Mr. Gowran Is Very Funny
Frank Greystock certainly went over to Portray too often,--so often
that the pony was proved to be quite necessary. Miss Macnulty held
her tongue and was gloomy,--believing that Lady Eustace was still
engaged to Lord Fawn, and feeling that in that case there should not
be so many visits to the rocks. Mr. Gowran was very attentive, and
could tell on any day, to five minutes, how long the two cousins were
sitting together on the sea-shore. Arthur Herriot, who cared nothing
for Lady Eustace, but who knew that his friend had promised to marry
Lucy Morris, was inclined to be serious on the subject; but,--as is
always the case with men,--was not willing to speak about it.
Once, and once only, the two men dined together at the castle,--for
the doing of which it was necessary that a gig should be hired all
the way from Prestwick. Herriot had not been anxious to go over,
alleging various excuses,--the absence of dress clothes, the calls of
Stone and Toddy, his bashfulness, and the absurdity of paying fifteen
shillings for a gig. But he went at last, constrained by his friend,
and a very dull evening he passed. Lizzie was quite unlike her usual
self,--was silent, grave, and solemnly courteous; Miss Macnulty
had not a word to say for herself; and even Frank was dull. Arthur
Herriot had not tried to exert himself, and the dinner had been a
failure.
"You don't think much of my cousin, I daresay," said Frank, as they
were driving back.
"She is a very pretty woman."
"And I should say that she does not think much of you."
"Probably not."
"Why on earth wouldn't you speak to her? I went on making speeches to
Miss Macnulty on purpose to give you a chance. Lizzie generally talks
about as well as any young woman I know; but you had not a word to
say to her, nor she to you."
"Because you devoted yourself to Miss Mac--whatever her name is."
"That's nonsense," said Frank; "Lizzie and I are more like brother
and sister than anything else. She has no one else belonging to her,
and she has to come to me for advice, and all that sort of thing. I
wanted you to like her."
"I never like people, and people never like me. There is an old
saying that you should know a man seven years before you poke his
fire. I want to know persons seven years before I can ask them how
they do. To take me out to dine in this way was of all things the
most hopeless."
"But you do dine out,--in London."
"That's different. There's a certain routine of conversation going,
and one falls into it. At such affairs as that this evening one
has to be intimate, or it is a bore. I don't mean to say anything
against Lady Eustace. Her beauty is undeniable, and I don't doubt her
cleverness."
"She is sometimes too clever," said Frank.
"I hope she is not becoming too clever for you. You've got to
remember that you're due elsewhere;--eh, old fellow?" This was the
first word that Herriot had said on the subject, and to that word
Frank Greystock made no answer. But it had its effect, as also did
the gloomy looks of Miss Macnulty, and the not unobserved presence of
Mr. Andy Gowran on various occasions.
Between them they shot more grouse,--so the keeper swore,--than
had ever been shot on these mountains before. Herriot absolutely
killed one or two himself, to his own great delight, and Frank, who
was fairly skilful, would get four or five in a day. There were
excursions to be made, and the air of the hills was in itself a treat
to both of them. Though Greystock was so often away at the castle,
Herriot did not find the time hang heavily on his hands, and was
sorry when his fortnight was over. "I think I shall stay a couple of
days longer," Frank said, when Herriot spoke of their return. "The
truth is I must see Lizzie again. She is bothered by business, and I
have to see her about a letter that came this morning. You needn't
pull such a long face. There's nothing of the kind you're thinking
of."
"I thought so much of what you once said to me about another girl
that I hope she at any rate may never be in trouble."
"I hope she never may,--on my account," said Frank. "And what
troubles she may have,--as life will be troublesome, I trust that I
may share and lessen."
On that evening Herriot went, and on the next morning Frank Greystock
again rode over to Portray Castle; but when he was alone after
Herriot's departure, he wrote a letter to Lucy Morris. He had
expressed a hope that he might never be a cause of trouble to Lucy
Morris, and he knew that his silence would trouble her. There could
be no human being less inclined to be suspicious than Lucy Morris. Of
that Frank was sure. But there had been an express stipulation with
Lady Fawn that she should be allowed to receive letters from him, and
she would naturally be vexed when he did not write to her. So he
wrote.
Portray Cottage, 3 Sept., 18--.
DEAREST LUCY,
We have been here for a fortnight, shooting grouse,
wandering about the mountains, and going to sleep on the
hill-sides. You will say that there never was a time so
fit for the writing of letters, but that will be because
you have not learned yet that the idler people are,
the more inclined they are to be idle. We hear of Lord
Chancellors writing letters to their mothers every day
of their lives; but men who have nothing on earth to do
cannot bring themselves to face a sheet of paper. I would
promise that when I am Lord Chancellor I would write to
you every day, were it not that when that time comes I
shall hope to be always with you.
And, in truth, I have had to pay constant visits to my
cousin, who lives in a big castle on the sea-side, ten
miles from here, over the mountains, and who is in a
peck of troubles;--in spite of her prosperity one of
the unhappiest women, I should say, that you could meet
anywhere. You know so much of her affairs that, without
breach of trust, I may say so much. I wish she had a
father or a brother to manage her matters for her; but
she has none, and I cannot desert her. Your Lord Fawn is
behaving badly to her; and so, as far as I can see, are
the people who manage the Eustace property. Lizzie, as you
know, is not the most tractable of women, and altogether
I have more to do in the matter than I like. Riding ten
miles backwards and forwards so often over the same route
on a little pony is not good fun, but I am almost glad the
distance is not less. Otherwise I might have been always
there. I know you don't quite like Lizzie, but she is to
be pitied.
I go up to London on Friday, but shall only be there for
one or two days,--that is, for one night. I go almost
entirely on her business, and must, I fear, be here again,
or at the castle, before I can settle myself either
for work or happiness. On Sunday night I go down to
Bobsborough,--where, indeed, I ought to have been earlier.
I fear I cannot go to Richmond on the Saturday, and on the
Sunday Lady Fawn would hardly make me welcome. I shall be
at Bobsborough for about three weeks, and there, if you
have commands to give, I will obey them.
I may, however, tell you the truth at once,--though it
is a truth you must keep very much to yourself. In the
position in which I now stand as to Lord Fawn,--being
absolutely forced to quarrel with him on Lizzie's
behalf,--Lady Fawn could hardly receive me with comfort
to herself. She is the best of women; and, as she is your
dear friend, nothing is further from me than any idea of
quarrelling with her; but of course she takes her son's
part, and I hardly know how all allusion to the subject
could be avoided.
This, however, dearest, need ruffle no feather between you
and me, who love each other better than we love either the
Fawns or the Lizzies. Let me find a line at my chambers to
say that it is so, and always shall be so.
God bless my own darling,
Ever and always your own,
F. G.
On the following day he rode over to the castle. He had received a
letter from John Eustace, who had found himself forced to run up to
London to meet Mr. Camperdown. The lawyer had thought to postpone
further consideration of the whole matter till he and everybody
else would be naturally in London,--till November that might be, or,
perhaps, even till after Christmas. But his mind was ill at ease; and
he knew that so much might be done with the diamonds in four months!
They might even now be in the hands of some Benjamin or of some
Harter, and it might soon be beyond the power either of lawyers
or of policemen to trace them. He therefore went up from Dawlish
and persuaded John Eustace to come from Yorkshire. It was a great
nuisance, and Eustace freely anathematised the necklace. "If only
some one would steal it, so that we might hear no more of the thing!"
he said. But, as Mr. Camperdown had frequently remarked, the value
was too great for trifling, and Eustace went up to London. Mr.
Camperdown put into his hands the Turtle Dove's opinion, explaining
that it was by no means expedient that it should be shown to the
other party. Eustace thought that the opinion should be common to
them all. "We pay for it," said Mr. Camperdown, "and they can get
their opinion from any other barrister if they please." But what was
to be done? Eustace declared that as to the present whereabouts of
the necklace, he did not in the least doubt that he could get the
truth from Frank Greystock. He therefore wrote to Greystock, and with
that letter in his pocket, Frank rode over to the castle for the last
time.
He, too, was heartily sick of the necklace;--but unfortunately he was
not equally sick of her who held it in possession. And he was, too,
better alive to the importance of the value of the trinket than John
Eustace, though not so keenly as was Mr. Camperdown. Lady Eustace was
out somewhere among the cliffs, the servant said. He regretted this
as he followed her, but he was obliged to follow her. Half way down
to the sea-shore, much below the knob on which she had attempted to
sit with her Shelley, but yet not below the need of assistance, he
found her seated in a little ravine. "I knew you would come," she
said. Of course she had known that he would come. She did not rise,
or even give him her hand, but there was a spot close beside her on
which it was to be presumed that he would seat himself. She had a
volume of Byron in her hand,--the Corsair, Lara, and the Giaour,--a
kind of poetry which was in truth more intelligible to her than Queen
Mab. "You go to-morrow?"
"Yes;--I go to-morrow."
"And Lubin has gone?" Arthur Herriot was Lubin.
"Lubin has gone. Though why Lubin, I cannot guess. The normal Lubin
to me is a stupid fellow always in love. Herriot is not stupid and is
never in love."
"Nevertheless, he is Lubin if I choose to call him so. Why did he
twiddle his thumbs instead of talking? Have you heard anything of
Lord Fawn?"
"I have had a letter from your brother-in-law."
"And what is John the Just pleased to say?"
"John the Just, which is a better name for the man than the
other, has been called up to London, much against his will, by Mr.
Camperdown."
"Who is Samuel the Unjust." Mr. Camperdown's name was Samuel.
"And now wants to know where this terrible necklace is at this
present moment." He paused a moment, but Lizzie did not answer him.
"I suppose you have no objection to telling me where it is."
"None in the least:--or to giving it you to keep for me, only that
I would not so far trouble you. But I have an objection to telling
them. They are my enemies. Let them find out."
"You are wrong, Lizzie. You do not want, or at any rate should not
want, to have any secret in the matter."
"They are here,--in the castle; in the very place in which Sir
Florian kept them when he gave them to me. Where should my own jewels
be but in my own house? What does that Mr. Dove say, who was to be
asked about them? No doubt they can pay a barrister to say anything."
"Lizzie, you think too hardly of people."
"And do not people think too hardly of me? Does not all this amount
to an accusation against me that I am a thief? Am I not persecuted
among them? Did not this impudent attorney stop me in the public
street and accuse me of theft before my very servants? Have they not
so far succeeded in misrepresenting me, that the very man who is
engaged to be my husband betrays me? And now you are turning against
me? Can you wonder that I am hard?"
"I am not turning against you."
"Yes; you are. You take their part, and not mine, in everything.
I tell you what, Frank;--I would go out in that boat that you see
yonder, and drop the bauble into the sea, did I not know that they'd
drag it up again with their devilish ingenuity. If the stones would
burn, I would burn them. But the worst of it all is, that you are
becoming my enemy!" Then she burst into violent and almost hysteric
tears.
"It will be better that you should give them into the keeping of some
one whom you can both trust, till the law has decided to whom they
belong."
"I will never give them up. What does Mr. Dove say?"
"I have not seen what Mr. Dove says. It is clear that the necklace is
not an heirloom."
"Then how dare Mr. Camperdown say so often that it was?"
"He said what he thought," pleaded Frank.
"And he is a lawyer!"
"I am a lawyer, and I did not know what is or what is not an
heirloom. But Mr. Dove is clearly of opinion that such a property
could not have been given away simply by word of mouth." John Eustace
in his letter had made no allusion to that complicated question of
paraphernalia.
"But it was," said Lizzie. "Who can know but myself, when no one else
was present?"
"The jewels are here now?"
"Not in my pocket. I do not carry them about with me. They are in the
castle."
"And will they go back with you to London?"
"Was ever lady so interrogated? I do not know yet that I shall go
back to London. Why am I asked such questions? As to you, Frank, I
would tell you everything,--my whole heart, if only you cared to know
it. But why is John Eustace to make inquiry as to personal ornaments
which are my own property? If I go to London, I will take them there,
and wear them at every house I enter. I will do so in defiance of Mr.
Camperdown and Lord Fawn. I think, Frank, that no woman was ever so
ill-treated as I am."
He himself thought that she was ill-treated. She had so pleaded her
case, and had been so lovely in her tears and her indignation, that
he began to feel something like true sympathy for her cause. What
right had he, or had Mr. Camperdown, or any one, to say that the
jewels did not belong to her? And if her claim to them was just, why
should she be persuaded to give up the possession of them? He knew
well that were she to surrender them with the idea that they should
be restored to her if her claim were found to be just, she would not
get them back very soon. If once the jewels were safe, locked up in
Mr. Garnett's strong box, Mr. Camperdown would not care how long it
might be before a jury or a judge should have decided on the case.
The burthen of proof would then be thrown upon Lady Eustace. In order
that she might recover her own property she would have to thrust
herself forward as a witness, and appear before the world a claimant,
greedy for rich ornaments. Why should he advise her to give them up?
"I am only thinking," said he, "what may be the best for your own
peace."
"Peace!"--she exclaimed. "How am I to have peace? Remember the
condition in which I find myself! Remember the manner in which that
man is treating me, when all the world has been told of my engagement
to him! When I think of it my heart is so bitter that I am inclined
to throw, not the diamonds, but myself from off the rocks. All that
remains to me is the triumph of getting the better of my enemies. Mr.
Camperdown shall never have the diamonds. Even if they could prove
that they did not belong to me, they should find them--gone."
"I don't think they can prove it."
"I'll flaunt them in the eyes of all of them till they do; and
then--they shall be gone. And I'll have such revenge on Lord Fawn
before I have done with him, that he shall know that it may be worse
to have to fight a woman than a man. Oh, Frank, I do not think that I
am hard by nature, but these things make a woman hard." As she spoke
she took his hand in hers, and looked up into his eyes through her
tears. "I know that you do not care for me, and you know how much I
care for you."
"Not care for you, Lizzie?"
"No;--that little thing at Richmond is everything to you. She is tame
and quiet,--a cat that will sleep on the rug before the fire, and
you think that she will never scratch. Do not suppose that I mean to
abuse her. She was my dear friend before you had ever seen her. And
men, I know, have tastes which we women do not understand. You want
what you call--repose."
"We seldom know what we want, I fancy. We take what the gods send
us." Frank's words were perhaps more true than wise. At the present
moment the gods had clearly sent Lizzie Eustace to him, and unless he
could call up some increased strength of his own, quite independent
of the gods,--or of what we may perhaps call chance,--he would have
to put up with the article sent.
Lizzie had declared that she would not touch Lord Fawn with a pair of
tongs, and in saying so had resolved that she could not and would not
now marry his lordship even were his lordship in her power. It had
been decided by her as quickly as thoughts flash, but it was decided.
She would torture the unfortunate lord, but not torture him by
becoming his wife. And, so much being fixed as the stars in heaven,
might it be possible that she should even yet induce her cousin to
take the place that had been intended for Lord Fawn? After all that
had passed between them she need hardly hesitate to tell him of her
love. And with the same flashing thoughts she declared to herself
that she did love him, and that therefore this arrangement would be
so much better than that other one which she had proposed to herself.
The reader, perhaps, by this time, has not a high opinion of Lady
Eustace, and may believe that among other drawbacks on her character
there is especially this,--that she was heartless. But that was
by no means her own opinion of herself. She would have described
herself,--and would have meant to do so with truth,--as being all
heart. She probably thought that an over-amount of heart was the
malady under which she specially suffered. Her heart was overflowing
now towards the man who was sitting by her side. And then it would
be so pleasant to punish that little chit who had spurned her gift
and had dared to call her mean! This man, too, was needy, and she was
wealthy. Surely, were she to offer herself to him, the generosity of
the thing would make it noble. She was still dissolved in tears and
was still hysteric. "Oh, Frank!" she said, and threw herself upon his
breast.
Frank Greystock felt his position to be one of intense difficulty,
but whether his difficulty was increased or diminished by the
appearance of Mr. Andy Gowran's head over a rock at the entrance of
the little cave in which they were sitting, it might be difficult to
determine. But there was the head. And it was not a head that just
popped itself up and then retreated, as a head would do that was
discovered doing that which made it ashamed of itself. The head, with
its eyes wide open, held its own, and seemed to say,--"Ay,--I've
caught you, have I?" And the head did speak, though not exactly in
those words. "Coosins!" said the head; and then the head was wagged.
In the meantime Lizzie Eustace, whose back was turned to the head,
raised her own, and looked up into Greystock's eyes for love. She
perceived at once that something was amiss, and, starting to her
feet, turned quickly round. "How dare you intrude here?" she said to
the head. "Coosins!" replied the head, wagging itself.
It was clearly necessary that Greystock should take some steps, if
only with the object of proving to the impudent factotum that he was
not altogether overcome by the awkwardness of his position. That he
was a good deal annoyed, and that he felt not altogether quite equal
to the occasion, must be acknowledged. "What is it that the man
wants?" he said, glaring at the head. "Coosins!" said the head,
wagging itself again. "If you don't take yourself off, I shall have
to thrash you," said Frank. "Coosins!" said Andy Gowran, stepping
from behind the rock and showing his full figure. Andy was a man on
the wrong side of fifty, and therefore, on the score of age, hardly
fit for thrashing. And he was compact, short, broad, and as hard as
flint;--a man bad to thrash, look at it from what side you would.
"Coosins!" he said yet again. "Ye're mair couthie than coosinly, I'm
thinking."
"Andy Gowran, I dismiss you from my service for your impertinence,"
said Lady Eustace.
"It's ae ane to Andy Gowran for that, my leddie. There's timber and a
warld o' things aboot the place as wants proteection on behalf o' the
heir. If your leddieship is minded to be quit o' my sarvices, I'll
find a maister in Mr. Camperdoon, as'll nae alloo me to be thrown out
o' employ. Coosins!"
"Walk off from this!" said Frank Greystock, coming forward and
putting his hand upon the man's breast. Mr. Gowran repeated the
objectionable word yet once again, and then retired.
Frank Greystock immediately felt how very bad for him was his
position. For the lady, if only she could succeed in her object, the
annoyance of the interruption would not matter much after its first
absurdity had been endured. When she had become the wife of Frank
Greystock there would be nothing remarkable in the fact that she had
been found sitting with him in a cavern by the sea-shore. But for
Frank the difficulty of extricating himself from his dilemma was
great, not in regard to Mr. Gowran, but in reference to his cousin
Lizzie. He might, it was true, tell her that he was engaged to Lucy
Morris;--but then why had he not told her so before? He had not told
her so;--nor did he tell her on this occasion. When he attempted to
lead her away up the cliff, she insisted on being left where she was.
"I can find my way alone," she said, endeavouring to smile through
her tears. "The man has annoyed me by his impudence,--that is all.
Go,--if you are going."
Of course he was going; but he could not go without a word of
tenderness. "Dear, dear Lizzie," he said, embracing her.
"Frank, you'll be true to me?"
"I will be true to you."
"Then go now," she said. And he went his way up the cliff, and got
his pony, and rode back to the cottage, very uneasy in his mind.