The Eustace Diamonds (65 page)

When Lucy received the letter, the immediate effect upon her, the effect which came from the first reading of it, was not very great. She succeeded for some half-hour in putting it aside, as referring to a subject on which she had quite made up her mind in a direction contrary to that indicated by her correspondent's advice. Lady Fawn told her that her lover intended to be false to her. She had thought the matter over very carefully within the last day or two, and had altogether made up her mind that she would continue to trust her lover. She had abstained from sending to him the letter which she had written, and had abstained on that resolution. Lady Fawn, of course, was as kind and friendly as a friend could be. She loved Lady Fawn dearly. But she was not bound to think Lady Fawn right, and in this instance she did not think Lady Fawn right. So she folded up the letter and put it in her pocket.

But by putting the letter into her pocket she could not put it out of her mind. Though she had resolved, of what use to her was a resolution in which she could not trust? Day had passed by after day, week after week, and month after month, and her very soul within her had become sad for want of seeing this man, who was living almost in the next street to her. She was ashamed to own to herself how many hours she had sat at the window, thinking that, perhaps, he might walk before the house in which he knew that she was immured. And, even had it been impossible that he should come to her, the post was open to him. She had scorned to write to him oftener than he would write to her, and now their correspondence had dwindled almost to nothing. He knew as well as did Lucy Fawn when the period of her incarceration in Lady Linlithgow's dungeon would come to an end; and he knew, too, how great had been her hope that she
might be accepted as a guest at the deanery, when that period should arrive. He knew that she must look for a new home, unless he would tell her where she should live. Was it likely – was it possible, that he should be silent so long if he still intended to make her his wife? No doubt he had come to remember his debts, to remember his ambition, to think of his cousin's wealth – and to think also of his cousin's beauty. What right had she ever had to hope for such a position as that of his wife – she who had neither money nor beauty – she who had nothing to give him in return for his name and the shelter of his house beyond her mind and her heart? As she thought of it all, she looked down upon her faded grey frock, and stood up that she might glance at her features in the glass; and she saw how small she was and insignificant, and reminded herself that all she had in the world was a few pounds which she had saved and was still saving in order that she might go to him with decent clothes upon her back. Was it reasonable that she would expect it?

But why had he come to her and made her thus wretched? She could acknowledge to herself that she had been foolish, vain, utterly ignorant of her own value in venturing to hope; perhaps unmaidenly in allowing it to be seen that she had hoped; – but what was he in having first exalted her before all her friends and then abasing her so terribly and bringing her to such utter shipwreck? From spoken or written reproaches she could, of course, abstain. She would neither write nor speak any; – but from un-uttered reproaches how could she abstain? She had called him a traitor once in playful, loving irony, during those few hours in which her love had been to her a luxury that she could enjoy. But now he was a traitor indeed. Had he left her alone she would have loved him in silence, and not have been wretched in her love. She would, she knew, in that case, have had vigour enough and sufficient strength of character to bear her burthen without outward signs of suffering, without any inward suffering that would have disturbed the current of her life. But now everything was over with her. She had no thought of dying, but her future life was a blank to her.

She came downstairs to sit at lunch with Lady Linlithgow,
and the old woman did not perceive that anything was amiss with her companion. Further news had been heard of Lizzie Eustace, and of Lord Fawn, and of the robberies, and the countess declared how she had read in the newspaper that one man was already in custody for the burglary at the house in Hertford. Street From that subject she went on to tidings which had reached her from her old friend Lady Clantantram that the Fawn marriage was on again. ‘Not that I believe it, my dear; because I think that Mr Greystock has made it quite safe in that quarter.' All this Lucy heard, and never showed by a single sign or by a motion of a muscle, that she was in pain. Then Lady Linlithgow asked her what she meant to do after the 5th of April. ‘I don't see at all why you shouldn't stay here, if you like it, Miss Morris; – that is, if you have abandoned the stupid idea of an engagement with Frank Greystock.' Lucy smiled, and even thanked the countess, and said that she had made up her mind to go back to Richmond for a month or two, till she could get another engagement as a governess. Then she returned to her room and sat again at her window, looking out upon the street.

What did it matter now where she went? And yet she must go somewhere, and do something. There remained to her the wearisome possession of herself, and while she lived she must eat, and have clothes, and require shelter. She could not dawdle out a bitter existence under Lady Fawn's roof, eating the bread of charity, hanging about the rooms and shrubberies useless and idle. How bitter was to her that possession of herself, as she felt that there was nothing good to be done with the thing so possessed! She doubted even whether ever again she could become serviceable as a governess, and whether the energy would be left to her of earning her bread by teaching adequately the few things that she knew. But she must make her attempt,
¹
– and must go on making it, till God in his mercy should take her to himself.

And yet but a few months since life had been so sweet to her! As she felt this she was not thinking of those short days of excited, feverish bliss in which she had believed that all the good things of the world were to be showered into her lap; but of previous years in which everything had been with her as it
was now – with the one exception that she had not then been deceived. She had been full of smiles, and humour, and mirth, absolutely happy among her friends, though conscious of the necessity of earning her bread by the exercise of a most precarious profession – while elated by no hope. Though she had loved the man and had been hopeless, she was happy. But now, surely, of all women, she was the most forlorn.

Having once acceded to the truth of Lady Fawn's views, she abandoned all hope. Everybody said so, and it was so. There was no word from any side to encourage her. The thing was done and over, and she would never mention his name again. She would simply beg of all the Fawns that no allusion might be made to him in her presence. She would never blame him, and certainly she would never praise him. As far as she could rule her tongue, she would never have his name upon her lips again.

She thought for a time that she would send the letter which she had already written. Any other letter she could not bring herself to write. Even to think of him was an agony to her; but to communicate her thoughts to him was worse than agony. It would be almost madness. What need was there for any letter? If the thing was done; it was done. Perhaps there remained with her – staying by her without her own knowledge, some faint spark of hope, that even yet he might return to her. At last she resolved that there should be no letter, and she destroyed that which she had written.

But she did write a note to Lady Fawn, in which she gratefully accepted her old friend's kindness, till such time as she could ‘find a place.' ‘As to that other subject,' she said, ‘I know that you are right. Please let it all be as though it had never been.'

*       *       *       

‘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 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'll 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 cheque 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 cheque 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, especially 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 anyone 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 sympathizes 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 still 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 daresay 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 anyone 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
behove 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? 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.