The Palliser Novels (288 page)

“The air of his native mountains is everything to my child,” said Lizzie. The child had, in fact, been born at Bobsborough, but that probably would make no real difference.

“You cannot wonder that I should plead for your stay,” said Mr. Emilius, throwing all his soul into his eyes. “How dark would everything be to me if I missed you from your seat in the house of praise and prayer!”

Lizzie Eustace, like some other ladies who ought to be more appreciative, was altogether deficient in what may perhaps be called good taste in reference to men. Though she was clever, and though, in spite of her ignorance, she at once knew an intelligent man from a fool, she did not know the difference between a gentleman and a — “cad.” It was in her estimation something against Mr. Emilius that he was a clergyman, something against him that he had nothing but what he earned, something against him that he was supposed to be a renegade Jew, and that nobody knew whence he came nor who he was. These deficiencies or drawbacks Lizzie recognised. But it was nothing against him in her judgment that he was a greasy, fawning, pawing, creeping, black-browed rascal, who could not look her full in the face, and whose every word sounded like a lie. There was a twang in his voice which ought to have told her that he was utterly untrustworthy. There was an oily pretence at earnestness in his manner which ought to have told that he was not fit to associate with gentlemen. There was a foulness of demeanour about him which ought to have given to her, as a woman at any rate brought up among ladies, an abhorrence of his society. But all this Lizzie did not feel. She ridiculed to Mrs. Carbuncle the idea of the preacher’s courtship. She still thought that in the teeth of all her misfortunes she could do better with herself than marry Mr. Emilius. She conceived that the man must be impertinent if Mrs. Carbuncle’s assertions were true; — but she was neither angry nor disgusted, and she allowed him to talk to her, and even to make love to her, after his nasty pseudo-clerical fashion.

She could surely still do better with herself than marry Mr. Emilius! It was now the twentieth of March, and a fortnight had gone since an intimation had been sent to her from the headquarters of the police that Patience Crabstick was in their hands. Nothing further had occurred, and it might be that Patience Crabstick had told no tale against her. She could not bring herself to believe that Patience had no tale to tell, but it might be that Patience, though she was in the hands of the police, would find it to her interest to tell no tale against her late mistress. At any rate, there was silence and quiet, and the affair of the diamonds seemed almost to be passing out of people’s minds. Greystock had twice called in Scotland Yard, but had been able to learn nothing. It was feared, they said, that the people really engaged in the robbery had got away scot-free. Frank did not quite believe them, but he could learn nothing from them. Thus encouraged, Lizzie determined that she would remain in London till after Lucinda’s marriage, — till after she should have received the promised letter from Lord Fawn, as to which, though it was so long in coming, she did not doubt that it would come at last. She could do nothing with Frank, — who was a fool! She could do nothing with Lord George, — who was a brute! Lord Fawn would still be within her reach, if only the secret about the diamonds could be kept a secret till after she should have become his wife.

About this time Lucinda spoke to her respecting her proposed journey. “You were talking of going to Scotland a week ago, Lady Eustace.”

“And am still talking of it.”

“Aunt Jane says that you are waiting for my wedding. It is very kind of you; — but pray don’t do that.”

“I shouldn’t think of going now till after your marriage. It only wants ten or twelve days.”

“I count them. I know how many days it wants. It may want more than that.”

“You can’t put it off now, I should think,” said Lizzie; “and as I have ordered my dress for the occasion I shall certainly stay and wear it.”

“I am very sorry for your dress. I am very sorry for it all. Do you know; — I sometimes think I shall — murder him.”

“Lucinda, — how can you say anything so horrible! But I see you are only joking.” There did come a ghastly smile over that beautiful face, which was so seldom lighted up by any expression of mirth or good humour. “But I wish you would not say such horrible things.”

“It would serve him right; — and if he were to murder me, that would serve me right. He knows that I detest him, and yet he goes on with it. I have told him so a score of times, but nothing will make him give it up. It is not that he loves me, but he thinks that that will be his triumph.”

“Why don’t you give it up, if it makes you unhappy?”

“It ought to come from him, — ought it not?”

“I don’t see why,” said Lizzie.

“He is not bound to anybody as I am bound to my aunt. No one can have exacted an oath from him. Lady Eustace, you don’t quite understand how we are situated. I wonder whether you would take the trouble to be good to me?”

Lucinda Roanoke had never asked a favour of her before; — had never, to Lizzie’s knowledge, asked a favour of any one. “In what way can I be good to you?” she said.

“Make him give it up. You may tell him what you like of me. Tell him that I shall only make him miserable, and more despicable than he is; — that I shall never be a good wife to him. Tell him that I am thoroughly bad, and that he will repent it to the last day of his life. Say whatever you like, — but make him give it up.”

“When everything has been prepared!”

“What does all that signify compared to a life of misery? Lady Eustace, I really think that I should — kill him, if he really were — were my husband.” Lizzie at last said that she would, at any rate, speak to Sir Griffin.

And she did speak to Sir Griffin, having waited three or four days for an opportunity to do so. There had been some desperately sharp words between Sir Griffin and Mrs. Carbuncle with reference to money. Sir Griffin had been given to understand that Lucinda had, or would have, some few hundred pounds, and insisted that the money should be handed over to him on the day of his marriage. Mrs. Carbuncle had declared that the money was to come from property to be realised in New York, and had named a day which had seemed to Sir Griffin to be as the Greek Kalends. He expressed an opinion that he was swindled, and Mrs. Carbuncle, unable to restrain herself, had turned upon him full of wrath. He was caught by Lizzie as he was descending the stairs, and in the dining-room he poured out the tale of his wrongs. “That woman doesn’t know what fair dealing means,” said he.

“That’s a little hard, Sir Griffin, isn’t it?” said Lizzie.

“Not a bit. A trumpery six hundred pounds! And she hasn’t a shilling of fortune, and never will have, beyond that! No fellow ever was more generous or more foolish than I have been.” Lizzie, as she heard this, could not refrain from thinking of the poor departed Sir Florian. “I didn’t look for fortune, or say a word about money, as almost every man does, — but just took her as she was. And now she tells me that I can’t have just the bit of money that I wanted for our tour. It would serve them both right if I were to give it up.”

“Why don’t you?” said Lizzie. He looked quickly, sharply, and closely into her face as she asked the question. “I would, if I thought as you do.”

“And lay myself in for all manner of damages,” said Sir Griffin.

“There wouldn’t be anything of that kind, I’m sure. You see, the truth is, you and Miss Roanoke are always having — having little tiffs together. I sometimes think you don’t really care a bit for her.”

“It’s the old woman I’m complaining of,” said Sir Griffin, “and I’m not going to marry her. I shall have seen the last of her when I get out of the church, Lady Eustace.”

“Do you think she wishes it?”

“Who do you mean?” asked Sir Griffin.

“Why; — Lucinda.”

“Of course she does. Where’d she be now if it wasn’t to go on? I don’t believe they’ve money enough between them to pay the rent of the house they’re living in.”

“Of course, I don’t want to make difficulties, Sir Griffin, and no doubt the affair has gone very far now. But I really think Lucinda would consent to break it off if you wish it. I have never thought that you were really in love with her.”

He again looked at her very sharply and very closely. “Has she sent you to say all this?”

“Has who sent me? Mrs. Carbuncle didn’t.”

“But Lucinda?”

She paused for a moment before she replied; — but she could not bring herself to be absolutely honest in the matter. “No; — she didn’t send me. But from what I see and hear, I am quite sure she does not wish to go on with it.”

“Then she shall go on with it,” said Sir Griffin. “I’m not going to be made a fool of in that way. She shall go on with it; and the first thing I mean to tell her as my wife is, that she shall never see that woman again. If she thinks she’s going to be master, she’s very much mistaken.” Sir Griffin, as he said this, showed his teeth, and declared his purpose to be masterful by his features as well as by his words; — but Lady Eustace was, nevertheless, of opinion that when the two came to an absolute struggle for mastery, the lady would get the better of it.

Lizzie never told Miss Roanoke of her want of success, or even of the effort she had made; nor did the unhappy young woman come to her for any reply. The preparations went on, and it was quite understood that on this peculiar occasion Mrs. Carbuncle intended to treat her friends with profuse hospitality. She proposed to give a breakfast; and as the house in Hertford Street was very small, rooms had been taken at an hotel in Albemarle Street. Thither, as the day of the marriage drew near, all the presents were taken, — so that they might be viewed by the guests, with the names of the donors attached to them. As some of the money given had been very much wanted indeed, so that the actual cheques could not be conveniently spared just at the moment to pay for the presents which ought to have been bought, — a few very pretty things were hired, as to which, when the donors should see their names attached to them, they should surely think that the money given had been laid out to great advantage.

It took Lord Fawn a long time to write his letter, but at last he wrote it. The delay must not be taken as throwing any slur on his character as a correspondent or a man of business, for many irritating causes sprang up sufficient to justify him in pleading that it arose from circumstances beyond his own control. It is, moreover, felt by us all that the time which may fairly be taken in the performance of any task depends, not on the amount of work, but on the performance of it when done. A man is not expected to write a cheque for a couple of thousand pounds as readily as he would one for five, — unless he be a man to whom a couple of thousand pounds is a mere nothing. To Lord Fawn the writing of this letter was everything. He had told Lizzie, with much exactness, what he would put into it. He would again offer his hand, — acknowledging himself bound to do so by his former offer, — but would give reasons why she should not accept it. If anything should occur in the meantime which would, in his opinion, justify him in again repudiating her, he would of course take advantage of such circumstance. If asked himself what was his prevailing motive in all that he did or intended to do, he would have declared that it was above all things necessary that he should “put himself right in the eye of the British public.”

But he was not able to do this without interference from the judgment of others. Both Mr. and Mrs. Hittaway interfered; and he could not prevent himself from listening to them and believing them, though he would contradict all they said, and snub all their theories. Frank Greystock also continued to interfere, and Lady Glencora Palliser. Even John Eustace had been worked upon to write to Lord Fawn, stating his opinion, as trustee for his late brother’s property, that the Eustace family did not think that there was ground of complaint against Lady Eustace in reference to the diamonds which had been stolen. This was a terrible blow to Lord Fawn, and had come, no doubt, from a general agreement among the Eustace faction, — including the bishop, John Eustace, and even Mr. Camperdown, — that it would be a good thing to get the widow married and placed under some decent control.

Lady Glencora absolutely had the effrontery to ask him whether the marriage was not going to take place, and when a day would be fixed. He gathered up his courage to give her ladyship a rebuke. “My private affairs do seem to be uncommonly interesting,” he said.

“Why, yes, Lord Fawn,” said Lady Glencora, whom nothing could abash; — “most interesting. You see, dear Lady Eustace is so very popular, that we all want to know what is to be her fate.”

“I regret to say that I cannot answer your ladyship’s question with any precision,” said Lord Fawn.

But the Hittaway persecution was by far the worst. “You have seen her, Frederic?” said his sister.

“Yes, — I have.”

“You have made her no promise?”

“My dear Clara, this is a matter in which I must use my own judgment.”

“But the family, Frederic?”

“I do not think that any member of our family has a just right to complain of my conduct since I have had the honour of being its head. I have endeavoured so to live that my actions should encounter no private or public censure. If I fail to meet with your approbation, I shall grieve; but I cannot on that account act otherwise than in accordance with my own judgment.”

Mrs. Hittaway knew her brother well, and was not afraid of him. “That’s all very well; and I am sure you know, Frederic, how proud we all are of you. But this woman is a nasty, low, scheming, ill-conducted, dishonest little wretch; and if you make her your wife you’ll be miserable all your life. Nothing would make me and Orlando so unhappy as to quarrel with you. But we know that it is so, and to the last minute I shall say so. Why don’t you ask her to her face about that man down in Scotland?”

“My dear Clara, perhaps I know what to ask her and what not to ask her better than you can tell me.”