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 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.
Dear Lucy,
I particularly want to see you, — on business. Pray come to me at twelve to-morrow. 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 for 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!”
CHAPTER LXV
Tribute
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 to-morrow, — 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, to-morrow, 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 and 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 only be married 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 cheque 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.
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