to him a sweetness in her companionship which he could not
analyse. She was not beautiful. She had none of the charms of
fashion. He had never seen her well-dressed,--according to the ideas
of dress which he found to be prevailing in the world. She was a
little thing, who, as a man's wife, could attract no attention by
figure, form, or outward manner,--one who had quietly submitted
herself to the position of a governess, and who did not seem to think
that in doing so she obtained less than her due. But yet he knew
her to be better than all the rest. For him, at any rate, she was
better than all the rest. Her little hand was cool and sweet to him.
Sometimes when he was heated and hard at work, he would fancy how it
would be with him if she were by him, and would lay it on his brow.
There was a sparkle in her eye that had to him more of sympathy in it
than could be conveyed by all the other eyes in the world. There was
an expression in her mouth when she smiled, which was more eloquent
to him than any sound. There were a reality and a truth about her
which came home to him, and made themselves known to him as firm
rocks which could not be shaken. He had never declared to himself
that deceit or hypocrisy in a woman was especially abominable. As a
rule he looked for it in women, and would say that some amount of
affectation was necessary to a woman's character. He knew that his
cousin Lizzie was a little liar,--that she was, as Lucy had said, a
pretty animal that would turn and bite;--and yet he liked his cousin
Lizzie. He did not want women to be perfect,--so he would say. But
Lucy Morris, in his eyes, was perfect; and when he told her that she
was ever the queen who reigned in those castles in the air which he
built,--as others build them, he told her no more than the truth.
He had fallen into these feelings and could not now avoid them, or be
quit of them;--but he could have been silent respecting them. He knew
that in former days, down at Bobsborough, he had not been altogether
silent. When he had first seen her at Fawn Court he had not been
altogether silent. But he had been warned away from Fawn Court, and
in that very warning there was conveyed, as it were, an absolution
from the effect of words hitherto spoken. Though he had called Lady
Fawn an old fool, he had known that it was so,--had, after a fashion,
perceived her wisdom,--and had regarded himself as a man free to
decide, without disgrace, that he might abandon ideas of ecstatic
love and look out for a rich wife. Presuming himself to be reticent
for the future in reference to his darling Lucy, he might do as he
pleased with himself. Thus there had come a moment in which he had
determined that he would ask his rich cousin to marry him. In that
little project he had been interrupted, and the reader knows what
had come of it. Lord Fawn's success had not in the least annoyed
him. He had only half resolved in regard to his cousin. She was very
beautiful no doubt, and there was her income;--but he also knew that
those teeth would bite and that those claws would scratch. But Lord
Fawn's success had given a turn to his thoughts, and had made him
think, for a moment, that if a man loved, he should be true to his
love. The reader also knows what had come of that,--how at last he
had not been reticent. He had not asked Lucy to be his wife; but he
had said that which made it impossible that he should marry any other
woman without dishonour.
As he thought of what he had done himself, he tried to remember
whether Lucy had said a word expressive of affection for himself.
She had in truth spoken very few words, and he could remember almost
every one of them. "Have I?"--she had asked, when he told her that
she had ever been the princess reigning in his castles. And there had
been a joy in the question which she had not attempted to conceal.
She had hesitated not at all. She had not told him that she loved
him. But there had been something sweeter than such protestation in
the question she had asked him. "Is it indeed true," she had said,
"that I have been placed there where all my joy and all my glory
lies?" It was not in her to tell a lie to him, even by a tone. She
had intended to say nothing of her love, but he knew that it had all
been told. "Have I?"--he repeated the words to himself a dozen times,
and as he did so, he could hear her voice. Certainly there never was
a voice that brought home to the hearer so strong a sense of its own
truth!
Why should he not at once make up his mind to marry her? He could
do it. There was no doubt of that. It was possible for him to alter
the whole manner of his life, to give up his clubs,--to give up even
Parliament, if the need to do so was there,--and to live as a married
man on the earnings of his profession. There was no need why he
should regard himself as a poor man. Two things, no doubt, were
against his regarding himself as a rich man. Ever since he had
commenced life in London he had been more or less in debt; and then,
unfortunately, he had acquired a seat in Parliament at a period of
his career in which the dangers of such a position were greater than
the advantages. Nevertheless he could earn an income on which he and
his wife, were he to marry, could live in all comfort; and as to his
debts, if he would set his shoulder to the work they might be paid
off in a twelvemonth. There was nothing in the prospect which would
frighten Lucy, though there might be a question whether he possessed
the courage needed for so violent a change.
He had chambers in the Temple; he lived in rooms which he hired from
month to month in one of the big hotels at the West End; and he dined
at his club, or at the House, when he was not dining with a friend.
It was an expensive and a luxurious mode of life,--and one from
the effects of which a man is prone to drift very quickly into
selfishness. He was by no means given to drinking,--but he was
already learning to like good wine. Small economies in reference to
cab-hire, gloves, umbrellas, and railway fares were unknown to him.
Sixpences and shillings were things with which, in his mind, it was
grievous to have to burden the thoughts. The Greystocks had all lived
after that fashion. Even the dean himself was not free from the
charge of extravagance. All this Frank knew, and he did not hesitate
to tell himself, that he must make a great change if he meant to
marry Lucy Morris. And he was wise enough to know that the change
would become more difficult every day that it was postponed. Hitherto
the question had been an open question with him. Could it now be an
open question any longer? As a man of honour, was he not bound to
share his lot with Lucy Morris?
That evening,--that Saturday evening,--it so happened that he met
John Eustace at a club to which they both belonged, and they dined
together. They had long known each other, and had been thrown into
closer intimacy by the marriage between Sir Florian and Lizzie. John
Eustace had never been fond of Lizzie, and now, in truth, liked
her less than ever; but he did like Lizzie's cousin, and felt that
possibly Frank might be of use to him in the growing difficulty of
managing the heir's property and looking after the heir's interests.
"You've let the widow slip through your fingers," he said to Frank,
as they sat together at the table.
"I told you Lord Fawn was to be the lucky man," said Frank.
"I know you did. I hadn't seen it. I can only say I wish it had been
the other way."
"Why so? Fawn isn't a bad fellow."
"No;--not exactly a bad fellow. He isn't, you know, what I call a
good fellow. In the first place, he is marrying her altogether for
her money."
"Which is just what you advised me to do."
"I thought you really liked her. And then Fawn will be always afraid
of her,--and won't be in the least afraid of us. We shall have to
fight him, and he won't fight her. He's a cantankerous fellow,--is
Fawn,--when he's not afraid of his adversary."
"But why should there be any fighting?"
Eustace paused a minute, and rubbed his face and considered the
matter before he answered. "She is troublesome, you know," he said.
"What; Lizzie?"
"Yes;--and I begin to be afraid she'll give us as much as we know how
to do. I was with Camperdown to-day. I'm blessed if she hasn't begun
to cut down a whole side of a forest at Portray. She has no more
right to touch the timber, except for repairs about the place, than
you have."
"And if she lives for fifty years," asked Greystock, "is none to be
cut?"
"Yes;--by consent. Of course the regular cutting for the year is
done, year by year. That's as regular as the rents, and the produce
is sold by the acre. But she is marking the old oaks. What the deuce
can she want money for?"
"Fawn will put all that right."
"He'll have to do it," said Eustace. "Since she has been down with
the old Lady Fawn, she has written a note to Camperdown,--after
leaving all his letters unanswered for the last twelvemonth,--to tell
him that Lord Fawn is to have nothing to do with her property, and
that certain people, called Mowbray and Mopus, are her lawyers.
Camperdown is in an awful way about it."
"Lord Fawn will put it all right," said Frank.
"Camperdown is afraid that he won't. They've met twice since the
engagement was made, and Camperdown says that, at the last meeting,
Fawn gave himself airs, or was, at any rate, unpleasant. There were
words about those diamonds."
"You don't mean to say that Lord Fawn wants to keep your brother's
family jewels?"
"Camperdown didn't say that exactly;--but Fawn made no offer of
giving them up. I wasn't there, and only heard what Camperdown told
me. Camperdown thinks he's afraid of her."
"I shouldn't wonder at that in the least," said Frank.
"I know there'll be trouble," continued Eustace, "and Fawn won't
be able to help us through it. She's a strong-willed, cunning,
obstinate, clever little creature. Camperdown swears he'll be too
many for her, but I almost doubt it."
"And therefore you wish I were going to marry her?"
"Yes, I do. You might manage her. The money comes from the Eustace
property, and I'd sooner it should go to you than a half-hearted,
numb-fingered, cold-blooded Whig, like Fawn."
"I don't like cunning women," said Frank.
"As bargains go, it wouldn't be a bad one," said Eustace. "She's very
young, has a noble jointure, and is as handsome as she can stand.
It's too good a thing for Fawn;--too good for any Whig."
When Eustace left him, Greystock lit his cigar and walked with it
in his mouth from Pall Mall to the Temple. He often worked there at
night when he was not bound to be in the House, or when the House
was not sitting,--and he was now intent on mastering the mysteries
of some much-complicated legal case which had been confided to him,
in order that he might present it to a jury enveloped in increased
mystery. But, as he went, he thought rather of matrimony than of
law;--and he thought especially of matrimony as it was about to
affect Lord Fawn. Could a man be justified in marrying for money, or
have rational ground for expecting that he might make himself happy
by doing so? He kept muttering to himself as he went, the Quaker's
advice to the old farmer, "Doan't thou marry for munny, but goa where
munny is!" But he muttered it as condemning the advice rather than
accepting it.
He could look out and see two altogether different kinds of life
before him, both of which had their allurements. There was the
Belgravia-cum-Pimlico life, the scene of which might extend itself
to South Kensington, enveloping the parks and coming round over
Park Lane, and through Grosvenor Square and Berkeley Square back
to Piccadilly. Within this he might live with lords and countesses
and rich folk generally, going out to the very best dinner-parties,
avoiding stupid people, having everything the world could give,
except a wife and family and home of his own. All this he could
achieve by the work which would certainly fall in his way, and by
means of that position in the world which he had already attained by
his wits. And the wife, with the family and house of his own, might
be forthcoming, should it ever come in his way to form an attachment
with a wealthy woman. He knew how dangerous were the charms of such a
life as this to a man growing old among the flesh-pots, without any
one to depend upon him. He had seen what becomes of the man who is
always dining out at sixty. But he might avoid that. "Doan't thou
marry for munny, but goa where munny is." And then there was that
other outlook, the scene of which was laid somewhere north of Oxford
Street, and the glory of which consisted in Lucy's smile, and Lucy's
hand, and Lucy's kiss, as he returned home weary from his work.
There are many men, and some women, who pass their lives without
knowing what it is to be or to have been in love. They not improbably
marry,--the men do, at least,--and make good average husbands. Their
wives are useful to them, and they learn to feel that a woman, being
a wife, is entitled to all the respect, protection, and honour which
a man can give, or procure for her. Such men, no doubt, often live
honest lives, are good Christians, and depart hence with hopes as
justifiable as though they had loved as well as Romeo. But yet, as
men, they have lacked a something, the want of which has made them
small and poor and dry. It has never been felt by such a one that
there would be triumph in giving away everything belonging to him
for one little whispered, yielding word, in which there should be
acknowledgment that he had succeeded in making himself master of a
human heart. And there are other men,--very many men,--who have felt
this love, and have resisted it, feeling it to be unfit that Love
should be Lord of all. Frank Greystock had told himself, a score
of times, that it would be unbecoming in him to allow a passion to
obtain such mastery of him as to interfere with his ambition. Could
it be right that he who, as a young man, had already done so much,
who might possibly have before him so high and great a career, should
miss that, because he could not resist a feeling which a little chit
of a girl had created in his bosom,--a girl without money, without
position, without even beauty; a girl as to whom, were he to marry
her, the world would say, "Oh, heaven!--there has Frank Greystock
gone and married a little governess out of old Lady Fawn's nursery!"
And yet he loved her with all his heart, and to-day he had told her
of his love. What should he do next?
The complicated legal case received neither much ravelling nor
unravelling from his brains that night; but before he left his
chambers he wrote the following letter:--
Midnight, Saturday,
All among my books and papers,
2, Bolt Court, Middle Temple.
DEAR, DEAR LUCY,
I told you to-day that you had ever been the Queen who
reigned in those palaces which I have built in Spain.
You did not make me much of an answer; but such as it
was,--only just one muttered doubtful-sounding word,--it
has made me hope that I may be justified in asking you to
share with me a home which will not be palatial. If I am
wrong--? But no;--I will not think I am wrong, or that I
can be wrong. No sound coming from you is really doubtful.
You are truth itself, and the muttered word would have
been other than it was, if you had not--! may I say,--had
you not already learned to love me?
You will feel, perhaps, that I ought to have said all this
to you then, and that a letter in such a matter is but
a poor substitute for a spoken assurance of affection.
You shall have the whole truth. Though I have long loved
you, I did not go down to Fawn Court with the purpose of
declaring to you my love. What I said to you was God's
truth; but it was spoken without thought at the moment. I
have thought of it much since;--and now I write to ask you
to be my wife. I have lived for the last year or two with
this hope before me; and now-- Dear, dear Lucy, I will not
write in too great confidence; but I will tell you that
all my happiness is in your hands.
If your answer is what I hope it may be, tell Lady Fawn at
once. I shall immediately write to Bobsborough, as I hate
secrets in such matters. And if it is to be so,--then I
shall claim the privilege of going to Fawn Court as soon
and as often as I please.
Yours ever and always,--if you will have me,--
F. G.
He sat for an hour at his desk, with his letter lying on the table,
before he left his chambers,--looking at it. If he should decide on
posting it, then would that life in Belgravia-cum-Pimlico,--of which
in truth he was very fond,--be almost closed for him. The lords and
countesses, and rich county members, and leading politicians, who
were delighted to welcome him, would not care for his wife; nor
could he very well take his wife among them. To live with them as
a married man, he must live as they lived;--and must have his own
house in their precincts. Later in life, he might possibly work up to
this;--but for the present he must retire into dim domestic security
and the neighbourhood of Regent's Park. He sat looking at the letter,
telling himself that he was now, at this moment, deciding his own
fate in life. And he again muttered the Quaker's advice, "Doan't thou
marry for munny, but goa where munny is!" It may be said, however,
that no man ever writes such a letter, and then omits to send it. He
walked out of the Temple with it in his hand, and dropped it into
a pillar letter-box just outside the gate. As the envelope slipped
through his fingers, he felt that he had now bound himself to his
fate.