When Lord Fawn gave a sudden jump and stalked away towards the house on that Sunday morning before breakfast, Lucy Morris was a very unhappy girl. She had a second time accused Lord Fawn of speaking an untruth. She did not quite understand the usages of the world in the matter; but she did know that the one offence which a gentleman is supposed never to commit is that of speaking an untruth. The offence may be one committed oftener than any other by gentlemen — as also by all other people; but, nevertheless, it is regarded by the usages of society as being the one thing which a gentleman never does. Of all this Lucy understood something. The word “lie” she knew to be utterly abominable. That Lizzie Eustace was a little liar had been acknowledged between herself and the Fawn girls very often; but to have told Lady Eustace that any word spoken by her was a lie would have been a worse crime than the lie itself. To have brought such an accusation, in that form, against Lord Fawn, would have been to degrade herself forever. Was there any difference between a lie and an untruth? That one must be, and that the other need not be, intentional, she did feel; but she felt also that the less offensive word had come to mean a lie — the world having been driven so to use it because the world did not dare to talk about lies; and this word, bearing such a meaning in common parlance, she had twice applied to Lord Fawn. And yet, as she was well aware, Lord Fawn had told no lie. He had himself believed every word that he had spoken against Frank Greystock. That he had been guilty of unmanly cruelty in so speaking of her lover in her presence Lucy still thought, but she should not therefore have accused him of falsehood. “It was untrue all the same,” she said to herself, as she stood still on the gravel walk, watching the rapid disappearance of Lord Fawn, and endeavouring to think what she had better now do with herself. Of course Lord Fawn, like a great child, would at once go and tell his mother what that wicked governess had said to him.
In the hall she met her friend Lydia. “Oh, Lucy, what is the matter with Frederic?” she asked.
“Lord Fawn is very angry indeed.”
“With you?”
“Yes; with me. He is so angry that I am sure he would not sit down to breakfast with me. So I won’t come down. Will you tell your mamma? If she likes to send to me, of course I’ll go to her at once.”
“What have you done, Lucy?”
“I’ve told him again that what he said wasn’t true.”
“But why?”
“Because — oh, how can I say why? Why does any person do everything that she ought not to do? It’s the fall of Adam, I suppose.”
“You shouldn’t make a joke of it, Lucy.”
“You can have no conception how unhappy I am about it. Of course Lady Fawn will tell me to go away. I went out on purpose to beg his pardon for what I said last night, and I just said the very same thing again.”
“But why did you say it?”
“And I should say it again and again and again, if he were to go on telling me that Mr. Greystock isn’t a gentleman. I don’t think he ought to have done it. Of course I have been very wrong; I know that. But I think he has been wrong too. But I must own it and he needn’t. I’ll go up now and stay in my own room till your mamma sends for me.”
“And I’ll get Jane to bring you some breakfast.”
“I don’t care a bit about breakfast,” said Lucy.
Lord Fawn did tell his mother, and Lady Fawn was perplexed in the extreme. She was divided in her judgment and feelings between the privilege due to Lucy as a girl possessed of an authorised lover — a privilege which no doubt existed, but which was not extensive — and the very much greater privilege which attached to Lord Fawn as a man, as a peer, as an Under-Secretary of State, but which attached to him especially as the head and only man belonging to the Fawn family. Such a one, when, moved by filial duty, he condescends to come once a week to his mother’s house, is entitled to say whatever he pleases, and should on no account be contradicted by any one. Lucy no doubt had a lover, an authorised lover; but perhaps that fact could not be taken as more than a balancing weight against the inferiority of her position as a governess. Lady Fawn was of course obliged to take her son’s part and would scold Lucy. Lucy must be scolded very seriously. But it would be a thing so desirable if Lucy could be induced to accept her scolding and have done with it, and not to make matters worse by talking of going away! “You don’t mean that she came out into the shrubbery, having made up her mind to be rude to you?” said Lady Fawn to her son.
“No; I do not think that. But her temper is so ungovernable, and she has, if I may say so, been so spoiled among you here — I mean by the girls, of course — that she does not know how to restrain herself.”
“She is as good as gold, you know, Frederic.” He shrugged his shoulders and declared that he had not a word more to say about it. He could of course remain in London till it should suit Mr. Greystock to take his bride. “You’ll break my heart if you say that,” exclaimed the unhappy mother. “Of course she shall leave the house if you wish it.”
“I wish nothing,” said Lord Fawn. “But I peculiarly object to be told that I am a — liar.” Then he stalked away along the corridor and went down to breakfast as black as a thundercloud.
Lady Fawn and Lucy sat opposite to each other in church, but ihey did not speak till the afternoon. Lady Fawn went to church in the carriage and Lucy walked, and as Lucy retired to her room immediately on her return to the house, there had not been an opportunity even for a word. After lunch Amelia came up to her and sat down for a long discussion. “Now, Lucy, something must be done, you know,” said Amelia.
“I suppose so.”
“Of course mamma must see you. She can’t allow things to go on in this way. Mamma is very unhappy, and didn’t eat a morsel of breakfast.” By this latter assertion Amelia simply intended to imply that her mother had refused to be helped a second time to fried bacon, as was customary.
“Of course I shall go to her the moment she sends for me. Oh, I am so unhappy!”
“I don’t wonder at that, Lucy. So is my brother unhappy. These things make people unhappy. It is what the world calls temper, you know, Lucy.”
“Why did he tell me that Mr. Greystock isn’t a gentleman? Mr. Greystock is a gentleman. I meant to say nothing more than that.”
“But you did say more, Lucy.”
“When he said that Mr. Greystock wasn’t a gentleman I told him it wasn’t true. Why did he say it? He knows all about it. Everybody knows. Would you think it wise to come and abuse him to me when you know what he is to me? I can’t bear it, and I won’t. I’ll go away tomorrow if your mamma wishes it.” But that going away was just what Lady Fawn did not wish.
“I think you know, Lucy, you should express your deep sorrow at what has passed.”
“To your brother?”
“Yes.”
“Then he would abuse Mr. Greystock again, and it would all be as bad as ever. I’ll beg Lord Fawn’s pardon if he’ll promise beforehand not to say a word about Mr. Greystock.”
“You can’t expect him to make a bargain like that, Lucy.”
“I suppose not. I dare say I’m very wicked, and I must be left wicked. I’m too wicked to stay here. That’s the long and the short of it.”
“I’m afraid you’re proud, Lucy.”
“I suppose I am. If it wasn’t for all that I owe to everybody here, and that I love you all so much, I should be proud of being proud, because of Mr. Greystock. Only it kills me to make Lady Fawn unhappy.”
Amelia left the culprit, feeling that no good had been done, and Lady Fawn did not see the delinquent till late in the afternoon. Lord Fawn had in the mean time wandered out along the river all alone to brood over the condition of his affairs. It had been an evil day for him in which he had first seen Lady Eustace. From the first moment of his engagement to her he had been an unhappy man. Her treatment of him, the stories which reached his ears from Mrs. Hittaway and others, Mr. Camperdown’s threats of law in regard to the diamonds, and Frank Greystock’s insults, altogether made him aware that he could not possibly marry Lady Eustace. But yet he had no proper and becoming way of escaping from the bonds of his engagement. He was a man with a conscience, and was made miserable by the idea of behaving badly to a woman. Perhaps it might have been difficult to analyse his misery and to decide how much arose from the feeling that he was behaving badly, and how much from the conviction that the world would accus............