The Eustace Diamonds (69 page)

L
IZZIE,
when she was left alone, was very angry with the Corsair – in truth, more sincerely angry than 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 Gow-ran 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 – 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 burthens.

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.

‘D
EAR
L
UCY,

‘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,          
‘L
IZZIE.'

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?'

L
IZZIE
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 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 Luanda 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.'