He had certainly engaged himself to marry this widow, and he was most desirous to do what was right. He had said that he would not marry her unless she would give up the necklace, and he was most desirous to be true to his word. He had been twice insulted, and he was anxious to support these injuries with dignity. Poor Lucy’s little offence against him rankled in his mind with the other great offences. That this humble friend of his mother’s should have been so insolent was a terrible thing to him. He was not sure even whether his own sisters did not treat him with scantier reverence than of yore. And yet he was so anxious to do right, and do his duty in that state of life to which it had pleased God to call him! As to much he was in doubt; but of two things he was quite sure—that Frank Greystock was a scoundrel, and that Lucy Morris was the most impertinent young woman in England.
“What would you wish to have done, Frederic?” his mother said to him on his return.
“In what respect, mother?”
“About Lucy Morris? I have not seen her yet. I have thought it better that she should be left to herself for a while before I did so. I suppose she must come down to dinner. She always does.”
“I do not wish to interfere with the young lady’s meals.”
“No;—but about meeting her? If there is to be no talking it will be so very unpleasant. It will be unpleasant to us all, but I am thinking chiefly of you.”
“I do not wish anybody to be disturbed for my comfort.” A young woman coming down to dinner as though in disgrace, and not being spoken to by anyone, would, in truth, have had rather a soothing effect upon Lord Fawn, who would have felt that the general silence and dullness had been produced as a sacrifice in his honour. “I can, of course, insist that she should apologise; but if she refuses, what shall I do then?”
“Let there be no more apologies, if you please, mother.”
“What shall I do then, Frederic?”
“Miss Morris’s idea of an apology is a repetition of her offence with increased rudeness. It is not for me to say what you should do. If it be true that she is engaged to that man—”
“It is true, certainly.”
“No doubt that will make her quite independent of you, and I can understand that her presence here in such circumstances must be very uncomfortable to you all. No doubt she feels her power.”
“Indeed, Frederic, you do not know her.”
“I can hardly say that I desire to know her better. You cannot suppose that I can be anxious for further intimacy with a young lady who has twice given me the lie in your house. Such conduct is, at least, very unusual; and as no absolute punishment can be inflicted, the offender can only be avoided. It is thus, and thus only, that such offences can be punished. I shall be satisfied if you will give her to understand that I should prefer that she should not address me again.”
Poor Lady Fawn was beginning to think that Lucy was right in saying that there was no remedy for all these evils but that she should go away. But whither was she to go? She had no home but such home as she could earn for herself by her services as a governess, and in her present position it was almost out of the question that she should seek another place. Lady Fawn, too, felt that she had pledged herself to Mr. Greystock that till next year Lucy should have a home at Fawn Court. Mr. Greystock, indeed, was now an enemy to the family; but Lucy was not an enemy, and it was out of the question that she should be treated with real enmity. She might be scolded, and scowled at, and put into a kind of drawing-room Coventry for a time—so that all kindly intercourse with her should be confined to schoolroom work and bedroom conferences. She could be generally “sat upon,” as Nina would call it. But as for quarrelling with her—making a real enemy of one whom they all loved, one whom Lady Fawn knew to be “as good as gold,” one who had become so dear to the old lady that actual extrusion from their family affections would be like the cutting off of a limb—that was simply impossible. “I suppose I had better go and see her,” said Lady Fawn—“and I have got such a headache.”
“Do not see her on my account,” said Lord Fawn. The duty, however, was obligatory, and Lady Fawn with slow steps sought Lucy in the schoolroom.
“Lucy,” she said, seating herself, “what is to be the end of all this?”
Lucy came up to her and knelt at her feet. “If you knew how unhappy I am because I have vexed you!”
“I am unhappy, my dear, because I think you have been betrayed by warm temper into misbehaviour.”
“I know I have.”
“Then why do you not control your temper?”
“If anybody were to come to you, Lady Fawn, and make horrible accusations against Lord Fawn, or against Augusta, would not you be angry? Would you be able to stand it?”
Lady Fawn was not clearheaded; she was not clever; nor was she even always rational. But she was essentially honest. She knew that she would fly at anybody who should in her presence say
