The Eustace Diamonds (40 page)

‘I don't see why she shouldn't,' Nevertheless Frank was annoyed. Having asked for permission, Lucy should at least have waited for a reply.

‘Well; I don't know,' said Mrs Greystock. ‘It is generally considered that young ladies are more reticent about such things. She has blurted it out and boasted about it at once.'

‘I thought girls always told of their engagements,' said Frank, ‘and I can't for the life of me see that there was any boasting in it.' Then he was silent for a moment. The truth is, we are, all of us, treating Lucy very badly.'

‘I cannot say that I see it,' said his mother.

‘We ought to have had her here.'

‘For how long, Frank?'

‘For as long as a home was needed by her.'

‘Had you demanded it, Frank, she should have come, of course. But neither I nor you father could have had pleasure in receiving her as your future wife. You, yourself, say that it cannot be for two years at least'

‘I said one year.'

‘I think, Frank, you said two. And we all know that such a marriage would be ruinous to you. How could we make her welcome? Can you see your way to having a house for her to live in within twelve months?'

‘Why not a house? I could have a house tomorrow.'

‘Such a house as would suit you in your position? And, Frank, would it be a kindness to marry her and then let her find that you were in debt?'

‘I don't believe she'd care, if she had nothing but a crust to eat.'

‘She ought to care, Frank.'

‘I think,' said the dean to his son, on the next day, ‘that in our class of life an imprudent marriage is the one thing that should be avoided. My marriage has been very happy, God knows; but I have always been a poor man, and feel it now when I am quite unable to help you. And yet your mother had some fortune. Nobody, I think, cares less for wealth than I do. I am content almost with nothing.' – The nothing with which the dean had hitherto been contented had always included every comfort of life, a well-kept table, good wine, new books, and canonical habiliments with the gloss still on; but as the Bobsborough tradesmen had, through the agency of Mrs Greystock, always supplied him with these things as though they came from the clouds, he really did believe that he had never asked for anything. – ‘I am content almost with nothing. But I do feel that marriage cannot be adopted as the ordinary form of life by men in our class as it can be by the rich or by the poor. You, for instance, are called upon to live with the rich, but are not rich. That can only be done by wary walking, and is hardly consistent with a wife and children.'

‘But men in my position do marry, sir.'

‘After a certain age – or else they marry ladies with money. You see, Frank, there are not many men who go into Parliament with means so moderate as yours and they who do perhaps have stricter ideas of economy.' The dean did not say a word about Lucy Morris, and dealt entirely with generalities.

In compliance with her son's advice – or almost command – Mrs Greystock did not answer Lady Linlithgow's letter. He was going
back to London, and would give personally, or by letter written there, what answer might be necessary. ‘You will then see Miss Morris?' asked his mother.

‘I shall certainly see Lucy. Something must be settled.' There was a tone in his voice as he said this which gave some comfort to his mother.

She wrote even to her husband's uncle, the bishop, asking him down to Portray. He could not come, but sent an affectionate answer, and thanked her for thinking of him. Many people she asked who, she felt sure, would not come – and one or two of them accepted her invitation. John Eustace promised to be with her for two days. When Frank had left her, going out of her presence in the manner that has been described, she actually wrote to him, begging him to join her party. This was her note.

‘Come to me, just for a week,' she said, ‘when my people are here, so that I may not seem to be deserted. Sit at the bottom of my table, and be to me as a brother might. I shall expect you to do
so much for me.' To this he had replied that he would come during the first week in November.

And she got a clergyman down from London, the Rev. Joseph Emilius, of whom it was said that he was born a Jew in Hungary, and that his name in his own country had been Mealyus. At the present time he was among the most eloquent of London preachers, and was reputed by some to have reached such a standard of pulpit-oratory, as to have no equal within the memory of living hearers. In regard to his reading it was acknowledged that no one since Mrs Siddons
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had touched him. But he did not get on very well with any particular bishop, and there was doubt in the minds of some people whether there was or was not any – Mrs Emilius. He had come up quite suddenly within the last season, and had made church-going quite a pleasant occupation to Lizzie Eustace.

On the last day of October, Mr Emilius and Mr John Eustace came each alone. Mrs Carbuncle and Miss Roanoke came over with post-horses from Ayr – as also did Lord George and Sir Griffin about an hour after them. Frank was not yet expected. He had promised to name a day and had not yet named it.

‘Varra weel, varra weel,' Gowran had said when he was told of what was about to occur, and was desired to make preparations necessary in regard to the outside plenishing of the house; ‘nae doobt she'll do with her ain what pleases her ainself. The mair ye poor out, the less there'll be left in. Mr Jo-ohn coming? I'll be glad then to see Mr Jo-ohn. Oo, ay; aits – there'll be aits eneuch. And anither coo? You'll want twa ither coos. I'll see to the coos.' And Andy Gowran, in spite of the internecine warfare which existed between him and his mistress, did see to the hay, and the cows and the oats, and the extra servants that were wanted both inside and outside the house. There was enmity between him and Lady Eustace, and he didn't care who knew it; – but he took her wages and he did her work.

Mrs Carbuncle was a wonderful woman. She was the wife of a man with whom she was very rarely seen, whom nobody knew, who was something in the City, but somebody who never succeeded in making money; and yet she went everywhere. She had at least the reputation of going everywhere, and did go to a great
many places. Carbuncle had no money – so it was said; and she had none. She was the daughter of a man who had gone to New York and had failed there. Of her own parentage no more was known. She had a small house in one of the very small Mayfair streets, to which she was wont to invite her friends for five-o'Clock tea. Other receptions she never attempted. During the London seasons she always kept a carriage, and during the winters she always had hunters. Who paid for them no one knew or cared. Her dress was always perfect – as far as fit and performance went. As to approving Mrs Carbuncle's manner of dress – that was a question of taste. Audacity may, perhaps, be said to have been the ruling principle of her toilet; – not the audacity of indecency, which, let the satirists say what they may, is not efficacious in England, but audacity in colour, audacity in design, and audacity in construction. She would ride in the park in a black and yellow habit, and appear at the opera in white velvet without a speck of colour. Though certainly turned thirty, and probably nearer to forty, she would wear her jet-black hair streaming down her back, and when June came would drive about London in a straw hat. But yet it was always admitted that she was well dressed. And then would arise the question, Who paid the bills?

Mrs Carbuncle was certainly a handsome woman. She was full-faced – with bold eyes, rather far apart, perfect black eyebrows, a well-formed broad nose, thick lips, and regular teeth. Her chin was round and short, with, perhaps, a little bearing towards a double chin. But though her face was plump and round, there was a power in it, and a look of command of which it was, perhaps, difficult to say in what features was the seat. But in truth the mind will lend a tone to every feature, and it was the desire of Mrs Carbuncle's heart to command. But perhaps the wonder of her face was its complexion. People said – before they knew her – that, as a matter of course, she had been made beautiful for ever.
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But, though that too brilliant colour was almost always there, covering the cheeks but never touching the forehead or the neck, it would at certain moments shift, change, and even depart. When she was angry, it would vanish for a moment and then return intensified. There was no chemistry on Mrs Carbuncle's cheek; and yet it was
a tint so brilliant and so transparent, as almost to justify a conviction that it could not be genuine. There were those who declared that nothing in the way of complexion so beautiful as that of Mrs Carbuncle's had been seen on the face of any other woman in this age, and there were others who called her an exaggerated milkmaid. She was tall, too, and had learned so to walk as though half the world belonged to her.

Her niece, Miss Roanoke, was a lady of the same stamp, and of similar beauty, with those additions and also with those drawbacks which belong to youth. She looked as though she were four-and-twenty, but in truth she was no more than eighteen. When seen beside her aunt, she seemed to be no more than half the elder lady's size; and yet her proportions were not insignificant. She, too, was tall, and was as one used to command, and walked as though she were a young Juno. Her hair was very dark – almost black – and very plentiful. Her eyes were large and bright, though too bold for a girl so young. Her nose and mouth were exactly as her aunt's, but her chin was somewhat longer, so as to divest her face of that plump roundness which, perhaps, took something from the majesty of Mrs Carbuncle's appearance. Miss Roanoke's complexion was certainly marvellous. No one thought that she had been made beautiful for ever, for the colour would go and come and shift and change with every word and every thought; but still it was there, as deep on her cheeks as on her aunt's, though somewhat more transparent, and with more delicacy of tint as the bright hues faded away and became merged in the almost marble whiteness of her skin. With Mrs Carbuncle there was no merging and fading. The red and white bordered one another on her cheek, without any merging, as they do on a flag.

Lucinda Roanoke was undoubtedly a very handsome woman. It probably never occurred to man or woman to say that she was lovely. She had sat for her portrait during the last winter, and her picture had caused much remark in the Exhibition. Some said that she might be a Brinvilliers, others a Cleopatra, and others again a Queen of Sheba.
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In her eyes as they were limned there had been nothing certainly of love, but they who likened her to the Egyptian queen believed that Cleopatra's love had always been
used simply to assist her ambition. They who took the Brinvilliers side of the controversy were men so used to softness and flattery from woman as to have learned to think that a woman silent, arrogant, and hard to approach, must be always meditating murder. The disciples of the Queen of Sheba school, who formed perhaps the more numerous party, were led to their opinion by the majesty of Lucinda's demeanour rather than by any clear idea in their own minds of the lady who visited Solomon. All men, however, agreed in this, that Luanda Roanoke was very handsome, but that she was not the sort of girl with whom a man would wish to stray away through the distant beech-trees at a picnic.

In truth she was silent, grave, and, if not really haughty, subject to all the signs of haughtiness. She went everywhere with her aunt, and allowed herself to be walked out at dances, and to be accosted when on horseback, and to be spoken to at parties; but she seemed hardly to trouble herself to talk – and as for laughing, flirting, or giggling, one might as well expect such levity from a marble Minerva. During the last winter she had taken to hunting with her aunt, and already could ride well to hounds. If assistance were wanted at a gate, or in the management of a fence, and the servant who attended the two ladies were not near enough to give it, she would accept it as her due from the man nearest to her; but she rarely did more than bow her thanks, and, even by young lords, or hard-riding handsome colonels, or squires of undoubted thousands, she could hardly ever be brought to what might be called a proper hunting-field conversation. All of which things were noted, and spoken of, and admired. It must be presumed that Lucinda Roanoke was in want of a husband, and yet no girl seemed to take less pains to get one. A girl ought not to be always busying herself to bring down a man, but a girl ought to give herself some charms. A girl so handsome as Lucinda Roanoke, with pluck enough to ride like a bird, dignity enough for a duchess, and who was undoubtedly clever, ought to put herself in the way of taking such good things as her charms and merits would bring her; – but Lucinda Roanoke stood aloof and despised everybody. So it was that Lucinda was spoken of when her name was
mentioned; and her name was mentioned a good deal after the opening of the exhibition of pictures.

There was some difficulty about her – as to who she was. That she was an American was the received opinion. Her mother, as well as Mrs Carbuncle, had certainly been in New York. Carbuncle was a London man; but it was supposed that Mr Roanoke was, or had been, an American. The received opinion was correct. Luanda had been born in New York, had been educated there till she was sixteen, had then been taken to Paris for nine months, and from Paris had been brought to London by her aunt. Mrs Carbuncle always spoke of Luanda's education as having been thoroughly Parisian. Of her own education and antecedents, Lucinda never spoke at all. ‘I'il tell you what it is,' said a young scamp from Eton to his elder sister, when her character and position were once being discussed. ‘She's a heroine, and would shoot a fellow as soon as look at him.' In that scamp's family, Lucinda was ever afterwards called the heroine.

The manner in which Lord George de Bruce Carmthers had attached himself to these ladies was a mystery; but then Lord George was always mysterious. He was a young man – so considered – about forty-five years of age, who had never done anything in the manner of other people. He hunted a great deal, but he did not fraternise with hunting men, and would appear now in this county and now in that, with an utmost disregard of grass, fences, friendships, or foxes. Leicester, Essex, Ayrshire, or the Baron
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had equal delights for him; and in all counties he was quite at home. He had never owned a fortune, and had never been known to earn a shilling. It was said that early in life he had been apprenticed to an attorney at Aberdeen as George Carruthers. His third cousin, the Marquis of Killiecrankie, had been killed out hunting; the second scion of the noble family had fallen at Balaclava; a third had perished in the Indian Mutiny; and a fourth, who did reign for a few months, died suddenly, leaving a large family of daughters. Within three years the four brothers vanished, leaving among them no male heir, and George's elder brother, who was then in a West India regiment, was called home from Demerara to be Marquis of Killiecrankie. By a usual exercise
of the courtesy of the Crown, all the brothers were made lords.
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and some twelve years before the date of our story George Car-ruthers, who had long since left the attorney's office at Aberdeen, became Lord George de Bruce Carruthers. How he lived no one knew. That his brother did much for him was presumed to be impossible, as the property entailed on the Killiecrankie title certainly was not large. He sometimes went into the City, and was supposed to know something about shares. Perhaps he played a little and made a few bets. He generally lived with men of means; – or perhaps with one man of means at a time; but they, who knew him well, declared that he never borrowed a shilling from a friend, and never owed a guinea to a tradesman. He always had horses, but never had a home. When in London he lodged in a single room, and dined at his club. He was a Colonel of Volunteers,
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having got up the regiment known as the Long Shore Riflemen – the roughest regiment of Volunteers in all England – and was reputed to be a bitter Radical. He was suspected even of republican sentiments, and ignorant young men about London hinted that he was the grand centre of the British Fenians. He had been invited to stand for the Tower Hamlets, but had told the deputation which waited upon him that he knew a thing worth two of that. Would they guarantee his expenses, and then give him a salary? The deputation doubted its ability to promise so much. ‘I more than doubt it,' said Lord George; and then the deputation went away.

In person he was a long-legged, long-bodied, long-faced man, with rough whiskers and a rough beard on his upper lip, but with a shorn chin.His eyes were very deep set in his head, and his cheeks were hollow and sallow, and yet he looked to be and was a powerful, healthy man. He had large hands, which seemed to be all bone, and long arms, and a neck which looked to be long; because he so wore his shirt that much of his throat was always bare. It was manifest enough that.he liked to have good-looking women about him, and yet nobody presumed it probable that he would marry. For the last two or three years there had been friendship between him and Mrs Carbuncle; and during the last season he had become almost intimate with our Lizzie. Lizzie thought
that perhaps he might be the Corsair whom, sooner or later in her life, she must certainly encounter.