“Everybody is taking her part,” said Lord Fawn, almost crying.
“Surely not.”
“Yes; — they are. The bill in Chancery has been withdrawn, and it’s my belief that if the necklace were found to-morrow, there would be nothing to prevent her keeping it, — just as she did before.”
“But it was an heirloom?”
“No, it wasn’t. The lawyers were all wrong about it. As far as I can see, lawyers always are wrong. About those nine lacs of rupees for the Sawab, Finlay was all wrong. Camperdown owns that he was wrong. If, after all, the diamonds were hers, I’m sure I don’t know what I am to do. Thank you, Hittaway, for coming over. That’ll do for the present. Just leave that ruffian’s letter, and I’ll think about it.”
This was considered by Mrs. Hittaway to be a very bad state of things, and there was great consternation in Warwick Square when Mr. Hittaway told his wife this new story of her brother’s weakness. She was not going to be weak. She did not intend to withdraw her opposition to the marriage. She was not going to be frightened by Lizzie Eustace and Frank Greystock, — knowing as she did that they were lovers, and very improper lovers, too. “Of course she stole them herself,” said Mrs. Hittaway; “and I don’t doubt but she stole her own money afterwards. There’s nothing she wouldn’t do. I’d sooner see Frederic in his grave than married to such a woman as that. Men don’t know how sly women can be; — that’s the truth. And Frederic has been so spoilt among them down at Richmond, that he has no real judgment left. I don’t suppose he means to marry her.”
“Upon my word I don’t know,” said Mr. Hittaway. Then Mrs. Hittaway made up her mind that she would at once write a letter to Scotland.
There was an old lord about London in those days, — or, rather, one who was an old Liberal but a young lord, — one Lord Mount Thistle, who had sat in the Cabinet, and had lately been made a peer when his place in the Cabinet was wanted. He was a pompous, would-be important, silly old man, well acquainted with all the traditions of his party, and perhaps, on that account, useful, — but a bore, and very apt to meddle when he was not wanted. Lady Glencora, on the day after her dinner-party, whispered into his ear that Lord Fawn was getting himself into trouble, and that a few words of caution, coming to him from one whom he respected so much as he did Lord Mount Thistle, would be of service to him. Lord Mount Thistle had known Lord Fawn’s father, and declared himself at once to be quite entitled to interfere. “He is really behaving badly to Lady Eustace,” said Lady Glencora, “and I don’t think that he knows it.” Lord Mount Thistle, proud of a commission from the hands of Lady Glencora, went almost at once to his old friend’s son. He found him at the House that night, and whispered his few words of caution in one of the lobbies.
“I know you will excuse me, Fawn,” Lord Mount Thistle said, “but people seem to think that you are not behaving quite well to Lady Eustace.”
“What people?” demanded Lord Fawn.
“My dear fellow, that is a question that cannot be answered. You know that I am the last man to interfere if I didn’t think it my duty as a friend. You were engaged to her?” — Lord Fawn only frowned. “If so,” continued the late cabinet minister, “and if you have broken it off, you ought to give your reasons. She has a right to demand as much as that.”
On the next morning, Friday, there came to him the note which Lady Glencora had recommended Lizzie to write. It was very short. “Had you not better come and see me? You can hardly think that things should be left as they are now. L. E. — Hertford Street, Thursday.” He had hoped, — he had ventured to hope, — that things might be left, and that they would arrange themselves; that he could throw aside his engagement without further trouble, and that the subject would drop. But it was not so. His enemy, Frank Greystock, had demanded from him a “written explanation” of his conduct. Mr. Camperdown had deserted him. Lady Glencora Palliser, with whom he had not the honour of any intimate acquaintance, had taken upon herself to give him advice. Lord Mount Thistle had found fault with him. And now there had come a note from Lizzie Eustace herself, which he could hardly venture to leave altogether unnoticed. On that Friday he dined at his club, and then went to his sister’s house in Warwick Square. If assistance might be had anywhere, it would be from his sister; — she, at any rate, would not want courage in carrying on the battle on his behalf.
“Ill-used!” she said, as soon as they were closeted together. “Who dares to say so?”
“That old fool, Mount Thistle, has been with me.”
“I hope, Frederic, you don’t mind what such a man as that says. He has probably been prompted by some friend of hers. And who else?”
“Camperdown turns round now and says that they don’t mean to do anything more about the necklace. Lady Glencora Palliser told me the other day that all the world believes that the thing was her own.”
“What does Lady Glencora Palliser know about it? If Lady Glencora Palliser would mind her own affairs it would be much better for her. I remember when she had troubles enough of her own, without meddling with other people’s.”
“And now I’ve got this note.” Lord Fawn had already shown Lizzie’s few scrawled words to his sister. “I think I must go and see her.”
“Do no such thing, Frederic.”
“Why not? I must answer it, and what can I say?”
“If you go there, that woman will be your wife, and you’ll never have a happy day again as long as you live. The match is broken off, and she knows it. I shouldn’t take the slightest notice of her, or of her cousin, or of any of them. If she chooses to bring an action against you, that is another thing.”
Lord Fawn paused for a few moments before he answered. “I think I ought to go,” he said.
“And I am sure that you ought not. It is not only about the diamonds, — though that was quite enough to break off any engagement. Have you forgotten what I told you that the man saw at Portray?”
“I don’t know that the man spoke the truth.”
“But he did.”
“And I hate that kind of espionage. It is so very likely that mistakes should be made.”
“When she was sitting in his arms, — and kissing him! If you choose to do it, Frederic, of course you must. We can’t prevent it. You are free to marry any one you please.”
“I’m not talking of marrying her.”
“What do you suppose she wants you to go there for? As for political life, I am quite sure it would be the death of you. If I were you I wouldn’t go near her. You have got out of the scrape, and I would remain out.”
“But I haven’t got out,” said Lord Fawn.
On the next day, Saturday, he did nothing in the matter. He went down, as was his custom, to Richmond, and did not once mention Lizzie’s name. Lady Fawn and her daughters never spoke of her now, — neither of her, nor, in his presence, of poor Lucy Morris. But on his return to London on the Sunday evening he found another note from Lizzie. “You will hardly have the hardihood to leave my note unanswered. Pray let me know when you will come to me.” Some answer must, as he felt, be made to her. For a moment he thought of asking his mother to call; — but he at once saw that by doing so he might lay himself open to terrible ridicule. Could he induce Lord Mount Thistle to be his Mercury? It would, he felt, be quite impossible to make Lord Mount Thistle understand all the facts of his position. His sister, Mrs. Hittaway, might have gone, were it not that she herself was violently opposed to any visit. The more he thought of it the more convinced he became that, should it be known that he had received two such notes from a lady and that he had not answered or noticed them, the world would judge him to have behaved badly. So, at last, he wrote, — on that Sunday evening, — fixing a somewhat distant day for his visit to Hertford Street. His note was as follows: —
Lord Fawn presents his compliments to Lady Eustace. In accordance with the wish expressed in Lady Eustace’s two notes of the 23rd instant and this date, Lord Fawn will do himself the honour of waiting upon Lady Eustace on
Saturday next, March 3rd, at 12, noon. Lord Fawn had thought that under circumstances as they now exist, no further personal interview could lead to the happiness of either party; but as Lady Eustace thinks otherwise, he feels himself constrained to comply with her desire.
Sunday evening, 25 February, 18––.
“I am going to see her in the course of this week,” he said, in answer to a further question from Lady Glencora, who, chancing to meet him in society, had again addressed him on the subject. He lacked the courage to tell Lady Glencora to mind her own business and to allow him to do the same. Had she been a little less great than she was, — either as regarded herself or her husband, — he would have done so. But Lady Glencora was the social queen of the party to which he belonged, and Mr. Palliser was Chancellor of the Exchequer, and would some day be Duke of Omnium.
“As you are great, be merciful, Lord Fawn,” said Lady Glencora. “You men, I believe, never realise what it is that women feel when they love. It is my belief that she will die unless you are re-united to her. And then she is so beautiful!”
“It is a subject that I cannot discuss, Lady Glencora.”
“I daresay not. And I’m sure I am the last person to wish to give you pain. But you see, — if the poor lady has done nothing to merit your anger, it does seem rather a strong measure to throw her off and give her no reason whatever. How would you defend yourself, suppose she published it all?” Lady Glencora’s courage was very great, — and perhaps we may say her impudence also. This last question Lord Fawn left unanswered, walking away in great dudgeon.
In the course of the week he told his sister of the interview which he had promised, and she endeavoured to induce him to postpone it till a certain man should arrive from Scotland. She had written for Mr. Andrew Gowran, — sending down funds for Mr. Gowran’s journey, — so that her brother might hear Mr. Gowran’s evidence out of Mr. Gowran’s own mouth. Would not Frederic postpone the interview till he should have seen Mr. Gowran? But to this request Frederic declined to accede. He had fixed a day and an hour. He had made an appointment; — of course he must keep it.
CHAPTER LVII
Humpty Dumpty
The robbery at the house in Hertford Street took place on the 30th of January, and on the morning of the 28th of February Bunfit and Gager were sitting together in a melancholy, dark little room in Scotland Yard, discussing the circumstances of that nefarious act. A month had gone by, and nobody was yet in custody. A month had passed since that second robbery; but nearly eight weeks had passed since the robbery at Carlisle, and even that was still a mystery. The newspapers had been loud in their condemnation of the police. It had been asserted over and over again that in no other civilised country in the world could so great an amount of property have passed through the hands of thieves without leaving some clue by which the police would have made their way to the truth. Major Mackintosh had been declared to be altogether incompetent, and all the Bunfits and Gagers of the force had been spoken of as drones and moles and ostriches. They were idle and blind, and so stupid as to think that, when they saw nothing, others saw less. The major, who was a broad-shouldered, philosophical man, bore all this as though it were, of necessity, a part of the burthen of his profession; — but the Bunfits and Gagers were very angry, and at their wits’ ends. It did not occur to them to feel animosity against the newspapers which abused them. The thieves who would not be caught were their great enemies; and there was common to them a conviction that men so obstinate as these thieves, — men to whom a large amount of grace and liberty for indulgence had accrued, — should be treated with uncommon severity when they were caught. There was this excuse always on their lips, — that had it been an affair simply of thieves, such as thieves ordinarily are, everything would have been discovered long since; — but when lords and ladies with titles come to be mixed up with such an affair, — folk in whose house a policeman can’t have his will at searching and brow-beating, — how is a detective to detect anything?
Bunfit and Gager had both been driven to recast their theories as to the great Carlisle affair by the circumstances of the later affair in Hertford Street. They both thought that Lord George had been concerned in the robbery; — that, indeed, had now become the general opinion of the world at large. He was a man of doubtful character, with large expenses, and with no recognised means of living. He had formed a great intimacy with Lady Eustace at a period in which she was known to be carrying these diamonds about with her, had been staying with her at Portray Castle when the diamonds were there, and had been her companion on the journey during which the diamonds were stolen. The only men in London supposed to be capable of dealing advantageously with such a property were Harter and Benjamin, — as to whom it was known that they were conversant with the existence of the diamonds, and known, also, that they were in the habit of having dealings with Lord George. It was, moreover, known that Lord George had been closeted with Mr. Benjamin on the morning after his arrival in London. These things put together made it almost a certainty that Lord George had been concerned in the matter. Bunfit had always been sure of it. Gager, though differing much from Bunfit as to details, had never been unwilling to suspect Lord George. But the facts known could not be got to dovetail themselves pleasantly. If Lord George had possessed himself of the diamonds at Carlisle, — or with Lizzie’s connivance before they reached Carlisle, — then, why had there been a second robbery? Bunfit, who was very profound in his theory, suggested that the second robbery was an additional plant, got up with the view of throwing more dust into the eyes of the police. Patience Crabstick had, of course, been one of the gang throughout, and she had now been allowed to go off with her mistress’s money and lesser trinkets, — so that the world of Scotland Yard might be thrown more and more into the mire of ignorance and darkness of doubt. To this view Gager was altogether opposed. He was inclined to think that Lord George had taken the diamonds at Carlisle with Lizzie’s connivance; — that he had restored them in London to her keeping, finding the suspicion against him too heavy to admit of his dealing with them, — and that now he had stolen them a second time, again with Lizzie’s connivance; but in this latter point Gager did not pretend to the assurance of any conviction.
But Gager at the present moment had achieved a triumph in the matter which he was not at all disposed to share with his elder officer. Perhaps, on the whole, more power is lost than gained by habits of secrecy. To be discreet is a fine thing, — especially for a policeman; but when discretion is carried to such a length in the direction of self-confidence as to produce a belief that no aid is wanted for the achievement of great results, it will often militate against all achievement. Had Scotland Yard been less discreet and more confidential, the mystery might, perhaps, have been sooner unravelled. Gager at this very moment had reason to believe that a man whom he knew could, — and would, if operated upon duly, — communicate to him, Gager, the secret of the present whereabouts of Patience Crabstick! That belief was a great possession, and much too important, as Gager thought, to be shared lightly with such an one as Mr. Bunfit, — a thick-headed sort of man, in Gager’s opinion, although, no doubt, he had by means of industry been successful in some difficult cases.
“‘Is lordship ain’t stirred,” said Bunfit.
“How do you mean, — stirred, Mr. Bunfit?”
“Ain’t moved nowheres out of London.”
“What should he move out of London for? What could he get by cutting? There ain’t nothing so bad when anything’s up against one as letting on that one wants to bolt. He knows all that. He’ll stand his ground. He won’t bolt.”
“I don’t suppose as he will, Gager. It’s a rum go; ain’t it? — the rummest as I ever see.” This remark had been made so often by Mr. Bunfit, that Gager had become almost weary of hearing it.
“Oh, — rum; rum be b–––– What’s the use of all that? From what the governor told me this morning, there isn’t a shadow of doubt where the diamonds are.”
“In Paris
, — of course,” said Bunfit.
“They never went to Paris. They were taken from here to Hamburg in a commercial man’s kit, — a fellow as travels in knives and scissors. Then they was recut. They say the cutting was the quickest bit of work ever done by one man in Hamburg. And now they’re in New York. That’s what has come of the diamonds.”
“Benjamin, in course,” said Bunfit, in a low whisper, just taking the pipe from between his lips.
“Well; — yes. No doubt it was Benjamin. But how did Benjamin get ‘em?”
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