 CHAPTER XXXIII. IT WON'T BE TRUE. Mrs. Greystock, in making her proposition respecting Lady Lithongau, wrote to Lady Fawn, and by the same post Frank wrote to Lucy. But before those letters reached Fawn Court, there had come that other dreadful letter from Mrs. Hitway. The consternation caused at Fawn Court in respect to Mr. Greystock's treachery, almost robbed of its importance, the suggestion made as to Lord Fawn. Could it be possible that this man, who had so openly and in so manly a manner engaged himself to Lucy Morris, should now be proposing to himself a marriage with his rich cousin? Lady Fawn did not believe that it was possible. Clara had not seen those horrid things with her own eyes, and other people might be liars. But Amelia shook her head. Amelia evidently believed that all manner of iniquities were possible to a man. You see, Mama, the sacrifice he was making was so very great. But he made it, pleaded Lady Fawn. No, Mama, he said he would make it. Men do these things. It is very horrid, but I think they do them more now than they used to. It seems to me that nobody cares now what he does, if he's not to be put into prison. It was resolved between these two wise ones that nothing at the present should be said to Lucy or to any one of the family. They would wait a while, and in the meantime they attempted, as far as it was possible, to make the attempt, without express words, to let Lucy understand that she might remain at Fawn Court, if she pleased. While this was going on, Lord Fawn did come down once again, and on that occasion Lucy simply abstained herself from the dinner table and from the family circle for that evening. He's coming in and you've got to go to prison again, Nina said to her with a kiss. The matter to which Mrs. Hidaway's letter more specifically alluded was debated between the mother and daughter at great length. They indeed were less brave and less energetic than the married daughter of the family. But as they saw Lord Fawn more frequently, they knew better than Mrs. Hidaway the real state of the case. They felt sure that he was already sufficiently embittered against Lady Eustis and thought that therefore the peculiarly and pleasant task assigned to Lady Fawn need not be performed. Lady Fawn had not the advantage of living so much in the world as her daughter and was opposed by, perhaps, a squeamish delicacy. I really could not tell him about her sitting and and kissing the man, could I, my dear? I couldn't, said Amelia, but Clara would. And, to tell the truth, continued Lady Fawn, I shouldn't care a bit about it if it was not for poor Lucy. What will become of her if that man is untrue to her? Nothing on earth would make her believe it, unless it came from himself, said Amelia, who really did know something of Lucy's character. Till he tells her, or till she knows that he's married, she'll never believe it. Then after a few days there came those other letters from Bobsboro, one from the dean's wife and the other from Frank. The matter there proposed it was necessary that they should discuss with Lucy, as the suggestion had reached Lucy as well as themselves. She at once came to Lady Fawn with her lover's letter and with the gentle, merry, laughing face declared that the thing would do very well. I am sure I should get on with her and I should know that it wouldn't be for long, said Lucy. The truth is we don't want you to go at all, said Lady Fawn. Oh, but I must, said Lucy in her sharp-decided tone. I must go. I was bound to wait till I heard from Mr. Graystock, because it is my first duty to obey him. But of course I can't stay here after what has passed. As Nina says, it is simply going to prison when Lord Fawn comes here. Nina is an impertinent little chit, said Amelia. She is the dearest little friend in all the world, said Lucy, and always tells the exact truth. I do go to prison, and when he comes I feel that I ought to go to prison. Of course I must go away. What does it matter? Lady Lithon Gow won't be exactly like you. And she put her little hand upon Lady Fawn's fat arm caressingly. And I shan't have you all to spoil me. But I shall be simply waiting till he comes. Everything now must be no more than waiting till he comes. If it was to be that he would never come. This was very dreadful, Amelia clearly thought that he would never come. And Lady Fawn was apt to think her daughter wiser than herself. And if Mr. Graystock were such as Mrs. Hidaway had described him to be, if there were to be no such coming as that for which Lucy fondly waited, then there would be reason tenfold strong why she should not leave Fawn court and go to Lady Lithon Gow. In such case, when that blow should fall, Lucy would require very different treatment than might be expected for her from the hands of Lady Lithon Gow. She would fade and fall to the earth like a flower with an insect at its root. She would be like a wounded branch into which no sap would run. With such misfortune and wretchedness possibly before her, Lady Fawn could not endure the idea that Lucy should be turned out to encounter it, all beneath the cold shade of Lady Lithon Gow's indifference. My dear, she said, let bygones be bygones, come down and meet Lord Fawn. Nobody will say anything after all you were provoked very much, and there has been quite enough about it. This, from Lady Fawn, was almost miraculous. From Lady Fawn, to whom her son had ever been the highest of human beings. But Lucy had told the tale to her lover, and her lover approved of her going. Perhaps there was acting upon her mind some feeling of which she was hardly conscious. That as long as she remained at Fawn Court, she would not see her lover. She had told him that she could make herself supremely happy in the simple knowledge that he loved her. But we all know how few such declarations should be taken is true. Of course she was longing to see him. If he would only pass by the road, she would say to herself, so that I might peep at him through the gate. She had no formed idea in her mind that she would be able to see him, should she go to Lady Lithon Gow. But still there would be the chances of her altered life. She would tell Lady Lithon Gow the truth, and why should Lady Lithon Gow refuse her so rational a pleasure? There was, of course, a reason why Frank should not come to Fawn Court. But the house in Bruton Street need not be close to him. I hardly know how to love you enough, she said to Lady Fawn, but indeed I must go. I do so hope the time may come when you and Mr. Graystock may be friends. Of course it will come. Shall it not? Who can look into the future? said the wise Amelia. Of course if he is your husband we shall love him, said the less wise Lady Fawn. He is to be my husband, said Lucy Springey up. What do you mean? Do you mean anything? Lady Fawn, who was not at all wise, protested that she meant nothing. What were they to do? On that special day they merely stipulated that there should be a day's delay before Lady Fawn answered Mr. Graystock's letter so that she might sleep upon it. The sleeping on it meant that further discussion which was to take place between Lady Fawn and her second daughter in her ladyship's bedroom that night. During all this period the general discomfort at Fawn Court was increased by a certain sulleness on the part of Augusta, the eldest daughter, who knew that letters had come and that consultations were being held, but he was not admitted to those consultations. Since the day on which poor Augusta had been handed over to Lizzie Eustis as her peculiar friend in the family, there had always existed a feeling that she by her position was debarred from sympathizing in the general desire to be quit of Lizzie. And then, too, poor Augusta was never thoroughly trusted by that great guide of the family, Mrs. Hittaway. She couldn't keep it to herself if you'd give her goal to do it, Mrs. Hittaway would say. Consequently Augusta was sullen and conscious of ill usage. Have you fixed upon anything, she said to Lucy that evening? Not quite. Only I am to go away. I don't see why you should go away at all. Frederick doesn't come here so very often, and when he does come he doesn't say much to anyone. I suppose it's all Amelia's doing. Nobody wants me to go, only I feel that I ought. Mr. Greystock thinks it's best. I suppose he's going to quarrel with us all. No, dear, I don't think he wants to quarrel with anyone, but above all he must not quarrel with me. Lord Vaughn has quarreled with him, and that's a misfortune, just for the present. And where are you going? Nothing has been settled yet, but we are talking of Lady Lithongau, if she will take me. Lady Lithongau, oh dear. Won't it do? They say she's the most dreadful old woman in London. Lady Eustis told such stories about her. Do you know, I think I shall rather like it. But things were very different with Lucy the next morning. That discussion in Lady Vaughn's room was protracted till midnight, and then it was decided that just a word should be said to Lucy, so that, if possible, she might be induced to remain at Vaughn court. Lady Vaughn was to say the word, and on the following morning she was closeted with Lucy. My dear, she began, we all want you to do us a particular favour. As she said this, she held Lucy by the hand, and no one looking at them would have thought that Lucy was a governess, and that Lady Vaughn was her employer. Dear Lady Vaughn, indeed it is better that I should go. Stay just one month. I couldn't do that, because then this chance of a home would be gone. Of course we can't wait a month before we let Mrs. Greystock know. We must write to her, of course. And then, you see, Mr. Greystock wishes it. Lady Vaughn knew that Lucy could be very firm, and had hardly hoped that anything could be done by simple persuasion. They had long been accustomed among themselves to call her obstinate, and knew that even in her acts of obedience she had a way of obeying after her own fashion. It was as well, therefore, that the thing to be said should be said at once. My dear Lucy, has it ever occurred to you that there may be a slip between the cup and the lip? What do you mean, Lady Vaughn? That sometimes engagements take place which never become more than engagements. Look at Lord Vaughn and Lady Eustis. Mr. Greystock and I are not like that, said Lucy proudly. Such things are very dreadful, Lucy, but they do happen. Do you mean anything? Anything real, Lady Vaughn? I have so strong a reliance on your good sense that I will tell you just what I do mean. A rumor has reached me that Mr. Greystock is paying more attention than he ought to do to Lady Eustis. His own cousin? But people marry their cousins, Lucy. To whom he has always been just like a brother? I do think that is the cruelest thing, because he sacrifices his time and his money and all his holidays to go and look after her affairs. This is to be said of him? She hasn't another human being to look after her and therefore he is obliged to do it. Of course he has told me all about it. I do think, Lady Vaughn. I do think that is the greatest shame I ever heard. But if it should be true, it isn't true. But just for the sake of showing you, Lucy, if it was to be true, it won't be true. Surely I may speak to you as your friend, Lucy. You needn't be so abrupt with me. Would you listen to me, Lucy? Of course I will listen. Only nothing that anybody on earth could say about that would make me believe a word of it. Very well. Now just let me go on. If it were to be so... Oh, Lady Vaughn. Don't be foolish, Lucy. I will say what I've got to say. If… if… let me see. Where was I? I mean just this. You would better remain here till things are a little more settled, even if it be only a rumor, and I'm sure I don't believe it's anything more. You would better hear about it with us, with friends round you, than a perfect stranger like Lady Lithongau. If anything were to go wrong there, you wouldn't know were to come for comfort. If anything were wrong with you here, you could come to these, though I were your mother, couldn't you now? Indeed, indeed I could, and I will, I always will, Lady Vaughn. I love you, and my dear darling girls better than all the world, except Mr. Graystock. If anything like that were to happen, I think I should creep here and ask to die in your house, but it won't. And just now it will be better that I should go away. It was found at last that Lucy must have her way, and letters were written both to Mr. Graystock and to Frank, requesting that the suggested overtures might at once be made to Lady Lithongau. Lucy, in her letter to her lover, was more than ordinarily cheerful and jacose. She had a good deal to say about Lady Lithongau, that was really droll, and not a word to say indicative of the slightest fear in the direction of Lady Eustis. She spoke of poor Lizzie and declared her conviction that the marriage never could come off now. You mustn't be angry when I say that I can't break my heart for them, for I never did think that they were very much in love. As for Lord Vaughn, of course he is my enemy. And she wrote the word in big letters. And as for Lizzie, she's your cousin and all that, and she's ever so pretty and all that, and she's as rich as Crocius and all that. But I don't think she'll break her own heart. I would break mine. Only, you will understand the rest. If it should come to pass, I wonder whether the Duchess would ever let a poor creature see a friend of hers in Bruton Street. Frank had once called Lady Lithongau the Duchess after a certain popular picture in a certain popular book, and Lucy never forgot anything that Frank had said. It did come to pass. Mrs. Greystock at once corresponded with Lady Lithongau, and Lady Lithongau, who was at Ramsgate for her autumn vacation, requested that Lucy Morris might be brought to see her at her house in London on the 2nd of October. Lady Lithongau's autumn holiday always ended on the last day of September. On the 2nd of October, Lady Fawn herself took Lucy up to Bruton Street, and Lady Lithongau appeared. Miss Morris, said Lady Fawn, thinks it right that you should be told that she's engaged to be married. Who, too? demanded the Countess. Lucy was as red as fire, although she had especially made up her mind that she would not blush when the communication was made. I don't know that she wishes me to mention the gentleman's name just at present, but I can assure you that he is all that he ought to be. I hate mysteries, said the Countess. If Lady Lithongau began Lucy. Oh, it's nothing to me, continued the old woman. It won't come off for six months, I suppose. Lucy gave a mute assurance that there would be no such difficulty as that. And he can't come here, Miss Morris. To this Lucy said nothing. Perhaps she might win over even the Countess, and if not, she must bear her six months of prolonged exclusion from the light of day. And so the matter was settled. Lucy was to be taken back to Richmond, and to come again on the following Monday. I don't like this parting at all, Lucy, Lady Fawn said on her way home. It is better so, Lady Fawn. I hate people going away, but somehow you don't feel it as we do. You wouldn't say that if you really knew what I do feel. There's no reason why you should go. Frederick was getting not to care for it at all. What's Nina to do now? I can't get another governess after you. I hate all these sudden breakups, and all for such a trumpery thing. If Frederick hasn't forgotten all about it, he ought. It hasn't come all together from him, Lady Fawn. How has it come, then? I suppose it is because of Mr. Graystock. I suppose when a girl has engaged herself to marry a man, she must think more of him than of anything else. Why couldn't you think of him at Fawn Court? Because—because things have been unfortunate. He isn't your friend, not as yet. Can't you understand, Lady Fawn, that, dear as you all may be to me, I must live in this friendship and take his part when there is a part? Then I suppose you mean to hate all of us. Lucy could only cry at hearing this, whereupon Lady Fawn also burst into tears. On the Sunday before Lucy took her departure, Lord Fawn was again at Richmond. Of course you'll come down, just as if nothing had happened, said Lydia. We'll see, said Lucy. Mama will be very angry if you don't, said Lydia. But Lucy had a little plot in her head, and her appearance at the dinner table on that Sunday must depend on the matter in which her plot was executed. After church, Lord Fawn would always hang about the grounds for a while before going into the house, and on this morning Lucy also remained outside. She soon found her opportunity and walked straight up to him, following him on the path. Lord Fawn, she said, I have come to beg your pardon. He had turned round hearing footsteps behind him, but still was startled and unready. It does not matter at all, he said. It matters to me, because I behaved badly. What I said about Mr. Graystock wasn't intended to be said to you, you know. Even if it was, it would make no matter. I don't mean to think of that now. I beg your pardon, because I said what I ought not to have said. You see, Miss Morris, that as the head of this family, if I had said it to Juniper, I would have begged his pardon. Now Juniper was the garden, and Lord Fawn did not quite like the way in which the thing was put to him. The cloud came over his brow, and he began to fear that she would again insult him. I oughtn't accuse anybody of untruth, not in that way, and I'm very sorry for what I did, and I beg your pardon. Then she turned as though she were going back into the house, but he stopped her. Miss Morris, if it will suit you to stay with my mother, I will never say a word against it. It is quite settled that I am to go to-morrow, Lord Fawn. Only for that I would not have troubled you again. Then she did turn towards the house, but he recalled her. We shall shake hands at any rate, he said, and not part as enemies. So they shook hands, and Lucy came down and sat in his company at the dinner table. Recording by Sage Turtle The Eustis Diamonds by Anthony Trollop, Chapter 34 Lady Linleth Gow at Home Lucy, in her letter to her lover, had distinctly asked whether she might tell Lady Linleth Gow the name of her future husband, but had received no reply when she was taken to Bruton Street. The parting at Richmond was very painful, and Lady Fawn had declared herself quite unable to make another journey up to London with the ungrateful renegade. Though there was no diminution of affection among the Fawns, there was a general feeling that Lucy was behaving badly, that obstinacy of hers was getting the better of her. Why should she have gone? Even Lord Fawn had expressed his desire that she should remain, and then, in the breasts of the wise ones, all faith in the Grey Stock engagement had nearly vanished. Another letter had come from Mrs. Hidaway, who now declared that it was already understood about Portray that Lady Eustis intended to marry her cousin. This was described as a terrible crime on the part of Lucy, though the antagonistic crime of a remaining desire to marry Lord Fawn was still imputed to her, and, of course, the one crime heightened the other, so that words from the eloquent pen of Mrs. Hidaway failed to make dark enough the blackness of poor Lucy's character. As for Mr. Grey Stock, he was simply a heartless man of the world, wishing to feather his nest. Mrs. Hidaway did not for a moment believe that he had ever dreamed of marrying Lucy Morris. Men always have three or four little excitements of that kind going on for the amusement of their leisure hours, so, at least, said Mrs. Hidaway. The girl had better be told at once. Such was her decision about poor Lucy. I can't do more than I have done, said Lady Fawn to Augusta. She'll never get over it, Mama. Never, said Augusta. Nothing more was said, and Lucy was sent off in the family carriage. Lydia and Nina were sent with her, and, though there was some weeping on the journey, there was also much laughing. The character of the Duchess was discussed very much at large, and many promises were made as to long letters. Lucy, in truth, was not unhappy. She would be nearer to Frank, and then it had been almost promised her that she should go to the Deenery after a residence of six months with Lady Linlethgow. At the Deenery, of course, she would see Frank, and she also understood that a long visit to the Deenery would be the surest prelude to that home of her own, of which she was always dreaming. Nermay sent you up in the carriage. Has she? Why shouldn't you have come by the railway? Lady Fawn thought the carriage best. She is so very kind. It's what I call twaddle. You know, I hope you ain't afraid of going in a cab. Not in the least, Lady Linlethgow. You can't have the carriage to go about here. Indeed, I never have a pair of horses till after Christmas. I hope you know I'm as poor as Job. I didn't know. I am, then. You'll get nothing beyond wholesome food with me, and I'm not sure it is wholesome always. The butchers are scoundrels, and the bakers are worse. What used you to do at Lady Fawn's? I still did lessons with the two youngest girls. You won't have any lessons to do here unless you do them with me. You had a salary there? Oh, yes. Fifty pounds a year, I suppose. I had eighty. Had you indeed, eighty pounds, and a coach to ride in. I had a great deal more than that, Lady Linlethgow. How do you mean? I had downright love and affection. They were just so many dear friends. I don't suppose any governess was ever so treated before. It was just like being at home. The more I laughed, the better everyone liked it. You won't find anything to laugh at here, at least I don't. If you want to laugh, you can laugh upstairs or down in the parlor. I can do without laughing for a while. That's lucky, Miss Morris. They were all so good to you. What made you come away? They sent you away, didn't they? Well, I don't know that I can explain it just all. There were a great many things together. No, they didn't send me away. I came away because it suited. It was something to do with your having a lover, I suppose. To this Lucy thought it best to make no answer, and the conversation for a while was dropped. Lucy had arrived at half past three, and Lady Linlethgow was then sitting in the drawing room. After the first series of questions and answers, Lucy was allowed to go up to her room, and on her return to the drawing room, found the Countess still sitting upright in her chair. She was now busy with accounts, and at first took no notice of Lucy's return. What were to be the companion's duties? What tasks in the house were to be assigned to her? What hours were to be her own, and what was to be done in those of which the Countess would demand the use? Up to the present moment nothing had been said of all this. She had simply been told that she was to be Lady Linlethgow's companion, without salary, indeed, but receiving shelter, guardianship and bread and meat in return for her services. She took up a book from the table and sat with it for ten minutes. It was Tupper's great poem, and she attempted to read it. Lady Linlethgow sat, totting up her figures but said nothing. She had not spoken a word since Lucy's return to the room, and as the great poem did not at first fascinate the new companion, whose mind, not unnaturally, was somewhat disturbed, Lucy ventured upon a question. Is there anything I can do for you, Lady Linlethgow? Do you know about figures? Oh yes, I consider myself quite a ready-wreckiner. Can you make two and two come to five on one side of the sheet, and only come to three on the other? I'm afraid I can't do that and prove it afterwards. Then you ain't worth anything to me. Having so declared, Lady Linlethgow went on with her accounts and Lucy relapsed into her great poem. No, my dear, said the Countess, when she had completed her work. There isn't anything for you to do. I hope you haven't come here with that mistaken idea. There won't be any sort of work of any kind expected from you. I poke my own fires, and I carve my own bit of mutton, and I haven't got a nasty little dog to be washed, and I don't care two pence about worsted work. I have a maid to darn my stockings, and because she has to work, I pay her wages. I don't like being alone, so I get you to come and live with me. I breakfast at nine, and if you don't manage to be down by that time, I shall be cross. I'm always up long before that. There's lunch, too, just bread and butter and cheese, and perhaps a bit of cold meat. There's dinner at seven, and very bad it is because they don't have any good meat in London. Down in a five-shire, the meat's a deal better than it is here, only I never go there now. At half past ten, I go to bed. It's a pity you're so young, because I don't know what you'll do about going out. Perhaps as you ain't pretty, it won't signify. Not at all, I should think, said Lucy. Perhaps you consider yourself pretty. It's all altered now, since I was young. Girls make monsters of themselves, and I'm told the men like it. Going about with unclean, frowsy structures on their heads, enough to make a dog sick. They used to be clean and sweet and nice. What one would like to kiss? How a man can like to kiss a face with a dirty horse's tail all whizzing about is what I can't at all understand. I don't think they do like it. But they have to do it. I haven't even a pony's tail, said Lucy. They do like to kiss you, I daresay. No, they don't. Ejaculated Lucy, not knowing what answer to make. I haven't hardly looked at you, but you didn't seem to me to be a beauty. You are quite right about that, Lady Linlithgau. I hate beauties. My niece, Lizzie Eustace, is a beauty, and I think that of all the heartless creatures in the world, she is the most heartless. I know Lady Eustace very well. Of course you do. She was a gray stalk, and you know the gray stalks. And she was down staying with Old Lady Fawn at Richmond. I should think Old Lady Fawn had a time with her, hadn't she? It didn't go off very well. Lizzie would be too much for the Fawns, I should think. She was too much for me. I know she's about as bad as anybody ever was. She's false, dishonest, heartless, cruel, irreligious, ungrateful, mean, ignorant, greedy, and vile. Cacracious Lady Linlithgau. She's all that, and a great deal worse, but she is handsome. I don't know that I ever saw a prettier woman. I generally go out in a cab at three o'clock, but I shan't want you to go with me. I don't know what you can do. McNulty used to walk round Grossbunner Square and think that people mistook her for a lady of quality. You mustn't go and walk round Grossbunner Square by yourself. You know not that I care. I'm not a bit afraid of anybody, said Lucy. Now you know all about it. There isn't anything for you to do. There are Miss Edgeworth's novels downstairs, and pride and prejudice in my bedroom. I don't subscribe to muddies, because when I asked for Adam B, they always sent me the bandit chief. Perhaps you can borrow books from your friends at Richmond. I daresay Mrs. Greystock has told you that I'm very cross. I haven't seen Mrs. Greystock for ever so long. Then Lady Fawn has told you, or somebody, when the wind is east or northeast or even north, I am cross for I have the lumbago. It's all very well talking about being good-humored. You can't be good-humored with the lumbago. And I have the gout sometimes in my knee. I'm cross enough then, and so you'd be. And among them all, I don't get much above half. What I ought to have out of my jointure, that makes me very cross. My teeth are bad, and I like to have the meat tender, but it's always tough, and that makes me cross. And when people go against the grain with me, as Lizzie Eustace always did, then I'm very cross. I hope you won't be very bad with me, said Lucy. I don't buy it if you mean that, said her ladyship. I'd sooner be bitten than barked at. Sometimes, said Lucy. Ha! said the old woman, and she went back to her accounts. Lucy had a few books of her own, and she determined to ask Frank to send her some. Books are cheap things, and she would not mind asking him for magazines and numbers, and perhaps for the loan of a few volumes. In the meantime, she did read Tupper's poem and Pride and Prejudice, and one of Miss Edgeworth's novels, probably for the third time. During the first week in Bruton Street, she would have been comfortable enough, only that she had not received a line from Frank. That Frank was not specially good at writing letters, she had already taught herself to understand. She was inclined to believe that but few men of business do write letters willingly, and that of all men, lawyers are the least willing to do so. How reasonable was it that a man who had to perform a great part of his daily work with a pen in his hand should loathe a pen when not at work? To her the writing of letters was perhaps the most delightful occupation of her life, and the writing of letters to her lover was a foretaste of heaven. But then men, as she knew, are very different from women. And she knew this also, that of all her immediate duties, no duty could be clearer than that of abstaining from all jealousy, petulance, and impatient expectation of little attentions. He loved her, and had told her so, and had promised her that she should be his wife, and that ought to be enough for her. She was longing for a letter, because she was very anxious to know whether she might mention his name to Lady Linnlitzkau, but she would abstain from any idea of blaming him because the letter did not come. On various occasions the Countess showed some little curiosity about the lover, and at last, after about ten days, when she found herself beginning to be intimate with her new companion, she put the question point blank. I hate mysteries, she said. Who is this young man you are to marry? He is a gentleman I've known a long time. That's no answer. I don't want to tell his name quite yet, Lady Linnlitzkau. Why shouldn't you tell his name, unless it's something improper? Is he a gentleman? Yes, he is a gentleman. And how old? Oh, I don't know, perhaps thirty-two. And has he any money? He has his profession. I don't like these kind of secrets, Ms. Morris, if you won't say who he is. What was the good of telling me that you were engaged at all? How is a person to believe it? I don't want you to believe it. How did tidy? I told you my own part of the affair because I thought you ought to know it as I was coming into your house, but I don't see that you ought to know his part of it. As for not believing, I suppose you believe Lady Fawn. Not a bit better than I believe you. People don't always tell truth because they have titles, nor yet because they've grown old. He don't live in London, does he? He generally lives in London. He is a barrister. Oh, oh, a barrister, is he? They're always making a heap of money or else none at all, which is it with him? He makes something as much as you could put in your eye and see none the worse. To see the old lady as she made the suggestion turn sharp round upon Lucy was as good as a play. My sister's nephew, the dean's son, is one of the best of the rising ones I'm told. Lucy blushed up to her hair, but the dowager's back was turned and she did not see the blushes. But he's in Parliament, and they tell me he spends his money faster than he makes it, I suppose you know him? Yes, I knew him at Popsborough. It's my belief that after all this fuss about Lord Fawn he'll marry his cousin, Lizzie Eustace. If he's a lawyer and as sharp as they say I suppose he could manage her, I wish he would. And she's so bad as you say she is. She'll be sure to get somebody, and why shouldn't he have her money as well as another? There never was a Grey Stock who didn't want money. That's what it will come to, you'll see. Never, said Lucy decidedly. And why not? What I mean is that Mr. Grey Stock is, at least I should think so from what I hear, the very last man in the world said Mary for money. What do you know of what a man would do? It would be a very mean thing, particularly if he does not love her. Bother, said the Countess. They were very near it in town last year before Lord Fawn came up at all. I knew as much as that, and it's what they'll come to before they've done. They'll never come to it, said Lucy. Then a sudden light flashed across the astute mind of the Countess. She turned round in her chair and sat for a while silent, looking at Lucy. Then she slowly asked another question. He isn't your young man, is he? To this Lucy made no reply. So that's it, is it? said the Dowager. You've done me the honor of making my house your home till my own sister's nephew shall be ready to marry you. And why not? said Lucy, rather, roughly. And Dame Grey Stock from Bobsboro has sent you here to keep you out of her son's way. I see it all, and that old Frumpet Richmond has passed you over to me because she did not choose to have such goings on under her own eye. There have been no goings on, said Lucy. And he's to come here, I suppose, when my back's turned. He is not thinking of coming here. I don't know what you mean. Nobody has done anything wrong to you. I don't know why you say such cruel things. He can't afford to marry you, you know. I don't know anything about it. Perhaps we must wait ever so long, five years. That's nobody's business but my own. I found it all out, didn't I? Yes. You found it out? What? I'm thinking of that sly old Dame Grey Stock at Bobsboro sending you here. Neither on that nor on the two following days did Lady Linlif Gao say a word further to Lucy about her engagement. End of Chapter 34. Recording by Sage Turtle, quirkynomads.com Chapter 35 of The Eustis Diamonds. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Eustis Diamonds by Anthony Trollop, Chapter 35. Too bad for sympathy. When Frank Grey Stock left Bobsboro to go to Scotland he had not said that he would return, nor had he at that time made up his mind whether he would do so or no. He had promised to go and shoot in Norfolk and had half undertaken to be up in London with Harriet working. Though it was holiday time there was still plenty of work for him to do. Various heavy cases to get up and papers to be read if only he could settle himself down to the doing of it. But the scenes down in Scotland had been of a nature to make him unfit for steady labour. How was he to sail his bark through the rocks by which his present voyage was rendered so dangerous? Of course, to the reader, the way to do so seems to be clear enough. To work hard at his profession, to explain to his cousin that she had altogether mistaken his feelings, and to be true to Lucy Morris was so manifestly his duty, that to no reader will it appear possible that to any gentleman there could be a doubt. Instead of the existence of a difficulty, there was a flood of light upon his path, so the reader will think. A flood so clear that not to see his way was impossible. A man carried away by abnormal appetites and wickedness, and the devil may, of course, commit murder or forge bills, or become a fraudulent director of a bankrupt company, and so may a man be untrue to his troth, and leave true love and pursuit of tinsel and beauty and false words and a large income. But why should one tell the story of creatures so base? One does not willingly grovel in gutters, or breathe fetid atmospheres, or live upon garbage. If we are to deal with heroes and heroines, let us at any rate have heroes and heroines who are above such meanness as falsehood and love. This Frank Graystock must be little better than a mean villain if he allows himself to be turned from his allegiance to Lucy Morris for an hour by the seductions and money of such a one as Lizzie Eustace. We know the dear old rhyme. It is good to be merry and wise, it is good to be honest and true, it is good to be off with the old love, before you are on with the new. There was never better truth spoken than this, and if all men and women could follow the advice here given, there would be very little sorrow in the world. But men and women do not follow it. They are no more able to do so than they are able to use a spear, the staff of which is like a weaver's beam, or to fight with the sword Excalibur. The more they exercise their arms the nearer they will get to using the giant's weapon, or even the weapon that is divine. But as things are at present their limbs are limp, and their muscles soft and overfeeding impedes their breath. They attempt to be merry without being wise and have theories about truth and honesty with which they desire to shackle others, thinking that freedom from such trammels may be good for themselves, and in that matter of love, though love is very potent, treachery will sometimes seem to be prudence, and a hankering after new delights will often interfere with real devotion. It is very easy to depict a hero, a man absolutely stainless, perfect as an Arthur, a man honest in all his dealings, equal to all trials true in all his speech, indifferent to his own prosperity, struggling for the general good and above all faithful in love. At any rate it is as easy to do that as to tell of the man who is one hour good, and the next bad, who aspires greatly but fails in practice, who sees the higher but too often follows the lower course. There arose at one time a school of art which delighted to paint the human face as perfect in beauty, and from that time to this we are discontented unless every woman is drawn for us as a Venus, or at least a Madonna. I do not know that we have gained much by this untrue portraiture, either in beauty or in art. There may be made for us a pretty thing to look at, no doubt, but we know that that pretty thing is not really visaged as the mistress whom we serve, and whose liniments we desire to perpetuate on the canvas, the winds of heaven, or the flesh pots of Egypt, or the midnight gas, passions, pains, and perhaps rouge and powder have made her something different. But there still is the fire of her eye, and the eager eloquence of her mouth, and something too perhaps left of the departing innocence of youth, which the painter might give us without the Venus or the Madonna touches, but the painter does not dare to do it. Indeed, he has painted so long after the other fashion that he would hate the canvas before him were he to give way to the rouge-begotten roughness, or to the flesh pots, or even to the winds. And how, my lord, would you who are giving hundreds more than hundreds for this portrait of your dear one like to see it in print from the art critic of the day, that she is a brazen faced hoiden who seems to have had a glass of wine too much, or to have been making hay? And so has the reading world taught itself to like best, the characters of all but divine men and women. Let the man who paints with pen and ink give the gaslight and the flesh pots, the passions and pains, the purient prudence, and the rouge-pots and pounce-boxes of the world as it is, and he will be told that no one can care a straw for his creations. With whom are we to sympathize? says the reader, who not unnaturally imagines that a hero should be heroic. O thou, my reader, whose sympathies are in truth the great and only aim of my work, when you have called the dearest of your friends round you to your hospitable table, how many heroes are there sitting at the board? Your bosom friend, even if he be a knight without fear, is he a knight without reproach? The Ivan Ho that you know, did he not press Rebecca's hand? Your Lord Evendale, did he not bring his coronet into play when he strove to win his Edith Bellendon? Was your tricilian still true and still forbearing when truth and forbearance could avail him nothing? And those sweet girls whom you know, did they never doubt between the poor man they think they love, and the rich man whose riches they know they covet? Go into the market, either to buy or sell and name the thing you desire to part with or to get it as it is, and the market is closed against you. Middling oats are the sweepings of the granaries. A useful horse is a jade gone at every point. Good sound port is slow juice. No assurance short of A1, but tokens even a pretence to merit, and yet, in real life, we are content with oats that are really middling. Are very glad to have a useful horse, and know that if we drink port at all, we must drink some that is neither good nor sound. In these delineations of life and character which we call novels, a similarly superlative vein is desired. Our own friends around us are not always merry and wise, nor alas, always honest and true. They are often cross and foolish and sometimes treacherous and false. They are so, and we are angry. Then we forgive them, not without a consciousness of imperfection on our own part. And we know, or at least believe, that though they be sometimes treacherous and false, there is a balance of good. We cannot have heroes to dine with us. There are none. And were these heroes to be had, we should not like them. But neither are our friends villains, whose every aspiration is for evil, and whose every moment is a struggle for some achievement worthy of the devil. The persons whom you cannot care for in a novel because they are so bad are the very same that you so dearly love in your life because they are so good. To make them, and ourselves, somewhat better, not by one spring having words to perfection, because we cannot so use our legs, but by slow climbing is, we may presume, the objects of all teachers, leaders, legislators, spiritual pastors, and masters. He who writes tales such as this probably also has very humbly some such object distantly before him. A picture of surpassing godlike nobleness, a picture of a king Arthur among men, may perhaps do much, but such pictures cannot do all. When such a picture is painted as intending to show what a man should be, it is true. If painted to show what men are, it is false. The true picture of life as it is, if it could be adequately painted, would show men what they are and how they might rise. Not indeed to perfection, but one step first and then another on the latter. Our hero, Frank Greystock, falling lamentably short in his heroism, was not in a happy state of mind when he reached Bob's burrow. It may be that he returned to his own burrow and to his mother's arm because he felt that were he to determine to be false to Lucy, he would there receive sympathy in his treachery. His mother would at any rate think that it was well, and his father would acknowledge that the fault committed was in the original engagement with poor Lucy, and not in the treachery. He had written that letter to her in his chambers one night in a fit of ecstasy, and could it be right that the ruin of a whole life should be the consequence? It can hardly be too strongly asserted that Lizzie Greystock did not appear to Frank as she has been made to appear to the reader. In all this affair of the necklace, he was beginning to believe that she was really an ill-used woman, and as to other traits in Lizzie's character, traits which she had seen, and which were not of a nature to attract, it must be remembered that beauty reclining in a man's arms does go far towards washing white the lovely Blackamore. Lady Linlifgau, upon whom Lizzie's beauty could have no effect of that kind, had nevertheless declared her to be very beautiful, and this loveliness was of a nature that was altogether pleasing, if once the beholder could get over the idea of falseness which certainly Lizzie's eye was apt to convey to the beholder. There was no unclean horse's tail, there was no get-up of flounces and padding and paint and hair, with adorsal excrescence appended with the object surely of showing in triumph how much absurd ugliness women can force men to endure. She was alive and active and bright, and was at this moment of her life at her best. Her growing charms had as yet barely reached the limits of full feminine loveliness, which, when reached, had been surpassed. Luxuriant beauty had with her not as yet become comeliness, nor had age or the good things of the world added a pound to the fairy lightness of her footstep. All this had been tendered to Frank, and with it that worldly wealth which was so absolutely necessary to his career. For though Greystock would not have said to any man or woman that nature hadn't tended him to be a spender of much money, and a consumer of many good things, he did undoubtedly think so of himself. He was a Greystock. And to what miseries would he not reduce his loosey if burdened by such propensities he were to marry her, and then become an aristocratic pauper? The offer of herself by a woman to a man is, to us all, a thing so distasteful that we at once declare that the woman must be abominable. There shall be no whitewashing of Lizzie Eustis. She was abominable. But the man to whom the offer is made hardly sees the thing in the same light. He is disposed to believe that in his peculiar case there are circumstances by which the woman is, if not justified, at least excused. Frank did put faith in his cousin's love for himself. He did credit her when she told him that she had accepted Lord Fawn's offer in peak because he had not come to her when he had promised that he would come. It did seem natural to him that she should have desired to adhere to her engagement when he would not advise her to depart from it. And then her jealousy about Lucy's ring and her abuse of Lucy were proofs to him of her love. Unless she loved him, why should she care to marry him? What was his position that she should desire to share it? Unless she so desired because he was dearer to her than ought beside. He had not eyes clear enough to perceive that his cousin was a witch whistling for a wind and ready to take the first blast that would carry her and her broomstick somewhere into the sky. And then, in that matter of the offer in which ordinary circumstances certainly should not have come from her to him, did not the fact of her wealth and of his comparative poverty cleanse her from such stain as would in usual circumstances attached to a woman who was so forward. He had not acceded to her proposition. He had not denied his engagement to Lucy. He had left her presence without a word of encouragement because of that engagement. But he believed that Lucy was sincere. He believed, now, that she was genuine, though he had previously been all but sure, that falsehood and artifice were second nature to her. At Bobsboro he met his constituents and made them the normal autumn speech. The men of Bobsboro were well pleased and gave him a vote of confidence. As none but those of his own party attended the meeting it was not wonderful that the vote was unanimous. His father, mother, and sister all heard his speech, and there was a strong family feeling that Frank was born to set the Grey Stocks once more upon their legs. When a man can say what he likes with the certainty that every word will be reported and can speak to those around him as one manifestly their superior, he always looms large. When the conservatives should return to their proper place at the head of affairs there could be no doubt that Frank Grey Stock would be made Solicitor General. They were not wanting even ardent admirers who conceived that with such claims and talents as his the ordinary steps in political promotion would not be needed, and that he would become Attorney General at once. All men began to say all good things to the Dean and to Mrs. Grey Stock it seemed that the wool sack or at least the Queen's bench with a peerage was hardly an uncertainty, but then there must be no marriage with a penniless governess. If he would only marry his cousin one might say that the wool sack was one. Then came Lucy's letter, the pretty, dear, joking letter about the Duchess and broken hearts. I would break my heart only, only, only. Yes, he knew very well what she meant. I shall never be called upon to break my heart because you are not a false scoundrel. If you were a false scoundrel instead of being as you are of hurl among men, then I should break my heart. That was what Lucy meant. She could not have been much clearer and he understood it perfectly. It is very nice to walk about one's own burrow and be voted unanimously worthy of confidence and be a great man. But if you are a scoundrel and not used to being a scoundrel, black care is apt to sit very close behind you as you go caroling among the streets. Lucy's letter required an answer. And how should he answer it? He certainly did not wish her to tell Lady Linnlinskow of her engagement, but Lucy clearly wished to be allowed to tell. And on what ground could he enjoin her to be silent? He knew, or thought he knew, that till he answered the letter she would not tell his secret and therefore from day to day he put off the answer. A man does not write a love letter easily when he is in doubt himself whether he does or does not mean to be a scoundrel. Then there came a letter to Dame Greystock from Lady Linnlinskow which filled them all with amazement. My dear madam, began the letter. Seeing that your son is engaged to marry Miss Morris, at least she says so, you ought not to have sent her here without telling me all about it. She says you know of the match and she says that I can write to you if I please. Of course I can do that without her leave, but it seems to me that if you know all about it and approve the marriage, your house and not mine would be the proper place for her. I'm told that Mr. Greystock is a great man. Any lady being with me as my companion can't be a great woman, but perhaps you wanted to break it off, else you would have told me. She shall stay here six months, but then she must go. Yours truly, Susanna Linnlinskow. It was considered absolutely necessary that this letter should be shown to Frank. You see, said his mother, she told the old lady at once. I don't see why she shouldn't. Nevertheless, Frank was annoyed. Having asked for his permission, Lucy should at least have waited for a reply. Well, I don't know, said Mrs. Greystock. It is generally considered that young ladies are more reticent about such a thing. She has blurted it out and boasted about it at once. I thought girls always told of their engagements, said Frank, and I can't for the life of me see that there was any boasting in it. Then he was silent for a moment. The truth is, we are, all of us, treating Lucy very badly. I cannot say that I see it, said his mother. We ought to have had her here. For how long, Frank? For as long as a home was needed by her. Had you demanded it, Frank, she should have come, of course, but neither I nor your father could have had pleasure in receiving her as your future wife. You yourself say that it cannot be for two years, at least. I said one year. I think, Frank, you said two. And we all know that such a marriage would be ruinous to you. How could we make her welcome? Can you see your way to having a house for her to live in within twelve months? Why not a house? I could have a house tomorrow. Such a house, as would suit you in your position, and, Frank, would it be a kindness to marry her and then let her find that you were in debt? I don't believe she'd care if she had nothing but a crust to eat. She ought to care, Frank. I think, said the Dean to his son on the next day, that in our class of life, an infertent marriage is the one thing that should be avoided. My marriage has been very happy, God knows, but I have always been a poor man and feel it now when I am quite unable to help you, and yet your mother had some fortune. Nobody, I think, cares less for wealth than I do. I am content almost with nothing. The nothing with which the Dean had hitherto been contented had always included every comfort of life. A well-kept table, good wine, new books, and cannonical habillments with the gloss still on. But, as the Bobsboro tradesman had through the agency of Mrs. Greystock, always supplied him with these things as though they came from the clouds. He really did believe that he never asked for anything. I am content almost with nothing, but I do feel that marriage cannot be adopted as the ordinary form of life by men in our class as it can by the rich or the poor. You, for instance, are called upon to live with the rich but are not rich that can only be done with wary walking and is hardly consistent with a wife and children. But men in my position do marry, sir. After a certain age, or else they marry ladies with money, you see, Frank, there are not many men who go into Parliament with means so moderate as yours, and they who do perhaps have stricter ideas of economy. The Dean did not say a word about Lucy Morris and dealt entirely with generalities. In compliance with her son's advice or almost command, Mrs. Greystock did not answer Lady Linlithgow's letter. He was going back to London and would give personally or buy letter written there what answer might be necessary. You will then see Mrs. Morris, asked his mother. I shall certainly see Lucy. Something must be settled. There is a tone in his voice as he said this which gave some comfort to his mother. Chapter 36 Lizzie's Guests True to their words, at the end of October Mrs. Carbunkle and Miss Roanoke and Lord George De Bruisker others and Sir Griffith Tewitt arrived at Portrait Castle. And for a couple of days there was a visitor whom Lizzie was very glad to welcome but of whose good nature on the occasion Mr. Campredown thought very ill indeed. This was John Eustis. His sister-in-law wrote to him in very pressing language and as so he said to Mr. Campredown, he did not wish to seem to quarrel with his brother's widow as long as such seeming might be avoided, he accepted the invitation. If there was to be a lawsuit about the diamonds, that must be Mr. Campredown's affair. Lizzie had never entertained her friends in style before. She had had a few people to dine with her in London and once or twice had received company on an evening. But in all her London doings there had been the trepidation of fear to be accounted for by her youth and widowhood. And it was at Portrait, her own house at Portrait, that it would best become her to exercise hospitality. She had bided her time even there, but now she meant to show her friends that she had got a house of her own. She wrote even to her husband's uncle, the bishop, asking him down to Portrait. He could not come but sent an affectionate answer and thanked her for thinking of him. Many people she asked who, she felt sure, would not come and one or two of them accepted her invitation. John Eustis promised to be with her for two days. When Frank had left her, going out of her presence in the manner that has been described, she actually wrote to him, begging him to join her party. This was her note. Come to me just for a week, she said, when my people are here, so that I may not seem to be deserted? Sit at the bottom of my table and be to me as a brother might. I shall expect you to do so much for me. To this he replied that he would come during the first week in November. And she got a clergyman down from London, the Reverend Joseph Amelius, of whom it was said that he was born a Jew in Hungary and that his name, in his own country, had been Amelius. At the present time he was among the most eloquent of London preachers and was reputed by some to have reached such a standard of pulpit oratory as to have no equal within the memory of living hearers. In regard to his reading it was acknowledged that no one since Mrs. Sidon's had touched him, but he did not get on very well with any particular bishop, and there was doubt in the minds of some people whether there was or was not any Mrs. Amelius. He had come up quite suddenly within the last season and had made church going quite a pleasant occupation to Lizzie Eustace. On the last day of October Mr. Amelius and Mr. John Eustace came, each alone. Mrs. Carbuncle and Mrs. Roanoke came over with post-horses from air, as also did Lord George and Sir Griffin about an hour after them. Frank was not yet expected. He had promised to name a day and had not yet named it. Varaville, Varaville, Gowren had said when he was told of what was about to occur and was desired to make preparations necessary in regard to the outside planishing of the houses. Now I do what she'll do with her and what pleases her ain't self. The mire you pour out, the less you'll be left in. Mr. Johan coming? I'll be glad to see Mr. Johan. Oh, I. That's. There'll be I'd see you Nick. And another cool. You want to either coose? I'll see to the coose. And Andy Gowren, in spite of the interscene warfare which existed between him and his mistress, did see to the hay and the cows and the oats and the extra servants that were wanted inside and outside the house. There was enmity between him and Lady Eustis, and he didn't care who knew it, but he took her wages and he did her work. Mrs. Carbuncle was a wonderful woman. She was the wife of a man with whom she was very rarely seen, whom nobody knew, who was something in the city, but somebody who never succeeded in making money, and yet she went everywhere. She had at least the reputation of going everywhere, and did go to a great many places. Carbuncle had no money, so it was said, and she had none. She was the daughter of a man who had gone to New York and had failed there. Of her own parentage no more was known. She had a small house in one of the very small Mayfair streets to which she was wont to invite her friends for five o'clock tea. Other receptions she never attempted. During the London seasons she always kept a carriage, and during the winters she always had hunters. Who paid for them no one knew or cared. Her dress was always perfect, as far as fit and performance went. As to approving Mrs. Carbuncle's manner of dress, that was a question of taste. Audacity may, perhaps, be said to have been the ruling principle of her twalat. Not the audacity of indecency, which, let the satirists say what they may, is not efficacious in England, but audacity in colour, audacity in design, and audacity in construction. She would ride in the park, in a black and yellow habit, and appear at the opera in white velvet without a speck of colour. Though certainly turned thirty, and probably nearer to forty, she would wear her jet black hair streaming down her back, and when June came would drive about London in a straw hat. But yet it was always admitted that she was well dressed, and then would arise that question, who paid the bills? Mrs. Carbuncle was certainly a handsome woman. She was full-faced with bold eyes, rather far apart, her thick black eyebrows, a well-formed, broad nose, thick lips, and regular teeth. Her chin was round and short, with perhaps a little bearing toward a double chin. But though her face was plump and round, there was a power in it, and a look of command, of which it was perhaps difficult to say in what features was the seat. But in truth the mind will lend a note to every feature, and it was the desire of Mrs. Carbuncle's heart to command. But perhaps the wonder of her face was its complexion. People said before they knew her that, as a matter of course, she had been made beautiful forever. But though that too brilliant colour was almost always there, covering the cheeks but never touching the forehead or the neck, it would at certain moments shift, change, and even depart. When she was angry it would vanish for a moment, and then returned intensified. There was no chemistry on Mrs. Carbuncle's cheek, and yet it was a tint so brilliant and so little transparent as almost to justify a conviction that it could not be genuine. There were those who declared that nothing in the way of complexion so beautiful as that of Mrs. Carbuncle's had been seen on the face of any other woman in this age. And there were others who called her an exaggerated milkmaid. She was tall, too, and had learned so to walk as though half the world belonged to her. Her niece, Miss Roanoke, was a lady of the same stamp, and of similar beauty, with those additions and also with those drawbacks which belonged to youth. She looked as though she were four and twenty, yet in truth she was no more than eighteen. When seen beside her aunt she seemed to be no more than half the elder lady's size, and yet her proportions were not insignificant. She, too, was tall, and was as one used to command, and walked as though she were a young Juno. Her hair was very dark, almost black, and very plentiful. Her eyes were large and bright, though too bold for a girl so young. Her nose and mouth were exactly as her aunts, but her chin was somewhat longer, so as to divest her face of that plump roundness which perhaps took something from the majesty of Mrs. Carbuncle's appearance. Miss Roanoke's complexion was certainly marvellous. No one thought that she had been made beautiful forever, for the color would go and come and shift and change with every word and every thought. But still it was there, as deep on her cheeks as on her aunts, though somewhat more transparent, and with more delicacy of tint as the bright hues faded away and became merged in the almost marble whiteness of her skin. With Mrs. Carbuncle there was no merging in fading. The red and white bordered one another on her cheek without any merging, as they do on a flag. Cinda Roanoke was undoubtedly a very handsome woman. It probably never occurred to man or woman to say that she was lovely. She had sat for her portrait during the last winter and her picture had caused much remark in the exhibition. Some said that she might be a brinvillier, others a Cleopatra, and others again a queen of Sheba. In her eyes as they were limbed there had been nothing certainly of love, but they who likened her to the Egyptian queen believed that Cleopatra's love had always been used simply to assist her ambition. They who took the brinvillier side of the controversy were men so used to softness and flattery from women as to have learned to think that a woman's silent, arrogant, and hard of approach must be always meditating murder. The disciples of the queen of Sheba school, who formed perhaps the more numerous party, were led to their opinion by the majesty of Lucinda's demeanor rather than by any clear idea in their own minds of the lady who visited Solomon. All men, however, agreed in this, that Lucinda Roanoke was very handsome, but that she was not the sort of girl with whom a man could wish to stay away through the distant beech trees at a picnic. In truth she was silent, grave, and if not really haughty, subject to all the signs of haughtiness. She went everywhere with her aunt and allowed herself to be walked out at dances and to be accosted when on horseback and to be spoken to at parties, but she seemed hardly to trouble herself to talk and as for laughing, flirting, or giggling, one might as well expect such levity from a marble manerva. During the last winter she had taken to hunting with her aunt and already could ride well to the hounds. If assistants were wanted at a gate, or in the management of a fence, and the servant who attended the two ladies were not near enough to give it, she would accept it as her due from the man nearest to her, but she rarely did more than bow her thanks, and even by young lords or hard-writing handsome colonels, or squires of undoubted thousands she could hardly ever be brought to what might be called a proper hunting-field conversation, all of which things were noted and spoken of and admired. It must be presumed that Lucinda Roanoke was in want of a husband, and yet no girl seemed to take less pains to get one. A girl ought not to be always busying herself to bring down a man, but a girl ought to give herself some charms. A girl so handsome as Lucinda Roanoke, with pluck enough to ride like a bird, dignity enough for a duchess, and who was undoubtedly clever, ought to put herself in the way of taking such good things as her charms and merits would bring her. But Lucinda Roanoke stood aloof and despised everybody. So it was that Lucinda was spoken of when her name was mentioned, and her name was mentioned a good deal after the opening of the exhibition of pictures. There was some difficulty about her, as to who she was. That she was an American was the received opinion. Her mother, as well as Mrs. Carbunkle, had certainly been in New York. Carbunkle was a London man, but it was supposed that Mr. Roanoke was, or had been, an American. The received opinion was correct. Lucinda had been born in New York, had been educated there till she was sixteen, and then had been taken to Paris for nine months, and from Paris had been brought to London by her aunt. Mrs. Carbunkle always spoke of Lucinda's education as having been thoroughly Parisian. Of her own education and antecedents, Lucinda never spoke at all. I'll tell you what it is, said a young scamp from Eaton to his elder sister, when her character and position were once being discussed. She's a heroine, and would shoot to fellow as soon as look at him. In that scamp's family, Lucinda was ever afterwards called the heroine. The manner in which Lord George de Bruce Caruthers had attached himself to these ladies was a mystery, but then Lord George was always mysterious. He was a young man, so considered, about forty-five years of age, who had never done anything in the manner of other people. He hunted a great deal, but he did not fraternize with hunting men, and would appear now, in this country and now in that, with an utter disregard of grass, fences, friendship, or foxes. Leicester, Essex, Ayrshire, or the Baron had equal delights for him, and in all counties he was quite at home. He had never owned a fortune, and had never been known to earn a shilling. It was said that early in life he had been apprenticed to an attorney at Aberdeen as George Caruthers. His third cousin, the Marquis of Kilikrankee, had been killed out hunting. The second scion of the noble family had fallen at Balaklava. A third had perished in the Indian mutiny, and a fourth, who did reign for a few months, died suddenly, leaving a large family of daughters. Within three years the four brothers vanished, leaving among them no male heir, and George's elder brother, who was then in a West India regiment, was called home from Dimarara to be Marquis of Kilikrankee. By a usual exercise of the courtesy of the Crown, all the brothers were made lords, and some twelve years before the date of our story George Caruthers, who had long since left the attorney's office at Aberdeen, became Lord George de Caruthers. How he lived no one knew. That his brother did much for him was presumed to be impossible, as the property entailed on the Kilikrankee title certainly was not large. He sometimes went into the city and was supposed to know something about shares. Perhaps he played a little and made a few bets. He generally lived with men of means, or perhaps with one man of means at a time, but they who knew him well declared that he never borrowed a shilling from a friend, and never owed a guinea to a tradesman. He always had horses, but never had a home. When in London he lodged in a single room, and dined at his club. He was a colonel of volunteers, having got up the regiment known as the Longshore Rifleman, the toughest regiment of volunteers in all England, and was reputed to be a bitter radical. He was suspected even of republican sentiments, and ignorant young men about London hinted that he was the grand centre of the British Venians. He had been invited to stand for the Tower Hamlets, but had told the deputation which waited upon him that he knew a thing worth two of that. Would they guarantee his expenses, and then give him a salary? The deputation doubted its ability to promise so much. I more than doubted, said Lord George, and then the deputation went away. In person he was long-legged, long-bodied, long-faced man, with rough whiskers and a rough beard on his upper lip, but with a shorn chin. His eyes were very deep set in his head and his cheeks were hollow and sallow, and yet he looked to be and was a powerful healthy man. He had large hands which seemed to be all bone, and long arms and a neck which looked to be long, because he so wore his shirt that much of his throat was always bare. It was manifest enough that he liked to have good-looking women about him, and yet nobody presumed it probable that he would marry. For the last two or three years there had been friendship between him and Mrs. Carbuncle, and during the last season he had become almost intimate with our Lizzie. Lizzie thought that perhaps he might be the Corsair whom, sooner or later in her life, she must certainly encounter. Sir Griffin Tuit, who at the present period of his existence was being led about by Lord George, was not exactly an amiable young baronette, nor were his circumstances such as make a man amiable. He was nominally not only the heir to, but actually the possessor of, a large property, but he could not touch the principal and of the income only so much as certain legal curmungs would allow him. As Greystock had said, everybody was at law with him, so successful had been his father in mismanaging and miscontrolling and misappropriating the property. Tuit Hall had gone to rack and ruin for four years and was now let almost for nothing. He was a fair, frail young man with a bad eye and a weak mouth, and a thin hand who was fond of liqueurs, and hated to the death any acquaintance who won a five-pound note of him, or any tradesman who wished to have his bill paid. But he had this redeeming quality, that having found Lucinda Roanoke to be the handsomest woman he had ever seen, he did desire to make her his wife. Such were the friends whom Lizzie Eustace received at Portray Castle on the first day of her grand hospitality, together with John Eustace and Mr. Joseph Emilius, the fashionable preacher from Mayfair. End of Chapter 36. Chapter 37. Lizzie's first day. The coming of John Eustace was certainly a great thing for Lizzie, though it was only for two days. It saved her from that feeling of desertion before her friends, desertion by those who might naturally belong to her, which would otherwise have afflicted her. His presence there for two days gave her a start. She could call him John and bring down her boy to him, and remind him with the sweetest smile, with almost a tear in her eye, that he was the boy's guardian. "'Little fellow, so much depends on that little life, does it not, John?' she said, whispering the words into his ear. "'Lucky little dog,' said John, patting the boy's head. "'Let me see. Of course he'll go to Eaton.' "'Not yet,' said Lizzie with a shudder. "'Well, no, hardly, when he's twelve.' And then the boy was done with and was carried away. She had played that card and it turned her trick. John Eustace was a thoroughly good-natured man of the world, who could forgive many faults, not expecting people to be perfect. He did not like Mrs. Carbuncle, was indifferent to Lucinda's beauty, was afraid of that tartar Lord George, and thoroughly despised Sir Griffin. In his heart he believed Mr. Emilius to be an impostor, who might, for ought he knew, pick his pocket. And Miss Bignolty had no attraction for him. But he smiled and was gay, and called Lady Eustace by her Christian name, and was content to be of use to her in showing her friends that she had not been altogether dropped by the Eustace people. "'I got such a nice affectionate letter from the dear Bishop,' said Lizzie. "'But he couldn't come. He could not escape a previous engagement.' "'It's a long way,' said John, and he's not so young as he once was. And then there are the Bobsboro parson to look after.' "'I don't suppose anything of that kind stops him,' said Lizzie, who did not think it possible that a bishop's bliss should be alloyed by work. John was so very nice that she almost made up her mind to talk to him about the necklace. But she was cautious, and thought of it, and found that it would be better that she should abstain. John Eustace was certainly very good-natured, but perhaps he might say an ugly word to her if she were rash. She refrained, therefore, and after breakfast on the second day he took his departure without an allusion to things that were unpleasant. "'I call my brother-in-law a perfect gentleman,' said Lizzie with enthusiasm when his back was turned. "'Certainly,' said Mrs. Carbunkle, he seems to me to be very quiet.' "'He didn't quite like his party,' said Lord George.' "'I am sure he did,' said Lizzie. "'I mean as to politics. To him we are all turbulent demagogues and bohemians. Eustace is an old-world Tory if there's one left anywhere. But you're right, Lady Eustace, he is a gentleman.' "'He knows on which side his bread is buttered as well as any man,' said Sir Griffin. "'Am I a demagogue?' said Lizzie, appealing to the corsair. "'Or a bohemian?' I didn't know it. "'A little in that way, I think, Lady Eustace. Not a demagogue, but a demagogical. Not bohemian, but that way given.' "'And is Miss Roanoke demagogical?' "'Certainly,' said Lord George. "'I hardly wrong you there, Miss Roanoke.' "'Lusinda is a Democrat, but hardly a demagogue, Lord George,' said Mrs. Carbunkle. "'Those are distinctions which we hardly understand on this thick-headed side of the water. But demagogues, Democrats, demonstrators, and demosthenic oratory are all equally odious to John Eustace. "'For a young man, he's about the best Tory I know.' "'He is true to his colours,' said Mr. Amelius, who had been endeavoring to awake the attention of Miss Roanoke on the subject of Shakespeare's dramatic action. "'And I like men who are true to their colours.' Mr. Malias spoke with the slightest possible tone of foreign accent, a tone so slight that it simply served to attract attention to him. While Eustace was still in the house, there had come a letter from Frank Greystock, saying that he would reach Portray by way of Glasgow on Wednesday, the 5th of November. He must sleep in Glasgow on that night, having business or friends or pleasure demanding his attention in that prosperous mart of commerce. It had been impressed upon him that he should hunt, and he had consented. There was to be a meet out on the Kilmarnock side of the county on that Wednesday, and he would bring a horse with him from Glasgow. Even in Glasgow a hunter was to be hired, and could be sent forty or fifty miles out of town in the morning and brought back in the evening. Lizzie had learned all about that, and had told him. If he would call at McFarlane Stables and Buchanan Street, or even rite to Mr. McFarlane, he would be sure to get a horse that would carry him. McFarlane was sending horses down into the Arishire County every day of his life. It was simply an affair of money—three guineas for the horse, and then just the expense of the railway. Frank who knew quite as much about it as did his cousin, and who never thought much of guineas or of railway tickets promised to meet the party at the meet ready equipped. His things would go on by train, and Lizzie must send for them to Trune. He presumed a beneficent providence would take the horse back to the bosom of Mr. McFarlane. Such was the tenor of his letter. If he don't mind he'll find himself a stray, said Sir Griffin. He'll have to go one way by rail and his horse another. We can manage better for our cousin than that, said Lizzie, with a rebuking nod. But there was hunting from Portray before Frank Graestock came. It was specially a hunting party, and Lizzie was to be introduced to the glories of the field. When giving her her due, it must be acknowledged that she was fit for the work. She rode well, though she had not ridden to hounds, and her courage was cool. She looked well on horseback and had that presence of mine which should never desert a lady when she is hunting. A couple of horses had been purchased for her under Lord George's superintendence, his conjuntly with Mrs. Carbunkles, and had been at the castle for the last ten days, eating their vera-heads off, as Andy Gowren had said in sorrow. There had been practising even while John Eustis was there, and before her perceptors had slept three nights at the castle, she had ridden backward and forward half a dozen times over a stone wall. Oh, yes, Lucinda had said in answer to a remark from Sir Griffin, it's easy enough till you come across something difficult. Nothing difficult stops you, said Sir Griffin, to which compliment Lucinda vouchsafed no reply. On the Monday Lizzie went out hunting for the first time in her life. It must be owned that as she put her habit on and afterwards breakfasted with all her guests in hunting-gear around her, and then was driven with them in her own carriage to the meet. There was something of trepidation in her heart, and her feeling of cautious fear in regard to money had received a shock. Mrs. Carbunkle had told her that a couple of horses fit to carry her might perhaps cost her about a hundred and eighty pounds. Lord George had received the commission, and the check required from her hand had been for three hundred twenty pounds. Of course she had written the check without a word, but it did begin to occur to her that hunting was an expensive amusement. Gowren had informed her that he had bought a rick of hay from a neighbor for seventy-five pounds, fifteen shillings, nine pence. God forgive me, said Andy, but I believe I've been overheard on the pyramid of your ladyship's service. Seventy-five pounds, fifteen shillings, nine pence did seem a great deal of money to pay, and could it be necessary that she should buy a whole rick? There were to be eight horses in the stable. To what friend could she apply to learn how much of a rick of hay one horse ought to eat in a month of hunting? And such a matter she might have trusted Andy Gowren implicitly. But how was she to know that? And then, what if at some desperate fence she were to be thrown off and break her nose and knock out her front teeth? Was the game worth the candle? She was by no means sure that she liked Mrs. Carbunkle very much, and though she liked Lord George very well, could it be possible that he bought the horses for ninety pounds each and charged her a hundred and sixty pounds? Corsairs do do these sort of things. The horses themselves were two sweet deers with stars on their foreheads and shining coats and a delicious aptitude for jumping over anything at a moment's notice. Lord George had not, in truth, made a penny by them, and they were good hunters worth the money. But how was Lizzie to know that? But though she doubted and was full of fears, she could smile and look as though she liked it. If the worst should come, she could certainly get money for the diamonds. On that Monday the meat was comparatively near to them, distant only twelve miles. On the following Wednesday it would be sixteen, and they would use the railway having the carriage sent to meet them in the evening. The three ladies in Lord George filled the carriage, and Sir Griffin was perched upon the box. The ladies' horses had gone on with two grooms, and those for Lord George and Sir Griffin were to come to the meat. Lizzie felt somewhat proud of her establishment and her ecopage, but at the same time somewhat fearful. Hitherto she knew but very little of the country people, and was not sure how she might be received. And then how would it be with her if the fox should at once start away across country, and she should lack either the pluck or the power to follow? There was Sir Griffin to look after Miss Roanoke, and Lord George to attend to Mrs. Carbunkle. At last an idea so horrible struck her that she could not keep it down. What am I to do, she said, if I find myself all alone in a field, and everybody else gone away? We won't treat you quite in that fashion, said Mrs. Carbunkle. The only possible way in which you can be alone in a field is that you will have cut everybody else down, said Lord George. I suppose it will all come right, said Lizzie, plucking up her courage and telling herself that a woman can die but once. Everything was right, as it usually is. The horses were there, quite a throng of horses as the two gentlemen had to each, and there was, moreover, a mounted groom to look after the three ladies. Lizzie had desired to have a groom to herself, but had been told that the expenditure in horse flesh was more than the stable could stand. All I ever want of a man is to care if it be my flask and waterproof and luncheon, said Mrs. Carbunkle. I don't care if I never see a groom, except for that. It's convenient to have a gate open sometimes, said Lucinda slowly. Will no one but a groom do that for you, asked Sir Griffin. Gentlemen can't open gates, said Lucinda. Now a Sir Griffin thought that he had opened many gates during the last season for Miss Roanoke. He felt this to be hard. But there were eight horses and eight horses with three servants and a carriage made quite a throng. Among the crowd of Irish-harm, hunting men, a lord or two, a dozen lairds, two dozen farmers, and as many men of business out of Irish, Kilmarnock, and away from Glasgow, it was soon told that Lady Eustace and her party were among them. A good deal had been already heard of Lizzie, and it was at least known of her that she had, for her life, the portray estate in her hands. So there was an undercurrent of whispering, and that sort of commotion which the appearance of newcomers does produce at a hunt-meat. Lord George knew one or two men who were surprised to find him an air-shire, and Mrs. Carbunkle was soon quite at home with a young nobleman whom she had met in the Vale with the Baron. So Griffin did not leave Lucinda's side, and for a while poor Lizzie felt herself alone in the crowd. Who does not know that terrible feeling, and the all but necessity that exists for the sufferer to pretend that he is not suffering, which again is aggravated by that conviction that the pretence is utterly vain? This may be bad with a man, but with a woman who never looks to be alone in a crowd, it is terrible. For five minutes, during which everybody else was speaking to everybody. For five minutes, which seemed to her to be an hour, Lizzie spoke to no one, and no one spoke to her. Was it for such misery as this that she was spending hundreds upon hundreds and running herself into debt? For she was sure that there would be debt before she parted with Mrs. Carbunkle. There are people, very many people, to whom an act of hospitality is in itself a good thing, but there are others who are always making calculations and endeavouring to count up the thing purchased against the cost. Lizzie had been told that she was a rich woman, as women go very rich. Surely she was entitled to entertain a few friends, and if Mrs. Carbunkle and Miss Roanoke could hunt, it could not be that hunting was beyond her own means. And yet she was spending a great deal of money. She had seen a large wagon loaded with sacks of corn coming up the hill to the portrait stables, and she knew that there would be a long bill at the corn chandlers. There had been found a supply of wine in the cellars at portrait, which, at her request, had been inspected by her cousin Frank. But it had been necessary, so he had told her, to have much more sent down from London. Everything in liqueurs and other nice things that cost money. You won't not like to have them if these people are coming. Oh, no, certainly not, said Lizzie with enthusiasm. What other rich people did she would do. But now in her five minutes of misery she counted it all up, and was at a loss to find what was to be her return for her expenditure. And then, if on this her first day she should have a fall, with no tender hand to help her, and then find that she had knocked out her front teeth. But the cavalcade began to move, and then Lord George was by her side. You mustn't be angry if I seem to stick too close to you, he said. She gave him her sweetest smile as she told him that would be impossible. Because you know, though it's the easiest thing in the world to get a long out hunting, and women never come to grief. A person is a little astray at first. I shall be so much astray, said Lizzie. I don't at all know how we are going to begin. Are we hunting a fox now? At this moment they were trotting across a field or two, through a run of gates, up to the first covert. Not quite yet. The hounds haven't been put in yet. You see that wood there? I suppose they'll draw that. What is a drawing, Lord George? I want to know all about it, and I am so ignorant nobody else will tell me. Then Lord George gave his lesson and explained the theory and system of fox hunting. We're to wait here, then, till the fox runs away? But it's ever so large, and if he runs away and nobody sees him? I hope he will, because it will be nice to go on easily. A great many people hope that, and a great many think it nice to go on easily. Only you must not confess to it. Then he went on with his lecture and explained the meaning of scent, was great on the difficulty of getting away, described the iniquity of heading the fox, spoke of upwind and downwind, got as far as the trouble of carrying, and told her that a good ear was everything in a big wood. When there came upon them the thrice-repeated note of an old hound's voice and the quick scampering and low-timid, anxious, trustful whinnying of a dozen comrade younger hounds, who recognized the sagacity of their well-known and highly appreciated elder. "'That's a fox,' said Lord George. "'What shall I do now?' said Lizzie, all in a Twitter. "'Sit just where you are in light of cigar, if you're given to smoking.' "'Pray don't joke with me, you know I want to do it properly. And therefore you must just sit where you are and not gallop about. There's a matter of a hundred and twenty acres here, I should say, and a fox doesn't always choose to be evicted at the first notice. It's a chance whether he goes at all from a wood like this. I like woods myself, because, as you see, we can take it easy. But if you want to ride, you should. Why, George, they've killed him. Killed the fox? Yes, he's dead, didn't you hear? And is that a hunt? Well, as far as it goes it is. Why did they run away? What a stupid beast! I don't see very much in that. Who killed him? That man who was blowing the horn? The hounds chopped him. Chopped him? Lord George was very patient and explained to Lizzie, who was now indignant and disappointed the misfortune of chopping. And are we to go home now? Is it all over? They say the country is full of foxes, said Lord George. Perhaps we shall chop half a dozen. Dear me, chop half a dozen foxes? Do they like to be chopped? I thought they always ran away. Lord George was constant and patient and rode at Lizzie's side from covert to covert. A second fox they did kill in the same fashion as the first. A third they couldn't hunt a yard. A fourth got to ground after five minutes and was dug out ingloriously during which process a drizzling rain commenced. Where is the man with my waterproof? demanded Mrs. Carbunkle. Lord George had sent the man to see whether there was shelter to be had in a named-boring yard, and Mrs. Carbunkle was angry. It's my own fault, she said, for not having my own man. Lucinda, you'll be wet! I don't mind the wet, said Lucinda. Lucinda never did mind anything. If you'll come with me, we'll get into a barn, said Sir Griffin. I like the wet, said Lucinda. All the while seven men were at work with picks and shovels, and the master and four or five of the more ardent sportsmen were deeply engaged in what seemed to be a mining operation on a small scale. The huntsman stood over giving his orders. One enthusiastic man who had been lying on his belly, groveling in the mud for five minutes with a long stick in his hand, was now applying the point of it scientifically to his nose. An ordinary observer with a magnifying glass might have seen a hair at the end of a stick. He's there, said the enthusiastic man covered with mud after a long, drawn, eager sniff of the stick. The huntsman deigned to give one glance. That's rabbit, said the huntsman. A conclave was immediately formed over the one visible hair that stuck to the stick, and three experienced farmers decided that it was rabbit. The muddy, enthusiastic man, silenced but not convinced, retired from the crowd, leaving his stick behind him, and comforted himself with his brandy flask. He's here, my lord, said the huntsman to his noble master, only we ain't got nigh of him yet. He spoke ombalanced in a whisper, so that the ignorant crowd should not hear the words of wisdom, which they wouldn't understand, or perhaps believe. It's that full of rabbits that the holes is all hairs. They ain't got no terrier here, I suppose. They never has ought that is wanted in these parts. Work round to the right there. That's his line. The men did work round to the right, and in something under an hour the fox was dragged out by his brush and hind legs, while the experienced whip who dragged him held the poor brute tight by the back of his neck. An old dog, my lord, there's such a many of them here, and they'll be a deal better for a little killing. Then the hounds ate their third fox for that day. Lady Eustace in the meantime, and Mrs. Carbuncle with Lord George, had found their way to the shelter of a cattle shed. Lucinda had slowly followed, and Sir Griffin had followed her. The gentlemen smoked cigars and the ladies, when they had eaten their luncheons and drunk their sherry, were cold and cross. If this is hunting, said Lizzie, I really don't think so much about it. It's scotch hunting, said Mrs. Carbuncle. I have seen foxes dug out south of the tweed, suggested Lord George. I suppose everything is slow after the baron, said Mrs. Carbuncle, who had distinguished herself with the baron's stag hounds last March. Are we to go home now? asked Lizzie, who would have been well pleased to have received an answer in the affirmative. I presume they'll draw again, explained Mrs. Carbuncle with an angry frown on her brown. It's hardly two o'clock. They always draw till seven in Scotland, said Lord George. That's nonsense, said Mrs. Carbuncle. It's dark at four. They have torches in Scotland, said Lord George. They have a great many things in Scotland that are very far from agreeable, said Mrs. Carbuncle. Lucinda, did you ever see three foxes killed without five minutes running before? I never did. I've been out all day without finding it all, said Lucinda, who loved the truth. And so have I, said Sir Griffin, often. Did you remember that day when we went down from London to bring her wood and they pretended to find at half past four? That's what I call a sell. They're going on, Lady Eustace, said Lord George. If you're not tired, we might as well see it out. Lizzie was tired, but said that she was not, and she did see it out. They found a fifth fox, but again, there was no scent. Who the—is to hunt a fox with people scurrying around like that, said the huntsman, very angrily dashing forward at a couple of riders. The hounds is behind you, only you ain't a lookin'. Some people never do look. The two peckin' riders, unfortunately, were Sir Griffin and Lucinda. The day was one of those from which all the men and women returned home cross, and which induced some half-hearted folk to declare to themselves that they never will hunt again. When the master decided a little after three that he would draw no more because there wasn't a yard of scent, our party had nine or ten miles to ride back to their carriages. Lizzie was very tired, and when Lord George took her from her horse could almost have cried from fatigue. Mrs. Carbunkle was never fatigued, but she had become damp. Soaking went through, as she herself said, during the four minutes that the man was absent with her waterproof jacket, and could not bring herself to forget the ill usage she had suffered. Lucinda had become absolutely dumb, and any observer would had fancied that the two gentlemen had quarreled with each other. "'You ought to go in the box by now,' said Sir Griffin, grumbling. "'When you're my age and I'm yours, I will,' said Lord George, taking his seat in the carriage. Then he appealed to Lizzie. "'You'll let me smoke, won't you?' She simply bowed her head, and so they went home, Lord George smoking, and the ladies dumb. Lizzie, as she dressed for dinner, almost cried with vexation and disappointment. There was a little conversation upstairs between Mrs. Carbunkle and Lucinda when they were free from the attendance of their joint maid. "'It seems to me,' said Mrs. Carbunkle, that you won't make up your mind about anything. "'There is nothing to make up my mind about. "'I think there is a great deal. Do you mean to take this man who is dangling after you?' He isn't worth taking. "'Currothers says that the property must come right sooner or later. You might do better, perhaps, but you won't trouble yourself. We can't go on like this forever, you know.' "'If you hated it as much as I do, you wouldn't want to go on.' "'Why don't you talk to him? I don't think he's at all a bad fellow.' "'I have nothing to say. He'll offer to-morrow if you'll accept him.' "'Don't let him do that, Aunt Jane. I couldn't say yes, as for loving him. "'Oh, laws. "'It won't do to go on like this, you know. "'I'm only eighteen, and it's my money, Aunt. "'And how long will it last? "'If you can't accept him, refuse him and let somebody else come.' "'It seems to me,' said Lucinda, that one is as bad as another. "'I'd a deal sooner, marry a shoemaker, and help him to make him shoes.' "'That's downright wickedness,' said Mrs. Carpuncle, and then they went down to dinner.' End of Chapter 37