The Saturday morning came at last for which Lord Fawn had made his appointment with Lizzie, and a very important day it was in Hertford Street, chiefly on account of his lordship’s visit, but also in respect to other events which crowded themselves into the day. In the telling of our tale we have gone a little in advance of this, as it was not till the subsequent Monday that Lady Linlithgow read in the newspaper, and told Lucy, how a man had been arrested on account of the robbery. Early on the Saturday morning Sir Griffin Tewett was in Hertford Street, and, as Lizzie afterwards understood, there was a terrible scene between both him and Lucinda and him and Mrs. Carbuncle. She saw nothing of it herself, but Mrs. Carbuncle brought her the tidings. For the last few days Mrs. Carbuncle had been very affectionate in her manner to Lizzie, thereby showing a great change; for nearly the whole of February the lady, who in fact owned the house, had hardly been courteous to her remunerative guest, expressing more than once a hint that the arrangement which had brought them together had better come to an end. “You see, Lady Eustace,” Mrs. Carbuncle had once said, “the trouble about these robberies is almost too much for me.” Lizzie, who was ill at the time, and still trembling with constant fear on account of the lost diamonds, had taken advantage of her sick condition, and declined to argue the question of her removal. Now she was supposed to be convalescent, but Mrs. Carbuncle had returned to her former ways of affection. No doubt there was cause for this — cause that was patent to Lizzie herself. Lady Glencora Palliser had called, which thing alone was felt by Lizzie to alter her position altogether. And then, though her diamonds were gone, and though the thieves who had stolen them were undoubtedly aware of her secret as to the first robbery, though she had herself told that secret to Lord George, whom she had not seen since she had done so, in spite of all these causes for trouble, she had of late gradually found herself to be emerging from the state of despondency into which she had fallen while the diamonds were in her own custody. She knew that she was regaining her ascendancy; and therefore when Mrs. Carbuncle came to tell her of the grievous things which had been said down-stairs between Sir Griffin and his mistress, and to consult her as to the future, Lizzie was not surprised.
“I suppose the meaning of it is that the match must be off,” said Lizzie.
“Oh, dear, no; pray don’t say anything so horrid after all that I have gone through. Don’t suggest anything of that kind to Lucinda.”
“But surely after what you’ve told me now, he’ll never come here again.”
“Oh yes, he will. There’s no danger about his coming back. It’s only a sort of a way he has.”
“A very disagreeable way,” said Lizzie.
“No doubt, Lady Eustace. But then you know you can’t have it all sweet. There must be some things disagreeable. As far as I can learn the property will be all right after a few years, and it is absolutely indispensable that Lucinda should do something. She has accepted him and she must go on with it.”
“She seems to me to be very unhappy, Mrs. Carbuncle.”
“That was always her way. She was never gay and cheery like other girls. I have never known her once to be what you would call happy.”
“She likes hunting.”
“Yes, because she can gallop away out of herself. I have done all I can for her, and she must go on with the marriage now. As for going back, it is out of the question. The truth is, we couldn’t afford it.”
“Then you must keep him in a better humour.”
“I am not so much afraid about him; but, dear Lady Eustace, we want you to help us a little.”
“How can I help you?”
“You can, certainly. Could you lend me two hundred and fifty pounds just for six weeks?” Lizzie’s face fell and her eyes became very serious in their aspect. Two hundred and fifty pounds! “You know you would have ample security. You need not give Lucinda her present till I’ve paid you, and that will be forty-five pounds.”
“Thirty-five,” said Lizzie with angry decision.
“I thought we agreed upon forty-five when we settled about the servants’ liveries; and then you can let the man at the stables know that I am to pay for the carriage and horses. You wouldn’t be out of the money hardly above a week or so, and it might be the salvation of Lucinda just at present.”
“Why don’t you ask Lord George?”
“Ask Lord George! He hasn’t got it. It’s much more likely that he should ask me. I don’t know what’s come to Lord George this last month past. I did believe that you and he were to come together. I think these two robberies have upset him altogether. But, dear Lizzie, you can let me have it, can’t you?”
Lizzie did not at all like the idea of lending money, and by no means appreciated the security now offered to her. It might be very well for her to tell the man at the stables that Mrs. Carbuncle would pay him her bill, but how would it be with her if Mrs. Carbuncle did not pay the bill? And as for her present to Lucinda — which was to have been a present, and regarded by the future Lady Tewett as a voluntary offering of good will and affection — she was altogether averse to having, it disposed of in this fashion. And yet she did not like to make an enemy of Mrs. Carbuncle.
“I never was so poor in my life before, not since I was married,” said Lizzie.
“You can’t be poor, dear Lady Eustace.”
“They took my money out of my desk, you know — ever so much.”
“Forty-three pounds,” said Mrs. Carbuncle, who was, of course, well instructed in all the details of the robbery.
“And I don’t suppose you can guess what the autumn cost me at Portray. The bills are only coming in now, and really they sometimes so frighten me that I don’t know what I shall do. Indeed I haven’t got the money to spare.”
“You’ll have every penny of it back in six weeks,” said Mrs. Carbuncle, upon whose face a glow of anger was settling down. She quite intended to make herself very disagreeable to her “dear Lady Eustace” or her “dear Lizzie” if she did not get what she wanted; and she knew very well how to do it. It must be owned that Lizzie was afraid of the woman. It was almost impossible for her not to be afraid of the people with whom she lived. There were so many things against her; so many sources of fear! “I am quite sure you won’t refuse me such a trifling favour as this,” said Mrs. Carbuncle, with the glow of anger reddening more and more upon her brow.
“I don’t think I have so much at the bankers,” said Lizzie.
“They’ll let you overdraw just as much as you please. If the check comes back that will be my look out.” Lizzie had tried that game before, and knew that the bankers would allow her to overdraw. “Come, be a good friend and do it at once,” said Mrs. Carbuncle.
“Perhaps I can manage a hundred and fifty,” said Lizzie, trembling. Mrs. Carbuncle fought hard for the greater sum; but at last consented to take the less, and the check was written.
“This, of course, won’t interfere with Lucinda’s present,” said Mrs. Carbuncle, “as we can make all this right by the horse and carriage account.” To this proposition, however, Lady Eustace made no answer.
Soon after lunch, at which meal Miss Roanoke did not show herself, Lady Glencora Palliser was announced, and sat for about ten minutes in the drawing-room. She had come, she said, to give the Duke of Omnium’s compliments to Lady Eustace, and to express a wish on the part of the duke that the lost diamonds might be recovered.
“I doubt,” said Lady Glencora, “whether there is any one in England except professed jewellers who knows so much about diamonds as his grace.”
“Or who has so many,” said Mrs. Carbuncle, smiling graciously.
“I don’t know about that. I suppose there are, family diamonds, though I have never seen them. But he sympathises with you completely, Lady Eustace. I suppose there is hardly hope now of recovering them!” Lizzie smiled and shook her head. “Isn’t it odd that they never should have discovered the thieves? I’m told they haven’t at all given it up, only, unfortunately they’ll never get back the necklace.” She sat there for about a quarter of an hour, and then, as she took her leave, she whispered a few words to Lizzie. “He is to come and see you, isn’t he?” Lizzie assented with a smile, but without a word. “I hope it will be all right,” said Lady Glencora, and then she went.
Lizzie liked this friendship from Lady Glencora amazingly. Perhaps, after all, nothing more would ever be known about the diamonds, and they would simply be remembered as having added a peculiar and not injurious mystery to her life. Lord George knew, but then she trusted that a benevolent, true-hearted Corsair, such as was Lord George, would never tell the story against her. The thieves knew, but surely they, if not detected, would never tell. And if the story were told by thieves, or even by a Corsair, at any rate half the world would not believe it. What she had feared — had feared till the dread had nearly overcome her — was public exposure at the hands of the police. If she could escape that, the world might stilll be bright before her. And the interest taken in her by such persons as the Duke of Omnium and Lady Glencora was evidence not only that she had escaped it hitherto, but also that she was in a fair way to escape it altogether. Three weeks ago she would have given up half her income to have been able to steal out of London without leaving a trace behind her. Three weeks ago Mrs. Carbuncle was treating her with discourtesy, and she was left alone nearly the whole day in her sick bedroom. Things were going better with her now. She was recovering her position. Mr. Camperdown, who had been the first to attack her, was, so to say, “nowhere.” He had acknowledged himself beaten. Lord Fawn, whose treatment to her had been so great an injury, was coming to see her that very day. Her cousin Frank, though he had never offered to marry her, was more affectionate to her than ever. Mrs. Carbuncle had been at her feet that morning borrowing money. And Lady Glencora Palliser, the very leading star of fashion, had called upon her twice! Why should she succumb? She had an income of four thousand pounds a year, and she thought that she could remember that her aunt, Lady Linlithgow, had but seven hundred pounds. Lady Fawn with all her daughters had not near so much as she had. And she was beautiful, too, and young, and perfectly free to do what she pleased. No doubt the last eighteen months of her life had been made wretched by those horrid diamonds; but they were gone, and she had fair reason to hope that the very knowledge of them was gone also.
In this condition would it be expedient for her to accept Lord Fawn when he came? She could not, of course, be sure that any renewed offer would be the result of his visit: but she thought it probable that with care she might bring him to that. Why should he come to her if he himself had no such intention? Her mind was quite made up on this point, that he should be made to renew his offer; but whether she would renew her acceptance was quite another question. She had sworn to her cousin Frank that she would never do so, and she had sworn also that she would be revenged on this wretched lord. Now would be her opportunity of accomplishing her revenge, and of proving to Frank that she had been in earnest. And she positively disliked the man. That probably did not go for much, but it went for something, even with Lizzie Eustace. Her cousin she did like, and Lord George. She hardly knew which was her real love, though no doubt she gave the preference greatly to her cousin, because she could trust him. And then Lord Fawn was very poor. The other two men were poor also; but their poverty was not so objectionable in Lizzie’s eyes as were the respectable, close-fisted economies of Lord Fawn. Lord Fawn, no doubt, had an assured income and a real peerage, and could make her a peeress. As she thought of it all, she acknowledged that there was a great deal to be said on each side, and that the necessity of making up her mind then and there was a heavy burthen upon her.
Exactly at the hour named Lord Fawn came, and Lizzie was, of course, found alone. That had been carefully provided. He was shown up, and she received him very gracefully. She was sitting, and she rose from her chair, and put out her hand for him to take. She spoke no word of greeting, but looked at him with a pleasant smile, and stood for a few seconds with her hand in his. He was awkward, and much embarrassed, and she certainly had no intention of lessening his embarrassment. “I hope you are better than you have been,” he said at last.
“I am getting better, Lord Fawn. Will you not sit down?” He then seated himself, placing his hat beside him on the floor, but at the moment could not find words to speak. “I have been very ill.”
“I have been so sorry to hear it.”
“There has been much to make me ill — has there not?”
“About the robbery, you mean?”
“About many things. The robbery has been by no means the worst, though no doubt it frightened me much. There were two robberies, Lord Fawn.”
“Yes, I know that.”
“And it was very terrible. And then, I had been threatened with a lawsuit. You have heard that, too?”
“Yes — I had heard it.”
“I believe they have given that up now. I understand from my cousin, Mr. Greystock, who has been my truest friend in all my troubles, that the stupid people have found out at last that they had not a leg to stand on. I dare say you have heard that, Lord Fawn?”
Lord Fawn certainly had heard, in a doubtful way, the gist of Mr. Dove’s opinion, namely, that the necklace could not be claimed from the holder of it as an heirloom attached to the Eustace family. But he had heard at the same time that Mr. Camperdown was as confident as ever that he could recover the property by claiming it after another fashion. Whether or no that claim had been altogether abandoned, or had been allowed to fall into abeyance because of the absence of the diamonds, he did not know, nor did any one know — Mr. Camperdown himself having come to no decision on the subject. But Lord Fawn had been aware that his sister had of late shifted the ground of her inveterate enmity to Lizzie Eustace, making use of the scene which Mr. Gowran had witnessed, in lieu of the lady’s rapacity in regard to the necklace. It might therefore be assumed, Lord Fawn thought and feared, that his strong ground in regard to the necklace had been cut from under his feet. But still, it did not behoove him to confess that the cause which he had always alleged as the ground for his retreat from the engagement was no cause at all. It might go hard with him should an attempt be made to force him to name another cause. He knew that he would lack the courage to tell the lady that he had heard from his sister that one Andy Gowran had witnessed a terrible scene down among the rocks at Portray. So he sat silent, and made no answer to Lizzie’s first assertion respecting the diamonds.
But the necklace was her strong point, and she did not intend that he should escape the subject. “If I remember right, Lord Fawn, you yourself saw that wretched old attorney once or twice on the subject?”
“I did see Mr. Camperdown, certainly. He is my own family lawyer.”
“You were kind enough to interest yourself about the diamonds — were you not?” She asked him this as a question, and then waited for a reply. “Was it not so?”
“Yes, Lady Eustace; it was so.”
“They were of great value, and it was natural,” continued “Lizzie. “Of course you interested yourself. Mr. Camperdown was full of awful threats against me — was he not? I don’t know what he was not going to do. He stopped me in the street as I was driving to the station in my own carriage, when the diamonds were with me; which was a very strong measure, I think. And he wrote me ever so many, oh, such horrid letters. And he went about telling everybody that it was an heirloom — didn’t he? You know all that, Lord Fawn?”
“I know that he wanted to recover them.”
“And did he tell you that he went to a real lawyer, somebody who really knew about it, Mr. Turbot, or Turtle, or some such name as that, and the real lawyer told him that he was all wrong, and that the necklace couldn’t be an heirloom at all, because it belonged to me, and that he had better drop his lawsuit altogether? Did you hear that?”
“No; I did not hear that.”
“Ah, Lord Fawn, you dropped your inquiries just at the wrong place. No doubt you had too many things to do in Parliament and the Government to go on with them; but if you had gone on, you would have learned that Mr. Camperdown had just to give it up, because he had been wrong from beginning to end.” Lizzie’s words fell from her with extreme rapidity, and she had become almost out of breath from the effects of her own energy.
Lord Fawn felt strongly the necessity of clinging to the diamonds as his one great and sufficient justification. “I thought,” said he, “that Mr. Camperdown had abandoned his action for the present because the jewels had been stolen.”
“Not a bit of it,” said Lizzie, rising suddenly to her legs. “Who says so? Who dares to say so? Whoever says so is — is a story-teller. I understand all about that. The action could go on just the same, and I could be made to pay for the necklace out of my own income if it hadn’t been my own. I am sure, Lord Fawn, such a clever man as you, and one who has always been in the Government and in Parliament, can see that. And will anybody believe that such an enemy as Mr. Camperdown has been to me, persecuting me in every possible way, telling lies about everybody, who tried to prevent my dear, darling husband from marrying me, that he wouldn’t go on with it if he could?”
“Mr. Camperdown is a very respectable man, Lady Eustace.”
“Respectable! Talk to me of respectable after all that he has made me suffer! As you were so fond of making inquiries, Lord Fawn, you ought to have gone on with them. You never would believe what my cousin said.”
“Your cousin always behaved very badly to me.”
“My cousin, who is a brother rather than a cousin, has known how to protect me from the injuries done to me, or rather, has known how to take my part when I have been injured. My lord, as you have been unwilling to believe him, why have you not gone to that gentleman who, as I say, is a real lawyer? I don’t know, my lord, that it need have concerned you at all, but as you began, you surely should have gone on with it. Don’t you think so?” She was still standing up and, small as was her stature, was almost menacing the unfortunate Under-Secretary of State, who was still seated in his chair. “My lord,” continued Lizzie, “I have had great wrong done me.”
“Do you mean by me?”
“Yes, by you. Who else has done it?”
“I do not think that I have done wrong to any one. I was obliged to say that I could not recognise those diamonds as the property of my wife.”
“But what right had you to say so? I had the diamonds when you asked me to be your wife.”
“I did not know it.”
“Nor did you know that I had this little ring upon my finger. Is it fit that you, or that any man should turn round upon a lady and say to her that your word is to be broken, and that she is to be exposed before all her friends, because you have taken a fancy to dislike her ring or her brooch? I say, Lord Fawn, it was no business of yours, even after you were engaged to me. What jewels I might have, or not have, was no concern of yours till after I had become your wife. Go and ask all the world if it is not so. You say that my cousin affronts you because he takes my part, like a brother. Ask any one else. Ask any lady you may know. Let us name some one to decide between us which of us has been wrong. Lady Glencora Palliser is a friend of yours, and her husband is in the Government. Shall we name her? It is true, indeed, that her uncle, the Duke of Omnium, the grandest and greatest of English noblemen, is specially interested on my behalf.” This was very fine in Lizzie. The Duke of Omnium she had never seen; but his name had been mentioned to her by Lady Glencora, and she was quick to use it.
“I can admit of no reference to any one,” said Lord Fawn.
“And I then, what am I to do? I am to be thrown over simply because your lordship — chooses to throw me over. Your lordship will admit no reference to any one! Your lordship makes inquiries as long as an attorney tells you stories against me, but drops them at once when the attorney is made to understand that he is wrong. Tell me this, sir. Can you justify yourself in your own heart?”
Unfortunately for Lord Fawn, he was not sure that he could justify himself. The diamonds were gone, and the action was laid aside, and the general opinion which had prevailed a month or two since, that Lizzie had been disreputably concerned in stealing her own necklace, seemed to have been laid aside. Lady Glencora and the duke went for almost as much with Lord Fawn as they did with Lizzie. No doubt the misbehaviour down among the rocks was left to him; but he had that only on the evidence of Andy Gowran, and even Andy Gowran’s evidence he had declined to receive otherwise than second-hand. Lizzie, too, was prepared with an answer to this charge, an answer which she had already made more than once, though the charge was not positively brought against her, and which consisted in an assertion that Frank Greystock was her brother rather than her cousin. Such brotherhood was not altogether satisfactory to Lord Fawn, when he came once more to regard Lizzie Eustace as his possible future wife; but still the assertion was an answer, and one that he could not altogether reject.
It certainly was the case that he had again begun to think what would be the result of a marriage with Lady Eustace. He must sever himself altogether from Mrs. Hittaway, and must relax the closeness of his relations with Fawn Court. He would have a wife respecting whom he himself had spread evil tidings, and the man whom he most hated in the world would be his wife’s favourite cousin or, so to say, brother. He would, after a fashion, be connected with Mrs. Carbuncle, Lord George de Brace Carruthers, and Sir Griffin Tewett, all of whom he regarded as thoroughly disreputable. And, moreover, at his own country house at Portray, as in such case it would be, his own bailiff or steward would be the man who had seen, what he had seen. These were great objections; but how was he to avoid marrying? He was engaged to her. How, at any rate, was he to escape from the renewal of his engagement at this moment? He had more than once positively stated that he was deterred from marrying her only by her possession of the diamonds. The diamonds were now gone.
Lizzie was still standing, waiting for an answer to her question: Can you justify yourself in your own heart? Having paused for some seconds she repeated her question in a stronger and more personal form. “Had I been your sister, Lord Fawn, and had another man behaved to me as you have now done, would you say that he had behaved well and that she had no ground for complaint? Can you bring yourself to answer that question honestly?”
“I hope I shall answer no question dishonestly.”
“Answer it then. No; you cannot answer it, because you would condemn yourself. Now, Lord Fawn, what do you mean to do?”
“I had thought, Lady Eustace, that any regard which you might ever have entertained for me —”
“Well; what had you thought of my regard?”
“That it had been dissipated.”
“Have I told you so? Has any one come to you from me with such a message?”
“Have you not received attentions from any one else?”
“Attentions; what attentions? I have received plenty of attentions, most flattering attentions. I was honoured even this morning by a most gratifying attention on the part of his grace the Duke of Omnium.”
“I did not mean that.”
“What do you mean, then? I am not going to marry the Duke of Omnium because of his attention, nor any one else. If you mean, sir, after the other inquiries you have done me the honour to make, to throw it in my face now, that I have — have in any way rendered myself unworthy of the position of your wife because people have been civil and kind to me in my sorrow, you are a greater dastard than I took you to be. Tell me at once, sir, whom you mean.”
It is hardly too much to say that the man quailed before her. And it certainly is not too much to say that, had Lizzie Eustace been trained as an actress, she would have become a favourite with the town. When there came to her any fair scope for acting, she was perfect. In the ordinary scenes of ordinary life, such as befell her during her visit to Fawn Court, she could not acquit herself well. There was no reality about her, and the want of it was strangely plain to most unobservant eyes. But give her a part to play that required exaggerated, strong action, and she hardly ever failed. Even in that terrible moment when, on her return from the theatre, she thought that the police had discovered her secret about the diamonds, though she nearly sank through fear, she still carried on her acting in the presence of Lucinda Roanoke; and when she had found herself constrained to tell the truth to Lord George Carruthers, the power to personify a poor, weak, injured creature was not wanting to her. The reader will not think that her position in society at the present moment was very well established, will feel, probably, that she must still have known herself to be on the brink of social ruin. But she had now fully worked herself up to the necessities of the occasion, and was as able to play her part as any actress that ever walked the boards. She had called him a dastard, and now stood looking him in the face. “I didn’t mean anybody in particular,” said Lord Fawn.
“Then what right can you have to ask me whether I have received attentions? Had it not been for the affectionate attention of my cousin, Mr. Greystock, I should have died beneath the load of sorrow you have heaped upon me.” This she said quite boldly, and yet the man she named was he of whom Andy Gowran told his horrid story, and whose love-making to Lizzie had, in Mrs. Hittaway’s opinion, been sufficient to atone for any falling off of strength in the matter of the diamonds.
“A rumour reached me,” said Lord Fawn, plucking up his courage, “that you were engaged to marry your cousin.”
“Then rumour lied, my lord. And he or she who repeated the rumour to you, lied also. And any he or she who repeats it again will go on with the lie.” Lord Fawn’s brow became very black. The word “lie” itself was offensive to him, offensive even though it might not be applied directly to himself; but he still quailed, and was unable to express his indignation — as he had done to poor Lucy Morris, his mother’s governess. “And now let me ask, Lord Fawn, on what ground you and I stand together. When my friend Lady Glencora asked me, only this morning, whether my engagement with you was still an existing fact, and brought me the kindest possible message on the same subject from her uncle, the duke, I hardly knew what answer to make her.” It was not surprising that Lizzie in her difficulties should use her new friend, but perhaps she overdid the friendship a little. “I told her that we were engaged, but that your lordship’s conduct to me had been so strange that I hardly knew how to speak of you among my friends.”
“I thought I explained myself to your cousin.”
“My cousin certainly did not understand your explanation.”
Lord Fawn was certain that Greystock had understood it well; and Greystock had in return insulted him because the engagement was broken off. But it is impossible to argue on facts with a woman who has been ill-used. “After all that has passed perhaps we had better part,” said Lord Fawn.
“Then I shall put the matter into the hands of the Duke of Omnium,” said Lizzie boldly. “I will not have my whole life ruined, my good name blasted —”
“I have not said a word to injure your good name.”
“On what plea, then, have you dared to take upon yourself to put an end to an engagement which was made at your own pressing request — which was, of course, made at your own request On what ground do you justify such conduct? You are a Liberal, Lord Fawn; and everybody regards the Duke of Omnium as the head of the Liberal nobility in England. He is my friend, and I shall put the matter into his hands.” It was probably from her cousin Frank that Lizzie had learned that Lord Fawn was more afraid of the leaders of his own party than of any other tribunal upon earth — or perhaps elsewhere.
Lord Fawn felt the absurdity of the threat, and yet it had effect upon him. He knew that the Duke of Omnium was a worn-out old debauchee, with one foot in the grave, who was looked after by two or three women who were anxious only that he should not disgrace himself by some absurdity before he died. Nevertheless the Duke of Omnium, or the duke name, was a power in the nation. Lady Glencora was certainly very powerful, and Lady Glencora’s husband was Chancellor of the Exchequer. He did not suppose that the duke cared in the least whether Lizzie Eustace was or was not married; but Lady Glencora had certainly interested herself about Lizzie, and might make London almost too hot to hold him if she chose to go about everywhere saying that he ought to marry the lady. And in addition to all this prospective grief, there was the trouble of the present moment. He was in Lizzie’s own room — fool that he had been to come there — and he must get out as best he could. “Lady Eustace,” he said, “I am most anxious not to behave badly in this matter.”
“But you are behaving badly — very badly.”
“With your leave I will tell you what I would suggest. I will submit to you in writing my opinion on this matter —” Lord Fawn had been all his life submitting his opinion in writing, and thought that he was rather a good hand at the work. “I will then endeavour to explain to you the reasons which make me think that it will be better for us both that our engagement should be at an end. If, after reading it, you shall disagree with me, and still insist on the right which I gave you when I asked you to become my wife, I will then perform the promise which I certainly made.” To this most foolish proposal on his part, Lizzie of course acquiesced. She acquiesced, and bade him farewell with her sweetest smile. It was now manifest to her that she could have her husband, or her revenge, just as she might prefer.
This had been a day of triumph to her, and she was talking of it in the evening triumphantly to Mrs. Carbuncle, when she was told that a policeman wanted to see her down-stairs! Oh, those wretched police! Again all the blood rushed to her head and nearly killed her. She descended slowly; and was then informed by a man, not dressed like Bunfit, in plain clothes, but with all the paraphernalia of a policeman’s uniform, that her late servant, Patience Crabstick, had given herself up as Queen’s evidence, and was now in custody in Scotland Yard. It had been thought right that she should be so far informed; but the man was able to tell her nothing further.
On the Sunday following, Frank, as usual, was in Hertford Street. He had become almost a favourite with Mrs. Carbuncle; and had so far ingratiated himself even with Lucinda Roanoke that, according to Lizzie’s report, he might if so inclined rob Sir Griffin of his prize without much difficulty. On this occasion he was unhappy and in low spirits; and when questioned on the subject made no secret of the fact that he was harassed for money. “The truth is, I have overdrawn my bankers by five hundred pounds, and they have, as they say, ventured to remind me of it. I wish they were not venturesome quite so often; for they reminded me of the same fact about a fortnight ago.”
“What do you do with your money, Mr. Greystock?” asked Mrs. Carbuncle laughing.
“Muddle it away, paying my bills with it, according to the very, very old story. The fact is I live in that detestable no man’s land, between respectability and insolvency, which has none of the pleasure of either. I am fair game for every creditor, as I am supposed to pay my way, and yet I never can pay my way.”
“Just like my poor dear father,” said Lizzie.
“Not exactly, Lizzie. He managed much better, and never paid anybody. If I could only land on terra firma, one side or the other, I shouldn’t much care which. As it is, I have all the recklessness, but none of the carelessness, of a hopelessly insolvent man. And it is so hard with us. Attorneys owe us large sums of money, and we can’t dun them very well. I have a lot of money due to me from rich men, who don’t pay me simply because they don’t think that it matters. I talk to them grandly, and look big, as though money was the last thing I thought of, when I am longing to touch my hat and ask them as a great favour to settle my little bill.” All this time Lizzie was full of matter which she must impart to her cousin, and could impart to him only in privacy.
It was absolutely necessary that she should tell him what she had heard of Patience Crabstick. In her heart of hearts she wished that Patience Crabstick had gone off safely with her plunder to the Antipodes. She had no wish to get back what had been lost, either in the matter of the diamonds or of the smaller things taken. She had sincerely wished that the police might fail in all their endeavours, and that the thieves might enjoy perfect security with their booty. She did not even begrudge Mr. Benjamin the diamonds — or Lord George, if in truth Lord George had been the last thief. The robbery had enabled her to get the better of Mr. Camperdown, and apparently of Lord Fawn; and had freed her from the custody of property which she had learned to hate. It had been a very good robbery. But now these wretched police had found Patience Crabstick and would disturb her again!
Of course she must tell her cousin. He must hear the news, and it would be better that he should hear it from her than from others. This was Sunday, and she thought he would be sure to know the truth on the following Monday. In this she was right: for on the Monday old Lady Linlithgow saw it stated in the newspapers that an arrest had been made. “I have something to tell you,” she said, as soon as she had succeeded in finding herself alone with him.
“Anything about the diamonds?”
“Well, no; not exactly about the diamonds; though perhaps it is. But first, Frank, I want to say something else to you.”
“Not about the diamonds?”
“Oh no; not at all. It is this. You must let me lend you that five hundred pounds you want.”
“Indeed, you shall do no such thing. I should not have mentioned it to you if I had not thought that you were one of the insolvent yourself. You were in debt yourself when we last talked about money.”
“So I am; and that horrid woman, Mrs. Carbuncle, has made me lend her one hundred and fifty pounds. But it is so different with you, Frank.”
“Yes; my needs are greater than hers.”
“What is she to me? while you are everything! Things can’t be so bad with me but what I can raise five hundred pounds. After all, I am not really in debt, for a person with my income; but if I were, still my first duty would be to help you if you want help.”
“Be generous first, and just afterwards. That’s it; isn’t it, Lizzie? But indeed, under no circumstances could I take a penny of your money. There are some persons from whom a man can borrow and some from whom he cannot. You are clearly one of those from whom I cannot borrow.”
“Why not?”
“Ah, one can’t explain these things. It simply is so. Mrs. Carbuncle was quite the natural person to borrow your money, and it seems that she has complied with nature. Some Jew who wants thirty per cent is the natural person for me. All these things are arranged, and it is of no use disturbing the arrangements and getting out of course. I shall pull through. And now let me know your own news.”
“The police have taken Patience.”
“They have, have they? Then at last we shall know all about the diamonds.” This was gall to poor Lizzie. “Where did they get her?”
“Ah! I don’t know that.”
“And who told you?”
“A policeman came here last night and said so. She is going to turn against the thieves and tell all that she knows. Nasty, mean creature.”
“Thieves are nasty, mean creatures generally. We shall get it all out now — as to what happened at Carlisle and what happened here. Do you know that everybody believes, up to this moment, that your dear friend Lord George de Bruce sold the diamonds to Mr. Benjamin the jeweller?”
Lizzie could only shrug her shoulders. She herself, among many doubts, was upon the whole disposed to think as everybody thought. She did believe — as far as she believed anything in the matter — that the Corsair had determined to become possessed of the prize from the moment that he saw it in Scotland; that the Corsair arranged the robbery in Carlisle, and that again he arranged the robbery in the London house as soon as he learned from Lizzie where the diamonds were placed. To her mind this had been the most ready solution of the mystery, and when she found that other people almost regarded him as the thief, her doubts became a belief. And she did not in the least despise or dislike him or condemn him for what he had done. Were he to come to her and confess it all, telling his story in such a manner as to make her seem to be safe for the future, she would congratulate him and accept him at once as her own dear, expected Corsair. But if so, he should not have bungled the thing. He should have managed his subordinates better than to have one of them turn evidence against him. He should have been able to get rid of a poor weak female like Patience Crabstick. Why had he not sent her to New York, or — or — or anywhere? If Lizzie were to hear that Lord George had taken Patience out to sea in a yacht — somewhere among the bright islands of which she thought so much — and dropped the girl overboard, tied up in a bag, she would regard it as a proper Corsair arrangement. Now she was angry with Lord George because her trouble was coming back upon her. Frank had suggested that Lord George was the robber in chief, and Lizzie merely shrugged her shoulders. “We shall know all about it now,” said he triumphantly.
“I don’t know that I want to know any more about it. I have been so tortured about these wretched diamonds that I never wish to hear them mentioned again. I don’t care who has got them. My enemies used to think that I loved them so well that I could not bear to part with them. I hated them always, and never took any pleasure in them. I used to think that I would throw them into the sea; and when they were gone I was glad of it.”
“Thieves ought to be discovered, Lizzie, for the good of the community.”
“I don’t care for the community. What has the community ever done for me? And now I have something else to tell you. Ever so many people came yesterday as well as that wretched policeman. Dear Lady Glencora was here again.”
“They’ll make a Radical of you among them, Lizzie.”
“I don’t care a bit about that. I’d just as soon be a Radical as a stupid old Conservative. Lady Glencora has been most kind, and she brought me the dearest message from the Duke of Omnium. The duke had heard how ill I had been treated.”
“The duke is doting.”
“It is so easy to say that when a man is old. I don’t think you know him, Frank.”
“Not in the least; nor do I wish.”
“It is something to have the sympathy of men high placed in the world. And as to Lady Glencora, I do love her dearly. She just comes up to my beau ideal of what a woman should be — disinterested, full of spirit, affectionate, with a dash of romance about her.”
“A great dash of romance, I fancy.”
“And a determination to be something in the world. Lady Glencora Palliser is something.”
“She is awfully rich, Lizzie.”
“I suppose so. At any rate, that is no disgrace. And then, Frank, somebody else came.”
“Lord Fawn was to have come.”
“He did come.”
“And how did it go between you?”
“Ah, that will be so difficult to explain. I wish you had been behind the curtain to hear it all. It is so necessary that you should know, and yet it is so hard to tell. I spoke up to him, and was quite high-spirited.”
“I dare say you were.”
“I told him out bravely of all the wrong he had done me. I did not sit and whimper, I can assure you. Then he talked about you — of your attentions.”
Frank Greystock, of course, remembered the scene among the rocks, and Mr. Gowran’s wagging head and watchful eyes. At the time he had felt certain that some use would be made of Andy’s vigilance, though he had not traced the connection between the man and Mrs. Hittaway. If Lord Fawn had heard of the little scene, there might doubtless be cause for him to talk of “attentions” “What did it matter to him?” asked Frank. “He is an insolent ass — as I have told him once, and shall have to tell him again.”
“I think it did matter, Frank.”
“I don’t see it a bit. He had resigned his rights — whatever they were.”
“But I had not accepted his resignation — as they say in the newspapers — nor have I now.”
“You would still marry him?”
“I don’t say that, Frank. This is an important business, and let us go through it steadily. I would certainly like to have him again at my feet. Whether I would deign to lift him up again is another thing. Is not that natural, after what he has done to me?”
“Woman’s nature.”
“And I am a woman. Yes, Frank. I would have him again at my disposal — and he is so. He is to write me a long letter; so like a Government-man — isn’t it? And he has told me already what he is to put in the letter. They always do, you know. He is to say that he’ll marry me if I choose.”
“He has promised to say that?”
“When he said that he would come, I made up my mind that he should not go out of the house till he had promised that. He couldn’t get out of it. What had I done?” Frank thought of the scene among the rocks. He did not, of course, allude to it, but Lizzie was not so reticent. “As to what that old rogue saw down in Scotland, I don’t care a bit about it, Frank. He has been up in London, and telling them all, no doubt. Nasty, dirty eavesdropper! But what does it come to? Psha! When he mentioned your name I silenced him at once. What could I have done, unless I had had some friend? At any rate, he is to ask me again in writing — and then what shall I say?”
“You must consult your own heart.”
“No, Frank; I need not do that. Why do you say so?”
“I know not what else to say.”
“A woman can marry without consulting her heart. Women do so every day. This man is a lord, and has a position. No doubt I despise him thoroughly — utterly. I don’t hate him, because he is not worth being hated.”
“And yet you would marry him?”
“I have not said so. I will tell you this truth, though perhaps you will say it is not feminine. I would fain marry some one. To be as I have been for the last two years is not a happy condition.”
“I would not marry a man I despised.”
“Nor would I— willingly. He is honest and respectable; and in spite of all that has come and gone would, I think, behave well to a woman when she was once his wife. Of course, I would prefer to marry a man that I could love. But if that is impossible, Frank ——”
“I thought that you had determined that you would have nothing to do with this lord.”
“I thought so too. Frank, you have known all that I have thought, and all that I have wished. You talk to me of marrying where my heart has been given. Is it possible that I should do so?”
“How am I to say?”
“Come, Frank, be true with me. I am forcing myself to speak truth to you. I think that between you and me, at any rate, there should be no words spoken that are not true. Frank, you know where my heart is.” As she said this she stood over him and laid her hand upon his shoulder. “Will you answer me one question?”
“If I can, I will.”
“Are you engaged to marry Lucy Morris?”
“I am.”
“And you intend to marry her?” To this question he made no immediate answer. “We are old enough now, Frank, to know that something more than what you call heart is wanted to make us happy when we marry. I will say nothing hard of Lucy, though she be my rival.”
“You can say nothing hard of her. She is perfect.”
“We will let that pass, though it is hardly kind of you, just at the present moment. Let her be perfect. Can you marry this perfection without a sixpence — you that are in debt, and who never could save a sixpence in your life? Would it be for her good — or for yours? You have done a foolish thing, sir, and you know that you must get out of it.”
“I know nothing of the kind.”
“You cannot marry Lucy Morris. That is the truth. My present need makes me bold. Frank, shall I be your wife? Such a marriage will not be without love, at any rate on one side, though there be utter indifference on the other.”
“You know I am not indifferent to you,” said he, with wicked weakness.
“Now at any rate,” she continued, “you must understand what must be my answer to Lord Fawn. It is you that must answer Lord Fawn. If my heart is to be broken, I may as well break it under his roof as another.”
“I have no roof to offer you,” he said. “But I have one for you.” she said, throwing her arm round his neck. He bore her embrace for a minute, returning it with the pressure of his arm; and then, escaping from it, seized his hat and left her standing in the room.
On the following morning — Monday morning — there appeared in one of the daily newspapers the paragraph of which Lady Linlithgow had spoken to Lucy Morris. “We are given to understand”— newspapers are very frequently given to understand —“that a man well-known to the London police as an accomplished housebreaker has been arrested in reference to the robbery which was effected on the 30th of January last at Lady Eustace’s house in Hertford Street. No doubt the same person was concerned in the robbery of her ladyship’s jewels at Carlisle on the night of the 8th of January. The mystery which has so long enveloped these two affairs, and which has been so discreditable to the metropolitan police, will now probably be cleared up.” There was not a word about Patience Crabstick in this; and, as Lizzie observed, the news brought by the policeman on Saturday night referred only to Patience, and said nothing of the arrest of any burglar. The ladies in Hertford street scanned the sentence with the greatest care, and Mrs. Carbuncle was very angry because the house was said to be Lizzie’s house.
“It wasn’t my doing,” said Lizzie.
“The policeman came to you about it.”
“I didn’t say a word to the man, and I didn’t want him to come.”
“I hope it will be all found out now,” said Lucinda.
“I wish it were all clean forgotten,” said Lizzie.
“It ought to be found out,” said Mrs. Carbuncle. “But the police should be more careful in what they say. I suppose we shall all have to go before the magistrates again.”
Poor Lizzie felt that fresh trouble was certainly coming upon her. She had learned now that the crime for which she might be prosecuted and punished was that of perjury, that even if everything was known, she could not be accused of stealing, and that if she could only get out of the way till the wrath of the magistrate and policemen should have evaporated, she might possibly escape altogether. At any rate, they could not take her income away from her. But how could she get out of the way, and how could she endure to be cross-examined, and looked at, and inquired into, by all those who would be concerned in the matter? She thought that, if only she could have arranged her matrimonial affairs before the bad day came upon her, she could have endured it better. If she might be allowed to see Lord George, she could ask for advice — could ask for advice, not as she was always forced to do from her cousin, on a false statement of facts, but with everything known and declared.
On that very day Lord George came to Hertford Street. He had been there more than once, perhaps half a dozen times, since the robbery; but on all these occasions Lizzie had been in bed, and he had declined to visit her in her chamber. In fact, even Lord George had become somewhat afraid of her since he had been told the true story as to the necklace at Carlisle. That story he had heard from herself, and he had also heard from Mr. Benjamin some other little details as to her former life. Mr. Benjamin, whose very close attention had been drawn to the Eustace diamonds, had told Lord George how he had valued them at her ladyship’s request, and had caused an iron case to be made for them, and how her ladyship had on one occasion endeavoured to sell the necklace to him. Mr. Benjamin, who certainly was intimate with Lord George, was very fond of talking about the diamonds, and had once suggested to his lordship that, were they to become his lordship’s by marriage, he, Benjamin, might be willing to treat with his lordship. In regard to treating with her ladyship, Mr. Benjamin acknowledged that he thought it would be too hazardous. Then came the robbery of the box, and Lord George was all astray. Mr. Benjamin was for a while equally astray, but neither friend believed in the other friend’s innocence. That Lord George should suspect Mr. Benjamin was quite natural. Mr. Benjamin hardly knew what to think; hardly gave Lord George credit for the necessary courage, skill, and energy. But at last, as he began to put two and two together, he divined the truth, and was enabled to set the docile Patience on the watch over her mistress’s belongings. So it had been with Mr. Benjamin, who at last was able to satisfy Mr. Smiler and Mr. Cann that he had been no party to their cruel disappointment at Carlisle. How Lord George had learned the truth has been told; the truth as to Lizzie’s hiding the necklace under her pillow and bringing it up to London in her desk. But of the facts of the second robbery he knew nothing up to this morning. He almost suspected that Lizzie had herself again been at work, and he was afraid of her. He had promised her that he would take care of her, had perhaps said enough to make her believe that some day he would marry her. He hardly remembered what he had said; but he was afraid of her. She was so wonderfully clever that, if he did not take care, she would get him into some mess from which he would be unable to extricate himself.
He had never whispered her secret to any one; and had still been at a loss about the second robbery, when he too saw the paragraph in the newspaper. He went direct to Scotland Yard and made inquiry there. His name had been so often used in the affair, that such inquiry from him was justified.
“Well, my lord; yes; we have found out something,” said Bunfit. “Mr. Benjamin is off, you know.”
“Benjamin off?”
“Cut the painter, my lord, and started. But what’s the good, now we has the wires?”
“And who were the thieves?”
“Ah, my lord, that’s telling. Perhaps I don’t know. Perhaps I do. Perhaps two or three of us knows. You’ll hear all in good time, my lord.” Mr. Bunfit wished to appear communicative because he knew but little himself. Gager, in the meanest possible manner, had kept the matter very close; but the fact that Mr. Benjamin had started suddenly on foreign travel had become known to Mr. Bunfit.
Lord George had been very careful, asking no question about the necklace; no question which would have shown that he knew that the necklace had been in Hertford Street when the robbery took place there; but it seemed to him now that the police must be aware that it was so. The arrest had been made because of the robbery in Hertford Street, and because of that arrest Mr. Benjamin had taken his departure. Mr. Benjamin was too big a man to have concerned himself deeply in the smaller matters which had then been stolen.
From Scotland Yard Lord George went direct to Hertford Street. He was in want of money, in want of a settled home, in want of a future income, and altogether unsatisfied with his present mode of life. Lizzie Eustace, no doubt, would take him, unless she had told her secret to some other lover. To have his wife, immediately on her marriage, or even before it, arraigned for perjury, would not be pleasant. There was very much in the whole affair of which he would not be proud as he led his bride to the altar; but a man does not expect to get four thousand pounds a year for nothing. Lord George, at any rate, did not conceive himself to be in a position to do so. Had there not been something crooked about Lizzie, a screw loose, as people say, she would never have been within his reach. There are men who always ride lame horses, and yet see as much of the hunting as others. Lord George, when he had begun to think that, after the tale which he had forced her to tell him, she had caused the diamonds to be stolen by her own maid out of her own desk, became almost afraid of her. But now, as he looked at the matter again and again, he believed that the second robbery had been genuine. He did not quite make up his mind, but he went to Hertford Street resolved to see her.
He asked for her, and was shown at once into her own sitting^ room. “So you have come at last,” she said.
“Yes; I’ve come at last. It would not have done for me to come up to you when you were in bed. Those women downstairs would have talked about it everywhere.”
“I suppose they would,” said Lizzie almost piteously.
“It wouldn’t have been at all wise after all that has been said. People would have been sure to suspect that I had got the things out of your desk.”
“Oh, no; not that.”
“I wasn’t going to run the risk, my dear.” His manner to her was anything but civil, anything but complimentary. If this was his Corsair humour, she was not sure that a Corsair might be agreeable to her. “And now tell me what you know about this second robbery.”
“I know nothing, Lord George.”
“Oh, yes, you do. You know something. You know, at any rate, that the diamonds were there.”
“Yes; I know that.”
“And that they were taken?”
“Of course they were taken.”
“You are sure of that?” There was something in his manner absolutely insolent to her. Frank was affectionate, and even Lord Fawn treated her with deference. “Because, you know, you have been very clever. To tell you the truth, I did not think at first that they had been really stolen. It might, you know, have been a little game to get them out of your own hands, between you and your maid.”
“I don’t know what you take me for, Lord George.”
“I take you for a lady who for a long time got the better of the police and the magistrates, and who managed to shift all the trouble off your own shoulders on to those of other people. You have heard that they have taken one of the thieves?”
“And they have got the girl.”
“Have they? I didn’t know that. That scoundrel Benjamin has levanted too.”
“Levanted!” said Lizzie, raising both her hands.
“Not an hour too soon, my lady. And now what do you mean to do?”
“What ought I to do?”
“Of course the whole truth will come out.”
“Must it come out?”
“Not a doubt of that. How can it be helped?”
“You won’t tell. You promised that you would not.”
“Psha; promised! If they put me in a witness-box of course I must tell. When you come to this kind of work, promises don’t go for much. I don’t know that they ever do. What is a broken promise?”
“It’s a story,” said Lizzie, in innocent amazement.
“And what was it you told when you were upon your oath at Carlisle; and again when the magistrate came here?”
“Oh, Lord George; how unkind you are to me!”
“Patience Crabstick will tell it all, without any help from me. Don’t you see that the whole thing must be known? She’ll say where the diamonds were found; and how did they come there, if you didn’t put them there? As for telling, there’ll be telling enough. You’ve only two things to do.”
“What are they, Lord George?”
“Go off, like Mr. Benjamin; or else make a clean breast of it. Send for John Eustace and tell him the whole. For his brother’s sake he’ll make the best of it. It will all be published, and then perhaps there will be an end of it.”
“I couldn’t do that, Lord George,” said Lizzie, bursting into tears.
“You ask me, and I can only tell you what I think. That you should be able to keep the history of the diamonds a secret, does not seem to me to be upon the cards. No doubt people who are rich, and are connected with rich people, and have great friends — who are what the world call swells — have great advantages over their inferiors when they get into trouble. You are the widow of a baronet, and you have an uncle a bishop, and another a dean, and a countess for an aunt. You have a brother-inlaw and a first-cousin in Parliament, and your father was an admiral. The other day you were engaged to marry a peer.”
“Oh yes,” said Lizzie, “and Lady Glencora Palliser is my particular friend.”
“She is; is she? So much the better. Lady Glencora, no doubt, is a very swell among swells.”
“The Duke of Omnium would do anything for me,” said Lizzie with enthusiasm.
“If you were nobody, you would of course be indicted for perjury, and would go to prison. As it is, if you will tell all your story to one of your swell friends, I think it very likely that you may be pulled through. I should say that Mr. Eustace, or your cousin Greystock, would be the best.”
“Why couldn’t you do it? You know it all. I told you because — because — because I thought you would be the kindest to me.”
“You told me, my dear, because you thought it would not matter much with me, and I appreciate the compliment. I can do nothing for you. I am not near enough to those who wear wigs.”
Lizzie did not above half understand him — did not at all understand him when he spoke of those who wore wigs, and was quite dark to his irony about her great friends — but she did perceive that he was in earnest in recommending her to confess. She thought about it for a moment in silence, and the more she thought the more she felt that she could not do it. Had he not suggested a second alternative — that she should go off, like Mr. Benjamin? It might be possible that she should go off, and yet be not quite like Mr. Benjamin. In that case ought she not to go under the protection of her Corsair? Would not that be the proper way of going?
“Might I not go abroad, just for a time?” she asked.
“And so let it blow over?”
“Just so, you know.”
“It is possible that you might,” he said. “Not that it would blow over altogether. Everybody would know it. It is too late now to stop the police, and if you meant to be off you should be off at once — today or tomorrow.”
“Oh, dear!”
“Indeed, there’s no saying whether they will let you go. You could start now, this moment; and if you were at Dover could get over to France. But when once it is known that you had the necklace all that time in your own desk, any magistrate, I imagine, could stop you. You’d better have some lawyer you can trust; not that blackguard Mopus.”
Lord George had certainly brought her no comfort. When he told her that she might go at once if she chose, she remembered, with a pang of agony, that she had already overdrawn her account at the bankers. She was the actual possessor of an income of four thousand pounds a year, and now, in her terrible strait, she could not stir because she had no money with which to travel. Had all things been well with her, she could, no doubt, have gone to her bankers and have arranged this little difficulty. But as it was she could not move, because her purse was empty.
Lord George sat looking at her and thinking whether he would make the plunge and ask her to be his wife, with all her impediments and drawbacks about her. He had been careful to reduce her to such a condition of despair that she would undoubtedly have accepted him so that she might have some one to lean upon in her trouble; but as he looked at her he doubted. She was such a mass of deceit that he was afraid of her. She might say that she would marry him, and then, when the storm was over, refuse to keep her word. She might be in debt almost to any amount. She might be already married for anything that he knew. He did know that she was subject to all manner of penalties for what she had done. He looked at her and told himself that she was very pretty. But in spite of her beauty his judgment went against her. He did not dare to share his — even his — boat with so dangerous a fellow-passenger.
“That’s my advice,” he said, getting up from his chair,
“Are you going?”
“Well; yes; I don’t know what else I can do for you.”
“You are so unkind.” He shrugged his shoulders, just touched her hand, and left the room without saying another word to her.
Lizzie, when she was left alone, was very angry with the Corsair — in truth more sincerely angry that she had ever been with any of her lovers, or perhaps with any human being. Sincere, true, burning wrath was not the fault to which she was most exposed. She could snap and snarl and hate, and say severe things. She could quarrel, and fight, and be malicious. But to be full of real wrath was uncommon with her. Now she was angry. She had been civil, more than civil, to Lord George. She had opened her house to him and her heart. She had told him her great secret. She had implored his protection. She had thrown herself into his arms. And now he had rejected her. That he should have been rough to her was only in accordance with the poetical attributes which she had attributed to him. But his roughness should have been streaked with tenderness. He should not have left her roughly. In the whole interview he had not said a loving word to her. He had given her advice — which might be good or bad — but he had given it as to one whom he despised. He had spoken to her throughout the interview exactly as he might have spoken to Sir Griffin Tewett. She could not analyse her feelings thoroughly, but she felt that because of what had passed between them, by reason of his knowledge of her secret, he had robbed her of all that observance which was due to her as a woman and a lady. She had been roughly used before, by people of inferior rank who had seen through her ways. Andrew Gowran had insulted her. Patience Crabstick had argued with her. Benjamin, the employer of thieves, had been familiar with her. But hitherto, in what she was pleased to call her own set, she had always been treated with that courtesy which ladies seldom fail to receive. She understood it all. She knew how much of mere word-service there often is in such complimentary usage. But, nevertheless, it implies respect and an acknowledgment of the position of her who is so respected. Lord George had treated her as one schoolboy treats another.
And he had not spoken to her one word of love. Love will excuse roughness. Spoken love will palliate even spoken roughness. Had he once called her his own Lizzie, he might have scolded her as he pleased — might have abused her to the top of his bent. But as there had been nothing of the manner of a gentleman to a lady, so also had there been nothing of the lover to his mistress. That dream was over. Lord George was no longer a Corsair, but a brute.
But what should she do? Even a brute may speak truth. She was to have gone to a theatre that evening with Mrs. Carbuncle, but she stayed at home thinking over her position. She heard nothing throughout the day from the police; and she made up her mind that, unless she were stopped by the police, she would go to Scotland on the day but one following. She thought that she was sure that she would do so; but of course she must be guided by events as they occurred. She wrote, however, to Miss Macnulty saying that she would come, and she told Mrs. Carbuncle of her proposed journey as that lady was leaving the house for the theatre. On the following morning, however, news came which again made her journey doubtful. There was another paragraph in the newspaper about the robbery, acknowledging the former paragraph to have been in some respect erroneous. “The accomplished housebreaker” had not been arrested. A confederate of the “accomplished housebreaker” was in the hands of the police, and the police were on the track of the “accomplished housebreaker” himself. Then there was a line or two alluding in a very mysterious way to the disappearance of a certain jeweller. Taking it altogether, Lizzie thought that there was ground for hope, and that at any rate there would be delay. She would perhaps put off going to Scotland for yet a day or two. Was it not necessary that she should wait for Lord Fawn’s answer; and would it not be incumbent on her cousin Frank to send her some account of himself after the abrupt manner in which he had left her?
If in real truth she should be driven to tell her story to any one, and she began to think that she was so driven, she would tell it to him. She believed more in his regard for her than that of any other human being. She thought that he would in truth have been devoted to her, had he not become entangled with that wretched little governess. And she thought that if he could see his way out of that scrape, he would marry her even yet; would marry her, and be good to her, so that her dream of a poetical phase of life should not be altogether dissolved. After all, the diamonds were her own. She had not stolen them. When perplexed in the extreme by magistrates and policemen, with nobody near her whom she trusted to give her advice — for Lizzie now of course declared to herself that she had never for a moment trusted the Corsair — she had fallen into an error, and said what was not true. As she practised it before the glass, she thought that she could tell her story in a becoming manner, with becoming tears, to Frank Greystock. And were it not for Lucy Morris, she thought that he would take her with all her faults and all her burdens.
As for Lord Fawn, she knew well enough that, let him write what he would, and renew his engagement in what most formal manner might be possible, he would be off again when he learned the facts as to that night at Carlisle. She had brought him to succumb, because he could no longer justify his treatment of her by reference to the diamonds. But when once all the world should know that she had twice perjured herself, his justification would be complete and his escape would be certain. She would use his letter simply to achieve that revenge which she had promised herself. Her effort — her last final effort — must be made to secure the hand and heart of her cousin Frank. “Ah, ’tis his heart I want,” she said to herself.
She must settle something before she went to Scotland, if there was anything that could be settled. If she could only get a promise from Frank before all her treachery had been exposed, he probably would remain true to his promise. He would not desert her as Lord Fawn had done. Then, after much thinking of it, she resolved upon a scheme which, of all her schemes, was the wickedest. Whatever it might cost her, she would create a separation between Frank Greystock and Lucy Morris. Having determined upon this, she wrote to Lucy, asking her to call in Hertford Street at a certain hour.
“DEAR LUCY: I particularly want to see you, on business. Pray come to me at twelve tomorrow. I will send the carriage for you, and it will take you back again. Pray do this. We used to love one another, and I am sure I love you still. “Your affectionate old friend,
“LIZZIE.”
As a matter of course, Lucy went to her. Lizzie, before the interview, studied the part she was to play with all possible care, even to the words which she was to use. The greeting was at first kindly, for Lucy had almost forgotten the bribe that had been offered to her, and had quite forgiven it. Lizzie Eustace never could be dear to her; but, so Lucy had thought during her happiness, this former friend of hers was the cousin of the man who was to be her husband, and was dear to him. Of course she had forgiven the offence. “And now, dear, I want to ask you a question,” Lizzie said; “or rather, perhaps not a question. I can do it better than that. I think that my cousin Frank once talked of — of making you his wife.” Lucy answered not a word, but she trembled in every limb, and the colour came to her face. “Was it not so, dear?”
“What if it was? I don’t know why you should ask me any question like that about myself.”
“Is he not my cousin?”
“Yes, he is your cousin. Why don’t you ask him? You see him every day, I suppose?”
“Nearly every day.”
“Why do you send for me, then?”
“It is so hard to tell you, Lucy. I have sent to you in good faith, and in love. I could have gone to you, only for the old vulture, who would not have let us had a word in peace. I do see him, constantly. And I love him dearly.”
“That is nothing to me,” said Lucy. Anybody hearing them, and not knowing them, would have said that Lucy’s manner was harsh in the extreme.
“He has told me everything.” Lizzie, when she said this, paused, looking at her victim. “He has told me things which he could not mention to you. It was only yesterday — the day before yesterday — that he was speaking to me of his debts. I offered to place all that I have at his disposal, so as to free him, but he would not take my money.”
“Of course he would not.”
“Not my money alone. Then he told me that he was engaged to you. He had never told me before, but yet I knew it. It all came out then. Lucy, though he is engaged to you, it is me that he loves.”
“I don’t believe it,” said Lucy.
“You can’t make me angry, Lucy, because my heart bleeds for you.”
“Nonsense! trash! I don’t want your heart to bleed. I don’t believe you’ve got a heart. You’ve got money; I know that.”
“And he has got none. If I did not love him, why should I wish to give him all that I have? Is not that disinterested?”
“No. You are always thinking of yourself. You couldn’t be disinterested.”
“And of whom are you thinking? Are you doing the best for him — a man in his position, without money, ambitious, sure to succeed, if want of money does not stop him — in wishing him to marry a girl with nothing? Cannot I do more for him than you can?”
“I could work for him on my knees, I love him so truly.”
“Would that do him any service? He cannot marry you. Does he ever see you? Does he write to you as though you were to be his wife? Do you not know that it is all over?— that it must be over? It is impossible that he should marry you. But if you will give him back his word, he shall be my husband, and shall have all that I possess. Now, let us see who loves him best.”
“I do,” said Lucy.
“How will you show it?”
“There is no need that I should show it. He knows it. The only one in the world to whom I wish it to be known, knows it already well enough. Did you send to me for this?”
“Yes — for this.”
“It is for him to tell me the tidings — not for you. You are nothing to me — nothing. And what you say to me now is all for yourself — not for him. But it is true that he does not see me. It is true that he does not write to me. You may tell him from me — for I cannot write to him myself — that he may do whatever is best for him. But if you tell him that I do not love him better than all the world, you will lie to him. And if you say that he loves you better than he does me, that also will be a lie. I know his heart.”
“But, Lucy —”
“I will hear no more. He can do as he pleases. If money be more to him than love and honesty, let him marry you. I shall never trouble him; he may be sure of that. As for you, Lizzie, I hope that we may never meet again.”
She would not get into the Eustace-Carbuncle carriage, which was waiting for her at the door, but walked back to Bruton Street. She did not doubt but that it was all over with her now. That Lizzie Eustace was an inveterate liar, she knew well; but she did believe that the liar had on this occasion been speaking truth. Lady Fawn was not a liar, and Lady Fawn had told her the same. And, had she wanted more evidence, did not her lover’s conduct give it? “It is because I am poor,” she said to herself — “for I know well that he loves me.”
Lizzie put off her journey to Scotland from day to day, though her cousin Frank continually urged upon her the expediency of going. There were various reasons, he said, why she should go. Her child was there, and it was proper that she should be with her child. She was living at present with people whose reputation did not stand high, and as to whom all manner of evil reports were flying about the town. It was generally thought — so said Frank — that that Lord George de Bruce Carruthers had assisted Mr. Benjamin in stealing the diamonds, and Frank himself did not hesitate to express his belief in the accusation.
“Oh no, that cannot be,” said Lizzie, trembling. But, though she rejected the supposition, she did not reject it very firmly. “And then, you know,” continued Lizzie, “I never see him. I have actually only set eyes on him once since the second robbery, and then just for a minute. Of course I used to know him — down at Portray — but now we are strangers.” Frank went on with his objections. He declared that the manner in which Mrs. Carbuncle had got up the match between Lucinda Roanoke and Sir Griffin was shameful — all the world was declaring that it was shameful — that she had not a penny, that the girl was an adventurer, and that Sir Griffin was an obstinate, pig-headed, ruined idiot. It was expedient on every account that Lizzie should take herself away from that “lot.” The answer that Lizzie desired to make was very simple. Let me go as your betrothed bride, and I will start tomorrow to Scotland or elsewhere, as you may direct. Let that little affair be settled, and I shall be quite as willing to get out of London as you can be to send me. But I am in such a peck of troubles that something must be settled. And as it seems that after all the police are still astray about the necklace, perhaps I needn’t run away from them for a little while even yet. She did not say this. She did not even in so many words make the first proposition. But she did endeavour to make Frank understand that she would obey his dictation if he would earn the right to dictate. He either did not or would not understand her, and then she became angry with him or pretended to be angry.
“Really, Frank,” she said, “you are hardly fair to me.”
“In what way am I unfair?”
“You come here and abuse all my friends, and tell me to go here and go there, just as though I were a child. And — and — and —”
“And what, Lizzie?”
“You know what I mean. You are one thing one day, and one another. I hope Miss Lucy Morris was quite well when you last heard from her?”
“You have no right to speak to me of Lucy — at least, not in disparagement.”
“You are treating her very badly — you know that.”
“I am.”
“Then why don’t you give it up? Why don’t you let her have her chances — to do what she can with them? You know very well that you can’t marry her. You know that you ought not to have asked her. You talk of Miss Roanoke and Sir Griffin Tewett. There are people quite as bad as Sir Griffin, or Mrs. Carbuncle either. Don’t suppose I am speaking for myself. I’ve given up all that idle fancy long ago. I shall never marry a second time myself. I have made up my mind to that. I have suffered too much already.” Then she burst into tears.
He dried her tears and comforted her, and forgave all the injurious things she had said of him. It is almost impossible for a man — a man under forty and unmarried, and who is not a philosopher — to have familiar and affectionate intercourse with a beautiful young woman, and carry it on as he might do with a friend of the other sex. In his very heart Greystock despised this woman; he had told himself over and over again that were there no Lucy in the case he would not marry her; that she was affected, unreal — and in fact a liar in every word and look and motion which came from her with premeditation. Judging, not from her own account, but from circumstances as he saw them, and such evidence as had reached him, he did not condemn her in reference to the diamonds. He had never for a moment conceived that she had secreted them. He acquitted her altogether from those special charges which had been widely circulated against her; but nevertheless he knew her to be heartless and bad. He had told himself a dozen times that it would be well for him that she should be married and taken out of his hands. And yet he loved her after a fashion, and was prone to sit near her, and was fool enough to be flattered by her caresses. When she would lay her hand on his arm, a thrill of pleasure went through him. And yet he would willingly have seen any decent man take her and marry her, making a bargain that he should never see her again. Young or old, men are apt to become Merlins when they encounter Viviens. On this occasion he left her, disgusted indeed, but not having told her that he was disgusted. “Come again, Frank, tomorrow, won’t you?” she said. He made her no promise as he went, nor had she expected it. He had left her quite abruptly the other day, and he now went away almost in the same fashion. But she was not surprised. She understood that the task she had in hand was one very difficult to be accomplished — and she did perceive in some dark way that, good as her acting was, it was not quite good enough. Lucy held her ground because she was real. You may knock about a diamond and not even scratch it, whereas paste in rough usage betrays itself. Lizzie, with all her self-assuring protestations, knew that she was paste, and knew that Lucy was real stone. Why could she not force herself to act a little better, so that the paste might be as good as the stone — might at least seem to be as good? “If he despises me now, what will he say when he finds it all out?” she asked herself.
As for Frank Greystock himself, though he had quite made up his mind about Lizzie Eustace, he was still in doubt about the other girl. At the present moment he was making over two thousand pounds a year, and yet was more in debt now than he had been a year ago. When he attempted to look at his affairs, he could not even remember what had become of his money. He did not gamble. He had no little yacht, costing him about six hundred a year. He kept one horse in London, and one only. He had no house. And when he could spare time from his work, he was generally entertained at the houses of his friends. And yet from day to day his condition seemed to become worse and worse. It was true that he never thought of half-a-sovereign; that in calling for wine at his club he was never influenced by the cost; that it seemed to him quite rational to keep a cab waiting for him half the day, that in going or coming he never calculated expense, that in giving an order to a tailor he never dreamed of anything beyond his own comfort. Nevertheless, when he recounted with pride his great economies, reminding himself that he, a successful man, with a large income and no family, kept neither hunters, nor yacht, nor moor, and that he did not gamble, he did think it very hard that he should be embarrassed. But he was embarrassed, and in that condition could it be right for him to marry a girl without a shilling?
In these days Mrs. Carbuncle was very urgent with her friend not to leave London till after the marriage. Lizzie had given no promise, had only been induced to promise that the loan of one hundred and fifty pounds should not be held to have any bearing on the wedding present to be made to Lucinda. That could be got on credit from Messrs. Harter & Benjamin; for though Mr. Benjamin was absent — on a little tour through Europe in search of precious stones in the cheap markets old Mr. Harter suggested — the business went on the same as ever. There was a good deal of consultation about the present, and Mrs. Carbuncle at last decided, no doubt with the concurrence of Miss Roanoke, that it should consist simply of silver forks and spoons — real silver as far as the money would go. Mrs. Carbuncle herself went with her friend to select the articles — as to which perhaps we shall do her no injustice in saying that a ready sale, should such a lamentable occurrence ever become necessary, was one of the objects which she had in view. Mrs. Carbuncle’s investigations as to the quality of the metal quite won Mr. Harter’s respect; and it will probably be thought that she exacted no more than justice — seeing that the thing had become a matter of bargain — in demanding that the thirty-five pounds should be stretched to fifty, because the things were bought on long credit. “My dear Lizzie,” Mrs. Carbuncle said, “the dear girl won’t have an ounce more than she would have got, had you gone into another sort of shop with thirty-five sovereigns in your hand.” Lizzie growled, but Mrs. Carbuncle’s final argument was conclusive. “I’ll tell you what we’ll do,” said she; “we’ll take thirty pounds down in ready money.” There was no answer to be made to so reasonable a proposition.
The presents to be made to Lucinda were very much thought of in Hertford Street at this time, and Lizzie — independently of any feeling that she might have as to her own contribution — did all she could to assist the collection of tribute. It was quite understood that as a girl can be married only once — for a widow’s chance in such matters amounts to but little — everything should be done to gather toll from the tax-payers of society. It was quite fair on such an occasion that men should be given to understand that something worth having was expected — no trumpery thirty-shilling piece of crockery, no insignificant glass bottle, or fantastic paper-knife of no real value whatever, but got up just to put money into the tradesmen’s hands. To one or two elderly gentlemen upon whom Mrs. Carbuncle had smiled, she ventured to suggest in plain words that a check was the most convenient cadeau. “What do you say to a couple of sovereigns?” one sarcastic old gentleman replied, upon whom probably Mrs. Carbuncle had not smiled enough. She laughed and congratulated her sarcastic friend upon his joke — but the two sovereigns were left upon the table, and went to swell the spoil.
“You must do something handsome for Lucinda,” Lizzie said to her cousin.
“What do you call handsome?”
“You are a bachelor and a Member of Parliament. Say fifteen pounds.”
“I’ll be —— if I do,” said Frank, who was beginning to be very much disgusted with the house in Hertford Street. “There’s a five-pound note, and you may do what you please with it.” Lizzie gave over the five-pound note — the identical bit of paper that had come from Frank; and Mrs. Carbuncle, no doubt, did do what she pleased with it.
There was almost a quarrel because Lizzie, after much consideration, declared that she did not see her way to get a present from the Duke of Omnium. She had talked so much to Mrs. Carbuncle about the duke that Mrs. Carbuncle was almost justified in making the demand.
“It isn’t the value, you know,” said Mrs. Carbuncle; “neither I nor Lucinda would think of that; but it would look so well to have the dear duke’s name on something.” Lizzie declared that the duke was unapproachable on such subjects. “There you’re wrong,” said Mrs. Carbuncle. “I happen to know there is nothing his grace likes so much as giving wedding presents.” This was the harder upon Lizzie as she actually did succeed in saying such kind things about Lucinda that Lady Glencora sent Miss Roanoke the prettiest smelling-bottle in the world.
“You don’t mean to say you’ve given a present to the future Lady Tewett?” said Madame Max Goesler to her friend.
“Why not? Sir Griffin can’t hurt me. When one begins to be good-natured why shouldn’t one be good-natured all round?” Madame Max remarked that it might perhaps be preferable to put an end to good-nature altogether. “There I dare say you’re right, my dear,” said Lady Glencora. “I’ve long felt that making presents means nothing. Only if one has a lot of money and people like it, why shouldn’t one? I’ve made so many to people I hardly ever saw, that one more to Lady Tewett can’t hurt.”
Perhaps the most wonderful affair in that campaign was the spirited attack which Mrs. Carbuncle made on a certain Mrs. Hanbury Smith, who for the last six or seven years had not been among Mrs. Carbuncle’s more intimate friends. Mrs. Hanbury Smith lived with her husband in Paris, but before her marriage had known Mrs. Carbuncle in London. Her father, Mr. Bunbury Jones, had from certain causes chosen to show certain civilities to Mrs. Carbuncle just at the period of his daughter’s marriage, and Mrs. Carbuncle, being perhaps at that moment well supplied with ready money, had presented a marriage present. From that to this present day Mrs. Carbuncle had seen nothing of Mrs. Hanbury Smith nor of Mr. Bunbury Jones, but she was not the woman to waste the return value of such a transaction. A present so given was seed sown in the earth — seed, indeed, that could not be expected to give back twenty-fold, or even ten-fold, but still seed from which a crop should be expected. So she wrote to Mrs. Hanbury Smith explaining that her darling niece Lucinda was about to be married to Sir Griffin Tewett, and that, as she had no child of her own, Lucinda was the same to her as a daughter. And then, lest there might be any want of comprehension, she expressed her own assurance that her friend would be glad to have an opportunity of reciprocating the feelings which had been evinced on the occasion of her own marriage. “It is no good mincing matters nowadays,” Mrs. Carbuncle would have said, had any friend pointed out to her that she was taking strong measures in the exaction of toll. “People have come to understand that a spade is a spade, and ￡10 ￡10,” she would have said. Had Mrs. Hanbury Smith not noticed the application, there might perhaps have been an end of it, but she was silly enough to send over from Paris a little trumpery bit of finery, bought in the Palais Royal for ten francs. Whereupon Mrs. Carbuncle wrote the following letter:
“DEAR MRS. HANBURY SMITH: Lucinda has received your little brooch, and is much obliged to you for thinking of her; but you must remember that when you were married I sent you a bracelet which cost ￡10. If I had a daughter of my own I should, of course, expect that she would reap the benefit of this on her marriage, and my niece is the same to me as a daughter. I think that this is quite understood now among people in society. Lucinda will be disappointed much if you do not send her what she thinks she has a right to expect. Of course you can deduct the brooch if you please.
“Yours, very sincerely,
“JANE CARBUNCLE.”
Mr. Hanbury Smith was something of a wag, and caused his wife to write back as follows:
“DEAR MRS. CARBUNCLE: I quite acknowledge the reciprocity system, but don’t think it extends to descendants, certainly not to nieces. I acknowledge, too, the present quoted at ￡10. I thought it had been ￡7 10_s.“—“The nasty, mean creature,” said Mrs. Carbuncle, when showing the correspondence to Lizzie, “must have been to the tradesman to inquire! The price named was ￡10, but I got ￡2 10_s. off for ready money.”—“At your second marriage I will do what is needful; but I can assure you I haven’t recognised nieces with any of my friends.
“Yours, very truly,
“CAROLINE HANBURY SMITH.”
The correspondence was carried no further, for not even can a Mrs. Carbuncle exact payment of such a debt in any established court; but she inveighed bitterly against the meanness of Mrs. Smith, telling the story openly, and never feeling that she had told it against herself. In her set it was generally thought that she had done quite right.
She managed better with old Mr. Cabob, who had certainly received many of Mrs. Carbuncle’s smiles, and who was very rich. Mr. Cabob did as he was desired, and sent a check — a check for ￡20; and added a message that he hoped Miss Roanoke would buy with it some little thing that she liked. Miss Roanoke, or her aunt for her, liked a thirty guinea ring, and bought it, having the bill for the balance sent up to Mr. Cabob. Mr. Cabob, who probably knew that he must pay well for his smiles, never said anything about it.
Lady Eustace went into all this work, absolutely liking it. She had felt nothing of anger even as regarded her own contribution, much as she had struggled to reduce the amount. People, she felt, ought to be sharp; and it was nice to look at pretty things, and to be cunning about them. She would have applied to the Duke of Omnium had she dared, and was very triumphant when she got the smelling-bottle from Lady Glencora. But Lucinda herself took no part whatever in all these things. Nothing that Mrs. Carbuncle could say would induce her to take any interest in them, or even in the trousseau, which, without reference to expense, was being supplied chiefly on the very indifferent credit of Sir Griffin. What Lucinda had to say about the matter was said solely to her aunt. Neither Lady Eustace, nor Lord George, nor even the maid who dressed her, heard any of her complaints. But complain she did, and that with terrible energy.
“What is the use of it, Aunt Jane? I shall never have a house to put them into.”
“What nonsense, my dear! Why shouldn’t you have a house as well as others?”
“And if I had, I should never care for them. I hate them. What does Lady Glencora Palliser or Lord Fawn care for me?” Even Lord Fawn had been put under requisition, and had sent a little box full of stationery.
“They are worth money, Lucinda; and when a girl marries she always gets them.”
“Yes; and when they come from people who love her, and who pour them into her lap with kisses, because she has given herself to a man she loves, then it must be nice. Oh, if I were marrying a poor man, and a poor friend had given me a gridiron to help me to cook my husband’s dinner, how I could have valued it!”
“I don’t know that you like poor things and poor people better than anybody else,” said Aunt Jane.
“I don’t like anything or anybody,” said Lucinda.
“You had better take the good things that come to you, then; and not grumble. How I have worked to get all this arranged for you, and now what thanks have I?”
“You’ll find you have worked for very little, Aunt Jane. I shall never marry the man yet.” This, however, had been said so often that Aunt Jane thought nothing of the threat.
It was acknowledged by Mrs. Carbuncle very freely that in the matter of tribute no one behaved better than Mr. Emilius, the fashionable, foreign, ci-devant Jew preacher, who still drew great congregations in the neighbourhood of Mrs. Carbuncle’s house. Mrs. Carbuncle, no doubt, attended regularly at Mr. Emilius’s church, and had taken a sitting for thirteen Sundays at something like ten shillings a Sunday. But she had not as yet paid the money, and Mr. Emilius was well aware that if his tickets were not paid for in advance, there would be considerable defalcations in his income. He was, as a rule, very particular as to such payments, and would not allow a name to be put on a sitting till the money had reached his pockets; but with Mrs. Carbuncle he had descended to no such commercial accuracy. Mrs. Carbuncle had seats for three — for one of which Lady Eustace paid her share in advance — in the midst of the very best pews in the most conspicuous part of the house, and hardly a word had been said to her about the money. And now there came to them from Mr. Emilius the prettiest little gold salver that ever was seen.
“I send Messrs. Clerico’s docket,” wrote Mr. Emilius, “as Miss Roanoke may like to know the quality of the metal.”
“Ah,” said Mrs. Carbuncle, inspecting the little dish and putting two and two together; “he’s got it cheap, no doubt, at the place where they commissioned him to buy the plate and candlesticks for the church; but at ￡3 16s. 3d. the gold is worth nearly twenty pounds.” Mr. Emilius no doubt had had his outing in the autumn through the instrumentality of Mrs. Carbuncle’s kindness; but that was past and gone, and such lavish gratitude for a past favour could hardly be expected from Mr. Emilius. “I’ll be hanged if he isn’t after Portray Castle,” said Mrs. Carbuncle to herself.
Poor Emilius was after Portray Castle and had been after Portray Castle in a silent, not very confident, but yet not altogether hopeless manner ever since he had seen the glories of that place and learned something of truth as to the widow’s income. Mrs. Carbuncle was led to her conclusion not simply by the wedding present, but in part also by the diligence displayed by Mr. Emilius in removing the doubts which had got abroad respecting his condition in life. He assured Mrs. Carbuncle that he had never been married. Shortly after his ordination, which had been effected under the hands of that great and good man the late Bishop of Jerusalem, he had taken to live with him a lady who was — Mrs. Carbuncle did not quite recollect who the lady was, but remembered that she was connected in some way with a step-mother of Mr. Emilius who lived in Bohemia. This lady had for a while kept house for Mr. Emilius; but ill-natured things had been said, and Mr. Emilius, having respect to his cloth, had sent the poor lady back to Bohemia. The consequence was that he now lived in a solitude which was absolute and, as Mr. Emilius added, somewhat melancholy. All this Mr. Emilius explained very fully, not to Lizzie herself, but to Mrs. Carbuncle. If Lady Eustace chose to entertain such a suitor, why should he not come? It was nothing to Mrs. Carbuncle.
Lizzie laughed when she was told that she might add the reverend gentleman to the list of her admirers.
“Don’t you remember,” she said, “how we used to chaff Miss Macnulty about him?”
“I knew better than that,” replied Mrs. Carbuncle.
“There is no saying what a man may be after,” said Lizzie. “I didn’t know but what he might have thought that Macnulty’s connection would increase his congregation.”
“He’s after you, my dear, and your income. He can manage a congregation for himself.”
Lizzie was very civil to him, but it would be unjust to her to say that she gave him any encouragement. It is quite the proper thing for a lady to be on intimate, and even on affectionate, terms with her favourite clergyman, and Lizzie certainly had intercourse with no clergyman who was a greater favourite with her than Mr. Emilius. She had a dean for an uncle, and a bishop for an uncle-inlaw; but she was at no pains to hide her contempt for these old fogies of the church.
“They preach now and then in the cathedral,” she said to Mr. Emilius, “and everybody takes the opportunity of going to sleep.” Mr. Emilius was very much amused at this description of the eloquence of the dignitaries. It was quite natural to him that people should go to sleep in church who take no trouble in seeking eloquent preachers.
“Ah,” he said, “the church in England, which is my church, the church which I love, is beautiful. She is as a maiden, all glorious with fine raiment. But, alas, she is mute. She does not sing. She has no melody. But the time cometh in which she shall sing. I, myself, I am a poor singer in the great choir.” In saying which Mr. Emilius no doubt intended to allude to his eloquence as a preacher.
He was a man who could listen as well as sing, and he was very careful to hear well that which was being said in public about Lady Eustace and her diamonds. He had learned thoroughly what was her condition in reference to the Portray estate, and was rejoiced rather than otherwise to find that she enjoyed only a life-interest in the property. Had the thing been better than it was, it would have been the further removed from his reach. And in the same way, when rumours reached him prejudicial to Lizzie in respect of the diamonds, he perceived that such prejudice might work weal for him. A gentleman once, on ordering a mackerel that would come to a shilling, found he could have a stale mackerel for sixpence. “Then bring me a stale mackerel,” said the gentleman. Mr. Emilius coveted fish, but was aware that his position did not justify him in expecting the best fish in the market. The Lord Fawns and the Frank Greystocks of the world would be less likely to covet Lizzie, should she by any little indiscretion have placed herself under a temporary cloud. Mr. Emilius had carefully observed the heavens, and knew how quickly such clouds will disperse themselves when they are tinged with gold. There was nothing which Lizzie had done, or would be likely to do, which could materially affect her income. It might indeed be possible that the Eustaces should make her pay for the necklace; but even in that case there would be quite enough left for that modest, unambitious comfort which Mr. Emilius desired. It was by preaching, and not by wealth, that he must make himself known in the world! but for a preacher to have a pretty wife with a title and a good income, and a castle in Scotland, what an Elysium it would be! In such a condition he would envy no dean, no bishop, no archbishop! He thought a great deal about it, and saw no positive bar to his success.
She told him that she was going to Scotland.
“Not immediately!” he exclaimed.
“My little boy is there,” she said.
“But why should not your little boy be here? Surely for people who can choose, the great centre of the world offers attractions which cannot be found in secluded spots.”
“I love seclusion,” said Lizzie with rapture.
“Ah, yes; I can believe that.” Mr. Emilius had himself witnessed the seclusion of Portray Castle, and had heard, when there, many stories of the Ayrshire hunting. “It is your nature — but, dear Lady Eustace, will you allow me to say that our nature is implanted in us in accordance with the Fall?”
“Do you mean to say that it is wicked to like to be in Scotland better than in this giddy town?”
“I say nothing about wicked, Lady Eustace; but this I do say, that nature alone will not lead us always aright. It is good to be at Portray part of the year, no doubt; but are there not blessings in such a congregation of humanity as this London which you cannot find at Portray?”
“I can hear you preach, Mr. Emilius, certainly.”
“I hope that is something, too, Lady Eustace; otherwise a great many people who kindly come to hear me must sadly waste their time. And your example to the world around; is it not more serviceable amidst the crowds of London than in the solitudes of Scotland? There is more good to be done, Lady Eustace, by living among our fellow creatures than by deserting them. Therefore I think you should not go to Scotland before August, but should have your little boy brought to you here.”
“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 assertion 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 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 foui days 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 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 a 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 checks could not conveniently be 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 importance of it when done. A man is not expected to write a check 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 mean time 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.”
And his brother-inlaw was quite as bad. “Fawn,” he said, “in this matter of Lady Eustace, don’t you think you ought to put your conduct into the hands of some friend?”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I think it is an affair in which a man would have so much comfort in being able to say that he was guided by advice. Of course her people want you to marry her. Now if you could just tell them that the whole thing was in the hands of — say me, or any other friend, you would be relieved, you know, of so much responsibility. They might hammer away at me ever so long and I shouldn’t care twopence.”
“If there is to be any hammering, it cannot be borne vicariously,” said Lord Fawn, and as he said it he was quite pleased by his own sharpness and wit.
He had indeed put himself beyond protection by vicarious endurance of hammering when he promised to write to Lady Eustace, explaining his own conduct and giving reasons. Had anything turned up in Scotland Yard which would have justified him in saying, or even in thinking, that Lizzie had stolen her own diamonds, he would have sent word to her that he must abstain from any communication till that matter had been cleared up; but since the appearance of that mysterious paragraph in the newspapers nothing had been heard of the robbery, and public opinion certainly seemed to be in favour of Lizzie’s innocence. He did think that the Eustace faction was betraying him, as he could not but remember how eager Mr. Camperdown had been in asserting that the widow was keeping an enormous amount of property and claiming it as her own, whereas in truth she had not the slightest title to it. It was, in a great measure, in consequence of the assertions of the Eustace faction, almost in obedience to their advice, that he had resolved to break off the match; and now they turned upon him, and John Eustace absolutely went out of his way to write him a letter which was clearly meant to imply that he, Lord Fawn, was bound to marry the woman to whom he had once engaged himself! Lord Fawn felt that he was ill-used, and that a man might have to undergo a great deal of bad treatment who should strive to put himself right in the eye of the public.
At last he wrote his letter — on a Wednesday, which with him had something of the comfort of a half-holiday, as on that day he was not required to attend Parliament.
“INDIA OFFICE, March 28, 18 —.
“MY DEAR LADY EUSTACE: In accordance with the promise which I made to you when I did myself the honour of waiting upon you in Hertford Street, I take up my pen with the view of communicating to you the result of my deliberations respecting the engagement of marriage which no doubt did exist between us last summer.
“Since that time I have no doubt taken upon myself to say that that engagement was over; and I am free to admit that I did so without any assent or agreement on your part to that effect. Such conduct no doubt requires a valid and strong defence. My defence is as follows:
“I learned that you were in possession of a large amount of property, vested in diamonds, which was claimed by the executors under your late husband’s will as belonging to his estate; and as to which they declared, in the most positive manner, that you had no right or title to it whatever. I consulted friends and I consulted lawyers, and I was led to the conviction that this property certainly did not belong to you. Had I married you in these circumstances, I could not but have become a participator in the lawsuit which I was assured would be commenced. I could not be a participator with you, because I believed you to be in the wrong. And I certainly could not participate with those who would in such case be attacking my own wife.
“In this condition of things I requested you — as you must I think yourself own, with all deference and good feeling — to give up the actual possession of the property, and to place the diamonds in neutral hands”— Lord Fawn was often called upon to be neutral in reference to the condition of outlying Indian principalities —“till the law should have decided as to their ownership. As regards myself, I neither coveted nor rejected the possession of that wealth for my future wife. I desired simply to be free from an embarrassment which would have overwhelmed me. You declined my request — not only positively, but perhaps I may add peremptorily; and then I was bound to adhere to the decision I had communicated to you.
“Since that time the property has been stolen and, as I believe, dissipated. The lawsuit against you has been withdrawn; and the bone of contention, so to say, is no longer existing. I am no longer justified in declining to keep my engagement because of the prejudice to which I should have been subjected by your possession of the diamonds; and therefore, as far as that goes, I withdraw my withdrawal.” This Lord Fawn thought was rather a happy phrase, and he read it aloud to himself more than once.
“But now there arises the question whether, in both our interests, this marriage should go on, or whether it may not be more conducive to your happiness and to mine that it should be annulled for causes altogether irrespective of the diamonds. In a matter so serious as marriage, the happiness of the two parties is that which requires graver thought than any other consideration.
“There has no doubt sprung up between us a feeling of mutual distrust, which has led to recrimination, and which is hardly compatible with that perfect confidence which should exist between a man and his wife. This first arose no doubt from the different views which we took as to that property of which I have spoken, and as to which your judgment may possibly have been better than mine. On that head I will add nothing to what I have already said; but the feeling has arisen, and I fear it cannot be so perfectly allayed as to admit of that reciprocal trust without which we could not live happily together. I confess that for my own part I do not now desire a union which was once the great object of my ambition, and that I could not go to the altar with you without fear and trembling. As to your own feelings, you best know what they are. I bring no charge against you; but if you have ceased to love me I think you should cease to wish to be my wife, and that you should not insist upon a marriage simply because by doing so you would triumph over a former objection. “Before he finished this paragraph he thought much of Andy Gowran and of the scene among the rocks of which he had heard. But he could not speak of it. He had found himself unable to examine the witness who had been brought to him, and had honestly told himself that he could not take that charge as proved. Andy Gowran might have lied. In his heart he believed that Andy Gowran had lied. The matter was distasteful to him, and he would not touch it. And yet he knew that the woman did not love him, and he longed to tell her so.
“As to what we might each gain or each lose in a worldly point of view, either by marrying or not marrying, I will not say a word. You have rank and wealth, and therefore I can comfort myself by thinking that if I dissuade you from this marriage I shall rob you of neither. I acknowledge that I wish to dissuade you, as I believe that we should not make each other happy. As however I do consider that I am bound to keep my engagement to you if you demand that I shall do so, I leave the matter in your hands for decision. I am, and shall remain, your sincere friend,
“FAWN.”
He read the letter and copied it, and gave himself great credit for the composition. He thought that it was impossible that any woman after reading it should express a wish to become the wife of the man who wrote it; and yet — so he believed, no man or woman could find fault with him for writing it. There certainly was one view of the case which was very distressing. How would it be with him if after all she should say that she would marry him? After having given her her choice — having put it all in writing — he could not again go back from it. He would be in her power, and of what use would his life be to him? Would Parliament or the India Office or the eye of the public be able to comfort him then in the midst of his many miseries? What could he do with a wife whom he married with a declaration that he disliked her? With such feelings as were his, how could he stand before a clergyman and take an oath that he would love her and cherish her? Would she not ever be as an adder to him — as an adder whom it would be impossible that he should admit into his bosom? Could he live in the same house with her; and if so, could he ask his mother and sisters to visit her? He remembered well what Mrs. Hittaway had called her — a nasty, low, scheming, ill-conducted, dishonest little wretch! And he believed that she was so! Yet he was once again offering to marry her, should she choose to accept him.
Nevertheless, the letter was sent. There was, in truth, no alternative. He had promised that he would write such a letter, and all that had remained to him was the power of cramming into it every available argument against the marriage. This he had done and, as he thought, had done well. It was impossible that she should desire to marry him after reading such a letter as that!
Lizzie received it in her bedroom, where she breakfasted, and told of its arrival to her friend Mrs. Carbuncle as soon as they met each other. “My lord has come down from his high horse at last,” she said, with the letter in her hand.
“What — Lord Fawn?”
“Yes; Lord Fawn. What other lord? There is no other lord for me. He is my lord, my peer of Parliament, my Cabinet minister, my right honourable, my member of the Government — my young man too, as the maid-servants call them.”
“What does he say?”
“Say — what should he say — just that he has behaved very badly, and that he hopes I shall forgive him.”
“Not quite that; does he?”
“That’s what it all means. Of course there is ever so much of it — pages of it. It wouldn’t be Lord Fawn if he didn’t spin it all out, like an act of Parliament, with whereas and whereis and whereof. It is full of all that; but the meaning of it is that he’s at my feet again, and that I may pick him up if I choose to take him. I’d show you the letter, only perhaps it wouldn’t be fair to the poor man.”
“What excuse does he make?”
“Oh — as to that he’s rational enough. He calls the necklace the — bone of contention. That’s rather good for Lord Fawn; isn’t it? The bone of contention, he says, has been removed; and therefore there is no reason why we shouldn’t marry if we like it. He shall hear enough about the bone of contention if we do ‘marry.’”
“And what shall you do now?”
“Ah, yes; that’s easily asked, is it not? The man’s a good sort of man in his way, you know. He doesn’t drink or gamble, and I don’t think there is a bit of the King David about him — that I don’t.”
“Virtue personified, I should say.”
“And he isn’t extravagant.”
“Then why not have him and done with it?” asked Mrs. Carbuncle.
“He is such a lumpy man,” said Lizzie; “such an ass; such a load of government waste paper.”
“Come, my dear; you’ve had troubles.”
“I have indeed,” said Lizzie.
“And there’s no quite knowing yet how far they’re over.”
“What do you mean by that, Mrs. Carbuncle?”
“Nothing very much; but still, you see, they may come again. As to Lord George, we all know that he has not got a penny-piece in the world that he can call his own.”
“If he had as many pennies as Judas, Lord George would be nothing to me,” said Lizzie.
“And your cousin really doesn’t seem to mean anything.”
“I know very well what my cousin means. He and I understand each other thoroughly; but cousins can love one another very well without marrying.”
“Of course you know your own business, but if I were you I would take Lord Fawn. I speak in true kindness, as one woman to another. After all, what does love signify? How much real love do we ever see among married people? Does Lady Glencora Palliser really love her husband, who thinks of nothing in the world but putting taxes on and off?”
“Do you love your husband, Mrs. Carbuncle?”
“No; but that is a different kind of thing. Circumstances have caused me to live apart from him. The man is a good man, and there is no reason why you should not respect him and treat him well. He will give you a fixed position, which really you want badly, Lady Eustace.”
“Torriloo, tooriloo, tooriloo, looriloo,” said Lizzie, in contemptuous disdain of her friend’s caution..
“And then all this trouble about the diamonds and the robberies will be over,” continued Mrs. Carbuncle. Lizzie looked at her very intently. What should make Mrs. Carbuncle suppose that there need be, or indeed could be, any further trouble about the diamonds?
“So, that’s your advice,” said Lizzie, “I’m half inclined to take it, and perhaps I shall. However, I have brought him round, and that’s something, my dear. And either one way or the other, I shall let him know that I like my triumph. I was determined to have it, and I’ve got it.” Then she read the letter again very seriously. Could she possibly marry a man who in so many words told her that he didn’t want her? Well, she thought she could. Was not everybody treating everybody else much in the same way? Had she not loved her Corsair truly, and how had he treated her? Had she not been true, disinterested, and most affectionate to Frank Greystock; and what had she got from him? To manage her business wisely, and put herself upon firm ground, that was her duty at present. Mrs. Carbuncle was right, there. The very name of Lady Fawn would be a rock to her, and she wanted a rock. She thought upon the whole that she could marry him — unless Patience Crabstick and the police should again interfere with her prosperity.
Lady Eustace did not intend to take as much time in answering Loyd Fawn’s letter as he had taken in writing it; but even she found that the subject was one which demanded a good deal of thought. Mrs. Carbuncle had very freely recommended her to take the man, supporting her advice by arguments which Lizzie felt to be valid; but then Mrs. Carbuncle did not know all the circumstances. Mrs. Carbuncle had not actually seen his lordship’s letter; and though the great part of the letter, the formal repetition, namely, of the writer’s offer of marriage, had been truly told to her, still, as the reader will have perceived, she had been kept in the dark as to some of the details. Lizzie did sit at her desk with the object of putting a few words together in order that she might see how they looked, and she found that there was a difficulty.
“MY DEAR LORD FAWN: As we have been engaged to marry each other, and as all our friends have been told, I think that the thing had better go on.”
That, after various attempts, was, she thought, the best letter that she could send — if she should make up her mind to be Lady Fawn. But, on the morning of the 30th of March she had not sent her letter. She had told herself that she would take two days to think of her reply, and on the Friday morning the few words she had prepared were still lying in her desk.
What was she to get by marrying a man she absolutely disliked? That he also absolutely disliked her was not a matter much in her thoughts. The man would not ill-treat her because he disliked her; or it might perhaps be juster to say that the ill-treatment which she might fairly anticipate would not be of a nature which would much affect her comfort grievously. He would not beat her, nor rob her, nor lock her up, nor starve her. He would either neglect her or preach sermons to her. For the first she could console herself by the attention of others; and should he preach, perhaps she could preach too — as sharply if not as lengthily as his lordship. At any rate she was not afraid of him. But what would she gain? It is very well to have a rock, as Mrs. Carbuncle had said, but a rock is not everything. She did not know whether she cared much for living upon a rock. Even stability may be purchased at too high a price. There was not a grain of poetry in the whole composition of Lord Fawn, and poetry was what her very soul craved — poetry, together with houses, champagne, jewels, and admiration. Her income was still her own, and she did not quite see that the rock was so absolutely necessary to her. Then she wrote another note to Lord Fawn, a specimen of a note, so that she might have the opportunity of comparing the two. This note took her much longer than the one first written.
“MY LORD: I do not know how to acknowledge with sufficient humility the condescension and great kindness of your lordship’s letter. But perhaps its manly generosity is more conspicuous than either. The truth is, my lord, you want to escape from your engagement, but are too much afraid of the consequences to dare to do so by any act of your own. Therefore you throw it upon me. You are quite successful. I don’t think you ever read poetry, but perhaps you may understand the two following lines:
“‘I am constrained to say your lordship’s scullion
Should sooner be my husband than yourself.’
“I see through you, and despise you thoroughly.
“E. EUSTACE.”
She was comparing the two answers together, very much in doubt as to which should be sent, when there came a message to her by a man whom she knew to be a policeman, though he did not announce himself as such, and was dressed in plain clothes. Major Mackintosh sent his compliments to her, and would wait, upon her that afternoon at three o’clock, if she would have the kindness to receive him. At the first moment of seeing the man she felt that after all the rock was what she wanted. Mrs. Carbuncle was right. She had had troubles and might have more, and the rock was the thing. But then the more certainly did she become convinced of this by the presence of the major’s messenger, the more clearly did she see the difficulty of attaining the security which the rock offered. If this public exposure should fall upon her, Lord Fawn’s renewed offer, as she knew well, would stand for nothing. If once it were known that she had kept the necklace — her own necklace — under her pillow at Carlisle, he would want no further justification in repudiating her, were it for the tenth time. She was very uncivil to the messenger, and the more so because she found that the man bore her rudeness without turning upon her and rending her. When she declared that the police had behaved very badly, and that Major Mackintosh was inexcusable in troubling her again, and that she had ceased to care twopence about the necklace, the man made no remonstrance to her petulance. He owned that the trouble was very great, and the police very inefficient. He almost owned that the major was inexcusable. He did not care what he owned so that he achieved his object. But when Lizzie said that she could not see Major Mackintosh at three, and objected equally to two, four, or five; then the courteous messenger from Scotland Yard did say a word to make her understand that there must be a meeting — and he hinted also that the major was doing a most unusually good-natured thing in coming to Hertford Street. Of course Lizzie made the appointment. If the major chose to come, she would be at home at three.
As soon as the policeman was gone she sat alone, with a manner very much changed from that which she had worn since the arrival of Lord Fawn’s letter; with a fresh weight of care upon her, greater perhaps than she had ever hitherto borne. She had had bad moments — when, for instance, she had been taken before the magistrates at Carlisle, when she found the police in her house on her return from the theatre, and when Lord George had forced her secret from her. But at each of these periods hope had come renewed before despair had crushed her. Now it seemed to her that the thing was done and that the game was over. This chief man of the London police no doubt knew the whole story. If she could only already have climbed upon some rock, so that there might be a man bound to defend her — a man at any rate bound to put himself forward on her behalf and do whatever might be done in her defence — she might have endured it!
What would she do now, at this minute? She looked at her watch and found that it was already past one. Mrs. Carbuncle, as she knew, was closeted up-stairs with Lucinda, whose wedding was fixed for the following Monday. It was now Friday. Were she to call upon Mrs. Carbuncle for aid no aid would be forthcoming unless she were to tell the whole truth. She almost thought that she would do so. But then, how great would have been her indiscretion if, after all, when the major should come, she should discover that he did not know the truth himself! That Mrs. Carbuncle would keep her secret she did not for a moment think. She longed for the comfort of some friend’s counsel, but she found at last that she could not purchase it by telling everything to a woman.
Might it not be possible that she should still run away? She did not know much of the law, but she thought that they could not punish her for breaking an appointment even with a man so high in authority as Major Mackintosh. She could leave a note saying that pressing business called her out. But whither should she go? She thought of taking a cab to the House of Commons, finding her cousin, and telling him everything. It would be so much better that he should see the major. But then again it might be that she should be mistaken as to the amount of the major’s information. After a while she almost determined to fly off at once to Scotland, leaving word that she was obliged to go instantly to her child. But there was no direct train to Scotland before eight or nine in the evening, and during the intervening hours the police would have ample time to find her. What, indeed, could she do with herself during these intervening hours? Ah, if she had but a rock now, so that she need not be dependent altogether on the exercise of her own intellect!
Gradually the minutes passed by, and she became aware that she must face the major. Well! What had she done? She had stolen nothing. She had taken no person’s property. She had, indeed, been wickedly robbed, and the police had done nothing to get back for her her property, as they were bound to have done. She would take care to tell the major what she thought about the negligence of the police. The major should not have the talk all to himself.
If it had not been for one word with which Lord George had stunned her ears, she could still have borne it well. She had told a lie; perhaps two or three lies. She knew that she had lied. But then people lie every day. She would not have minded it much if she were simply to be called a liar. But he had told her that she would be accused of perjury. There was something frightful to her in the name. And there were she knew not what dreadful penalties attached to it. Lord George had told her that she might be put in prison — whether he had said for years or for months she had forgotten. And she thought she had heard of people’s property being confiscated to the Crown when they had been made out to be guilty of certain great offences. Oh, how she wished that she had a rock!
When three o’clock came she had not started for Scotland or elsewhere, and at last she received the major. Could she have thoroughly trusted the servant she would have denied herself at the last moment, but she feared that she might be betrayed, and she thought that her position would be rendered even worse than it was at present by a futile attempt. She was sitting alone, pale, haggard, trembling, when Major Mackintosh was shown into her room. It may be as well explained at once, at this moment; the major knew, or thought that he knew, every circumstance of the two robberies, and that his surmises were, in every respect, right. Miss Crabstick and Mr. Cann were in comfortable quarters, and were prepared to tell all that they could tell. Mr. Smiler was in durance, and Mr. Benjamin was at Vienna, in the hands of the Austrian police, who were prepared to give him up to those who desired his society in England, on the completion of certain legal formalities. That Mr. Benjamin and Mr. Smiler would be prosecuted, the latter for the robbery and the former for conspiracy to rob, and for receiving stolen goods, was a matter of course. But what was to be done with Lady Eustace? That, at the present moment, was the prevailing trouble with the police. During the last three weeks every precaution had been taken to keep the matter secret, and it is hardly too much to say that Lizzie’s interests were handled not only with consideration but with tenderness.
“Lady Eustace,” said the major, “I am very sorry to trouble you. No doubt the man who called on you this morning explained to you who I am.”
“Oh yes, I know who you are — quite well.” Lizzie made a great effort to speak without betraying her consternation; but she was nearly prostrated. The major, however, hardly observed her, and was by no means at ease himself in his effort to save her from unnecessary annoyance. He was a tall, thin, gaunt man of about forty, with large, good-natured eyes — but it was not till the interview was half over that Lizzie took courage to look even into his face.
“Just so; I am come, you know, about the robbery which took place here-and the other robbery at Carlisle.”
“I have been so troubled about these horrid robberies! Sometimes I think they’ll be the death of me.”
“I think, Lady Eustace, we have found out the whole truth.”
“Oh, I daresay. I wonder why — you have been so long — finding it out.”
“We have had very clever people to deal with, Lady Eustace — and I fear that, even now, we shall never get back the property.”
“I do not care about the property, sir — although it was all my own. Nobody has lost anything but myself; and I really don’t see why the thing should not die out, as I don’t care about it. Whoever it is, they may have it now.”
“We were bound to get to the bottom of it all, if we could; and I think that we have — at last. Perhaps, as you say, we ought to have done it sooner.”
“Oh — I don’t care.”
“We have two persons in custody, Lady Eustace, whom we shall use as witnesses, and I am afraid we shall have to call upon you also — as a witness.” It occurred to Lizzie that they could not lock her up in prison and make her a witness too, but she said nothing. Then the major continued his speech — and asked her the question which was, in fact, alone material. “Of course, Lady Eustace, you are not bound to say anything to me unless you like — and you must understand that I by no means wish you to criminate yourself.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“If you yourself have done anything wrong, I don’t want to ask you to confess it.”
“I have had all my diamonds stolen, if you mean that. Perhaps it was wrong to have diamonds.”
“But to come to my question — I suppose we may take it for granted that the diamonds were in your desk when the thieves made their entrance into this house, and broke the desk open, and stole the money out of it?” Lizzie breathed so hardly, that she was quite unable to speak. The man’s voice was very gentle and very kind — but then how could she admit that one fact? All depended on that one fact. “The woman Crabstick,” said the major, “has confessed, and will state on her oath that she saw the necklace in your hands in Hertford Street, and that she saw it placed in the desk. She then gave information of this to Benjamin — as she had before given information as to your journey up from Scotland — and she was introduced to the two men whom she let into the house. One of them, indeed, who will also give evidence for us, she had before met at Carlisle. She then was present when the necklace was taken out of the desk. The man who opened the desk and took it out, who also cut the door at Carlisle, will give evidence to the same effect. The man who carried the necklace out of the house, and who broke open the box at Carlisle, will be tried — as will also Benjamin, who disposed of the diamonds. I have told you the whole story, as it has been told to me by the woman Crabstick. Of course you will deny the truth of it, if it be untrue.” Lizzie sat with her eyes fixed upon the floor, but said nothing. She could not speak. “If you will allow me, Lady Eustace, to give you advice — really friendly advice ——”
“Oh, pray do.”
“You had better admit the truth of the story, if it is true.”
“They were my own,” she whispered.
“Or, at any rate, you believed that they were. There can be no doubt, I think, as to that. No one supposes that the robbery at Carlisle was arranged on your behalf.”
“Oh, no.”
“But you had taken them out of the box before you went to bed at the inn?”
“Not then.”
“But you had taken them?”
“I did it in the morning before I started from Scotland. They frightened me by saying the box would be stolen.”
“Exactly — and then you put them into your desk here, in this house?”
“Yes — sir.”
“I should tell you, Lady Eustace, that I had not a doubt about this before I came here. For some time past I have thought that it must be so; and latterly the confession of two of the accomplices has made it certain to me. One of the housebreakers and the jeweller will be tried for the felony, and I am afraid that you must undergo the annoyance of being one of the witnesses.”
“What will they do to me, Major Mackintosh?” Lizzie now for the first time looked up into his eyes, and felt that they were kind. Could he be her rock? He did not speak to her like an enemy — and then, too, he would know better than any man alive how she might best escape from her trouble.
“They will ask you to tell the truth.”
“Indeed I will do that,” said Lizzie — not aware that, after so many lies, it might be difficult to tell the truth.
“And you will probably be asked to repeat it, this way and that, in a manner that will be troublesome to you. You see that here in London, and at Carlisle, you have — given incorrect versions.”
“I know I have. But the necklace was my own. There was nothing dishonest — was there, Major Mackintosh? When they came to me at Carlisle I was so confused that I hardly knew what to tell them. And when I had once — given an incorrect version, you know, I didn’t know how to go back.”
The major was not so well acquainted with Lizzie as is the reader, and he pitied her. “I can understand all that,” he said.
How much kinder he was than Lord George had been when she confessed the truth to him. Here would be a rock! And such a handsome man as he was, too — not exactly a Corsair, as he was great in authority over the London police — but a powerful, fine fellow, who would know what to do with swords and pistols as well as any Corsair — and one, too, no doubt, who would understand poetry! Any such dream, however, was altogether unavailing, as the major had a wife at home and seven children. “If you will only tell me what to do, I will do it,” she said, looking up into his face with entreaty, and pressing her hands together in supplication.
Then at great length, and with much patience, he explained to her what he would have her do. He thought that, if she were summoned and used as a witness, there would be no attempt to prosecute her for the — incorrect versions — of which she had undoubtedly been guilty. The probability was, that she would receive assurance to this effect before she would be asked to give her evidence, preparatory to the committal of Benjamin and Smiler. He could not assure her that it would be so, but he had no doubt of it. In order, however, that things might be made to run as smooth as possible, he recommended her very strongly to go at once to Mr. Camperdown and make a clean breast of it to him. “The whole family should be told,” said the major, “and it will be better for you that they should know it from yourself than from us.” When she hesitated, he explained to her that the matter could no longer be kept as a secret, and that her evidence would certainly appear in the papers. He proposed that she should be summoned for that day week — which would be the Friday after Lucinda’s marriage — and he suggested that she should go to Mr. Camperdown’s on the morrow.
“What — tomorrow?” exclaimed Lizzie, in dismay.
“My dear Lady Eustace,” said the major, “the sooner you get back into straight running, the sooner you will be comfortable.” Then she promised that she would go on the Tuesday — the day after the marriage. “If he learns it in the mean time, you must not be surprised,” said the major.
“Tell me one thing, Major Mackintosh,” she said, as she gave him her hand at parting, “they can’t take away from me anything that is my own — can they?”
“I don’t think they can,” said the major, escaping rather quickly from the room.
The Saturday and the Sunday Lizzie passed in outward tranquillity, though doubtless her mind was greatly disturbed. She said nothing of what had passed between her and Major Mackintosh, explaining that his visit had been made solely with the object of informing her that Mr. Benjamin was to be sent home from Vienna, but that the diamonds were gone forever. She had, as she declared to herself, agreed with Major Mackintosh that she would not go to Mr. Camperdown till the Tuesday — justifying her delay by her solicitude in reference to Miss Roanoke’s marriage; and therefore these two days were her own. After them would come a totally altered phase of existence. All the world would know the history of the diamonds — cousin Frank, and Lord Fawn, and John Eustace, and Mrs. Carbuncle, and the Bobsborough people, and Lady Glencora, and that old vulturess, her aunt, the Countess of Linlithgow. It must come now — but she had two days in which she could be quiet and think of her position. She would, she thought, send one of her letters to Lord Fawn before she went to Mr. Camperdown — but which should she send? Or should she write a third explaining the whole matter in sweetly piteous feminine terms, and swearing that the only remaining feeling in her bosom was a devoted affection to the man who had now twice promised to be her husband?
In the mean time the preparations for the great marriage went on. Mrs. Carbuncle spent her time busily between Lucinda’s bedchamber and the banqueting hall in Albemarle street. In spite of pecuniary difficulties the trousseau was to be a wonder; and even Lizzie was astonished at the jewelry which that indefatigable woman had collected together for a preliminary show in Hertford Street. She had spent hours at Howell and James’s, and had made marvellous bargains there and elsewhere. Things were sent for selection, of which the greater portion were to be returned, but all were kept for the show. The same things which were shown to separate friends in Hertford Street as part of the trousseau on Friday and Saturday were carried over to Albemarle Street on the Sunday, so as to add to the quasi-public exhibition of presents on the Monday. The money expended had gone very far. The most had been made of a failing credit. Every particle of friendly generosity had been so manipulated as to add to the external magnificence. And Mrs. Carbuncle had done all this without any help from Lucinda, in the midst of most contemptuous indifference on Lucinda’s part. She could hardly be got to allow the milliners to fit the dresses to her body, and positively refused to thrust her feet into certain golden-heeled boots with brightly-bronzed toes which were a great feature among the raiment. Nobody knew it except Mrs. Carbuncle and the maid; even Lizzie Eustace did not know it; but once the bride absolutely ran amuck among the finery, scattering the laces here and there, pitching the glove-boxes under the bed, chucking the golden-heeled boots into the fire-place, and exhibiting quite a tempest of fury against one of the finest shows of petticoats ever arranged with a view to the admiration and envy of female friends. But all this Mrs. Carbuncle bore, and still persevered. The thing was so nearly done now that she could endure to persevere though the provocation to abandon it was so great. She had even ceased to find fault with her niece, but went on in silence counting the hours till the trouble should be taken off her own shoulders and placed on those of Sir Griffin. It was a great thing to her, almost more than she had expected, that neither Lucinda nor Sir Griffin should have positively declined the marriage. It was impossible that either should retreat from it now.
Luckily for Mrs. Carbuncle, Sir Griffin took delight in the show. He did this after a bearish fashion, putting his finger upon little flaws with an intelligence for which Mrs. Carbuncle had not hitherto given him credit. As to certain ornaments, he observed that the silver was plated and the gold ormolu. A “rope” of pearls he at once detected as being false, and after fingering certain lace he turned up his nose and shook his head. Then, on the Sunday, in Albemarle Street, he pointed out to Mrs. Carbuncle sundry articles which he had seen in the bedroom on the Saturday.
“But, my dear Sir Griffin, that’s of course,” said Mrs. Carbuncle.
“Oh; that’s of course, is it?” said Sir Griffin turning up his nose again. “Where did that Delft bowl come from?”
“It is one of Mortlook’s finest Etruscan vases,” said Mrs. Carbuncle.
“Oh, I thought that Etruscan vases came from — from somewhere in Greece or Italy,” said Sir Griffin.
“I declare that you are shocking,” said Mrs. Carbuncle, struggling to maintain her good-humour.
He passed hours of the Sunday in Hertford Street, and Lord George also was there for some time. Lizzie, who could hardly devote her mind to the affairs of the wedding, remained alone in her own sitting-room during the greater part of the day; but she did show herself while Lord George was there.
“So I hear that Mackintosh has been here,” said Lord George.
“Yes, he was here.”
“And what did he say?” Lizzie did not like the way in which the man looked at her, feeling it to be not only unfriendly, but absolutely cruel. It seemed to imply that he knew that her secret was about to be divulged. And what was he to her now that he should be impertinent to her? What he knew, all the world would know before the end of the week. And that other man who knew it already, had been kind to her, had said nothing about perjury, but had explained to her that what she would have to bear would be trouble, and not imprisonment and loss of money. Lord George, to whom she had been so civil, for whom she had spent money, to whom she had almost offered herself and ail that she possessed — Lord George, whom she had selected as the first repository of her secret, had spoken no word to comfort her, but had made things look worse for her than they were. Why should she submit to be questioned by Lord George? In a day or two the secret which he knew would be no secret. “Never mind what he said, Lord George,” she replied.
“Has he found it all out?”
“You had better go and ask him yourself,” said Lizzie. “I am sick of the subject, and I mean to have done with it.”
Lord George laughed, and Lizzie hated him for his laugh.
“I declare,” said Mrs. Carbuncle, “that you two who were such friends are always snapping at each other now.”
“The fickleness is all on her ladyship’s part, not on mine,” said Lord George; whereupon Lady Eustace walked out of the room and was not seen again till dinner-time.
Soon afterwards Lucinda also endeavoured to escape, but to this Sir Griffin objected. Sir Griffin was in a very good humour, and bore himself like a prosperous bridegroom.
“Come, Luce,” he said, “get off your high horse for a little. To-morrow, you know, you must come down altogether.”
“So much the more reason for my remaining up today.”
“I’ll be shot if you shall,” said Sir Griffin. “Luce, sit in my lap, and give me a kiss.”
At this moment Lord George and Mrs. Carbuncle were in the front drawing-room, and Lord George was telling her the true story as to the necklace. It must be explained on his behalf that in doing this he did not consider that he was betraying the trust reposed in him. “They know all about it in Scotland Yard,” he said; “I got it from Gager. They were bound to tell me as, up to this week past, every man in the police thought that I had been the master-mind among the thieves. When I think of it I hardly know whether to laugh or cry.”
“And she had them all the time?” exclaimed Mrs. Carbuncle.
“Yes; in this house! Did you ever hear of such a little cat? I could tell you more than that. She wanted me to take them and dispose of them.”
“No!”
“She did, though; and now see the way she treats me! Never mind. Don’t say a word to her about it till it comes out of itself. She’ll have to be arrested, no doubt.”
“Arrested!” Mrs. Carbuncle’s further exclamations were stopped by Lucinda’s struggles in the other room. She had declined to sit upon the bridegroom’s lap, but had acknowledged that she was bound to submit to be kissed. He had kissed her, and then had striven to drag her onto his knee. But she was strong, and had resisted violently, and, as he afterwards said, had struck him savagely.
“Of course I struck him,” said Lucinda.
“By ——, you shall pay for it,” said Sir Griffin. This took place in the presence of Lord George and Mrs. Carbuncle, and yet they were to be married tomorrow.
“The idea of complaining that a girl hit you — and the girl who is to be your wife!” said Lord George, as they walked off together.
“I know what to complain of, and what not,” said Sir Griffin. “Are you going to let me have that money?”
“No, I am not,” said Lord George, “so there’s an end of that.” Nevertheless, they dined together at their club afterwards, and in the evening Sir Griffin was again in Hertford Street.
This happened on the Sunday, on which day none of the ladies had gone to church. Mr. Emilius well understood the cause of their absence, and felt nothing of a parson’s anger at it. He was to marry the couple on the Monday morning, and dined with the ladies on the Sunday. He was peculiarly gracious and smiling, and spoke of the Hymeneals as though they were even more than ordinarily joyful and happy in their promise. To Lizzie he was almost affectionate, and Mrs. Carbuncle he flattered to the top of her bent. The power of the man, in being sprightly under such a load of trouble as oppressed the household, was wonderful. He had to do with three women who were worldly, hard, and given entirely to evil things. Even as regarded the bride, who felt the horror of her position, so much must be, in truth, admitted. Though from day to day and hour to hour she would openly declare her hatred of the things around her, yet she went on. Since she had entered upon life she had known nothing but falsehood and scheming wickedness; and, though she rebelled against the consequences, she had not rebelled against the wickedness. Now, to this unfortunate young woman and her two companions, Mr. Emilius discoursed with an unctuous mixture of celestial and terrestrial glorification, which was proof, at any rate, of great ability on his part. He told them how a good wife was a crown, or rather a chaplet of ethereal roses to her husband, and how high rank and great station in the world made such a chaplet more beautiful and more valuable. His work in the vineyard, he said, had fallen lately among the wealthy and nobly born; and though he would not say that he was entitled to take glory on that account, still he gave thanks daily, in that he had been enabled to give his humble assistance towards the running of a godly life to those who, by their example, were enabled to have so wide an effect upon their poorer fellow-creatures. He knew well how difficult it was for a camel to go through the eye of a needle. They had the highest possible authority for that. But Scriptures never said that the camel, which, as he explained it, was simply a thread larger than ordinary thread, could not go through the needle’s eye. The camel which succeeded, in spite of the difficulties attending its exalted position, would be peculiarly blessed. And he went on to suggest that the three ladies before him, one of whom was about to enter upon a new phase of life tomorrow, under auspices peculiarly propitious, were, all of them, camels of this description. Sir Griffin, when he came in, received for a while the peculiar attention of Mr. Emilius. “I think, Sir Griffin,” he commenced, “that no period of a man’s life is so blessed, as that upon which you will enter tomorrow.” This he said in a whisper, but it was a whisper audible to the ladies.
“Well, yes; it’s all right, I dare say,” said Sir Griffin.
“Well, after all, what is life till a man has met and obtained the partner of his soul? It is a blank, and the blank becomes every day more and more intolerable to the miserable solitary.”
“I wonder you don’t get married yourself,” said Mrs. Carbuncle, who perceived that Sir Griffin was rather astray for an answer.
“Ah! if one could always be fortunate when one loved,” said Mr. Emilius, casting his eyes across to Lizzie Eustace. It was evident to them all that he did not wish to conceal his passion.
It was the object of Mrs. Carbuncle that the lovers should not be left alone together, but that they should be made to think that they were passing the evening in affectionate intercourse. Lucinda hardly spoke, hardly had spoken since her disagreeable struggle with Sir Griffin. He said but little, but with Mrs. Carbuncle was better humoured than usual. Every now and then she made little whispered communications to him, telling that they would be sure to be at the church at eleven to the moment, explaining to him what would be the extent of Lucinda’s boxes for the wedding tour, and assuring him that he would find Lucinda’s new maid a treasure in regard to his own shirts and pocket handkerchiefs. She toiled marvellously at little subjects, always making some allusion to Lucinda, and never hinting that aught short of Elysium was in store for him. The labour was great; the task was terrible; but now it was so nearly over! And to Lizzie she was very courteous, never hinting by a word or a look that there was any new trouble impending on the score of the diamonds. She, too, as she received the greasy compliments of Mr. Emilius with pretty smiles, had her mind full enough of care.
At last Sir Griffin went, again kissing his bride as he left. Lucinda accepted his embrace without a word and almost without a shudder. “Eleven to the moment, Sir Griffin,” said Mrs. Carbuncle, with her best good-humour.
“All right,” said Sir Griffin as he passed out of the door. Lucinda walked across the room and kept her eyes fixed on his retreating figure as he descended the stairs. Mr. Emilius had already departed, with many promises of punctuality, and Lizzie now withdrew for the night.
“Dear Lizzie, good-night,” said Mrs. Carbuncle kissing her.
“Good-night, Lady Eustace,” said Lucinda. “I suppose I shall see you tomorrow?”
“See me, of course you will see me! I shall come into your room with the girls after you have had your tea.” The girls mentioned were the four bridesmaids, as to whom there had been some difficulty, as Lucinda had neither sister nor cousin, and had contracted no peculiarly tender friendships. But Mrs. Carbuncle had arranged it, and four properly-equipped young ladies were to be in attendance at ten on the morrow.
Then Lucinda and Mrs. Carbuncle were alone. “Of one thing I feel sure,” said Lucinda in a low voice.
“What is that, dear?”
“I shall never see Sir Griffin Tewett again.”
“You talk in that way on purpose to break me down at the last moment,” said Mrs. Carbuncle.
“Dear Aunt Jane, I would not break you down if I could help it. I have struggled so hard, simply that you might be freed from me. We have been very foolish, both of us; but I would bear all the punishment if I could.”
“You know that this is nonsense now.”
“Very well. I only tell you. I know that I shall never see him again. I will never trust myself alone in his presence. I could not do it. When he touches me my whole body is in agony; to be kissed by him is madness!”
“Lucinda, this is very wicked. You are working yourself up to a paroxysm of folly.”
“Wicked; yes, I know that I am wicked. There has been enough of wickedness certainly. You don’t suppose that I mean to excuse myself?”
“Of course you will marry Sir Griffin tomorrow.”
“I shall never be married to him. How I shall escape from him — by dying, or going mad, or by destroying him — God only knows.” Then she paused, and her aunt looking into her face almost began to fear that she was in earnest. But she would not take it as at all indicating any real result for the morrow. The girl had often said nearly the same thing before, and had still submitted. “Do you know Aunt Jane, I don’t think I could feel to any man as though I loved him. But for this man — O God, how I do detest him! I cannot do it.”
“You had better go to bed, Lucinda, and let me come to you in the morning.”
“Yes; come to me in the morning, early.”
“I will, at eight.”
“I shall know then, perhaps.”
“My dear, will you come to my room to-night and sleep with me?”
“Oh, no. I have ever so many things to do. I have papers to burn, and things to put away. But come to me at eight. Goodnight, Aunt Jane.” Mrs. Carbuncle went up to her room with her, kissed her affectionately, and then left her.
She was now really frightened. What would be said of her if she should press the marriage forward to a completion, and if, after that, some terrible tragedy should take place between the bride and bridegroom? That Lucinda, in spite of all that had been said, would stand at the altar, and allow the ceremony to be performed, she still believed. Those last words about burning papers and putting things away seemed to imply that the girl still thought that she would be taken away from her present home on the morrow. But what would come afterwards? The horror which the bride expressed was, as Mrs. Carbuncle well knew, no mock feeling, no pretence at antipathy. She tried to think of it and to realise what might, in truth, be the girl’s action and ultimate fate when she should find herself in the power of this man whom she so hated. But had not other girls done the same thing, and lived through it all, and become fat, indifferent, and fond of the world? It is only the first step that signifies.
At any rate the thing must go on now; must go on whatever might be the result to Lucinda or to Mrs. Carbuncle herself. Yes; it must go on. There was, no doubt, very much of bitterness in the world for such as them, for persons doomed by the necessities of their position to a continual struggle. It always had been so and always would be so. But each bitter cup must be drained in the hope that the next might be sweeter. Of course the marriage must go on; though doubtless this cup was very bitter.
More than once in the night Mrs. Carbuncle crept up to the door of her niece’s room, endeavouring to ascertain what might be going on within. At two o’clock, while she was on the landing, the candle was extinguished, and she could hear Lucinda put herself to bed. At any rate so far things were safe. An indistinct, incompleted idea of some possible tragedy had flitted across the mind of the poor woman, causing her to shake and tremble, forbidding her, weary as she was, to lie down; but now she told herself at last that this was an idle phantasy, and she went to bed. Of course Lucinda must go through with it. It had been her own doing, and Sir Griffin was not worse than other men. As she said this to herself, Mrs. Carbuncle hardened her heart by remembering that her own married life had not been peculiarly happy.
Exactly at eight on the following morning she knocked at her niece’s door and was at once bidden to enter. “Come in, Aunt Jane.” The words cheered her wonderfully. At any rate there had been no tragedy as yet, and as she turned the handle of the door she felt that, as a matter of course, the marriage would go on just like any other marriage. She found Lucinda up and dressed, but so dressed certainly to show no preparation for a wedding toilet. She had on an ordinary stuff morning frock, and her hair was close tucked up and pinned as it might have been had she already prepared herself for a journey. But what astonished Mrs. Carbuncle more than the dress was the girl’s manner. She was sitting at a table with a book before her, which was afterwards found to be the Bible, and she never turned her head as her aunt entered the room.
“What, up already,” said Mrs. Carbuncle, “and dressed?”
“Yes; I am up, and dressed. I have been up ever so long. How was I to lie in bed on such a morning as this? Aunt Jane, I wish you to know as soon as possible that no earthly consideration will induce me to leave this room today.”
“What nonsense, Lucinda!”
“Very well; all the same you might as well believe me. I want you to send to Mr. Emilius, and to those girls, and to the man. And you had better get Lord George to let the other people know. I’m quite in earnest.”
And she was in earnest, quite in earnest, though there was a flightiness about her manner which induced Mrs. Carbuncle for a while to think that she was less so than she had been on the previous evening. The unfortunate woman remained with her niece for an hour and a half, imploring, threatening, scolding, and weeping. When the maids came to the door, first one maid and then another, they were refused entrance. It might still be possible, Mrs. Carbuncle thought, that she would prevail. But nothing now could shake Lucinda or induce her even to discuss the subject. She sat there looking steadfastly at the book — hardly answering, never defending herself, but protesting that nothing should induce her to leave the room on that day.
“Do you want to destroy me?” Mrs. Carbuncle said at last.
“You have destroyed me,” said Lucinda.
At half-past nine Lizzie Eustace came into the room, and Mrs. Carbuncle, in her trouble, thought it better to take other counsel. Lizzie therefore was admitted.
“Is anything wrong?” asked Lizzie.
“Everything is wrong,” said the aunt. “She says that — she won’t be married.”
“Oh, Lucinda!”
“Pray speak to her, Lady Eustace. You see it is getting so late, and she ought to be nearly dressed now. Of course she must allow herself to be dressed.”
“I am dressed,” said Lucinda.
“But, dear Lucinda, everybody will be waiting for you,” said Lizzie.
“Let them wait, till they’re tired. If Aunt Jane doesn’t choose to send, it is not my fault. I sha’n’t go out of this room today unless I am carried out. Do you want to hear that I have murdered the man?”
They brought her tea, and endeavoured to induce her to eat and drink. She would take the tea, she said, if they would promise to send to put the people off. Mrs. Carbuncle so far gave way as to undertake to do so, if she would name the next day, or the day following, for the wedding. But on hearing this she arose almost in a majesty of wrath. Neither on this day, nor on the next, nor on any following day, would she yield herself to the wretch whom they had endeavoured to force upon her.
“She must do it, you know,” said Mrs. Carbuncle, turning to Lizzie.
“You’ll see if I must,” said Lucinda, sitting square at the table with her eyes firmly fixed upon the book.
Then came up the servant to say that the four bridesmaids were all assembled in the drawing-room. When she heard this, even Mrs. Carbuncle gave way, and threw herself upon the bed and wept. “Oh, Lady Eustace, what are we to do? Lucinda, you have destroyed me. You have destroyed me altogether, after all that I have done for you.”
“And what has been done to me, do you think?” said Lucinda.
Something must be settled. All the servants in the house by this time knew that there would be no wedding, and no doubt some tidings as to the misadventure of the day had already reached the four ladies in the drawing-room. “What am I to do?” said Mrs. Carbuncle, starting up from the bed.
“I really think you had better send to Mr. Emilius,” said Lizzie; “and to Lord George.”
“What am I to say? Who is there to go to? Oh, I wish that somebody would kill me this minute! Lady Eustace, would you mind going down and telling those ladies to go away?”
“And had I not better send Richard to the church?”
“Oh yes; send anybody, everywhere. I don’t know what to do. Oh, Lucinda, this is the unkindest and the wickedest, and most horrible thing that anybody ever did! I shall never, never be able to hold up my head again.” Mrs. Carbuncle was completely prostrate, but Lucinda sat square at the table, firm as a rock, saying nothing, making no excuse for herself, with her eyes fixed upon the Bible.
Lady Eustace carried her message to the astonished and indignant bridesmaids, and succeeded in sending them back to their respective homes. Richard, glorious in new livery, forgetting that his flowers were still on his breast, ready dressed to attend the bride’s carriage, went with his sad message, first to the church and then to the banqueting-hall in Albemarle Street.
“Not any wedding?” said the head-waiter at the hotel. “I knew they was folks as would have a screw loose somewheres. There’s lots to stand for the bill, anyways,” he added, as he remembered all the tribute.
No attempt was made to send other messages from Hertford Street than those which were taken to the church and to the hotel. Sir Griffin and Lord George went together to the church in a brougham, and on the way the best man rather ridiculed the change in life which he supposed that his friend was about to make.
“I don’t in the least know how you mean to get along,” said Lord George.
“Much as other men do, I suppose.”
“But you’re always sparring, already.”
“It’s that old woman that you’re so fond of,” said Sir Griffin. “I don’t mean to have any ill-humour from my wife, I can tell you. I know who will have the worst of it if there is.”
“Upon my word, I think you’ll have your hands full,” said Lord George. They got out at a sort of private door attached to the chapel, and were there received by the clerk, who wore a very long face. The news had already come, and had been communicated to Mr. Emilius, who was in the vestry. “Are the ladies here yet?” asked Lord George. The woebegone clerk told them that the ladies were not yet there, and suggested that they should see Mr. Emilius. Into the presence of Mr. Emilius they were led, and then they heard the truth.
“Sir Griffin,” said Mr. Emilius, holding the baronet by the hand, “I’m sorry to have to tell you that there’s something wrong in Hertford Street.”
“What’s wrong?” asked Sir Griffin.
“You don’t mean to say that Miss Roanoke is not to be here?” demanded Lord George. “By George, I thought as much — I did indeed.”
“I can only tell you what I know, Lord George. Mrs. Carbuncle’s servant was here ten minutes since, Sir Griffin, before I came down, and he told the clerk that — that ——”
“What the d —— did he tell him?” asked Sir Griffin.
“He said that Miss Roanoke had changed her mind, and didn’t mean to be married at all. That’s all that I can learn from what he says. Perhaps you will think it best to go up to Hertford Street?”
“I’ll be —— if I do,” said Sir Griffin.
“I am not in the least surprised,” repeated Lord George. “Tewett, my boy, we might as well go home to lunch, and the sooner you’re out of town the better.”
“I knew that I should be taken in at last by that accursed woman,” said Sir Griffin.
“It wasn’t Mrs. Carbuncle, if you mean that. She’d have given her left hand to have had it completed. I rather think you’ve had an escape, Griff; and if I were you, I’d make the best of it.” Sir Griffin spoke not another word, but left the church with his friend in the brougham that had brought them, and so he disappears from our story. Mr. Emilius looked after him with wistful eyes, regretful for his fee. Had the baronet been less coarse and violent in his language he would have asked for it; but he feared that he might be cursed in his own church, before his clerk, and abstained. Late in the afternoon Lord George, when he had administered comfort to the disappointed bridegroom in the shape of a hot lunch, cura?oa, and cigars, walked up to Hertford Street, calling at the hotel in Albemarle Street on the way. The waiter told him all that he knew. Some thirty or forty guests had come to the wedding-banquet, and had all been sent away with tidings that the marriage had been — postponed.
“You might have told ’em a trifle more than that,” said Lord George.
“Postponed was pleasantest, my lord,” said the waiter. “Anyways, that was said, and we supposes, my lord, as the things ain’t wanted now.”
Lord George replied that as far as he knew the things were not wanted, and then continued his way up to Hertford Street.
At first he saw Lizzie Eustace, upon whom the misfortune of the day had had a most depressing effect. The wedding was to have been the one morsel of pleasing excitement which would come before she underwent the humble penance to which she was doomed. That was frustrated and abandoned, and now she could think only of Mr. Camperdown, her cousin Frank, and Lady Glencora Palliser. “What’s up now?” said Lord George, with that disrespect which had always accompanied his treatment of her since she had told him her secret. “What’s the meaning of all this?”
“I dare say that you know as well as I do, my lord.”
“I must know a good deal if I do. It seems that among you there is nothing but one trick upon another.”
“I suppose you are speaking of your own friends, Lord George. You doubtless know much more than I do of Miss Roanoke’s affairs.”
“Does she mean to say that she doesn’t mean to marry the man at all?”
“So I understand; but really you had better send for Mrs. Carbuncle.”
He did send for Mrs. Carbuncle, and after some words with her was taken up into Lucinda’s room. There sat the unfortunate girl, in the chair from which she had not moved since the morning. There had come over her face a look of fixed but almost idiotic resolution; her mouth was compressed, and her eyes were glazed, and she sat twiddling her book before her with her fingers. She had eaten nothing since she had got up, and had long ceased to be violent when questioned by her aunt. But nevertheless she was firm enough when her aunt begged to be allowed to write a letter to Sir Griffin, explaining that all this had arisen from temporary indisposition.
“No; it isn’t temporary. It isn’t temporary at all. You can write to him, but I’ll never come out of this room if I am told that I am to see him.”
“What is all this about, Lucinda?” said Lord George, speaking in his kindest voice.
“Is he there?” said she, turning round suddenly.
“Sir Griffin? no, indeed. He has left town.”
“You’re sure he’s not there? It’s no good his coming. If he comes for ever and ever he shall never touch me again — not alive; he shall never touch me again alive.” As she spoke she moved across the room to the fire-place and grasped the poker in her hand.
“Has she been like that all the morning?” whispered Lord George.
“No — not like — she has been quite quiet. Lucinda!”
“Don’t let him come here, then; that’s all. What’s the use? They can’t make me marry him. And I won’t marry him. Everybody has known that I hated him — detested him. Oh, Lord George, it has been very, very cruel.”
“Has it been my fault, Lucinda?”
“She wouldn’t have done it if you had told her not. But you won’t bring him again, will you?”
“Certainly not. He means to go abroad.”
“Ah, yes; that will be best. Let him go abroad. He knew it all the time, that I hated him. Why did he want me to be his wife? If he has gone abroad I will go down-stairs. But I won’t go out of the house. Nothing shall make me go out of the house. Are the bridesmaids gone?”
“Long ago,” said Mrs. Carbuncle piteously.
“Then I will go down.” And between them, they led her into the drawing-room.
“It is my belief,” said Lord George to Mrs. Carbuncle some minutes afterward, “that you have driven her mad.”
“Are you going to turn against me?”
“It is true. How you have had the heart to go on pressing it upon her, I could never understand. I am about as hard as a milestone, but I’ll be shot if I could have done it. From day to day I thought that you would have given way.”
“That is so like a man — when it is all over to turn upon a woman and say that she did it.”
“Didn’t you do it? I thought you did, and that you took a great deal of pride in the doing of it. When you made him offer to her, down in Scotland, and made her accept him, you were so proud that you could hardly hold yourself. What will you do now? Go on, just as though nothing had happened?”
“I don’t know what we shall do. There will be so many things to be paid.”
“I should think there would, and you can hardly expect Sir Griffin to pay for them. You’ll have to take her away somewhere. You’ll find that she can’t remain here. And that other woman will be in prison before the week’s over, I should say, unless she runs away.”
There was not much of comfort to be obtained by any of them from Lord George, who was quite as harsh to Mrs. Carbuncle as he had been to Lizzie Eustace. He remained in Hertford Street for an hour, and then took his leave, saying that he thought that he also should go abroad. “I didn’t think,” he said, “that anything could have hurt my character much; but upon my word, between you and Lady Eustace, I begin to find that in every deep there may be a lower depth. All the town has given me the credit for stealing her ladyship’s necklace, and now I shall be mixed up in this mock marriage. I shouldn’t wonder if Rooper were to send his bill in to me.” (Mr. Rooper was the keeper of the hotel in Albemarle Street.) “I think I shall follow Sir Griffin abroad. You have made England too hot to hold me.”
And so he left them.
The evening of that day was a terrible time to the three ladies in Hertford Street, and the following day was almost worse. Nobody came to see them, and not one of them dared to speak of the future. For the third day, the Wednesday, Lady Eustace had made her appointment with Mr. Camperdown, having written to the attorney, in compliance with the pressing advice of Major Mackintosh, to name an hour. Mr. Camperdown had written again, sending his compliments, and saying that he would receive Lady Eustace at the time fixed by her. The prospect of this interview was very bad, but even this was hardly so oppressive as the actual, existing wretchedness of that house. Mrs. Carbuncle, whom Lizzie had always known as high-spirited, bold, and almost domineering, was altogether prostrated by her misfortunes. She was querulous, lachrymose, and utterly despondent. From what Lizzie now learned, her hostess was enveloped in a mass of debt which would have been hopeless even had Lucinda gone off as a bride; but she had been willing to face all that with the object of establishing her niece. She could have expected nothing from the marriage for herself. She well knew that Sir Griffin would neither pay her debts nor give her a home nor lend her money. But to have married the girl who was in her charge would have been in itself a success, and would have in some sort repaid her for her trouble. There would have been something left to show for her expenditure of time and money. But now there was nothing around her but failure and dismay. The very servants in the house seemed to know that ordinary respect was hardly demanded from them.
As to Luanda, Lizzie felt, from the very hour in which she first saw her, on the morning of the intended wedding, that her mind was astray. She insisted on passing the time up in her own room, and always sat with the Bible before her. At every knock at the door, or ring at the bell, she would look round suspiciously, and once she whispered into Lizzie’s ear that if ever “he” should come there again she would “give him a kiss with a vengeance.” On the Tuesday “Lizzie recommended Mrs. Carbuncle to get medical advice, and at last they sent for Mr. Emilius that they might ask counsel of him. Mr. Emilius was full of smiles and consolation, and still allowed his golden hopes as to some Elysian future to crop out; but he did acknowledge at last, in a whispered conference with Lady Eustace, that somebody ought see to Miss Roanoke. Somebody did see Miss Roanoke, and the doctor who was thus appealed to shook his head. Perhaps Miss Roanoke had better be taken into the country for a little while.
“Dear Lady Eustace,” said Mrs. Carbuncle, “now you can be a friend indeed,” meaning, of course, that an invitation to Portray Castle would do more than could anything else towards making straight the crooked things of the hour. Mrs. Carbuncle, when she made the request, of course knew of Lizzie’s coming troubles; but let them do what they could to Lizzie, they could not take away her house.
But Lizzie felt at once that this would not suit. “Ah, Mrs. Carbuncle,” she said, “you do not know the condition which I am in myself!”