 CHAPTER XXVIII. Mr. Dove in his chambers. The scene between Lord Fawn and Greystock had taken place in Mr. Camperdown's chambers, and John Eustis had also been present. The lawyer had suffered considerable annoyance before the arrival of the two first-name gentlemen, from re-iterated assertions made by Eustis that he would take no further trouble whatsoever about the jewels. Mr. Camperdown had in vain pointed out to him that a plain duty lay upon him as executor and guardian to protect the property on behalf of his nephew. But Eustis had asserted that, though he himself was comparatively a poor man, he would sooner replace the necklace out of his own property than be subject to the nuisance of such a continued quarrel. �My dear John, ten thousand pounds!� Mr. Camperdown had said. �It is a fortune for a younger son.� The boy is only two years old, and will have time enough to make fortune for his own younger sons. If he does not squander everything, if he does, ten thousand pounds will make no difference. �But the justice of the thing, John!� Justice may be purchased too dearly. �Such a harpy as she is, too!� pleaded the lawyer. Then Lord Fawn had come in, and Greystock had followed immediately afterwards. �I may as well say it once,� said Greystock, �that Lady Eustis is determined to maintain her right to the property, and that she will not give up the diamonds till some adequate court of law shall have decided that she is mistaken in her views.� Stop one moment, Mr. Camperdown. I feel myself bound to go further than that, and express my own opinion that she is right. �I can hardly understand such an opinion as coming from you,� said Mr. Camperdown. �You have changed your mind at any rate,� said John Eustis. �Not so, Eustis. Mr. Camperdown. You'll be good enough to understand that my opinion expressed here is that of a friend, and not that of a lawyer. And you must understand, Eustis� continued Greystock, �that I am speaking now of my cousin's right to the property. Though the value be great, I have advised her to give up the custody of it for a while, till the matter shall be clearly decided. That has been my advice to her, and I have no respect changed my mind. But she feels that she is being cruelly used, and what the woman's spirit will not, in such circumstances, yield anything.� �Mr. Camperdown actually stopped her carriage on the street. She would not answer a line that anybody wrote to her,� said the lawyer. �And I may say plainly, for all here know the circumstances, that Lady Eustis feels the strongest possible indignation at the manner in which she is being treated by Lord Fawn. �I have only asked her to give the diamonds till the question should be settled,� said Lord Fawn. �And you backed your request, my lord, by a threat. My cousin is naturally most indignant. And, my lord, you must allow me to tell you that I fully share the feeling.� �There is no use in making a quarrel about it,� said Eustis. �The quarrel is already made,� replied Greystock. �I am here to tell Lord Fawn in your presence, and in the presence of Mr. Camperdown, that he is behaving to a lady with ill usage, which he would not dare to exercise. Did he not know that her position saves him from legal punishment, as do the present usages of society from other consequences? �I have behaved to her with every possible consideration,� said Lord Fawn. �That is a simple assertion,� said the other. �I have made one assertion, and you have made another. The world will have to judge between us. What right have you to take upon yourself to decide whether this thing or that belongs to Lady Eustis or to anyone else? �When the thing was talked about, I was obliged to have an opinion,� said Lord Fawn, who was still thinking of words in which to reply to the insult offered him by Greystock, without injury to his dignity as an undersecretariat state. �Your conduct, sir, has been altogether inexcusable,� then Frank turned to the attorney. �I have been given to understand that you are desirous of knowing where this diamond necklace is at present. It is at Lady Eustis�s house in Scotland at Portray Castle. Then he shook hands with John Eustis, bowed to Mr. Camperdown, and succeeded in leaving the room before Lord Fawn had so far collected his senses as to be able to frame his anger into definite words. �I will never willingly speak to that man again,� said Lord Fawn. �But, as it was not probable that Greystock would greatly desire any further conversation with Lord Fawn, this threat did not carry with it any powerful feeling of severity. Mr. Camperdown groaned over the matter with thorough vexation of spirit. It seemed to him as though the Harpy, as he called her, would really make good her case against him, at any rate would make it seem to be good for so long a time that all the triumph of success would be hers. He knew that she was already in debt, and gave her credit for a propensity to fast living, which almost did her an injustice. Of course the jewels would be sold for half their value, and the Harpy would triumph. Of what used to him or to the estate would be a decision of the courts in his favour when the diamonds should have been broken up and scattered to the winds of heaven. Ten thousand pounds! It was, to Mr. Camperdown's mind, a thing quite terrible that, in a country which boasts of its laws, and of the execution of its laws, such an imposter as was this widow should be able to lay her dirty grasping fingers on so great an amount of property, and that there should be no means of punishing her. That, Lizzie Eustis had stolen the diamonds, as a pickpocket steals a watch, was a fact as to which Mr. Camperdown had in his mind no shadow of a doubt. And, as the reader knows, he was right. She had stolen them. Mr. Camperdown knew that she had stolen them, and was a wretched man. From the first moment of the late Sir Florian's infatuation about this woman, she had worked woe for Mr. Camperdown. Mr. Camperdown had striven hard to the great and almost permanent offence of Sir Florian to save Portray from its present condition of degradation. But he had striven in vain. Portray belonged to the harpy for her life, and, moreover, he himself had been forced to be instrumental in paying over to the harpy a large sum of Eustis money almost immediately on her becoming a widow. Then had come the affair of the diamonds, an affair of ten thousand pounds, as Mr. Camperdown would exclaim to himself, throwing his eyes up to the ceiling. And now it seemed that she was to get the better of him even in that, although there could not be a shadow of doubt as to her falsehood and fraudulent dishonesty. His luck in the matter was so bad. John Eustis had no backbone, no spirit, no proper feeling as to his own family. Lord Fawn was weak as water, and almost disgraced the cause by the accidents of his adherence to it. Graystock, who would have been a tower of strength, had turned against him, and was now prepared to maintain that the harpy was right. Mr. Camperdown knew that the harpy was wrong, that she was a harpy, and he would not abandon the cause. But the difficulties in his way were great, and the annoyance to which he was subjective was excessive. His wife and daughters were still at Dowlish, and he was up in town in September, simply because the harpy had the present possession of these diamonds. Mr. Camperdown was a man turned sixty, handsome, grey-haired, healthy, somewhat florid, and carrying in his face and person external signs of prosperity, and that kind of self-assertion which prosperity always produces. But they who knew him best were aware that he did not bear trouble well. In any trouble, such as was this about the necklace, there would come over his face a look of weakness which betrayed the want of real inner strength. How many faces one sees which, in ordinary circumstances, are comfortable, self-asserting, sufficient, and even bold, the lines of which under difficulties collapse and become mean, spiritless and insignificant. There are faces which, in their usual form, seem to bluster with prosperity, but which the loss of a dozen points at wist will reduce that courage aspect which reminds one of a dog-whip. Mr. Camperdown's countenance, when Lord Faun and Mr. Eustice left him, had fallen away into this meanness of appearance. He no longer carried himself as a man owning a dog-whip, but rather as the hound that feared it. A better attorney for the purposes to which his life was devoted did not exist in London than Mr. Camperdown. To say that he was honest is nothing. To describe him simply as zealous would be to fall very short of his merits. The interests of his clients were his own interests, and the legal rights of the properties of which he had the legal charge were as dear to him as his own blood. But it could not be said of him that he was a learned lawyer. Perhaps, in that branch of a solicitor's profession in which he had been called upon to work, experience goes further than learning. It may be doubted, indeed, whether it is not so in every branch of every profession. But it might, perhaps, have been better for Mr. Camperdown had he devoted more hours of his youth to reading books on conveyancing. He was now too old for such studies and could trust only to the reading of other people. The reading, however, of other people, was always at his command, and his clients were rich men who did not mind paying for an opinion. To have an opinion from Mr. Dove, or some other learned gentleman, was the everyday practice of his life. And when he obtained, as he often did, little cogens of legal vantage and subtle definitions as to property which were comfortable to him, he would rejoice to think that he could always have a dove at his hand to tell him exactly how far he was justifying going in deference to his client's interests. But now there had come to him no comfort from his corner of legal knowledge. Mr. Dove had taken extraordinary pains in the matter and had simply succeeded in throwing over his employer. A necklace can't be an heirloom, said Mr. Camperdown to himself, telling off his fingers half a dozen instances in which he had either known or had heard that the head of a family had so arranged the future possession of the family jewels. Then he again read Mr. Dove's opinion and actually took a law book off his shelves with the view of testing the correctness of the barrister in reference to some special assertion. A pot or a pan might be an heirloom, but not a necklace. Mr. Camperdown could hardly bring himself to believe that this was law. And then as to paraphernalia. Up to this moment, though he had been called upon to arrange great dealings in reference to widows, he had never as yet heard of a claim made by a widow for paraphernalia. But then the widows with whom he had been called upon to deal had been ladies quite content to accept the good things settled upon them by the liberal prudence of their friends and husbands, not greedy, blood-sucking harpies such as this lady Eustace. It was quite terrible to Mr. Camperdown that one of his clients should have fallen into such a pit. Morse omnibus es comunus, but to have left such a widow behind one. John, he said, opening his door, John was his son and partner, and John came to him having been summoned by a clerk from another room. Just shut the door. I've had a scene here. Lord Vaughn and Mr. Graystock almost coming to blows about that horrid woman. The upper house would have got the worst of it, as it usually does, said the young attorney. And there is John Eustace cares no more what becomes of the property than if he had nothing to do with it. Absolutely talks of replacing the diamonds out of his own pocket. A man whose personal interest in the estate is by no means equal to her own. He wouldn't do it, you know, said Camperdown, Jr., who did not know the family. It's just what he would do, said the father, who did. There's nothing they wouldn't give away when once the idea takes them. Think of that young woman having the whole portray estate, perhaps for the next sixty years, nearly the free symbol of the property, just because she made eyes to Sir Florian. That's dead and gone, Father. And here's Dove tells us that a necklace can't be an heirloom unless it belongs to the crown. Whatever he says, you'd better take his word for it. I'm not so sure of that. It can't be. I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll go over and see him. We can file a bill in chancery. I don't doubt, and prove that the property belongs to the family, and must go by the will. But she'll sell them before we can get the custody of them. Perhaps she has done that already. Greystock says they are at Portray, and I believe they are. She was wearing them in London only in July, a day or two before I saw her, as she was leaving town. If anybody like a jeweler had been down at the castle, I should have heard of it. She hasn't sold them yet, but she will. She could do that just the same if they were an heirloom. No, John, I think not. We could have acted much more quickly and have frightened her. If I were you, Father, I'd drop the matter altogether and let John Eustace replace them if he pleases. We all know that he would never be called on to do anything of the kind. It isn't our sort of business. Not ten thousand pounds! said Camperdon Sr., to whom the magnitude of the larceny almost ennobled the otherwise mean duty of catching the thief. Then Mr. Camperdown rose, and slowly walked across the new squire Lincoln's Inn, under the low archway, by the entrance to the old court in which Lord Eldon used to sit, to the old square in which the turtle dove had built his legal nest on a first floor close to the old gateway. Mr. Dove was a gentleman who spent a very great portion of his life in this somewhat gloomy abode of learning. It was not now term time, and most of his brethren were absent from London, recruiting their strength among the Alps, or drinking in vigor for fresh campaigns with the salt sea breezes off Kent and Sussex, or perhaps shooting deer in Scotland, or catching fish in Connemara. But Mr. Dove was a man of iron who wanted no such recreation, to be absent from his law books, and the black, littered, ink-stained old table on which he was want to write his opinions was, to him, to be wretched. The only exercise necessary to him was that of putting on his wig and going into one of the courts that were close to his chambers, but even that was almost distasteful to him. He preferred sitting in his old armchair, turning over his old books in search of old cases, and producing opinions which he would be prepared to back against all the world of Lincoln's Inn. He and Mr. Camperdown had known each other intimately for many years, and though the rank of the two men in their profession differed much, they were able to discuss questions of law without any appreciation of that difference between themselves. The one man knew much, and the other little. The one was not only learned, but possessed also of great gifts, while the other was simply an ordinary, clear-headed man of business. But they had sympathies in common which made them friends. They were both honest and unwilling to sell their services to dishonest customers. And they equally entertained a deep-rooted contempt for that portion of mankind who thought that property could be managed and protected without the intervention of lawyers. The outside world to them was a world of pretty laughing, ignorant children, and lawyers were the parents, guardians, pastors, and masters by whom the children should be protected from the evil's incident to their childishness. Yes, sir, he's here, said the turtle-dove's clerk. He is talking of going away, but he won't go. He's told me I can have a week, but I don't know what I like to leave him. Mrs. Dove and the children are down at Ramsgate, and he's here all night. He hadn't been out for so long that when he wanted to go as far as the temple yesterday we couldn't find his hat. Then the clerk opened the door and ushered Mr. Camperdown into the room. Mr. Dove was the younger man by five or six years, and his hair was still black. Mr. Camperdown's was nearer white than gray, but nevertheless Mr. Camperdown looked as though he were the younger man. Mr. Dove was a long, thin man with a stoop in his shoulders, with deep-set hollow eyes and lantern cheeks, and shallow complexion with long, thin hands who seemed to acknowledge by every movement of his body and every tone of his voice that old age was creeping on him. Whereas the attorney's step was still elastic and his speech brisk, Mr. Camperdown wore a blue frock and a colored cravat and a light waistcoat. With Mr. Dove every visible article of his reignment was black, except his shirt, and he had that peculiar blackness which a man achieves when he wears a dresscoat over a high black waistcoat in the morning. "'You didn't make much, I fear, of what I sent you about heirlooms,' said Mr. Dove, divining the purport of Mr. Camperdown's visit. "'A great deal more than I wanted, I can assure you, Mr. Dove.' "'There is a common error about heirlooms. Very common indeed, I should say. God bless my soul. When one knows how often the word occurs in family deeds it does startle one to be told that there isn't any such thing.' "'I don't think I said quite so much as that. Indeed, I was careful to point out that the law does acknowledge heirlooms.' "'But not diamonds,' said the attorney. "'I doubt whether I went quite so far as that. Only the crown diamonds. I don't think I even debarred all other diamonds. A diamond, in a star of honor, might form a part of an heirloom. But I do not think that a diamond itself could be an heirloom.' "'If in a star of honor, why not it a necklace?' argued Mr. Camperdown almost triumphantly. "'Because a star of honor, unless tampered with by fraud, would naturally be maintained in its original form. The setting of a necklace will probably be altered from generation to generation. The one, like a picture or a precious piece of furniture.' "'Or a pot or a pan,' said Mr. Camperdown with sarcasm. "'Pots and pans may be precious too,' said Mr. Dove. "'Such things can be traced and can be held as heirlooms without imposing two great difficulties on their guardians. The law is generally very wise and prudent, Mr. Camperdown. Much more so often than are they who attempt to improve it?' "'I quite agree with you there, Mr. Dove.' "'Would the law do a service, do you think, if it lent its authority to the special preservation and special hands of trinkets only to be used for vanity and ornament? Is that a kind of property over which an owner should have power of disposition more lasting, more autocratic, than is given him even in regard to land?' The land, at any rate, can be traced. It's a thing fixed and known. A string of pearls is not only alterable but constantly altered and cannot easily be traced. "'Property of such enormous value should, at any rate, be protected,' said Mr. Camperdown indignantly. "'All property is protected, Mr. Camperdown. Although, as we know too well, such protection can never be perfect. But the system of heirlooms, if there can be said to be such a system, was not devised for what you and I mean when we talk of protection of property. I should have said that that was just what it was devised for. I think not. It was devised with the more picturesque idea of maintaining chivalric associations. Not that the future owners of them may be assured of so much wealth, whatever the value of the things so settled may be. But that the son, or grandson, or descendant may enjoy the satisfaction which is derived from saying, my father, or my grandfather, or my ancestor sat in that chair, or looked as he now looks in that picture, or was graced by wearing on his breast that very ornament which you now see lying beneath the glass. Crown jewels are heirlooms in the same way, as representing not the possession of the sovereign, but the time honored dignity of the crown. The law, which in general concerns itself with our property or lives and our liberties, has in this matter bowed gracefully to the spirit of chivalry, and has lent its aid to romance. But it certainly did not do so to enable the discordant heirs of a rich man to settle a simple dirty question of money, which, with ordinary prudence, the rich man should himself had settled before he died. The turtle dove had spoken with emphasis, and had spoken well, and Mr. Camperdown had not ventured to interrupt him while he was speaking. He was sitting far back on his chair, but with his neck bent, and with his head forward, rubbing his long thin hands slowly over each other, and with his deep, bright eyes firmly fixed on his companion's face. Mr. Camperdown had not unfrequently heard him speak in the same fashion before, and was accustomed to this matter of unravelling the mysteries and searching into the causes of law with a spirit which almost lent a poetry to the subject. When Mr. Dove would do so, Mr. Camperdown would not quite understand the words spoken, but he would listen to them with an undoubting reverence. And he did understand them in part, and was conscious of an infusion of a certain amount of poetic spirit into his own bosom. He would think of these speeches afterwards, and would entertain high, but somewhat cloudy, ideas of the beauty and the majesty of law. Mr. Dove's speeches did Mr. Camperdown good, and helped to preserve him from that worst of all diseases, the low idea of humanity. You think, then, we had better not claim them as heirlooms? He asked. I think you had better not. And you think that she could claim them as paraphernalia? That question has hardly been put to me, though I allowed myself to wander into it. But for my intimacy with you I should hardly have ventured to stray so far. I need hardly say how much obliged we are, but we will submit one or two other cases to you. I am inclined to think the court would not allow them to her as paraphernalia, seeing that their value is excessive as compared with her income and degree. But if it did, it would do so in a fashion that would guard them from alienation. She would sell them under the rose. Then she would be guilty of stealing them, which she would hardly attempt, even if not restrained by honesty, knowing, as she would know, that the greatness of the value would almost assuredly lead to detection. The same feeling would prevent buyers from purchasing. She says, you know, that they were given to her absolutely. I should like to know the circumstances. Yes, of course. But I should be disposed to think that an equity no allegation by the receiver of such a gift, unsubstantiated either by evidence or by deed, would be allowed to stand. The gentleman left behind him a will, and a regular settlement. I should think that the possession of these diamonds, not I presume touched in the settlements. Oh, dear, no, not a word about them. I should think, then, that, subject to any claim to paraphernalia, the possession of the diamonds would be ruled by the will. Mr. Camperdown was rushing into the further difficulty of Chattel's and Scotland, and those in England when the turtle dove stopped him, declaring that he could not venture to discuss matters as to which he knew none of the facts. Of course not, of course not, said Mr. Camperdown. We'll have cases prepared. I'd apologize for coming in all, only that I get so much from a few words. I'm always delighted to see you, Mr. Camperdown, said the turtle dove, bowing. CHAPTER XXIX I had better go away. When Lord Fawn gave a sudden jump and stocked away towards the house on that Sunday morning before breakfast, Lucy Morris was a very unhappy girl. She had a second time accused Lord Fawn of speaking an untruth. She did not quite understand the usages of the world in the matter, but she did know that the one offense which a gentleman is supposed to never commit is that of speaking an untruth. The offense may be one committed oftener than any other by gentleman, as also by all other people, but nevertheless it is regarded by the usages of society as being the one thing which a gentleman never does. Of all this Lucy understood something. The word lie she knew to be utterly abominable. That Lizzie Eustis was a little liar had been acknowledged between herself and the Fawn girls very often, but to have told Lady Eustis that any word spoken by her was a lie would have been a worse crime than the lie itself. To have brought such an accusation in that form against Lord Fawn would have been to degrade herself forever. Was there any difference between a lie and an untruth? That one must be, and that the other need not be intentional. She did feel, but she felt also that the less offensive word had come to mean a lie. The world having been driven so to use it because the world did not dare to talk about lies, and this word bearing such a meaning in common parlance she had twice applied to Lord Fawn, and yet, as she was well aware, Lord Fawn had told no lie. He had himself believed every word that he had spoken against Frank Greystock, that he had been guilty of unmanly cruelty in so speaking of her lover in her presence Lucy still thought, but she should not therefore have accused him of falsehood. It was untrue all the same, she said to herself, as she stood still on the gravel walk, watching the rapid disappearance of Lord Fawn and endeavouring to think what she had better now do with herself. Of course Lord Fawn, like a great child, would at once go and tell his mother what that wicked governess had said to him. In the hall she met her friend Lydia. Oh, Lucy, what is the matter with Frederick? she asked. Lord Fawn is very angry indeed. With you? Yes, with me. He is so angry that I am sure he would not sit down to breakfast with me, so I won't come down. Will you tell your mama? If she likes to send to me, of course I'll go to her at once. What have you done, Lucy? I've told him again that what he said wasn't true. But why? Because—oh, how can I say why? Why does any person do everything that she ought not to do? It's the fall of Adam, I suppose. You shouldn't make a joke of it, Lucy. You can have no conception how unhappy I am about it. Of course Lady Fawn will tell me to go away. I went out on purpose to beg his pardon for what I said last night, and I just said the very same thing again. But why did you say it? And I should say it again, and again, and again, if he were to go on telling me that Mr. Greystock isn't a gentleman. I don't think he ought to have done it. Of course I have been very wrong, I know that. But I think he has been wrong, too. But I must own it, and he needn't. I'll go up now and stay in my own room till your mama sends for me. And I'll get Jane to bring you some breakfast. I don't care a bit about breakfast, said Lucy. Lord Fawn did tell his mother, and Lady Fawn was perplexed in the extreme. She was divided in her judgment and feeling between the privilege due to Lucy as a girl possessed of an authorized lover—a privilege which no doubt existed, but which was not extensive—and the very much greater privilege which attached to Lord Fawn as a man, as a peer, as an undersecretary of state, but which attached to him especially as the head and only man belonging to the Fawn family. Such a one, when, moved by filial duty, he condescends to come once a week to his mother's house, is entitled to say whatever he pleases, and should, on no account, be contradicted by anyone. Lucy no doubt had a lover—an authorized lover—but perhaps that fact could not be taken as more than a balancing weight against the inferiority of her position as a governess. Lady Fawn was, of course, obliged to take her son's part and would scold Lucy. Lucy must be scolded very seriously. But it would be a thing so desirable if Lucy could be induced to accept her scolding and have done with it, and not to make the matter worse by talking of going away. You don't mean that she came out into the shrubbery, having made up her mind to be rude to you, said Lady Fawn to her son. No, I do not think that. But her temper is so ungovernable, and she has, if I may say so, been so spoiled among you here—I mean by the girls, of course—that she does not know how to restrain herself. She is as good as gold, you know, Frederick. He shrugged his shoulders and declared that he had not a word more to say about it. He could, of course, remain in London till it should suit Mr. Greystock to take his bride. You break my heart if you say that, exclaimed the unhappy mother. Of course she shall leave the house if you wish it. I wish nothing, said Lord Fawn, but I particularly object to be told that I am a liar. And he stalked away along the corridor and went down to breakfast as black as a thundercloud. Lady Fawn and Lucy sat opposite to each other in church, but they did not speak till the afternoon. Lady Fawn went to church in the carriage and Lucy walked, and as Lucy retired to her room immediately on her return to the house, there had not been an opportunity even for a word. After lunch Amelia came up to her and sat down for a long discussion. Now Lucy, something must be done, you know, said Amelia. I suppose so. Of course mama must see you. She can't allow things to go on in this way. Mama is very unhappy and didn't eat a morsel at breakfast. By this latter assertion Amelia simply intended to apply that her mother had refused to be helped a second time to fried bacon as was customary. Of course I shall go to her the moment she sends for me. Oh, I am so unhappy. I don't wonder at that, Lucy. So is my brother unhappy. These things make people unhappy. It is what the world calls temper, you know, Lucy? Why did he tell me that Mr. Greystock isn't a gentleman? Mr. Greystock is a gentleman. I meant to say nothing more than that. But you did say more, Lucy. When he said that Mr. Greystock wasn't a gentleman, I told him it wasn't true. Why did he say it? He knows all about it. Everybody knows. Would you think it wise to come and abuse him to me when you know what he is to me? I can't bear it and I won't. I'll go away tomorrow if your mama wishes it. But that going away was just what Lady Fawn did not wish. I think you know, Lucy, you should express your deep sorrow at what has passed. To your brother? Yes. Then he would abuse Mr. Greystock again and it would all be as bad as ever. I'll beg Lord Fawn's pardon if he'll promise beforehand not to say a word about Mr. Greystock. You can't expect him to make a bargain like that, Lucy. I suppose not. I daresay I'm very wicked and I must be left wicked. I'm too wicked to stay here. That's the long and short of it. I'm afraid you're proud, Lucy. I suppose I am. If it wasn't for all that I owe to everybody here and that I love you all so much, I should be proud of being proud because of Mr. Greystock. Only it kills me to make Lady Fawn unhappy. Amelia left the culprit feeling that no good had been done and Lady Fawn did not see the delinquent till late in the afternoon. Lord Fawn had in the meantime wandered out along the river all alone to brood over the condition of his affairs. It had been an evil day for him in which he had first seen Lady Eustis. From the first moment of his engagement to her he had been an unhappy man. Her treatment of him, the stories which reached his ears from Mrs. Hidaway and others, Mr. Camperdown's threats of law in regard to the diamonds and Frank Greystock's insults all together made him aware that he could not possibly marry Lady Eustis. But yet he had no proper and becoming way of escaping from the bonds of his engagement. He was a man with a conscience and was made miserable by the idea of behaving badly to a woman. Perhaps it might have been difficult to analyze his misery and to decide how much arose from the feeling that he was behaving badly and how much from the conviction that the world would accuse him of doing so. But between the two he was wretched enough. The punishment of the offence had been commenced by Greystock's unavenged insults and it now seemed to him that this girl's conduct was a continuation of it. The world was already beginning to treat him with that want of respect which he so greatly dreaded. He knew that he was too weak to stand up against a widely spread expression of opinion that he had behaved badly. There are men who can walk about the streets with composed countenances, take their seats in Parliament if they happen to have seats, work in their offices or their chambers or their counting houses with diligence, and go about the world serenely, even though everybody be saying evil of them behind their backs. Such men can live down temporary calumny and almost take a delight in the isolation which it will produce. Lord Fawn knew well that he was not such a man. He would have described his own weakness as caused, perhaps, by a too thin skin-sensitiveness. Those who knew him were inclined to say that he lacked strength of character and perhaps courage. He had certainly engaged himself to marry this widow and he was most desirous to do what was right. He had said that he would not marry her unless she would give up the necklace and he was most desirous to be true to his word. He had been twice insulted and he was anxious to support these injuries with dignity. Poor Lucy's little offence against him rankled in his mind with the other great offences. That this humble friend of his mother's should have been so insolent was a terrible thing to him. He was not sure even whether his own sisters did not treat him with scantier reverence than of your. And yet he was so anxious to do right and do his duty in that state of life to which it had pleased God to call him, as much as he was in doubt. But of two things he was quite sure, that Frank Greystock was a scoundrel and that Lucy Morris was the most important young woman in England. What would you wish to have done, Frederick? His mother said to him on his return. In what respect, mother? About Lucy Morris. I have not seen her yet. I have thought it better that she should be left to herself for a while before I did so. I suppose she must come down to dinner. She always does. I do not wish to interfere with the young lady's meals. No, but about meeting her? If there is to be no talking it will be so very unpleasant. It will be unpleasant to us all, but I am thinking chiefly of you. I do not wish anybody to be disturbed for my comfort. A young woman coming down to dinner as though in disgrace and not being spoken to by anyone would in truth have had rather a soothing effect upon Lord Fawn who would have felt that the general silence and dullness had been produced as a sacrifice in his honour. I can, of course, insist that she should apologize, but if she refuses, what shall I do then? Let there be no more apologies if you please, mother. What shall I do then, Frederick? Miss Morris's idea of an apology is a repetition of her offence with increased rudeness. It is not for me to say what you should do. If it be true that she is engaged to that man, it is true certainly. No doubt that will make her quite independent of you, and I can understand that her presence here in such circumstances must be very uncomfortable to you all. No doubt she feels her power. Indeed, Frederick, you do not know her. I can hardly say that I desire to know her better. You cannot suppose that I can be anxious for further intimacy with a young lady who has twice given me the lie in your house. Such conduct is, at least, very unusual, and as no absolute punishment can be inflicted, the offender can only be avoided. It is thus, and thus only, that such offenses can be punished. I shall be satisfied if you will give her to understand that I should prefer that she should not address me again. Poor Lady Fawn was beginning to think that Lucy was right in saying that there was no remedy for all these evils but that she should go away. But wither was she to go. She had no home, but such home as she could earn for herself by her services as a governess, and in her present position it was almost out of the question that she should seek another place. Lady Fawn, too, felt she had pledged herself to Mr. Greystock that till next year Lucy should have a home at Fawn Court. Mr. Greystock, indeed, was now an enemy to the family. But Lucy was not an enemy, and it was out of the question that she should be treated with real enmity. She might be scolded and scowled at, and put into a kind of drawing-room coventry for a time so that all kindly intercourse with her should be confined to schoolroom work and bedroom conferences. She could be generally sat upon, as Nina would call it. But as for quarreling with her, making a real enemy of one whom they all loved, one whom Lady Fawn knew to be as good as gold, one who had become so dear to the old lady that actual extruation from their family affections would be like the cutting off of a limb, that was simply impossible. I suppose I had better go and see her, said Lady Fawn, and I have got such a headache. Do not see her on my account, said Lord Fawn. The duty, however, was obligatory, and Lady Fawn, with slow steps, sought Lucy in the schoolroom. Lucy, she said, seating herself, what is to be the end of all this? Lucy came up to her and knelt at her feet. If you knew how unhappy I am because I have vexed you, I am unhappy, my dear, because I think you have been betrayed by warm temper into misbehavior. I know I have. Then why do you not control your temper? If anybody were to come to you, Lady Fawn, and make horrible accusations against Lord Fawn or against Augusta, would not you be angry? Would you be able to stand it? Lady Fawn was not clear-headed. She was not clever, nor was she even always rational, but she was essentially honest. She knew that she would fly at anybody who should, in her presence, say such bitter things of any of her children as Lord Fawn had said of Mr. Greystock in Lucy's hearing. And she knew also that Lucy was entitled to hold Mr. Greystock as dearly as she held her own son and daughters. Lord Fawn at Fawn Court could do no wrong. That was a tenet by which she was obliged to hold fast, and yet Lucy had been subjugated to great cruelty. She thought awhile for a valid argument. My dear, she said, your youth should make a difference. Of course it should. Though to me and to the girls you are as dear as any friend can be and may say just what you please. Indeed, we all live here in such a way that we all do say what we do please, young and old together. But you ought to know that Lord Fawn is different. Ought he to say that Mr. Greystock is not a gentleman to me? We are, of course, very sorry that there should be any quarrel. It is all the fault of that nasty, false young woman. So it is, Lady Fawn. Lady Fawn, I have been thinking about it all day, and I am quite sure that I had better not stay here while you and the girls think badly of Mr. Greystock. It is not only about Lord Fawn, but because of the whole thing. I am always wanting to say something good about Mr. Greystock, and you are always thinking something bad about him. You have been to me, oh, the very best friend that a girl ever had. Why you should have treated me so generously I never could know. Because we have loved you. But when a girl has got a man whom she loves, and has promised to marry, he must be her best friend of all. Is it not so, Lady Fawn? The old woman stooped down and kissed the girl who had got the man. It is not in gratitude to you that makes me think most of him, is it? Certainly not, dear. Then I had better go away. But where will you go, Lucy? I will consult Mr. Greystock. But what can he do, Lucy? It will only be a trouble to him. He can't find a home for you. Perhaps they would have me at the denamere, said Lucy slowly. She had evidently been thinking much of it. And Lady Fawn, I will not go downstairs while Lord Fawn is here. And when he comes, if he does come again while I am here, he shall not be troubled by seeing me. He may be sure of that. And you may tell him that I don't defend myself, only I shall always think that he ought not to have said that Mr. Greystock wasn't a gentleman before me. When Lady Fawn left Lucy the matter was so far settled that Lucy had neither been asked to come down to dinner nor had she been forbidden to seek another home. THE USED AS DIMONDS BY ANTHONY TROLLIP CHAPTER XXXV. MR. GRAYSTOCK'S TROUBLES Frank Greystock stayed the Sunday in London and went down to Bobsboro on the Monday. His father and mother and sister all knew of his engagement to Lucy, and they had heard also that Lady Eustis was to become Lady Fawn. Of the necklace they had hitherto heard very little, and of the quarrel between the two lovers they had heard nothing. There had been many misgivings at the dinnery and some regrets about these marriages. Mrs. Greystock, Frank's mother, was, as we are so want to say if many women, the best woman in the world. She was unselfish, affectionate, charitable, and thoroughly feminine. But she did think that her son Frank, with all his advantages, looks, cleverness, general popularity, and seat in parliament, might just as well marry an heiress as a little girl without two pence in the world. As for herself, who had been born a Jackson, she could do with very little. But the Greystocks were all people who wanted money. For them there was never more than nine pence in a shilling, if so much. They were a race who could not pay their way with moderate incomes. Then the dear Dean, who really had a conscience about money, and who hardly ever left Bobsboro, could not be kept quite clear of debt, let her do what she would. As for the admiral, the Dean's elder brother, he had been notorious for insolvency, and Frank was a Greystock all over. He was the very man to whom money, with a wife, was almost a necessity of existence. And his pretty cousin, the widow, who was devoted to him, and would have married him at a word, had ever so many thousands a year. Of course Lady Eustis was not just all that she could be, but then who is? In one respect at any rate, her conduct had always been proper. There was no rumor against her as to lovers or flirtations. She was very young, and Frank might have molded her as he pleased. Of course there were regrets. Poor dear little Lucy Morris was as good as gold. Mrs. Greystock was quite willing to admit that. She was not good-looking. So at least Mrs. Greystock said. She never would allow that Lucy was good-looking. And she didn't see much in Lucy, who, according to her idea, was a little chit of a thing. Her position was simply that of a governess. Mrs. Greystock declared to her daughter that no one in the world had a higher respect for governesses than had she. But a governess is a governess. And for a man in Frank's position such a marriage would be simply suicide. "'You shouldn't say that, Mama, now, for it's fixed,' said Eleanor Greystock. "'But I do say it, my dear. Things sometimes are fixed, which must be unfixed. You know your brother.'" Frank is earning a large income, Mama. "'Did you ever know a Greystock who didn't want more than his income?' "'I hope I don't, Mama, and mine is very small.' "'You're a Jackson. Frank is a Greystock to the very backbone. If he marries Lucy Morris he must give a parliament. That's all.'" The dean himself was more reticent, and less given to interference than his wife. But he felt it also. He would not for the world have hinted to his son that it might be well to marry money. But he thought that it was a good thing that his son should go where money was. He knew that Frank was apt to spend his guineas faster than he got them. All his life long the dean had seen what came of such spending. Frank had gone out into the world and had prospered, but he could hardly continue to prosper unless he married money. Of course there had been regrets when the news came of that fatal engagement to Lucy Morris. "'It can't be for the next ten years at any rate,' said Mrs. Greystock. "'I thought at one time that he would have made a match with his cousin,' said the dean. "'Of course. So did everybody,' replied Mrs. Dean. Then Frank came among them. He had intended staying some weeks, perhaps for a month, and great preparations were made for him. But immediately on his arrival he announced the necessity that was incumbent on him of going down again to Scotland in ten days. "'You've heard about Lizzie, of course,' he said. They had heard that Lizzie was to become Lady Fawn, but beyond that they had heard nothing. "'You know about the necklace,' asked Frank. "'Something of a tale of a necklace had made its way even down to quiet Bobsboro. They had been informed that there was a dispute between the widow and the executors of the late Sir Florian about some diamonds. "'Lord Fawn is behaving about it in the most atrocious manner,' continued Frank, and the long of the short of it is that there will be no marriage.' "'No marriage,' exclaimed Mrs. Greystock. "'And what is the truth about the diamonds?' asked the dean. "'Uh, it will give the lawyers a job before they decide that. They're very valuable, worth about ten thousand pounds, I'm told. But the most of it will go among some of my friends at the chancery bar. It's a pity I should be out of the scramble myself. But why should you be out?' asked his mother, with tender regrets, not thinking of the matter as her son was thinking of it, but feeling that when there was so much wealth so very near him he ought not to let it all go past him.' "'As far as I can see,' continued Frank, she has a fair claim to them. I suppose they'll file a bill in chancery, and then it will be out of my line altogether.' She says her husband gave them to her, absolutely put them on her neck himself, and told her that they were hers. As to there being an heirloom, that turns out to be impossible. I didn't know it, but it seems you can't make diamonds an heirloom. What astonishes me is that fawn should object to the necklace. However, he has objected, and has simply told her that he won't marry her until she gives them up. And what does she say? Storms and raves, as of course any woman would. I don't think she is behaving badly. What she wants is to reduce him to obedience, and then to dismiss him. I think that is no more than fair. Everything on earth would make her marry him now. Did she ever care for him? I don't think she ever did. She found her position to be troublesome, and she thought she had better marry. And then he's a lord, which always goes for something. I am sorry you should have so much trouble,' said Mrs. Greystock. But in truth the mother was not sorry. She did not declare to herself that it would be a good thing that her son should be false to Lucy Morris in order that he might marry his rich cousin. But she did feel it to be an advantage that he should be on terms of intimacy with so large an income as that belonging to Lady Eustace. Don't thou marry for money, but go where money is. Mrs. Greystock would have repudiated the idea of mercenary marriages in any ordinary conversation, and would have been severe on any gentleman who was false to a young lady. But it was so hard to bring one's general principles to bear on one's own conduct, or in one's own family. And then the Greystocks were so peculiar of people. When her son told her that he must go down to Scotland again very shortly, she reconciled herself to his loss. Had he left Bobsboro for the sake of being near Lucy at Richmond, she would have felt it very keenly. Days passed by and nothing was said about poor Lucy. Mrs. Greystock had made up her mind that she would say nothing on the subject. Lucy had behaved badly in allowing herself to be loved by a man who ought to have loved money, and Mrs. Greystock had resolved that she would show her feelings by silence. The dean had formed no fixed determination, but he had thought that it might be, perhaps, as well to drop the subject. Frank himself was unhappy about it, but from morning to evening and from day to day he allowed it to pass by without a word. He knew that it should not be so. That silence was, in truth, treachery to Lucy. But he was silent. What had he meant when, as he left Lizzie Eustace among the rocks at Portray in that last moment, he had assured her that he would be true to her? And what had been Lizzie's meaning? He was more sure of Lizzie's meaning than he was of his own. It's a very rough world to live in, he said to himself in these days, as he thought of his difficulties. But when he had been nearly a week at the deanery, and when the day of his going was so near as to be a matter of concern, his sister did it last venture to say a word about Lucy. I suppose there is nothing settled about your own marriage, Frank? Nothing at all. Nor will be for some while. Nor will be for some while. This he said in a tone which he himself felt to be ill-humored and almost petulant. And he felt also that such ill-humour on such a subject was unkind, not to his sister, but to Lucy. It seemed to imply that the matter of his marriage was distasteful to him. The truth is, he said, that nothing can be fixed. Lucy understands that as well as I do. I am not in a position at once to marry a girl who has nothing. It's a pity, perhaps, that one can't train oneself to like some girl best that has got money. But as I haven't, there must be some delay. She is to stay where she is at any rate for a twelve-month. But you mean to see her? Well, yes. I hardly know how I can see her as I have quarreled to the knife with Lord Fawn, and Lord Fawn is recognized by his mother and sister as the one living Jupiter upon earth. I'd like them for that, said Eleanor. Only it prevents my going to Richmond, and poor Fawn himself is such an indifference, Jupiter. That was all that was said about Lucy at Bobsboro, till there came a letter from Lucy to her lover acquainting him with the circumstances of her unfortunate position at Richmond. She did not tell him quite all the circumstances. She did not repeat the strong expression which Lord Fawn had used, nor did she clearly explain how wrathful she had been herself. Lord Fawn has been here, she said, and there has been ever so much unpleasantness. He is very angry with you about Lady Eustis, and of course Lady Fawn takes his part. I need not tell you whose part I take. And so there have been what the servants call just a few words. It is very dreadful, isn't it? And after all, Lady Fawn has been as kind as possible. But the upshot of it is that I am not to stay here. You mustn't suppose that I am to be turned out at twelve hours' notice. I am to stay till arrangements have been made, and everybody will be kind to me. But what had I better do? I'll try and get another situation at once if you think it best, only I suppose I should have to explain how long I could stay. Lady Fawn knows that I am writing to you to ask you what you think best. On the receipt of this, Greystock was very much puzzled. Not a little fool Lucy had been. And yet, what a dear little fool. Who cared for Lord Fawn in his hard words? Of course Lord Fawn would say all manner of evil things of him, and would crow valiantly in his own farmyard. But it would have been so much wiser on Lucy's part to have put up with the crowing, and to have disregarded altogether the words of a man so weak and insignificant. In fact the evil was done, and he must make some arrangements for poor Lucy's comfort. Had he known exactly how matters stood, that the proposition as to Lucy's departure had come wholly from herself, and that at the present time all the ladies at Fawn Court, of course in the absence of Lord Fawn, were quite disposed to forgive Lucy if Lucy would only be forgiven, and hide herself when Lord Fawn should come. Had Frank known all this, he might, perhaps, have counseled her to remain at Richmond. But he believed that Lady Fawn had insisted on Lucy's departure, and of course in such a case Lucy must depart. He showed the letter to his sister and asked for advice. "'How very unfortunate,' said Eleanor. "'Yes, is it not?' "'I wonder what she said to Lord Fawn.' She would speak out very plainly. "'I suppose she has spoken out plainly, or otherwise they would never have told her to go away. It seems so unlike what I have always heard of Lady Fawn.' "'Lucy can be very headstrong as she pleases,' said Lucy's lover. "'What on earth had I better to do for her? I don't suppose she can get another place that would suit.' "'If she is to be your wife, I don't think she should go into another place.' "'If it is quite fixed,' she said, and then looked into her brother's face. "'Well, what then?' "'If you are sure you mean it—' "'Of course I mean it—' "'Then she had better come here. As for her going out as a governess and telling the people that she is to be your wife in a few months, that is out of the question, and it would, I think, be equally so that she should go into any house and not tell the truth. Of course this would be the place for her.' It was at last decided that Eleanor should discuss the matter with her mother. When the whole matter was unfolded to Mrs. Greystock, that lady was more troubled than ever. If Lucy were to come to the denari, she must come as Frank's a-fianced bride, and she must be treated as such by all of Bobsboro. The dean would be giving his express sanction to the marriage, and so would Mrs. Greystock herself. She knew well that she had no power of refusing her sanction. Frank must do as he pleased about marrying. Were Lucy once his wife, of course she would be made welcome to the best the denari could give her. There was no doubt about Lucy being as good as gold. Only that real gold, vile as it is, was the one thing that Frank so much needed. The mother thought that she had discovered in her son something which seemed to indicate a possibility that this very imprudent match might at last be abandoned. And if there were such a possibility, surely Lucy ought not now to be brought to the denari. Nevertheless, if Frank were to insist upon her coming, she must come. But Mrs. Greystock had a plan. Oh, Mama, said Eleanor when the plan was proposed to her. Do not you think that would be cruel? Cruel, my dear? No, certainly not cruel. She is such a varigo. You think that because Lizzie Eustace has said so, I don't know that she's a varigo at all. I believe her to be a very good sort of woman. Do you remember, Mama, what the admiral used to say of her? The admiral, my dear, tried to borrow her money, as he did everybody's, and that she wouldn't give him any, then he said severe things. The poor admiral was never to be trusted in such matters. I don't think Frank would like it, said Eleanor. The plan was this. Lady Lithengau, who, through her brother-in-law, the late Admiral Greystock, was connected with the dean's family, had may known her desire to have a new companion for six months. The lady was to be treated like a lady, but was to have no salary. Her travelling expenses were to be paid for her, and no duties were to be expected from her, except that of talking and listening to the Countess. I really think it's the very thing for her, said Mrs. Greystock. It's not like being a governess. She's not to have any salary. I don't know whether that makes it better, Mama. It would be a visit to Lady Lithengau. It is that which makes the difference, my dear. Eleanor felt sure that her brother would not hear of such an engagement, but he did hear of it, and after various objections, gave a sort of sanction to it. It was not to be pressed upon Lucy if Lucy disliked it. Lady Lithengau was to be made to understand that Lucy might leave whenever she pleased. It was to be an invitation, which Lucy might accept if she were so minded. Lucy's position, as an honourable guest, was to be assured to her. It was thought better that Lady Lithengau should not be told of Lucy's engagement unless she asks the question, or unless Lucy should choose to tell her. Every precaution was to be taken, and then Frank gave his sanction. He could understand, he said, that it might be inexpedient that Lucy should come at once to the denary. As were she to do so, she must remain there till her marriage, let the time be ever so long. It might be two years, said the mother. Hardly so long as that, said the son. I don't think it would be quite fair to Papa, said the mother. It was well that the argument was used behind the dean's back, as had it been made in his hearing the dean would have upset it at once. The dean was so short-sighted and imprudent that he would have professed delight at the idea of having Lucy Morris as a resident at the denary. Frank acceded to the argument, and was ashamed of himself for acceding. Eleanor did not accede, nor did her sisters, but it was necessary that they should yield. Mrs. Graystock at once wrote to Lady Lithengau, and Frank wrote by the same post to Lucy Morris. As there must be a year's delay, he wrote, we all here think it best the Jor visit to us should be postponed for a while. But if you object to the Lithengau plan, say so at once. You shall be asked to do nothing disagreeable. He found the letter very difficult to write. He knew that she ought to have been welcomed at once to Bobsboro. And he knew, too, the reason on which his mother's objection was founded. But it might be two years before he could possibly marry Lucy Morris, or it might be three. Would it be proper that she should be desired to make the denary her home for so long and so indefinite a time? And when an engagement was for so long, could it be well that everybody should know it, as everybody would if Lucy were to take up her residence permanently at the denary? Some consideration certainly was due to his father. Even moreover, it was absolutely necessary that he and Lizzie Eustis should understand each other as to that mutual pledge of truth which had passed between them. In the meantime, he received the following letter from Messrs. Camperdown. 62 New Square, Lincoln's Inn, September 15th, 18, Dear Sir, after what passed in our chambers the other day, we think it best to let you know that we have been instructed by the executor of the late Sir Florian Eustis to file a bill in Chancery against the widow, Lady Eustis, for the recovery of valuable diamonds. You will oblige us by making the necessary communication to her ladyship, and will perhaps tell us the names of her ladyship's solicitors. We are, Dear Sir, your very obedient servants, Camperdown and Son, F. Greystock, Esquire, MP. A few days after the receipt of this letter, Frank started for Scotland. END OF CHAPTER XXXI FRANK GRAYSTOCK'S SECOND VISIT TO PORTRAE On this occasion Frank Greystock went down to Portray Castle with the intention of staying at the house during the very short time that he would remain in Scotland. He was going there solely on his cousin's business, with no view to grouse shooting or other pleasure, and he proposed remaining but a very short time, perhaps only one night. His cousin, moreover, had spoken of having guests with her, in which case there could be no tinge of impropriety in his doing so. And whether she had guests, or whether she had not, what difference could it really make? Mr. Andrew Gowren had already seen what there was to see, and could do all the evil that could be done. He could, if he were so minded, spread reports in the neighbourhood, and might perhaps have the power of communicating what he had discovered to the Eustis faction, John Eustis, Mr. Camperdown, and Lord Fawn. That evil, if it were an evil, must be encountered with absolute indifference, so he went direct to the castle and was received quietly, but very graciously, by his cousin Lizzie. There were no guests then staying at Portray, but that very distinguished lady, Mrs. Carbunkle, with her niece, Miss Roanoke, had been there, as had also that very well-known nobleman, Lord George de Bruce Carruthers. Lord George and Mrs. Carbunkle were in the habit of seeing a good deal of each other, though, as all the world knew, there was nothing between them but the simplest friendship. And Sir Griffin Tuit had also been there, a young baronet who was supposed to be enamoured of that most gorgeous of beauties, Lucinda Roanoke. Of all these grand friends, friends with whom Lizzie had become acquainted in London, nothing further need be said here, as they were not at the castle when Frank arrived. When he came, whether by premeditated plan or by the chance of circumstances, Lizzie had no one with her at Portray, except the faithful McNulty. "'I thought to have found you with all the world here,' said Frank, the faithful McNulty being then present. "'Well, we have had people, but only for a couple of days. They are all coming again, but not till November. You hunt, don't you, Frank?' "'I have no time for hunting, why do you ask?' "'I'm going to hunt. It's a long way to go, ten or twelve miles generally, but almost everybody hunts here. Mrs. Carbunkle is coming again, and she is about the best lady in England after hounds, so they tell me. "'And Lord George is coming again.' "'Who is Lord George?' "'You remember Lord George Carruthers, whom we all knew in London?' "'What, the tall man with the hollow eyes and the big whiskers, whose life is a mystery to everyone? Is he coming?' "'I like him just because he isn't a ditto of every man one meets, and Sir Griffin Tuit is coming.' "'Who is a ditto to everybody?' "'Well, yes, poor Sir Griffin. The truth is he is awfully smitten with Mrs. Carbunkle's niece.' "'Don't you go matchmaking, Lizzy,' said Frank. "'That, Sir Griffin, is a fool. We will all allow, but it's my belief he has wit enough to make himself pass off as a man of fortune, with very little to back it. He's at law with his mother, at law with his sisters, and at law with his younger brother.' "'If he were at law with his great-grandmother, it would be nothing to me, Frank. She has her aunt to take care of her, and Sir Griffin is coming with Lord George.' "'You don't mean to put up all their horses, Lizzy?' "'Well, not all. Lord George and Sir Griffin are to keep theirs at Trun, or Kilmarnick or somewhere. The ladies will bring two apiece, and I shall have two of my own.' "'And carriage horses and hacks?' "'The carriage horses are here, of course.' "'It will cost you a great deal of money, Lizzy.' "'That's just what I tell her,' said Miss McNulty. "'I've been living here not spending one shilling for the last two months,' said Lizzy, and all for the sake of economy. Yet people think that no woman was ever left so rich. Surely I can afford to see a few friends for one month of the year. If I can't afford so much as that, I shall let the place and go live abroad somewhere. It's too much to suppose that a woman should shut herself up here for six or eight months and see nobody all the time.' "'On that,' the day of Frank's arrival, not a word was said about the necklace, nor of Lord Fawn, nor of that mutual pledge which had been taken and given down among the rocks. Frank, before dinner, went out about the place that he might see how things were going on, and observed whether the widow was being ill-treated and unfairly eaten up by her dependents. He was, too, a little curious as to a matter as to which his curiosity was soon relieved. He had hardly reached the outbuildings which lay behind the kitchen gardens on his way to the Portray Woods before he encountered Andy Galrin. That faithful, adorant of the family raised his hand to his cap and bobbed his head, and then silently, and with renewed diligence, applied himself to the job which he had in hand. The gate of the little yard in which the cowshed stood was off its hinges, and Andy was resetting the post and making the fence tight and tidy. Frank stood a moment watching him and then asked after his health, "'De, dem I now, that to boost about the way of burly health, Mr. Greystock, I've just hormony things to tend to, to tend to, and sell, as prudent will not. It hourly and late with me, Mr. Greystock, and the lumbegi, just or a moon, ain't the pleasantest friend in the world.'" Frank said that he was sorry to hear so bad an account of Mr. Galrin's health and passed on. It was not for him to refer to this little scene in which Mr. Galrin had behaved so badly and had shaken his head. If the misbehavior had been condoned by Lady Eustis, the less that he said about it, the better. Then he went on through the woods and was well aware that Mr. Galrin's fostering care had not been abated by his disapproval of his mistress. The fences had been repaired since Frank was there and stones had been laid on the road or track over which was to be carried away the underwood, which it would be Lady Eustis' privilege to cut during the coming winter. Frank was not alone for one moment with his cousin during that evening. But in the presence of Miss McNulty, all the circumstances of the necklace were discussed. "'Of course it is my own,' said Lady Eustis, standing up. "'My own to do just what I please with. If they go on like this with me, they will almost help me to sell it for what it will fetch. Just to prove to them that I can do so. I have half a mind to sell it and then send them the money and tell them to put it by from little Flory. Would that not serve them right, Frank?' I don't think I'd do that, Lizzie. "'Why not? You always tell me what not to do, but you never say what I ought.' "'That is because I am so wise and prudent. If you were to attempt to sell the diamonds, they would stop you and would not give you credit for the generous purpose afterwards.' "'They wouldn't stop you if you sold the ring you wear.' The ring had been given to him by Lucy after their engagement and was the only present she had ever made him. It had been purchased out of her own earnings and had been put on his finger by her own hand. Either from accident or craft, he had not worn it when he had been before at Portray, and Lizzie had at once observed it, a thing she had never seen before. She knew well that he would not buy such a ring. Who had given him the ring? Frank almost blushed as he looked down at the trinket and Lizzie was sure that it had been given by that sly little creeping thing Lucy. "'Let me look at the ring,' she said. "'Nobody could stop you if you chose to sell this to me.' "'Little things are always less troublesome than big things,' he said. "'What is the price?' she asked. "'It is not on the market, Lizzie, nor should your diamonds be there. You must be content to let them take what legal steps they may think fit and defend your property. After that you can do as you please, but keep them safe till the thing is settled. If I were you, I would have them at the bankers.' "'Yes, and then when I asked for them, be told that they couldn't be given up to me because of Mr. Camperdown or the Lord Chancellor? And what's the good of the thing locked up? You wear your ring. Why shouldn't I wear my necklace?' "'I have nothing to say against it.' "'It isn't that I care for such things.' "'Do I, Julia?' "'All ladies like them, I suppose,' said that stupidist and most stubborn of all humble friends, Miss McNulty. "'I don't like them at all, and you know I don't. I hate them. They have been the misery of my life. Oh, how they have tormented me. Even when I am asleep, I dream about them and think that people steal them. They have never given me one moment's happiness. When I have them on, I am always fearing that Camperdown and Son are behind me and are going to clutch them. And I think too well of myself to believe that anybody will care more for me because of a necklace. The only good they have ever done me has been to save me from a man who I now know never cared for me. But they are mine, and therefore I choose to keep them. Though I am only a woman, I have an idea of my own rights and will defend them as far as they go. If you say I ought not to sell them, Frank, I'll keep them. But I'll wear them as commonly as you do that Gage d'Amour, which you carry on your finger. Nobody shall ever see me without them. I won't go to any old Dowager's Tea Party without them. Mr. John Eustis has chosen to accuse me of stealing them." "'I don't think John Eustis has ever said a word about them,' said Frank. "'Mr. Camperdown, then. The people who chose to call themselves the guardians and protectors of my boy as if I were not his best guardian and protector. I'll show them at any rate that I'm not ashamed of my booty. I don't see why I should lock them up in a musty old bank. Why don't you send your ring to the bank?' Frank could not but feel that she did it all very well. In the first place, she was very pretty in the display of her half-mock indignation. Though she used some strong words, she used them with an air that carried them off and left no impression that she had been either vulgar or violent. And then, though, the indignation was half-mock, it was also half-real, and her courage and spirit were attractive. Graystock had at last taught himself to think that Mr. Camperdown was not justified in the claim which he made, and that in consequence of that unjust claim Lizzie Eustis had been subjected to ill-usage. Would you ever see this bone of contention, she asked, this fair Helen for which Greeks and Romans are to fight? I never saw the necklace, if you mean that. I'll fetch it. You ought to see it, as you have to talk about it so often. Can I get it? asked Miss Magnolty. Heaven and earth! To suppose that I should ever keep them under less than seven keys and that there should be any of the locks that anybody would be able to open except myself. And where are the seven keys? asked Frank. Next to my heart, said Lizzie, putting her hand to her left side, and when I sleep they are always tied around my neck in a bag, and the bag never escapes from my grasp, and I have such a knife under my pillow ready for Mr. Camperdown should he come to seize them. Then she ran out of the room, and in a couple of minutes returned with the necklace hanging loose in her hand. It was part of her little play to show by her speed that the close locking of the jewels was a joke, and that the ornament, precious as it was, received at her hands no other treatment than might any indifferent feminine bobble. Nevertheless, within those two minutes she had contrived to unlock the heavy iron case which always stood beneath the foot of her bed. There, she said, checking the necklace across the table to Frank, so that he was barely able to catch it. There is ten thousand pounds worth, as they tell me. Perhaps you will not believe me when I say that I should have the greatest satisfaction in the world in throwing them out among those blue waves yonder. Did I not think that Camperdown and Sun would fish them up again? Frank spread the necklace on the table, and stood up to look at it, while Miss McNulty came and gazed at the jewels over his shoulder. And that is worth ten thousand pounds, said he. So people say. And your husband gave it to you just as another man gives a trinket that costs ten shillings. Just as Lucy Morris gave you that ring, he smiled but took no other notice of the accusation. I am so poor a man, said he, that this string of stones which you throw about the room like a child's toy would be the making of me. Take it and be made, said Lucy. It seems an awful thing to me to have so much value in my hands, said Miss McNulty, who had lifted the necklace off the table. It would buy an estate, wouldn't it? It would buy the honorable estate of matrimony if it belonged to many women, said Lucy. But it hasn't had just that effect with me, has it, Frank? You haven't used it with that view yet. Will you have it, Frank? She said. Take it with all its encumbrances and weight of cares. Take it with all the burden of the messiah's camper-down lawsuits upon it. You shall be as welcome to it as flowers were ever welcomed in May. The encumbrances are too heavy, said Frank. You prefer a little ring? Very much. I don't doubt, but you're right, said Lizzie. Who fears to rise will hardly get a fall. But there they are for you to look at, and there they shall remain for the rest of the evening. So saying, she clashed the string around Miss McNulty's throat. How do you feel, Julia, with an estate upon your neck? Five hundred acres at a pound an acre? That's about it. Miss McNulty looked as though she did not like it, but she stood for a time bearing the precious burden while Frank explained to his cousin that she could hardly buy land to pay her five percent. They were then taken off and left lying on the table till Lady Eustace took them with her as she went to bed. I do feel so like some naughty person in the Arabian knights, she said, who has got some great treasure that always brings him into trouble, and he can't keep rid of it because some spirit has given it to him. At last some morning it turns to slate stones, and then McNulty has to be a water-carrier and is happy ever afterwards, and marries the king's daughter. What sort of king's son will there be for me when this turns into slate stones? Good night, Frank. Then she went off with her diamonds and her bed-candle. On the following day Frank suggested that there should be a business conversation. That means that I am to sit silent and obedient as you lecture me, she said. But she submitted, and they went together into the little sitting-room which looked out over the sea, the room where she kept her shelly and her Byron, and practiced her music and did water-colors, and sat, sometimes dreaming of a corsair. And now, my gravest of mentors, what must a poor, ignorant female tell a mockest do, so that the world may not trample on her too heavily? He began by telling her what had happened between himself and Lord Fawn, and recommended her to write to that unhappy nobleman, returning any present that she might have received from him, and expressing, with some mild but intelligible sarcasm, her regret that their paths should have crossed each other. I've worse in store for his lordship than that, said Lizzie. Do you mean by any personal interview? Certainly. I think you are wrong, Lizzie. Of course you do. Men have become so soft themselves that they no longer dare to think even of punishing those who behave badly, and they expect women to be softer and more fient than themselves. I have been ill-used. Certainly you have. And I will be revenged. Look here, Frank, if your view of these things is altogether different from mine, let us drop the subject. Of all living human beings you are the one that is most to me now. Perhaps you are more than any other ever was. But even for you I cannot alter my nature. Even for you I would not alter it if I could. That man has injured me, and all the world knows it. I will have my revenge, and all the world shall know that. I did wrong. I am sensible enough of that. What wrong do you mean? I told a man whom I never loved that I would marry him. God knows that I have been punished. Perhaps Lizzy it is better as it is. A great deal better. I will tell you now that I could never have induced myself to go into church with that man as his bride. With a man I didn't love I might have done so. But not with a man I despised. You have been saved then from a greater evil. Yes, but not the less is his injury to me. It is not because he despises me that he rejects me, nor is it because he thought that I had taken property that was not my own. Why then? Because he was afraid the world would say that I had done so. Poor shallow creature, but he shall be punished. I do not know how you can punish him. Leave that to me. I have another thing to do much more difficult. She paused, looking for a moment up into his face, and then turning her eyes upon the ground. As he said nothing she went on. I have to excuse myself to you for having accepted him. I have never blamed you. Not in words. How should you? But if you have not blamed me in your heart, I despise you. I know you have. I have seen it in your eyes when you have counseled me either to take the poor creature or to leave him. Take out now like a man. Is it not so? I never thought you loved him. Loved him? Is there anything in him or about him that a woman could love? Is he not a poor social stick, a bit of half-dead wood, good to make a post of, if one wants a post? I did want a post so sorely then. I don't see why. So indeed it was natural that you should be inclined to marry again. Natural that I should be inclined to marry again? And is that all? It is hard sometimes to see whether men are thick-witted or hypocrites so perfect that they seem to be so. I cannot bring myself to think you thick-witted, Frank. Then I must be the perfect hypocrite, of course. You believed I accepted Lord Fawn because it was natural that I should wish to marry again. Frank, you believed nothing of the kind. I accepted him in my anger, in my misery, in my despair, because I had expected you to come to me, and you had not come. She had thrown herself now into a chair and sat looking at him. You had told me you would come, and you had stayed away. It was you, Frank, that I wanted to punish then. But there was no punishment in it for you. When is it to be, Frank? When is what to be? He asked in a low voice, all but dumbfounded. How was he to put an end to this conversation, and what was he to say to her? Your marriage with that little wise-in-thing who gave you the ring, that prim-morsal of feminine propriety who has been clever enough to make you believe that her morality will suffice to make you happy? I will not hear, Lucy Morris abused, Lizzie. Is that abuse? Is it abuse to say that she is moral and proper? But, sir, I shall abuse her. I know her for what she is, while your eyes are sealed. She is wise and moral and decorous and prim, but she is a hypocrite and has no touch of real heart in her composition. Won't abuse her when she has robbed me of all? All that I have in the world? Go to her. You would better go at once. I did not mean to say all this, but it has been said, and you must leave me. I, at any rate, cannot play the hypocrite. I wish I could. He rose and came to her and attempted to take her hand, but she flung it away from him. No, she said, never again, never, unless you will tell me that the promise you made me when we were down on the seashore was a true promise. Was that truth, sir, or was it a lie? Lizzie, do not use such a word as that to me. I cannot stand picking my words when the whole world is going round with me, and my very brain is on fire. What is it to me what my words are? Say one syllable to me, and every word I utter again while breath is mine shall be spoken to do you pleasure. If you cannot say it, it is nothing to me what you or any one may think of my words. You know my secret, and I care not who else knows. At any rate, I can die." Then she paused a moment, and after that stalked steadily out of the room. That afternoon Frank took a long walk by himself over the mountains, nearly to the cottage and back again, and on his return was informed that Lady Eustis was ill and had gone to bed. At any rate, she was too unwell to come down to dinner. He, therefore, and Miss McNulty sat down to die, and passed the evening together without other companionship. Frank had resolved during his walk that he would leave Portray the next day, but had hardly resolved upon anything else. One thing, however, seemed certain to him. He was engaged to marry Lucy Morris. And to that engagement he must be true. His cousin was very charming, and had never looked so lovely in his eyes as when she had been confessing her love for him. And he had wondered at, and admired her courage, her power of language, and her force. He could not quite forget how useful would be her income to him. And added to this, there was present to him an unwholesome feeling, as absolutely had variance with those better ideas which had prompted him when he was writing his offer to Lucy Morris in his chambers, that a woman such, as was his cousin Lizzie, was fitter to be the wife of a man thrown, as he must be, into the world than a dear, quiet, domestic little girl such as Lucy Morris. But to Lucy Morris he was engaged, and, therefore, there was an end of it. The next morning he sent his love to his cousin, asking whether he should see her before he went. It was still necessary that he should know what attorneys to employ on her behalf, if the threatened bill were filed by the missers camper-down. Then he suggested a firm in his note. Might he put the case into the hands of Mr. Townsend, who was a friend of his own? There came back to him a scrap of paper, an old envelope, on which were written the names of Malbury and Mopas. Malbury and Mopas in large, scrolling hand and with pencil. He put the scrap of paper into his pocket, feeling that he could not remonstrate with her at this moment, and was prepared to depart when there came a message to him. Lady Eustace was still unwell, but had risen, and if it were not giving him too much trouble would see him before he went. He followed the messenger to the same little room, looking out upon the sea, and then found her, dressed indeed, but with a white morning-wrapper on, and with hair loose over her shoulders. Her eyes were red with weeping, and her face was pale, and thin, and woe-be-gone. I am so sorry that you are ill, Lizzie, he said. Yes, I am ill. Sometimes very ill, but what does it matter? I did not send for you, Frank, to speak of ought so trivial as that. I have a favour to ask. Of course I will grant it. It is your forgiveness for my conduct yesterday. Oh, Lizzie. Say that you forgive me, say it. How can I forgive where there has been no fault? There has been fault. Say that you forgive me. And she stamped her foot as she demanded this pardon. I do forgive you, he said. And now, one farewell, she then threw herself upon his breast and kissed him. Now go, she said. Go and come no more to me, unless you would see me mad. May God Almighty bless you and make you happy. As she uttered this prayer, she held the door in her hand, and there was nothing for him but to leave her. End of Chapter 31 Chapter 32 of the used as diamonds. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Catherine Millward. The Used as Diamonds by Anthony Trollop. Chapter 32 Mr. and Mrs. Hittaway in Scotland A great many people go to Scotland in the autumn. When you have your autumn holiday in hand to dispose of it, there is nothing more aristocratic that you can do than go to Scotland. Dukes are more plentiful there than in Paul Mall, and you will meet an Earl or at least a Lord on every mountain. Of course, if you merely travel about, from end to end, and neither have a moor of your own nor stay with any great friend, you don't quite enjoy the cream of it. But to go to Scotland in August and stay there, perhaps, till the end of September, is about the most certain step you can take towards autumnal fashion. Mr. Lin and the Tyrol, and even Italy, are all redolent of Mr. Cook, and in those beautiful lands you become subject, at least, to suspicion. By no person was the duty of adhering to the best side of society more clearly appreciated than by Mr. and Mrs. Hittaway of Warwick Square. Mr. Hittaway was Chairman of the Board of Civil Appeals, and was a man who quite understood that there are Chairman—and Chairman!—he could name to you three or four men holding responsible permanent official positions. Quite as good as that he filled in regard to salary, which, as he often said of his own, was a mere nothing, just a poor two thousand pounds a year, not as much as a grocer would make in a decent business. But they were simply head clerks and nothing more. Nobody knew anything of them. They had no names. You did not meet them anywhere. Cabinet ministers never heard of them, and nobody out of their own offices ever consulted them. But there are others, and Mr. Hittaway felt greatly conscious that he was one of them, who move all together in a different sphere. One Minister of State would ask another whether Hittaway had been consulted on this or on that measure, so at least the Hittawayites were in the habit of reporting. The names of Mr. and Mrs. Hittaway were constantly in the papers. They were invited to evening gatherings at the houses of both the alternate Prime Ministers. They were to be seen at fashionable gatherings up the river. They attended concerts at Buckingham Palace. Once a year they gave a dinner party which was inserted in the morning post. On such occasions at least one Cabinet Minister always graced the Board. In fact, Mr. Hittaway, as Chairman of the Board of Civil Appeals, was somebody, and Mrs. Hittaway, as his wife, and as sister to appear, was somebody also. The reader will remember that Mrs. Hittaway had been a fawn before she married. There is this drawback upon the happy condition which Mr. Hittaway had achieved that it demands a certain expenditure. Let nobody dream that he can be somebody without having to pay for that honour, unless indeed he is a clergyman. When you go to a concert at Buckingham Palace you pay nothing, it is true, for your ticket. And a Cabinet Minister, dining with you, does not eat or drink more than your old friend Jones the Attorney. But in some insidious, unforeseen manner, in a way that can only be understood after much experience, these luxuries of fashion do make a heavy pull on a modest income. Mrs. Hittaway knew this thoroughly, having such experience, and did make her fight bravely. For Mr. Hittaway's income was no more than modest. A few thousand pounds he had of his own when he married, and his Clara had brought to him the unpretending sum of fifteen hundred. But beyond that, the poor official salary, which was less than what a decent grocer would make, was there all. The house in Warwick Square they had prudently purchased on their marriage. When houses in Warwick Square were cheaper than they are now, and there they carried on their battle, certainly with successes. But two thousand a year does not go very far in Warwick Square, even though you sit rent-free, if you have a family, and absolutely must keep a carriage. It therefore resulted that when Mr. and Mrs. Hittaway went to Scotland, which they would endeavor to do every year, it was very important that they should accomplish their aristocratic holiday as visitors at the house of some aristocratic friend. So well had they played their cards in this respect that they seldom failed altogether. In one year they had been the guests of a great marquee quite in the north, and that had been a very glorious year. To talk of Stack Island was indeed a thing of beauty, but in that year Mr. Hittaway had made himself very useful in London. Since that they had been at delicious shooting lodges in Ross and Invernessshire, and visited a millionaire at his palace amid the Argyle Mountains, had been feted in a western island, had been bored by a Dundee Dowager, and put up with a Lothian Laird. But the thing had been almost always done, and the Hittaways were known as people that went to Scotland. He could handle a gun, and was clever enough never to shoot a keeper. She could read aloud, could act a little, could talk or hold her tongue, and let her hosts be who they would, and as mighty as you please, never caused them trouble by seeming to be out of their circle, and on that account requiring peculiar attention. On this occasion Mr. and Mrs. Hittaway were the guests of old Lady Pierpont in Dumfries. There was nothing special to recommend Lady Pierpont, except that she had a large house and a good income, and that she liked to have people with her of whom everybody knew something. So far was Lady Pierpont from being high in the Hittaway world that Mrs. Hittaway herself called upon to explain to her friends that she was forced to go to Dum-Dum House by the duties of old friendship. Dear old Lady Pierpont had been insisting on it for the last ten years, and there was this advantage that Dumfrieshire is next to Ayrshire, that Dum-Dum was not very far, some twenty or thirty miles, from Portray, and that she might learn something about Lizzie Eustis in her country house. It was nearly the end of August when the Hittaways left London to stay an entire month with Lady Pierpont. Mr. Hittaway had very frequently explained his defalcation as to fashion, in that he was remaining in London for three weeks after Parliament had broken up, by the peculiar exigencies of the Board of Appeals in that year. To one or two very intimate friends Mrs. Hittaway had hinted that everything must be made to give way to his horrid business of fawn's marriage. Whatever happens, and at whatever cost, that must be stopped. She had ventured to say to Lady Glencora Palliser, who, however, could hardly be called one of her very intimate friends. I don't see it at all, said Lady Glencora. I think Lady Eustis is very nice. And why shouldn't she marry Lord Fawn if she's engaged to him? But you have heard of the necklace, Lady Glencora. Yes, I've heard of it. I wish anybody would come to me and try and get my diamonds. They should hear what I would say. Mrs. Hittaway greatly admired Lady Glencora, but not the less she was determined to persevere. Had Lord Fawn been altogether candid and open with his family at this time, some trouble might have been saved. For he had almost altogether resolved that let the consequences be what they might, he would not marry Lizzie Eustis. But he was afraid to say this even to his own sister. He had promised to marry the woman, and he must walk very warily, or the objugations of the world would be too many for him. It must depend altogether on her conda, Clara, she had said, when last his sister had persecuted him on the subject. She was not, however, sorry to have an opportunity of learning something of the Lady's doings. Mrs. Hittaway had more than once called on Mr. Camperdown. Yes, Mr. Camperdown had said an answer to a question from Lord Fawn's brother-in-law. She would play Old Gooseberry with the property, if we had someone to look after it. There's a fellow named Gauron who has lived there all his life, and we depend very much upon him. It is certainly true that, as to many points of conduct, women are less nice than men. Mr. Hittaway would not probably have condescended himself to employ espionage, but Mrs. Hittaway was less scrupulous. She actually went down to Trune and had an interview with Mr. Gauron, using freely the names of Mr. Camperdown and Lord Fawn, and some ten days afterwards Mr. Gauron traveled as far as Dumfries and Dumdum and had an interview with Mrs. Hittaway. The result of all this, and of further inquiries, will be shown by the following letter from Mrs. Hittaway to her sister Amelia. Dumdum, September 9th, 18. My dear Amelia, here we are, and here we have to remain to the end of the month. Of course it suits in all that, but it is awfully dull. Richmond, for this time of year, is a paradise to it, and as for coming to Scotland every autumn, I am sick of it. Only what is one to do if one lives in London? If it wasn't for Orlando and the children, I'd brazen it out and let people say what they pleased. As for health, I'm never so well as at home, and I do like having my own things about me. Orlando has literally nothing to do here. There is no shooting except pheasants, and that doesn't begin till October. But I'm very glad I've come as to Frederick, and the more so as I have learned the truth as to what that Mr. Grey stock. She, Lady Eustis, is a bad creature in every way. She still pretends that she is engaged to Frederick, and tells everybody that the marriage is not broken off, and yet she has her cousin with her, making love to him in the most indecent way. People used to say in her favour that at any rate she never flirted. I never quite know what people mean when they talk of flirting, but you may take my word for it that she allows her cousin to embrace her, and embraces him. I would not say it if I could not prove it. It is horrible to think of it, when one remembers that she is almost justified in saying that Frederick is engaged to her. No doubt he was engaged to her. It was a great misfortune, but thank God is not yet past remedy. She has some foolish feeling of what he calls honour, as if a man can be bound in honour to marry a woman who has deceived him at every point. She still sticks to the diamonds, if she had not sold them, as I believe she has, and Mr. Camperdown is going to bring an action against her in the High Court of Chancery. But still Frederick will not absolutely declare the thing off. I feel therefore that it is my duty to let him know what I have learned. I should be the last to stir in such a matter unless I was sure I could prove it. But I don't quite like to write to Frederick. Will Mama see him and tell him what I say? Of course you will show this letter to Mama. If not I must postpone it till I am in town. But I think it would come better for Mama. Mama may be sure that she is a bad woman. And now what do you think of your Mr. Greystock? As sure as I am here he was seen with his arm round his cousin's waist, sitting out of doors, kissing her. I was never taken in by that story of his marrying Lucy Morris. He is the last man in the world to marry a governess. He is over head and ears in debt, and if he marries it all he must marry someone with money. I really think that Mama, and you, and all of you, have been soft about that girl. I believe she has been a good governess. That is, good after Mama's easy fashion. And I don't for a moment suppose that she is doing anything underhanded. But a governess with a lover never does suit. And I'm sure it won't suit in this case. If I were you I would tell her. I think it would be the best charity. Whether they mean to marry I can't tell. Mr. Greystock that is, and this woman. But they oughtn't to mean it. That's all. Let me know at once whether Mama will see Frederick and speak to him openly. She is quite at liberty to use my name. Only nobody but Mama should see this letter. Love to them all. Your most affectionate sister. Clara Hidaway. In writing to Amelia, instead of her mother, Mrs. Hidaway was sure that she was communicating her ideas to at least two persons at Fawn Court, and that therefore there would be discussion. Had she written to her mother, her mother might probably have held her peace and done nothing. End of Chapter 32.