"And I Have Nothing to Give"
It was now the end of June, and Frank Greystock had been as yet but
once at Fawn Court since he had written to Lucy Morris asking her to
be his wife. That was three weeks since, and as the barrier against
him at Fawn Court had been removed by Lady Fawn herself, the Fawn
girls thought that as a lover he was very slack; but Lucy was not in
the least annoyed. Lucy knew that it was all right; for Frank, as he
took his last walk round the shrubbery with her during that visit,
had given her to understand that there was a little difference
between him and Lady Fawn in regard to Lizzie Eustace. "I am her only
relative in London," Frank had said.
"Lady Linlithgow," suggested Lucy.
"They have quarrelled, and the old woman is as bitter as gall. There
is no one else to stand up for her, and I must see that she isn't
ill-used. Women do hate each other so virulently, and Lady Fawn hates
her future daughter-in-law." Lucy did not in the least grudge her
lover's assistance to his cousin. There was nothing of jealousy
in her feeling. She thought that Lizzie was unworthy of Frank's
goodness, but on such an occasion as this she would not say so. She
told him nothing of the bribe that had been offered her, nor on that
subject had she said a word to any of the Fawns. She understood,
too, that as Frank had declared his purpose of supporting Lizzie,
it might be as well that he should see just at present as little of
Lady Fawn as possible. Not a word, however, had Lady Fawn said to
Lucy disparaging her lover for his conduct. It was quite understood
now at Fawn Court, by all the girls, and no doubt by the whole
establishment, that Lizzie Eustace was to be regarded as an enemy. It
was believed by them all that Lord Fawn had broken off the match--or,
at least, that he was resolved to break it; but various stratagems
were to be used, and terrible engines of war were to be brought up,
if necessary, to prevent an alliance which was now thought to be
disreputable. Mrs. Hittaway had been hard at work, and had found out
something very like truth in regard to the whole transaction with Mr.
Benjamin. Perhaps Mrs. Hittaway had found out more than was quite
true as to poor Lizzie's former sins; but what she did find out she
used with all her skill, communicating her facts to her mother, to
Mr. Camperdown, and to her brother. Her brother had almost quarrelled
with her, but still she continued to communicate her facts.
At this period Frank Greystock was certainly somewhat unreasonable in
regard to his cousin. At one time, as the reader will remember, he
had thought of asking her to be his wife;--because she was rich; but
even then he had not thought well of her, had hardly believed her
to be honest, and had rejoiced when he found that circumstances
rather than his own judgment had rescued him from that evil. He had
professed to be delighted when Lord Fawn was accepted,--as being
happy to think that his somewhat dangerous cousin was provided with
so safe a husband; and, when he had first heard of the necklace, he
had expressed an opinion that of course it would be given up. In all
this then he had shown no strong loyalty to his cousin, no very dear
friendship, nothing to make those who knew him feel that he would
buckle on armour in her cause. But of late,--and that, too, since his
engagement with Lucy,--he had stood up very stoutly as her friend,
and the armour was being buckled on. He had not scrupled to say that
he meant to see her through this business with Lord Fawn, and had
somewhat astonished Mr. Camperdown by raising a doubt on the question
of the necklace. "He can't but know that she has no more right to it
than I have," Mr. Camperdown had said to his son with indignation.
Mr. Camperdown was becoming unhappy about the necklace, not quite
knowing how to proceed in the matter.
In the meantime Frank had obeyed his better instincts, and had asked
Lucy Morris to be his wife. He had gone to Fawn Court in compliance
with a promise to Lizzie Eustace, that he would call upon her there.
He had walked with Lucy because he was at Fawn Court. And he had
written to Lucy because of the words he had spoken during the walk.
In all this the matter had arranged itself as such matters do, and
there was nothing, in truth, to be regretted. He really did love the
girl with all his heart. It may, perhaps, be said that he had never
in truth loved any other woman. In the best humours of his mind he
would tell himself,--had from old times told himself often,--that
unless he married Lucy Morris he could never marry at all. When his
mother, knowing that poor Lucy was penniless, had, as mothers will
do, begged him to beware, he had spoken up for his love honestly,
declaring to her that in his eyes there was no woman living equal to
Lucy Morris. The reader has seen him with the words almost on his
tongue with which to offer his hand to his cousin, Lizzie Eustace,
knowing as he did so that his heart had been given to Lucy,--knowing
also that Lucy's heart had been given to him! But he had not done it,
and the better humour had prevailed.
Within the figure and frame and clothes and cuticle, within the bones
and flesh of many of us, there is but one person,--a man or woman,
with a preponderance either of good or evil, whose conduct in any
emergency may be predicted with some assurance of accuracy by any
one knowing the man or woman. Such persons are simple, single, and,
perhaps, generally, safe. They walk along lines in accordance with
certain fixed instincts or principles, and are to-day as they were
yesterday, and will be to-morrow as they are to-day. Lady Eustace was
such a person, and so was Lucy Morris. Opposite in their characters
as the two poles, they were, each of them, a simple entity; and any
doubt or error in judging of the future conduct of either of them
would come from insufficient knowledge of the woman. But there are
human beings who, though of necessity single in body, are dual in
character;--in whose breasts not only is evil always fighting against
good,--but to whom evil is sometimes horribly, hideously evil, but is
sometimes also not hideous at all. Of such men it may be said that
Satan obtains an intermittent grasp, from which, when it is released,
the rebound carries them high amidst virtuous resolutions and a
thorough love of things good and noble. Such men,--or women,--may
hardly, perhaps, debase themselves with the more vulgar vices. They
will not be rogues, or thieves, or drunkards,--or, perhaps, liars;
but ambition, luxury, self-indulgence, pride, and covetousness will
get a hold of them, and in various moods will be to them virtues in
lieu of vices. Such a man was Frank Greystock, who could walk along
the banks of the quiet, trout-giving Bob, at Bobsborough, whipping
the river with his rod, telling himself that the world lost for love
would be a bad thing well lost for a fine purpose; and who could also
stand, with his hands in his trousers pockets, looking down upon the
pavement, in the purlieus of the courts at Westminster, and swear
to himself that he would win the game, let the cost to his heart be
what it might. What must a man be who would allow some undefined
feeling,--some inward ache which he calls a passion and cannot
analyse, some desire which has come of instinct and not of
judgment,--to interfere with all the projects of his intellect,
with all the work which he has laid out for his accomplishment?
Circumstances had thrown him into a path of life for which, indeed,
his means were insufficient, but which he regarded as, of all paths,
the noblest and the manliest. If he could be true to himself,--with
such truth as at these moments would seem to him to be the truest
truth,--there was nothing in rank, nothing in ambition, which
might not be within his reach. He might live with the highest, the
best-educated, and the most beautiful; he might assist in directing
national councils by his intelligence; and might make a name for
himself which should be remembered in his country, and of which men
would read the records in the histories written in after ages. But to
do this, he must walk warily. He, an embarrassed man, a man already
in debt, a man with no realised property coming to him in reversion,
was called upon to live, and to live as though at his ease, among
those who had been born to wealth. And, indeed, he had so cleverly
learned the ways of the wealthy, that he hardly knew any longer how
to live at his ease among the poor.
But had he walked warily when he went down to Richmond, and
afterwards, sitting alone in the obscurity of his chamber, wrote the
letter which had made Lucy Morris so happy? It must be acknowledged
that he did, in truth, love the girl,--that he was capable of a
strong feeling. She was not beautiful,--hardly even pretty, small,
in appearance almost insignificant, quite penniless, a governess! He
had often asked himself what it was that had so vanquished him. She
always wore a pale grey frock,--with, perhaps, a grey ribbon,--never
running into any bright form of clothing. She was educated, very
well-educated; but she owned no great accomplishment. She had not
sung his heart away, or ravished him with the harp. Even of her words
she was sparing, seeming to care more to listen than to speak; a
humble little thing to look at,--one of whom you might say that she
regarded herself as well-placed if left in the background. Yet he
had found her out, and knew her. He had recognised the treasure, and
had greatly desired to possess it. He had confessed to himself that,
could splendour and ambition be laid aside, that little thing would
be all the world to him. As he sat in court, or in the House, patient
from practice as he half-listened to the ponderous speeches of
advocates or politicians, he would think of the sparkle in her eye,
of the dimple in her chin, of the lines of the mouth which could
plead so eloquently, though with few words. To sit on some high seat
among his countrymen, and also to marry Lucy Morris,--that would be a
high ambition. He had chosen his way now, and she was engaged to be
his wife.
As he thought of it after he had done it, it was not all happiness,
all contentment, with him. He did feel that he had crippled
himself,--impeded himself in running the race, as it were, with a
log round his leg. He had offered to marry her, and he must do so at
once, or almost at once, because she could now find no other home but
his. He knew, as well as did Lady Fawn, that she could not go into
another family as governess; and he knew also that she ought not to
remain in Lady Fawn's house an hour longer than she would be wanted
there. He must alter his plan of living at once, give up the luxury
of his rooms at the Grosvenor, take a small house somewhere, probably
near the Swiss Cottage, come up and down to his chambers by the
underground railway, and, in all probability, abandon Parliament
altogether. He was not sure whether, in good faith, he should not at
once give notice of his intended acceptance of the Chiltern Hundreds
to the electors of Bobsborough. Thus meditating, under the influence
of that intermittent evil grasp, almost angry with himself for the
open truth which he had spoken,--or rather written, and perhaps
thinking more of Lizzie and her beauty than he should have done, in
the course of three weeks he had paid but one visit to Fawn Court.
Then, of a sudden, finding himself one afternoon relieved from work,
he resolved to go there. The days were still almost at their longest,
and he did not scruple to present himself before Lady Fawn between
eight and nine in the evening. They were all at tea, and he was
welcomed kindly. Lucy, when he was announced, at once got up and met
him almost at the doorway, sparkling with just a tear of joy in her
eye, with a look in her face, and a loving manner, which for the
moment made him sure that the little house near the Swiss Cottage
would, after all, be the only Elysium upon earth. If she spoke a word
he hardly heard it, but her hand was in his, so cool and soft, almost
trembling in its grasp, with no attempt to withdraw itself, frank,
loving, and honest. There was a perfect satisfaction in her greeting
which at once told him that she had no discontented thoughts,--had
had no such thought,--because he had been so long without coming. To
see him was a great joy. But every hour of her life was a joy to her,
knowing, as she did know, that he loved her.
Lady Fawn was gracious, the girls were hospitable, and he found
himself made very welcome amidst all the women at the tea-table.
Not a word was said about Lizzie Eustace. Lady Fawn talked about
Parliament, and professed to pity a poor lover who was so bound
to his country that he could not see his mistress above once a
fortnight. "But there'll be a good time coming next month," she
said;--for it was now July. "Though the girls can't make their claims
felt, the grouse can."
"It isn't the House altogether that rules me with a rod of iron, Lady
Fawn," said Frank, "but the necessity of earning daily bread by the
sweat of my brow. A man who has to sit in court all day must take the
night,--or, indeed, any time that he can get,--to read up his cases."
"But the grouse put a stop to all work," said Lady Fawn. "My gardener
told me just now that he wanted a day or two in August. I don't doubt
but that he is going to the moors. Are you going to the moors, Mr.
Greystock?"
As it happened, Frank Greystock did not quite know whether he was
going to the moors or not. The Ayrshire grouse-shooting is not the
best in Scotland;--but there is grouse-shooting in Ayrshire; and the
shooting on the Portray mountains is not the worst shooting in the
county. The castle at Portray overhangs the sea, but there is a wild
district attached to it stretching far back inland, in regard to
which Lizzie Eustace was very proud of talking of "her shooting."
Early in the spring of the present year she had asked her cousin
Frank to accept the shooting for the coming season,--and he had
accepted it. "I shall probably be abroad," she said, "but there
is the old castle." She had offered it as though he had been her
brother, and he had said that he would go down for a couple of
weeks,--not to the castle, but to a little lodge some miles up from
the sea, of which she told him when he declined the castle. When this
invitation was given there was no engagement between her and Lord
Fawn. Since that date, within the last day or two, she had reminded
him of it. "Won't his lordship be there?" he had said laughingly.
"Certainly not," she had answered with serious earnestness. Then she
had explained that her plan of going abroad had been set aside by
circumstances. She did mean to go down to Portray. "I couldn't have
you at the castle," she said, smiling; "but even an Othello couldn't
object to a first cousin at a little cottage ever so many miles
off." It wasn't for him to suggest what objections might rise to the
brain of a modern Othello; but after some hesitation he said that he
would be there. He had promised the trip to a friend, and would like
to keep his promise. But, nevertheless, he almost thought that he
ought to avoid Portray. He intended to support his cousin as far as
he might do so honestly; but he was not quite minded to stand by
her through good report and evil report. He did not desire to be
specially known as her champion, and yet he felt that that position
would be almost forced upon him. He foresaw danger,--and consequently
he was doubting about his journey to Scotland.
"I hardly know whether I am or not," said Frank,--and he almost felt
that he was blushing.
"I hope you are," said Lucy. "When a man has to work all day and
nearly all night he should go where he may get fresh air."
"There's very good air without going to Scotland for it," said Lady
Fawn, who kept up an excellent house at Richmond, but who, with all
her daughters, could not afford autumn trips. The Fawns lived at Fawn
Court all the year round, and consequently Lady Fawn thought that
air was to be found in England sufficiently good for all purposes of
vitality and recreation.
"It's not quite the same thing," said Lucy;--"at least, not for a
man."
After that she was allowed to escape into the grounds with her lover,
and was made happy with half-an-hour of unalloyed bliss. To be alone
with the girl to whom he is not engaged is a man's delight;--to be
alone with the man to whom she is engaged is the woman's. When the
thing is settled there is always present to the man something of a
feeling of clipped wings; whereas the woman is conscious of a new
power of expanding her pinions. The certainty of the thing is to him
repressive. He has done his work, and gained his victory,--and by
conquering has become a slave. To her the certainty of the thing is
the removal of a restraint which has hitherto always been on her.
She can tell him everything, and be told everything,--whereas her
previous confidences, made with those of her own sex, have been
tame, and by comparison valueless. He has no new confidence to
make,--unless when he comes to tell her he likes his meat well done,
and wants his breakfast to be punctual. Lucy now not only promised
herself, but did actually realise a great joy. He seemed to her all
that her heart desired. He was a man whose manner was naturally
caressing and demonstrative, and she was to him, of all women, the
sweetest, the dearest, the most perfect,--and all his own. "But,
Frank,"--she had already been taught to call him Frank when they were
alone together,--"what will come of all this about Lizzie Eustace?"
"They will be married,--of course."
"Do you think so? I am sure Lady Fawn doesn't think so."
"What Lady Fawn thinks on such a matter cannot be helped. When a man
asks a woman to marry him, and she accepts, the natural consequence
is that they will be married. Don't you think so?"
"I hope so,--sometimes," said Lucy, with her two hands joined upon
his arm, and hanging to it with all her little weight.
"You really do hope it?" he said.
"Oh, I do; you know I do. Hope it! I should die if I didn't hope it."
"Then why shouldn't she?" He asked his question with a quick, sharp
voice, and then turned upon her for an answer.
"I don't know," she said, very softly, and still clinging to him. "I
sometimes think there is a difference in people."
"There is a difference; but, still, we hardly judge of people
sufficiently by our own feelings. As she accepted him, you may be
sure that she wishes to marry him. She has more to give than he has."
"And I have nothing to give," she said.
"If I thought so, I'd go back even now," he answered. "It is because
you have so much to give,--so much more than most others,--that I
have thought of you, dreamed of you as my wife, almost ever since I
first knew you."
"I have nothing left to give," she said. "What I ever had is all
given. People call it the heart. I think it is heart, and brain, and
mind, and body,--and almost soul. But, Frank, though Lizzie Eustace
is your cousin, I don't want to be likened to her. She is very
clever, and beautiful,--and has a way with her that I know is
charming;--but--"
"But what, Lucy?"
"I don't think she cares so much as some people. I dare say she likes
Lord Fawn very well, but I do not believe she loves him as I love
you."
"They're engaged," said Frank, "and the best thing they can do is to
marry each other. I can tell you this, at any rate,"--and his manner
again became serious,--"if Lord Fawn behaves ill to her, I, as her
cousin, shall take her part."
"You don't mean that you'll--fight him!"
"No, my darling. Men don't fight each other now-a-days;--not often,
at least, and Fawn and I are not of the fighting sort. I can make him
understand what I mean and what others will mean without fighting
him. He is making a paltry excuse."
"But why should he want to excuse himself--without reason?"
"Because he is afraid. People have got hold of him and told him lies,
and he thinks there will be a scrape about this necklace, and he
hates a scrape. He'll marry her at last, without a doubt, and Lady
Fawn is only making trouble for herself by trying to prevent it. You
can't do anything."
"Oh no;--I can't do anything. When she was here it became at last
quite disagreeable. She hardly spoke to them, and I'm sure that even
the servants understood that there was a quarrel." She did not say a
word of Lizzie's offer of the brooch to herself, nor of the stories
which by degrees were reaching her ears as to the old debts, and the
diamonds, and the young bride's conduct to Lady Linlithgow as soon as
she married her grand husband, Sir Florian. She did think badly of
Lizzie, and could not but regret that her own noble, generous Frank
should have to expend his time and labour on a friend unworthy of his
friendship; but there was no shade of jealousy in her feeling, and
she uttered no word against Lizzie more bitter than that in which she
declared that there was a difference between people.
And then there was something said as to their own prospects in life.
Lucy at once and with vehemence declared that she did not look for or
expect an immediate marriage. She did not scruple to tell him that
she knew well how difficult was the task before him, and that it
might be essential for his interest that he should remain as he was
for a year or two. He was astonished to find how completely she
understood his position, and how thoroughly she sympathised with his
interests. "There is only one thing I couldn't do for you," she said.
"And what is the one thing?"
"I couldn't give you up. I almost thought that I ought to refuse you
because I can do nothing,--nothing to help you. But there will always
come a limit to self-denial. I couldn't do that! Could I?"
The reader will know how this question was answered, and will not
want to be told of the long, close, clinging, praiseworthy kiss with
which the young barrister assured her that would have been on her
part an act of self-denial which would to him have been absolutely
ruinous. It was agreed, however, between them, that Lady Fawn should
be told that they did not propose to marry till some time in the
following year, and that she should be formally asked to allow Lucy
to have a home at Fawn Court in the interval.