Lizzie Returns to Scotland
Frank Greystock, the writer fears, will not have recommended himself
to those readers of this tale who think the part of lover to
the heroine should be always filled by a young man with heroic
attributes. And yet the young member for Bobsborough was by no means
deficient in fine qualities, and perhaps was quite as capable of
heroism as the majority of barristers and members of Parliament among
whom he consorted, and who were to him--the world. A man born to
great wealth may,--without injury to himself or friends,--do pretty
nearly what he likes in regard to marriage, always presuming that the
wife he selects be of his own rank. He need not marry for money, nor
need he abstain from marriage because he can't support a wife without
money. And the very poor man, who has no pretension to rank or
standing, other than that which honesty may give him, can do the
same. His wife's fortune will consist in the labour of her hands, and
in her ability to assist him in his home. But between these there
is a middle class of men, who, by reason of their education, are
peculiarly susceptible to the charms of womanhood, but who literally
cannot marry for love, because their earnings will do no more
than support themselves. As to this special young man, it must be
confessed that his earnings should have done much more than that; but
not the less did he find himself in a position in which marriage with
a penniless girl seemed to threaten him and her with ruin. All his
friends told Frank Greystock that he would be ruined were he to marry
Lucy Morris;--and his friends were people supposed to be very good
and wise. The dean, and the dean's wife, his father and mother,
were very clear that it would be so. Old Lady Linlithgow had spoken
of such a marriage as quite out of the question. The Bishop of
Bobsborough, when it was mentioned in his hearing, had declared that
such a marriage would be a thousand pities. And even dear old Lady
Fawn, though she wished it for Lucy's sake, had many times prophesied
that such a thing was quite impossible. When the rumour of the
marriage reached Lady Glencora, Lady Glencora told her friend, Madame
Max Goesler, that that young man was going to blow his brains out.
To her thinking, the two actions were equivalent. It is only when we
read of such men that we feel that truth to his sweetheart is the
first duty of man. I am afraid that it is not the advice which we
give to our sons.
But it was the advice which Frank Greystock had most persistently
given to himself since he had first known Lucy Morris. Doubtless he
had vacillated, but, on the balance of his convictions as to his own
future conduct, he had been much nobler than his friends. He had
never hesitated for a moment as to the value of Lucy Morris. She
was not beautiful. She had no wonderful gifts of nature. There was
nothing of a goddess about her. She was absolutely penniless. She had
never been what the world calls well-dressed. And yet she had been
everything to him. There had grown up a sympathy between them quite
as strong on his part as on hers, and he had acknowledged it to
himself. He had never doubted his own love,--and when he had been
most near to convincing himself that in his peculiar position he
ought to marry his rich cousin, because of her wealth, then, at those
moments, he had most strongly felt that to have Lucy Morris close to
him was the greatest charm in existence. Hitherto his cousin's money,
joined to flatteries and caresses,--which, if a young man can resist,
he is almost more than a young man,--had tempted him; but he had
combated the temptation. On one memorable evening his love for Lucy
had tempted him. To that temptation he had yielded, and the letter by
which he became engaged to her had been written. He had never meant
to evade it;--had always told himself that it should not be evaded;
but, gradually, days had been added to days, and months to months,
and he had allowed her to languish without seeing him, and almost
without hearing from him.
She, too, had heard from all sides that she was deserted by him, and
she had written to him to give him back his troth; but she had not
sent her letters. She did not doubt that the thing was over,--she
hardly doubted. And yet she would not send any letter. Perhaps it
would be better that the matter should be allowed to drop without any
letter-writing. She would never reproach him,--though she would ever
think him to be a traitor. Would not she have starved herself for
him, could she so have served him? And yet he could bear for her sake
no touch of delay in his prosperity! Would she not have been content
to wait, and always to wait,--so that he with some word of love would
have told her that he waited also? But he would not only desert
her,--but would give himself to that false, infamous woman, who was
so wholly unfitted to be his wife. For Lucy, though to herself she
would call him a traitor,--and would think him to be a traitor, still
regarded him as the best of mankind, as one who, in marrying such a
one as Lizzie Eustace, would destroy all his excellence, as a man
might mar his strength and beauty by falling into a pit. For Lizzie
Eustace Lucy Morris had now no forgiveness. Lucy had almost forgotten
Lizzie's lies, and her proffered bribe, and all her meanness, when
she made that visit to Hertford Street. Then, when Lizzie claimed
this man as her lover, a full remembrance of all the woman's
iniquities came back on Lucy's mind. The statement that Lizzie then
made, Lucy did believe. She did think that Frank, her Frank, the man
whom she worshipped, was to take this harpy to his bosom as his wife.
And if it were to be so, was it not better that she should be so
told? But, from that moment, poor Lizzie's sins were ranker to Lucy
Morris than even to Mr. Camperdown or Mrs. Hittaway. She could not
refrain from saying a word even to old Lady Linlithgow. The countess
had called her niece a little liar. "Liar!" said Lucy. "I do not
think Satan himself can lie as she does." "Heighty-tighty," said the
countess. "I suppose, then, there's to be a match between Lady Satan
and her cousin Frank?" "They can do as they like about that," said
Lucy, walking out of the room.
Then came the paragraph in the fashionable evening newspaper; after
that, the report of the examination before the magistrate, and
then certain information that Lady Eustace was about to proceed to
Scotland together with her cousin Mr. Greystock, the Member for
Bobsborough. "It is a large income," said the countess; "but, upon my
word, she's dear at the money." Lucy did not speak, but she bit her
lip till the blood ran into her mouth. She was going down to Fawn
Court almost immediately, to stay there with her old friends till she
should be able to find some permanent home for herself. Once, and
once only, would she endure discussion, and then the matter should be
banished for ever from her tongue.
Early on the appointed morning Frank Greystock, with a couple of
cabs, was at Mrs. Carbuncle's door in Hertford Street. Lizzie had
agreed to start by a very early train,--at eight a.m.,--so that
she might get through to Portray in one day. It had been thought
expedient, both by herself and by her cousin, that for the present
there should be no more sleeping at the Carlisle hotel. The robbery
was probably still talked about in that establishment; and the report
of the proceedings at the police-court had, no doubt, travelled as
far north as the border city. It was to be a long day, and could
hardly be other than sad. Lizzie, understanding this, feeling
that though she had been in a great measure triumphant over her
difficulties before the magistrate, she ought still to consider
herself, for a short while, as being under a cloud, crept down into
the cab and seated herself beside her cousin almost without a word.
She was again dressed in black, and again wore the thick veil. Her
maid, with the luggage, followed them, and they were driven to Euston
Square almost without a word. On this occasion no tall footman
accompanied them. "Oh, Frank; dear Frank," she had said, and that
was all. He had been active about the luggage and useful in giving
orders;--but beyond his directions and inquiries as to the journey,
he spoke not a word. Had she breakfasted? Would she have a cup of
tea at the station? Should he take any luncheon for her? At every
question she only looked into his face and shook her head. All
thoughts as to creature-comforts were over with her now for ever.
Tranquillity, a little poetry, and her darling boy, were all that she
needed for the short remainder of her sojourn upon earth. These were
the sentiments which she intended to convey when she shook her head
and looked up into his eyes. The world was over for her. She had had
her day of pleasure, and found how vain it was. Now she would devote
herself to her child. "I shall see my boy again to-night," she said,
as she took her seat in the carriage.
Such was the state of mind, or such, rather, the resolutions,
with which she commenced her journey. Should he become bright,
communicative, and pleasant, or even tenderly silent, or, perhaps,
now at length affectionate and demonstrative, she, no doubt, might be
able to change as he changed. He had been cousinly, but gloomy, at
the police-court; in the same mood when he brought her home; and,
as she saw with the first glance of her eye, in the same mood again
when she met him in the hall this morning. Of course she must play
his tunes. Is it not the fate of women to play the tunes which men
dictate,--except in some rare case in which the woman can make
herself the dictator? Lizzie loved to be a dictator; but at the
present moment she knew that circumstances were against her.
She watched him,--so closely. At first he slept a good deal. He was
never in bed very early, and on this morning had been up at six. At
Rugby he got out and ate what he said was his breakfast. Would not
she have a cup of tea? Again she shook her head and smiled. She
smiled as some women smile when you offer them a third glass of
champagne. "You are joking with me, I know. You cannot think that
I would take it." That was the meaning of Lizzie's smile. He went
into the refreshment-room, growled at the heat of the tea and the
abominable nastiness of the food provided, and then, after the
allotted five minutes, took himself to a smoking-carriage. He did not
rejoin his cousin till they were at Crewe. When he went back to his
old seat, she only smiled again. He asked her whether she had slept,
and again she shook her head. She had been repeating to herself the
address to Ianthe's soul, and her whole being was pervaded with
poetry.
It was absolutely necessary, as he thought, that she should eat
something, and he insisted that she should dine upon the road,
somewhere. He, of course, was not aware that she had been nibbling
biscuits and chocolate while he had been smoking, and had had
recourse even to the comfort of a sherry-flask which she carried in
her dressing-bag. When he talked of dinner she did more than smile
and refuse. She expostulated. For she well knew that the twenty
minutes for dinner were allowed at the Carlisle station; and even if
there had been no chocolate and no sherry, she would have endured
on, even up to absolute inanition, rather than step out upon this
well-remembered platform. "You must eat, or you'll be starved," he
said. "I'll fetch you something." So he bribed a special waiter, and
she was supplied with cold chicken and more sherry. After this Frank
smoked again, and did not reappear till they had reached Dumfries.
Hitherto there had been no tenderness,--nothing but the coldest
cousinship. He clearly meant her to understand that he had submitted
to the task of accompanying her back to Portray Castle as a duty, but
that he had nothing to say to one who had so misbehaved herself. This
was very irritating. She could have taken herself home to Portray
without his company, and have made the journey more endurable
without him than with him, if this were to be his conduct throughout.
They had had the carriage to themselves all the way from Crewe to
Carlisle, and he had hardly spoken a word to her. If he would have
rated her soundly for her wickednesses, she could have made something
of that. She could have thrown herself on her knees, and implored his
pardon; or, if hard pressed, have suggested the propriety of throwing
herself out of the carriage-window. She could have brought him round
if he would only have talked to her, but there is no doing anything
with a silent man. He was not her master. He had no power over her.
She was the lady of Portray, and he could not interfere with her.
If he intended to be sullen with her to the end, and to show his
contempt for her, she would turn against him. "The worm will turn,"
she said to herself. And yet she did not think herself a worm.
A few stations beyond Dumfries they were again alone. It was now
quite dark, and they had already been travelling over ten hours. They
would not reach their own station till eight, and then again there
would be the journey to Portray. At last he spoke to her. "Are you
tired, Lizzie?"
"Oh, so tired!"
"You have slept, I think."
"No, not once; not a wink. You have slept." This she said in a tone
of reproach.
"Indeed I have."
"I have endeavoured to read, but one cannot command one's mind at
all times. Oh, I am so weary. Is it much further? I have lost all
reckoning as to time and place."
"We change at the next station but one. It will soon be over now.
Will you have a glass of sherry? I have some in my flask." Again she
shook her head. "It is a long way down to Portray, I must own."
"Oh, I am so sorry that I have given you the trouble to accompany
me."
"I was not thinking of myself. I don't mind it. It was better that
you should have somebody with you,--just for this journey."
"I don't know why this journey should be different from any other,"
said Lizzie crossly. She had not done anything that made it necessary
that she should be taken care of,--like a naughty girl.
"I'll see you to the end of it now, anyway."
"And you'll stay a few days with me, Frank? You won't go away at
once? Say you'll stay a week. Dear, dear Frank; say you'll stay a
week. I know that the House doesn't meet for ever so long. Oh, Frank,
I do so wish you'd be more like yourself." There was no reason why
she should not make one other effort, and as she made it every sign
of fatigue passed away from her.
"I'll stay over to-morrow certainly," he replied.
"Only one day!"
"Days with me mean money, Lizzie, and money is a thing which is at
present very necessary to me."
"I hate money."
"That's very well for you, because you have plenty of it."
"I hate money. It is the only thing that one has that one cannot give
to those one loves. I could give you anything else;--though it cost a
thousand pounds."
"Pray don't. Most people like presents, but they only bore me."
"Because you are so indifferent, Frank;--so cold. Do you remember
giving me a little ring?"
"Very well indeed. It cost eight and sixpence."
"I never thought what it cost;--but there it is." This she said,
drawing off her glove and showing him her finger. "And when I am
dead, there it will be. You say you want money, Frank. May I not give
it you? Are not we brother and sister?"
"My dear Lizzie, you say you hate money. Don't talk about it."
"It is you that talk about it. I only talk about it because I want
to give it you;--yes, all that I have. When I first knew what was
the real meaning of my husband's will, my only thought was to be of
assistance to you."
In real truth Frank was becoming very sick of her. It seemed to him
now to have been almost impossible that he should ever soberly have
thought of making her his wife. The charm was all gone, and even her
prettiness had in his eyes lost its value. He looked at her, asking
himself whether in truth she was pretty. She had been travelling all
day, and perhaps the scrutiny was not fair. But he thought that even
after the longest day's journey Lucy would not have been soiled,
haggard, dishevelled, and unclean, as was this woman.
Travellers again entered the carriage, and they went on with a crowd
of persons till they reached the platform at which they changed the
carriage for Troon. Then they were again alone, for a few minutes,
and Lizzie with infinite courage determined that she would make her
last attempt. "Frank," she said, "you know what it is that I mean.
You cannot feel that I am ungenerous. You have made me love you. Will
you have all that I have to give?" She was leaning over, close to
him, and he was observing that her long lock of hair was out of curl
and untidy,--a thing that ought not to have been there during such a
journey as this.
"Do you not know," he said, "that I am engaged to marry Lucy Morris?"
"No;--I do not know it."
"I have told you so more than once."
"You cannot afford to marry her."
"Then I shall do it without affording." Lizzie was about to
speak,--had already pronounced her rival's name in that tone of
contempt which she so well knew how to use, when he stopped her. "Do
not say anything against her, Lizzie, in my hearing, for I will not
bear it. It would force me to leave you at the Troon station, and
I had better see you now to the end of the journey." Lizzie flung
herself back into the corner of her carriage, and did not utter
another word till she reached Portray Castle. He handed her out of
the railway carriage, and into her own vehicle which was waiting for
them, attended to the maid, and got the luggage; but still she did
not speak. It would be better that she should quarrel with him. That
little snake, Lucy, would of course now tell him of the meeting
between them in Hertford Street, after which anything but quarrelling
would be impossible. What a fool the man must be, what an idiot, what
a soft-hearted, mean-spirited fellow! Lucy, by her sly, quiet little
stratagems, had got him once to speak the word, and now he had not
courage enough to go back from it! He had less strength of will even
than Lord Fawn! What she offered to him would be the making of him.
With his position, his seat in Parliament, such a country house as
Portray Castle, and the income which she would give him, there was
nothing that he might not reach! And he was so infirm of purpose,
that though he had hankered after it all, he would not open his hand
to take it,--because he was afraid of such a little thing as Lucy
Morris! It was thus that she thought of him as she leaned back in
the carriage without speaking. In giving her all that is due to her,
we must acknowledge that she had less feeling of the injury done to
her charms as a woman than might have been expected. That she hated
Lucy was a matter of course;--and equally so that she should be
very angry with Frank Greystock. But the anger arose from general
disappointment, rather than from any sense of her own despised
beauty. "Ah, now I shall see my child," she said, as the carriage
stopped at the castle-gate.
When Frank Greystock went to his supper, Miss Macnulty brought to him
his cousin's compliments with a message saying that she was too weary
to see him again that night. The message had been intended to be curt
and uncourteous, but Miss Macnulty had softened it,--so that no harm
was done. "She must be very weary," said Frank.
"I suppose though that nothing would ever really tire Lady Eustace,"
said Miss Macnulty. "When she is excited nothing will tire her.
Perhaps the journey has been dull."
"Exceedingly dull," said Frank, as he helped himself to the collops
which the Portray cook had prepared for his supper.
Miss Macnulty was very attentive to him, and had many questions to
ask. About the necklace she hardly dared to speak, merely observing
how sad it was that all those precious diamonds should have been lost
for ever. "Very sad indeed," said Frank with his mouth full. She then
went on to the marriage,--the marriage that was no marriage. Was not
that very dreadful? Was it true that Miss Roanoke was really--out of
her mind? Frank acknowledged that it was dreadful, but thought that
the marriage had it been completed would have been more so. As for
the young lady, he only knew that she had been taken somewhere out of
the way. Sir Griffin, he had been told, had gone to Japan.
"To Japan!" said Miss Macnulty, really interested. Had Sir Griffin
gone no further than Boulogne, her pleasure in the news would
certainly have been much less. Then she asked some single question
about Lord George, and from that came to the real marrow of her
anxiety. Had Mr. Greystock lately seen the--the Rev. Mr. Emilius?
Frank had not seen the clergyman, and could only say of him that had
Lucinda Roanoke and Sir Griffin Tewett been made one, the knot would
have been tied by Mr. Emilius.
"Would it indeed? Did you not think Mr. Emilius very clever when you
met him down here?"
"I don't doubt but what he is a sharp sort of fellow."
"Oh, Mr. Greystock, I don't think that that's the word for him at
all. He did promise me when he was here that he would write to
me occasionally, but I suppose that the increasing duties of his
position have rendered that impossible." Frank, who had no idea of
the extent of the preacher's ambition, assured Miss Macnulty that
among his multifarious clerical labours it was out of the question
that Mr. Emilius should find time to write letters.
Frank had consented to stay one day at Portray, and did not now like
to run away without again seeing his cousin. Though much tempted to
go at once, he did stay the day, and had an opportunity of speaking
a few words to Mr. Gowran. Mr. Gowran was very gracious, but said
nothing of his journey up to London. He asked various questions
concerning her "leddyship's" appearance at the police-court, as to
which tidings had already reached Ayrshire, and pretended to be
greatly shocked at the loss of the diamonds. "When they talk o' ten
thoosand poond, that's a lee, nae doobt?" asked Andy.
"No lie at all, I believe," said Greystock.
"And her leddyship wad tak' aboot wi' her ten thoosand poond--in a
box?" Andy still showed much doubt by the angry glance of his eye
and the close compression of his lips, and the great severity of his
demeanour as he asked the question.
"I know nothing about diamonds myself, but that is what they say they
were worth."
"Her leddyship's her ain sell seems nae to ha' been in ain story
aboot the box, Muster Greystock?" But Frank could not stand to be
cross-questioned on this delicate matter, and walked off, saying that
as the thieves had not yet been tried for the robbery, the less said
about it the better.
At four o'clock on that afternoon he had not seen Lizzie, and then
he received a message from her to the effect that she was still
so unwell from the fatigue of her journey that she could bear no
one with her but her child. She hoped that her cousin was quite
comfortable, and that she might be able to see him after breakfast
on the following day. But Frank was determined to leave Portray very
early on the following day, and therefore wrote a note to his cousin.
He begged that she would not disturb herself, that he would leave the
castle the next morning before she could be up, and that he had only
further to remind her that she must come up to London at once as
soon as she should be summoned for the trial of Mr. Benjamin and his
comrade. It had seemed to Frank that she had almost concluded that
her labours connected with that disagreeable matter were at an end.
"The examination may be long, and I will attend you if you wish it,"
said her cousin. Upon receiving this she thought it expedient to come
down to him, and there was an interview for about a quarter of an
hour in her own little sitting-room looking out upon the sea. She
had formed a project, and at once suggested it to him. If she found
herself ill when the day of the trial came, could they make her go up
and give her evidence? Frank told her that they could, and that they
would. She was very clever about it. "They couldn't go back to what
I said at Carlisle, you know; because they already have made me tell
all that myself." As she had been called upon to criminate herself,
she could not now be tried for the crime. Frank, however, would not
listen to this, and told her that she must come. "Very well, Frank. I
know you like to have your own way. You always did. And you think so
little of my feelings! I shall make inquiry, and if I must,--why I
suppose I must."
"You'd better make up your mind to come."
"Very well. And now, Frank, as I am so very tired, if you please I'll
say good-bye to you. I am very much obliged to you for coming with
me. Good-bye." And so they parted.