The Palliser Novels (284 page)

“And how did it go between you?”

“Ah, — that will be so difficult to explain. I wish you had been behind the curtain to hear it all. It is so necessary that you should know, and yet it is so hard to tell. I spoke up to him, and was quite high-spirited.”

“I daresay you were.”

“I told him out, bravely, of all the wrong he had done me. I did not sit and whimper, I can assure you. Then he talked about you, — of your attentions.”

Frank Greystock, of course, remembered the scene among the rocks, and Mr. Gowran’s wagging head and watchful eyes. At the time he had felt certain that some use would be made of Andy’s vigilance, though he had not traced the connexion between the man and Mrs. Hittaway. If Lord Fawn had heard of the little scene, there might, doubtless, be cause for him to talk of “attentions.” “What did it matter to him?” asked Frank. “He is an insolent ass, — as I have told him once, and shall have to tell him again.”

“I think it did matter, Frank.”

“I don’t see it a bit. He had resigned his rights, — whatever they were.”

“But I had not accepted his resignation, — as they say in the newspapers; — nor have I now.”

“You would still marry him?”

“I don’t say that, Frank. This is an important business, and let us go through it steadily. I would certainly like to have him again at my feet. Whether I would deign to lift him up again is another thing. Is not that natural, after what he has done to me?”

“Woman’s nature.”

“And I am a woman. Yes, Frank. I would have him again at my disposal, — and he is so. He is to write me a long letter; — so like a Government-man, isn’t it? And he has told me already what he is to put into the letter. They always do, you know. He is to say that he’ll marry me if I choose.”

“He has promised to say that?”

“When he said that he would come, I made up my mind that he should not go out of the house till he had promised that. He couldn’t get out of it. What had I done?” Frank thought of the scene among the rocks. He did not, of course, allude to it, but Lizzie was not so reticent. “As to what that old rogue saw down in Scotland, I don’t care a bit about it, Frank. He has been up in London, and telling them all, no doubt. Nasty, dirty eavesdropper! But what does it come to? Psha! When he mentioned your name I silenced him at once. What could I have done, unless I had had some friend? At any rate, he is to ask me again in writing, — and then what shall I say?”

“You must consult your own heart.”

“No, Frank; — I need not do that. Why do you say so?”

“I know not what else to say.”

“A woman can marry without consulting her heart. Women do so every day. This man is a lord, and has a position. No doubt I despise him thoroughly, — utterly. I don’t hate him, because he is not worth being hated.”

“And yet you would marry him?”

“I have not said so. I will tell you this truth, though perhaps you will say it is not feminine. I would fain marry some one. To be as I have been for the last two years is not a happy condition.”

“I would not marry a man I despised.”

“Nor would I, — willingly. He is honest and respectable; and in spite of all that has come and gone would, I think, behave well to a woman when she was once his wife. Of course, I would prefer to marry a man that I could love. But if that is impossible,
Frank — “

“I thought that you had determined that you would have nothing to do with this lord.”

“I thought so too. Frank, you have known all that I have thought, and all that I have wished. You talk to me of marrying where my heart has been given. Is it possible that I should do so?”

“How am I to say?”

“Come, Frank, be true with me. I am forcing myself to speak truth to you. I think that between you and me, at any rate, there should be no words spoken that are not true. Frank, you know where my heart is.” As she said this, she stood over him, and laid her hand upon his shoulder. “Will you answer me one question?”

“If I can, I will.”

“Are you engaged to marry Lucy Morris?”

“I am.”

“And you intend to marry her?” To this question he made no immediate answer. “We are old enough now, Frank, to know that something more than what you call heart is wanted to make us happy when we marry. I will say nothing hard of Lucy, though she be my rival.”

“You can say nothing hard of her. She is perfect.”

“We will let that pass, though it is hardly kind of you, just at the present moment. Let her be perfect. Can you marry this perfection without a sixpence, — you that are in debt, and who never could save a sixpence in your life? Would it be for her good, — or for yours? You have done a foolish thing, sir, and you know that you must get out of it.”

“I know nothing of the kind.”

“You cannot marry Lucy Morris. That is the truth. My present need makes me bold. Frank, shall I be your wife? Such a marriage will not be without love, at any rate on one side, — though there be utter indifference on the other!”

“You know I am not indifferent to you,” said he, with wicked weakness.

“Now, at any rate,” she continued, “you must understand what must be my answer to Lord Fawn. It is you that must answer Lord Fawn. If my heart is to be broken, I may as well break it under his roof as another.”

“I have no roof to offer you,” he said.

“But I have one for you,” she said, throwing her arm round his neck. He bore her embrace for a minute, returning it with the pressure of his arm; and then, escaping from it, seized his hat and left her standing in the room.

On the following morning, — Monday morning, — there appeared in one of the daily newspapers the paragraph of which Lady Linlithgow had spoken to Lucy Morris. “We are given to understand,” — newspapers are very frequently given to understand, — “that a man well-known to the London police as an accomplished housebreaker has been arrested in reference to the robbery which was effected on the 30th of January last at Lady Eustace’s house in Hertford Street. No doubt the same person was concerned in the robbery of her ladyship’s jewels at Carlisle on the night of the 8th of January. The mystery which has so long enveloped these two affairs, and which has been so discreditable to the metropolitan police, will now probably be cleared up.” There was not a word about Patience Crabstick in this; and, as Lizzie observed, the news brought by the policeman on Saturday night referred only to Patience, and said nothing of the arrest of any burglar. The ladies in Hertford Street scanned the sentence with the greatest care, and Mrs. Carbuncle was very angry because the house was said to be Lizzie’s house. “It wasn’t my doing,” said Lizzie.

“The policeman came to you about it.”

“I didn’t say a word to the man, — and I didn’t want him to come.”

“I hope it will be all found out now,” said Lucinda.

“I wish it were all clean forgotten,” said Lizzie.

“It ought to be found out,” said Mrs. Carbuncle. “But the police should be more careful in what they say. I suppose we shall all have to go before the magistrates again.”

Poor Lizzie felt that fresh trouble was certainly coming upon her. She had learned now that the crime for which she might be prosecuted and punished was that of perjury, — that even if everything was known, she could not be accused of stealing, and that if she could only get out of the way till the wrath of the magistrate and policemen should have evaporated, she might possibly escape altogether. At any rate, they could not take her income away from her. But how could she get out of the way, and how could she endure to be cross-examined, and looked at, and inquired into, by all those who would be concerned in the matter? She thought that, if only she could have arranged her matrimonial affairs before the bad day came upon her, she could have endured it better. If she might be allowed to see Lord George, she could ask for advice, — could ask for advice, not as she was always forced to do from her cousin, on a false statement of facts, but with everything known and declared.

On that very day Lord George came to Hertford Street. He had been there more than once, perhaps half a dozen times, since the robbery; but on all these occasions Lizzie had been in bed, and he had declined to visit her in her chamber. In fact, even Lord George had become somewhat afraid of her since he had been told the true story as to the necklace at Carlisle. That story he had heard from herself, and he had also heard from Mr. Benjamin some other little details as to her former life. Mr. Benjamin, whose very close attention had been drawn to the Eustace diamonds, had told Lord George how he had valued them at her ladyship’s request, and had caused an iron case to be made for them, and how her ladyship had, on one occasion, endeavoured to sell the necklace to him. Mr. Benjamin, who certainly was intimate with Lord George, was very fond of talking about the diamonds, and had once suggested to his lordship that, were they to become his lordship’s by marriage, he, Benjamin, might be willing to treat with his lordship. In regard to treating with her ladyship, — Mr. Benjamin acknowledged that he thought it would be too hazardous. Then came the robbery of the box, and Lord George was all astray. Mr. Benjamin was for a while equally astray, but neither friend believed in the other friend’s innocence. That Lord George should suspect Mr. Benjamin was quite natural. Mr. Benjamin hardly knew what to think; — hardly gave Lord George credit for the necessary courage, skill, and energy. But at last, as he began to put two and two together, he divined the truth, and was enabled to set the docile Patience on the watch over her mistress’s belongings. So it had been with Mr. Benjamin, who at last was able to satisfy Mr. Smiler and Mr. Cann that he had been no party to their cruel disappointment at Carlisle. How Lord George had learned the truth has been told; — the truth as to Lizzie’s hiding the necklace under her pillow and bringing it up to London in her desk. But of the facts of the second robbery he knew nothing up to this morning. He almost suspected that Lizzie had herself again been at work, — and he was afraid of her. He had promised her that he would take care of her, — had, perhaps, said enough to make her believe that some day he would marry her. He hardly remembered what he had said; — but he was afraid of her. She was so wonderfully clever that, if he did not take care, she would get him into some mess from which he would be unable to extricate himself.

He had never whispered her secret to any one; and had still been at a loss about the second robbery, when he too saw the paragraph in the newspaper. He went direct to Scotland Yard and made inquiry there. His name had been so often used in the affair, that such inquiry from him was justified. “Well, my lord; yes; we have found out something,” said Bunfit. “Mr. Benjamin is off, you know.”

“Benjamin off?”

“Cut the painter, my lord, and started. But what’s the good, now we has the wires?”

“And who were the thieves?”

“Ah, my lord, that’s telling. Perhaps I don’t know. Perhaps I do. Perhaps two or three of us knows. You’ll hear all in good time, my lord.” Mr. Bunfit wished to appear communicative because he knew but little himself. Gager, in the meanest possible manner, had kept the matter very close; but the fact that Mr. Benjamin had started suddenly on foreign travel had become known to Mr. Bunfit.

Lord George had been very careful, asking no question about the necklace; — no question which would have shown that he knew that the necklace had been in Hertford Street when the robbery took place there; but it seemed to him now that the police must be aware that it was so. The arrest had been made because of the robbery in Hertford Street, and because of that arrest Mr. Benjamin had taken his departure. Mr. Benjamin was too big a man to have concerned himself deeply in the smaller matters which had then been stolen.

From Scotland Yard Lord George went direct to Hertford Street. He was in want of money, in want of a settled home, in want of a future income, and altogether unsatisfied with his present mode of life. Lizzie Eustace, no doubt, would take him, — unless she had told her secret to some other lover. To have his wife, immediately on her marriage, or even before it, arraigned for perjury, would not be pleasant. There was very much in the whole affair of which he would not be proud as he led his bride to the altar; — but a man does not expect to get four thousand pounds a year for nothing. Lord George, at any rate, did not conceive himself to be in a position to do so. Had there not been something crooked about Lizzie, — a screw loose, as people say, — she would never have been within his reach. There are men who always ride lame horses, and yet see as much of the hunting as others. Lord George, when he had begun to think that, after the tale which he had forced her to tell him, she had caused the diamonds to be stolen by her own maid out of her own desk, became almost afraid of her. But now, as he looked at the matter again and again, he believed that the second robbery had been genuine. He did not quite make up his mind, but he went to Hertford Street resolved to see her.

He asked for her, and was shown at once into her own sitting-room. “So you have come at last,” she said.

“Yes; — I’ve come at last. It would not have done for me to come up to you when you were in bed. Those women down-stairs would have talked about it everywhere.”

“I suppose they would,” said Lizzie almost piteously.

“It wouldn’t have been at all wise after all that has been said. People would have been sure to suspect that I had got the things out of your desk.”

“Oh, no; — not that.”

“I wasn’t going to run the risk, my dear.” His manner to her was anything but civil, anything but complimentary. If this was his Corsair humour, she was not sure that a Corsair might be agreeable to her. “And now tell me what you know about this second robbery.”

“I know nothing, Lord George.”

“Oh, yes, you do. You know something. You know, at any rate, that the diamonds were there.”

“Yes; — I know that.”

“And that they were taken?”

“Of course they were taken.”

“You are sure of that?” There was something in his manner absolutely insolent to her. Frank was affectionate, and even Lord Fawn treated her with deference. “Because, you know, you have been very clever. To tell you the truth, I did not think at first that they had been really stolen. It might, you know, have been a little game to get them out of your own hands, — between you and your maid.”