Marion Fay: A Novel

  CHAPTER XII.

  LIKE THE POOR CAT I' THE ADAGE.

  Wishing will do nothing. If a man has sufficient cause for actionhe should act. "Letting I dare not wait upon I would, Like the poorcat i' the adage," never can produce results. Cherries will not fallinto your mouth without picking. "If it were done, when 'tis donethen 'twere well it were done quickly." If grapes hang too highwhat is the use of thinking of them? Nevertheless,--"Where there'sa will there's a way." But certainly no way will be found amidstdifficulties, unless a man set himself to work seriously to lookfor it. With such self-given admonitions, counsels, and tags of oldquotations as these, Mr. Greenwood went to work with himself onMonday night, and came to a conclusion that if anything were to bedone it must be done at once.

  Then came the question--what was the thing to be done, and what atonce meant? When a thing has to be done which requires a specialsummoning of resolution, it is too often something which ought notto be done. To virtuous deeds, if they recommend themselves to usat all, we can generally make up our minds more easily. It waspleasanter to Mr. Greenwood to think of the thing as something in thefuture, as something which might possibly get itself done for him byaccident, than as an act the doing of which must fall into his ownhands. Then came the "cat i' the adage," and the "when 'tis done then'twere well," and the rest of it. Thursday morning, between four andfive o' clock, when it would be pitch dark, with neither star normoon in the heavens, when Lord Hampstead would certainly be alone ina certain spot, unattended and easily assailable;--would Thursdaymorning be the fittest time for any such deed as that which he hadnow in truth began to contemplate?

  When the thing presented itself to him in this new form, he recoiledfrom it. It cannot be said that Mr. Greenwood was a man of any strongreligious feelings. He had been ordained early in life to a curacy,having probably followed, in choosing his profession, the bent givento him by his family connections, and had thus from circumstancesfallen into the household of his present patron's uncle. From that tothis he had never performed a service in a church, and his domesticservices as chaplain had very soon become nothing.

  The old Lord Kingsbury had died very soon afterwards, and Mr.Greenwood's services had been continued rather as private secretaryand librarian than as domestic chaplain. He had been crafty, willing,and, though anxious, he had been able to conceal his anxiety in thatrespect, and ready to obey when he found it necessary. In this mannerhe had come to his present condition of life, and had but few of themanners or feelings of a clergyman about him. He was quite willingto take a living if it should come in his way,--but to take it witha purpose that the duties should be chiefly performed by a curate.He was not a religious man; but when he came to look the matter inthe face, not on that account could he regard himself as a possiblemurderer without terrible doubts.

  As he thought of it his first and prevailing fear did not come fromthe ignominious punishment which is attached to, and which generallyattends, the crime. He has been described as a man flabby inappearance, as one who seemed to tremble in his shoes when calledupon for any special words, as one who might be supposed to be devoidof strong physical daring. But the true character of the man wasopposed to his outward bearing. Courage is a virtue of too high anature to be included among his gifts; but he had that command of hisown nerves, that free action of blood round his heart, that personalaudacity coming from self-confidence, which is often taken torepresent courage. Given the fact that he wanted an enemy out ofthe way, he could go to work to prepare to put him out of the waywithout exaggerated dread of the consequences as far as this world isconcerned. He trusted much in himself, and thought it possible thathe could so look through all the concomitant incidents of such anact as that he contemplated without allowing one to escape him whichmight lead to detection. He could so look at the matter, he thought,as to be sure whether this or the other plot might or might not besafe. It might be that no safe plot were possible, and that theattempt must therefore be abandoned. These, at any rate, were not thedangers which made him creep about in dismay at his own intentions.

  There were other dangers of which he could not shake off the dread.Whether he had any clear hope as to eternal bliss in another life,it may be doubted. He probably drove from his mind thoughts on thesubject, not caring to investigate his own belief. It is the practiceof many to have their minds utterly callous in that respect. Tosuppose that such men think this or think the other as to futurerewards and punishments is to give them credit for a condition ofmind to which they have never risen. Such a one was probably Mr.Greenwood; but nevertheless he feared something when this idearespecting Lord Hampstead presented itself to him. It was as is someboggy-bo to a child, some half-belief in a spectre to a nervouswoman, some dread of undefined evil to an imaginative but melancholyman. He did not think that by meditating such a deed, by hardeninghis heart to the necessary resolution, by steeling himself up to itsperpetration, he would bring himself into a condition unfitted fora life of bliss. His thoughts did not take any such direction. Butthough there might be no punishment in this world,--even though therewere to be no other world in which punishment could come,--stillsomething of evil would surely fall upon him. The convictions of theworld since the days of Cain have all gone in that direction. It wasthus that he allowed himself to be cowed, and to be made to declareto himself again and again that the project must be abandoned.

  But "the cat i' the adage" succeeded so far on the Tuesday in gettingthe better of his scruples, that he absolutely did form a plot.He did not as yet quite see his way to that security which wouldbe indispensable;--but he did form a plot. Then came the bitterreflection that what he would do would be done for the benefit ofothers rather than his own. What would Lord Frederic know of hisbenefactor when he should come to the throne--as in such case hewould do--as Marquis of Kingsbury? Lord Frederic would give him nothanks, even were he to know it,--which of course could never bethe case. And why had not that woman assisted him,--she who hadinstigated him to the doing of the deed? "For Banquo's issue have Ifiled my mind," he said to himself over and over again, not, however,in truth thinking of the deed with any of the true remorse to whichMacbeth was a prey. The "filing of his mind" only occurred to himbecause the words were otherwise apt. Would she even be grateful whenshe should tell herself,--as she surely would do,--that the deed hadbeen done by the partner of her confidences?

  When he thought of the reward which was to come to him in payment ofthe intended deed something like a feeling of true conscience didarise within him. Might it not be the case that even he, callousas he was to most things, should find himself unable to go down toAppleslocombe and read himself in, as the phrase goes, as rectorand pastor of the parish? He thought of this as he lay in his bed,and acknowledged to himself that his own audacity would probably beinsufficient to carry him through such a struggle. But still on themorning when he rose he had not altogether rejected the idea. Theyoung man had scorned him and had insulted him, and was hateful tohim. But still why should he be the Macbeth, seeing that the LadyMacbeth of the occasion was untrue to him? In all this he was unawarehow very little his Lady Macbeth had really meant when she hadallowed herself in his presence to express wishes as to her stepson'sdeath.

  He thought he saw his plan. The weapon was there ready to hishand;--a weapon which he had not bought, which could not be tracedto him, which would certainly be fatal if used with the assurance ofwhich he was confident. And there would be ample time for retreat.But still as he arranged it all in his mind he regarded it all not asa thing fixed, but as a thing which was barely possible. It was thusthat it might be done, had the Lady Macbeth of the occasion reallyshown herself competent to such a task. Why should he trouble himselfon such a matter? Why should he file his mind for Banquo's issue?Yet he looked at the pistol and at the window as he prepared to goup to her ladyship's room before lunch on the Wednesday morning. Itcertainly could be done, he said to himself, telling himself at thesame time that all that had been passing in his own mind was no morethan a vague s
peculation. A man is apt to speculate on things whichhave no reality to him, till they become real.

  He had assumed the practice of going to her ladyship's sitting-roomup-stairs without a special summons, latterly to her ladyship's greatdisgust. When her quarrel had first become strong with Lady Francesshe had no doubt received comfort from his support. But now she hadbecome weary of him, and had sometimes been almost dismayed by thewords he spoke to her. At half-past twelve punctually she went downto her husband's room, and it was now customary with the chaplain tovisit her before she did so. She had more than once almost resolvedto tell him that she preferred to be left alone during the morning.But she had not as yet assumed the courage to do this. She wasaware that words had fallen from her in her anger which it waspossible he might use against her, were she to subject herself to hisdispleasure. "Lord Hampstead will be here at half-past four--what youmay call the middle of the night--to-morrow morning, Lady Kingsbury,"said he, repeating an assertion which he had already made to hertwo or three times. As he did so he stood in the middle of the room,looking down upon her with a gaze under which she had often suffered,but which she did not in the least understand.

  "Of course I know he's coming."

  "Don't you think it a very improper time, with a sick man in thehouse?"

  "He won't disturb his father."

  "I don't know. There will be the opening and the shutting of thedoor, and the servant will be going about the passages, and therewill be the bringing in of the luggage."

  "He won't have any luggage." Mr. Greenwood had been aware of this;but it might be well that he should affect ignorance.

  "It is like everything else that he does," he said, being anxious toinduce the stepmother to speak ill of her stepson. But the bent ofher mind had been turned. She was not conscious of the cause whichhad produced the change, but she was determined to speak no furtherevil of her stepchildren before Mr. Greenwood. "I suppose there isnothing to be done?" said Mr. Greenwood.

  "What should there be to be done? If you do remain here I wish youwould sit down, Mr. Greenwood. You oppress me by standing up in thatway in the middle of the room."

  "I do not wonder that you should be oppressed," he said, seatinghimself, as was his wont, on the edge of a chair. "I am oppressed,I know. No one ever says a word to comfort me. What am I to do ifanything should happen?"

  "Mr. Greenwood, what is the use of all this?"

  "What would you think, Lady Kingsbury, if you had to live all therest of your life on an income arising from a thousand pounds?"

  "It isn't my fault. What's the good of your coming to me with allthat? I have had nothing to do with the arrangement which LordKingsbury has made with you. You know very well that I do not dareeven to mention your name to him, lest he should order that youshould be turned out of the house."

  "Turned out of the house!" he said, jumping off his chair on to hislegs with an alacrity which was quite unusual to him. "Turned outof the house?--as if I were a dog! No man alive would stand suchlanguage."

  "You know very well that I've always stood your friend," said theMarchioness, alarmed by the man's impetuosity.

  "And you tell me that I'm to be turned out of the house."

  "I only say that it would be better not to mention your name to him.I must go now, because he will be waiting for me."

  "He doesn't care a straw for you; not a straw."

  "Mr. Greenwood!"

  "He cares only for his son and daughter;--for the son and daughter ofhis first wife; for those two ignoble young persons who, as you havesaid so often, are altogether unworthy of their name."

  "Mr. Greenwood, I cannot admit this."

  "Have you not said it over and over again? Have you not declared howgood a thing it would be that Lord Hampstead should die? You cannotgo back from all that, Lady Kingsbury."

  "I must go now, Mr. Greenwood," she said, shuffling out of the room.He had altogether frightened her, and, as she went down-stairs, shedetermined that at whatever cost she must save herself from furtherprivate conversation with the chaplain.

  Mr. Greenwood, when he was thus left alone, did not at once leave theroom. He had reseated himself, and there he remained still gazing asthough there had been some one for him to gaze at, and still seatedon the edge of his chair as though there were some one to see theaffected humility of his position. But in truth the gazing and themanner of sitting had become so customary to him that they wereassumed without thought. His mind was now full of the injury doneto him by the Marchioness. She had made him her confidant; she hadpoured her secret thoughts into his ears; she had done her best toinspire him with her hatred and her desires;--and now, when she hadalmost taught him to be the minister of her wishes, she turned uponhim, and upbraided him and deserted him! Of course when he hadsympathized with her as to her ill-used darlings he had expected herto sympathize with him as to the hardships inflicted upon him. Butshe cared nothing for his hardships, and was anxious to repudiate thememory of all the hard words which she had spoken as to her husband'schildren. It should not be so! She should not escape from him in thismanner! When confidences have been made, the persons making them mustabide the consequences. When a partnership has been formed, neitherpartner has a right to retreat at once, leaving the burden of alldebts upon the other. Had not all these thoughts, and plottings,which had been so heavy on his mind since that telegram had come,which had been so heavy on his soul, been her doing? Had not the ideacome from her? Had there not been an unspoken understanding betweenthem that in consequence of certain mutual troubles and mutualaspirations there should be a plan of action arranged between them?Now she was deserting him! Well;--he thought that he could socontrive things that she should not do so with impunity. Havingconsidered all this he got up from his chair and slowly walked downto his own room.

  He lunched by himself, and then sat himself down with a novel, as washis wont at that hour of the day. There could be no man more punctualin all his daily avocations than Mr. Greenwood. After lunch therealways came the novel; but there was seldom much of it read. Hewould generally go to sleep, and would remain so, enjoying perfecttranquillity for the best part of an hour. Then he would go out forhis constitutional walk, after which he would again take up thenovel till the time came for her ladyship's tea. On this occasionhe did not read at all, but neither did he at once sleep. There hadbeen that on his mind which, even though it had not been perfected,banished sleep from him for some minutes. There was no need of anyfurther conversation as to safety or danger. The deed, whether itwould or could not have been done in the manner he had premeditated,certainly would not be done now. Certainly not now would he file hismind for Banquo's issue. But after half-an-hour of silent meditationhe did sleep.

  When he arose and went out for a walk he felt that his heart waslight within him. He had done nothing by which he had compromisedhimself. He had bound himself to no deed. As he walked up and downthe road he assured himself that he had never really thought ofdoing it. He had only speculated as to the probability,--which is socommon for men to do as to performances which they had no thought ofattempting. There was a great burden gone from him. Had he desiredto get rid of Lord Hampstead, it was in that way that he would havedone it;--and he would so have done it that he would never have beensuspected of the deed. He had never intended more than that. As hereturned to the house he assured himself that he had never intendedanything more. And yet there was a great burden gone from him.

  At five o'clock a message was brought to him that her ladyship,finding herself to be rather unwell, begged to be excused from askinghim up to tea. The message was brought by the butler himself, with asuggestion that he should have tea in his own room. "I think I will,Harris," he said, "just take a cup. By-the-bye, Harris, have you seenmy lord to-day?" Harris declared that he had seen his lordship, in atone of voice which implied that he at any rate had not been banishedfrom my lord's presence. "And how do you find him?" Harris thoughtthat the Marquis was a little more like himself to-day than he hadbeen for the last th
ree days. "That's right. I am very glad to hearthat. Lord Hampstead's coming to-morrow will be a great comfort tohim."

  "Yes, indeed," said Harris, who was quite on Lord Hampstead's sidein the family quarrels. He had not been pleased with the idea of theRoden marriage, which certainly was unfortunate for the daughter ofa Marquis; but he was by no means inclined to take part against theheir to the family honours.

  "I wish he were coming at a little more reasonable hour in the day,"said Mr. Greenwood with a smile. But Harris thought that the timeof the day would do very well. It was the kind of thing which hislordship very often did, and Harris did not see any harm in it. ThisHarris said with his hand on the lock of the door, showing that hewas not anxious for a prolonged conversation with the chaplain.