The Palliser Novels (281 page)

She came down-stairs 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 to her was 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 the attempt, — 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 maidens and 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.”

The Saturday morning came at last for which Lord Fawn had made his appointment with Lizzie, and a very important day it was in Hertford Street, — chiefly on account of his lordship’s visit, but also in respect to other events which crowded themselves into the day. In the telling of our tale, we have gone a little in advance of this, as it was not till the subsequent Monday that Lady Linlithgow read in the newspaper, and told Lucy, how a man had been arrested on account of the robbery. Early on the Saturday morning Sir Griffin Tewett was in Hertford Street, and, as Lizzie afterwards understood, there was a terrible scene between both him and Lucinda and him and Mrs. Carbuncle. She saw nothing of it herself, but Mrs. Carbuncle brought her the tidings. For the last few days Mrs. Carbuncle had been very affectionate in her manner to Lizzie, thereby showing a great change; for during nearly the whole of February the lady, who in fact owned the house, had hardly been courteous to her remunerative guest, expressing more than once a hint that the arrangement which had brought them together had better come to an end. “You see, Lady Eustace,” Mrs. Carbuncle had once said, “the trouble about these robberies is almost too much for me.” Lizzie, who was ill at the time, and still trembling with constant fear on account of the lost diamonds, had taken advantage of her sick condition, and declined to argue the question of her removal. Now she was supposed to be convalescent, but Mrs. Carbuncle had returned to her former ways of affection. No doubt there was cause for this, — cause that was patent to Lizzie herself. Lady Glencora Palliser had called, — which thing alone was felt by Lizzie to alter her position altogether. And then, though her diamonds were gone, and though the thieves who had stolen them were undoubtedly aware of her secret as to the first robbery, though she had herself told that secret to Lord George, whom she had not seen since she had done so, — in spite of all these causes for trouble, she had of late gradually found herself to be emerging from the state of despondency into which she had fallen while the diamonds were in her own custody. She knew that she was regaining her ascendancy; and, therefore, when Mrs. Carbuncle came to tell her of the grievous things which had been said down-stairs between Sir Griffin and his mistress, and to consult her as to the future, Lizzie was not surprised. “I suppose the meaning of it is that the match must be off,” said Lizzie.

“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 here 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’ve 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 any one 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 sympathises 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.