 CHAPTER XXII Lady Eustis procures a pony for the use of her cousin. Lady Eustis could make nothing of Miss McNulty in the way of sympathy and could not bear her disappointment with patience. It was hardly to be expected that she should do so. She paid a great deal for Miss McNulty. In a moment of rash generosity and at a time when she hardly knew what money meant, she had promised Miss McNulty seventy pounds for the first year, and seventy for the second, should the arrangement last longer than a twelve-month. The second year had been now commenced, and Lady Eustis was beginning to think that seventy pounds was a great deal of money when so very little was given in return. Lady Linlithgau had paid her dependent no-fix salary, and then there was the ladies' keep, and first-class traveling when they went up and down to Scotland, and cab fares in London when it was desirable that Miss McNulty should absent herself. Lizzie, reckoning all up, and thinking that for so much her friend ought to be ready to discuss Ionthe's soul or any other kindred subject at a moment's warning, would become angry and would tell herself that she was being swindled out of her money. She knew how necessary it was that she should have some companion at the present emergency of her life, and therefore could not at once send Miss McNulty away, but she would sometimes become very cross and would tell poor McNulty that she was a fool. Upon the whole, however, to be called a fool was less objectionable to Miss McNulty than were demands for sympathy which she did not know how to give. Those first ten days of August went very slowly with Lady Eustis. Queen Mab got itself poked away and was heard of no more. But there were other books. A huge box full of novels had come down, and Miss McNulty was a great devourer of novels. If Lady Eustis would talk to her about the sorrows of the poorest heroine that ever saw her lover murdered before her eyes, and then come to life again with ten thousand pounds a year, for a period of three weeks or till another heroine, who had herself been murdered, obliterated the former horrors from her plastic mind, Miss McNulty could discuss the catastrophe with the keenest interest. And Lizzie, finding herself to be, as she told herself, unstrung, fell also into novel reading. She had intended during this vacant time to master the fairy queen, but the fairy queen fared even worse than Queen Mab, and the studies of Portray Castle were confined to novels. For poor McNulty, if she could only be left alone, this was well enough. To have her meals and her daily walk and her fill of novels and to be left alone was all that she asked of the gods. But it was not so with Lady Eustis. She asked much more than that, and was now thoroughly discontented with her own idleness. She was sure that she could have read Spencer from sunrise to sundown, with no other break than an hour or two given to Shelley, if only there had been someone to sympathize with her in her readings. But there was no one, and she was very cross. Then there came a letter to her from her cousin, which for that morning brought some life back to the castle. I have seen Lord Fawn, said the letter, and I have also seen Mr. Camperdown. As it would be very hard to explain what took place at these interviews by letter, and as I shall be at Portray Castle on the twentieth, I will not make the attempt. We shall go down by the night train, and I will get over to you as soon as I have dressed and had my breakfast. I suppose I can find some kind of a pony for the journey. The we consists of myself and my friend, Mr. Harriet, a man whom I think you will like, if you will condescend to see him, though he is a barrister like myself. You need express no immediate condescension in his favor, as I shall, of course, come over alone on a Wednesday morning. Yours always affectionately, F. G. The letter she received on the Sunday morning, and as the Wednesday named for Frank's coming was the next Wednesday, and was close at hand, she was in rather a better humor than she had displayed since the poets had failed her. What a blessing it will be, she said, to have somebody to speak to. This was not complimentary, but Miss McNulty did not want compliments. Yes, indeed, she said, of course she will be glad to see your cousin. I shall be glad to see anything in the shape of a man. I declare that I have felt almost inclined to ask the minister from Craigie to alope with me. He has got seven children, said Miss McNulty. Yes, poor man and a wife, and not more than enough to live upon. I daresay he would have come. By the by I wonder whether there's a pony about the place. A pony? Miss McNulty, of course, suppose that it was needed for the purpose of the suggested elopement. Yes, I suppose you know what a pony is. Of course there ought to be a shooting pony at the cottage for these men. My poor head has so many things to work upon that I had forgotten it, and you're never any good at thinking of things. I didn't know that gentlemen wanted ponies for shooting. I wonder what you do know. Of course there must be a pony. I suppose you'll want two. No, I shan't. You don't suppose that men always go writing about. But I want one. What did I better do? Miss McNulty suggested that Galrin should be consulted. Now Galrin was the steward and bailiff and manager and fact totem about the place, who bought a cow or sold one if occasion required, and saw that nobody stole anything and who knew the boundaries of the farms and all about the tenants, and looked after the pipes when frost came and was an honest, domineering, hardworking, intelligent scotchman who had been brought up to love the Eustaces and who hated his present mistress with all his heart. He did not leave her service, having an idea in his mind that it was now the great duty of his life to save Portray from her ravages. Lizzie fully returned the compliment of the hatred, and was determined to rid herself of Andy Galrin's services as soon as possible. He had been called Andy by the late Sir Florian, and though everyone else about the place called him Mr. Galrin, Lady Eustace thought it became her as the man's mistress to treat him as he had been treated by the late master. So she called him Andy. But she was resolved to get rid of him, as soon as she should dare. There were things which it was essential that somebody about the place should know, and no one knew them but Mr. Galrin. Every servant in the castle might rob her, were it not for the protection afforded by Mr. Galrin, and that affair of the garden it was Mr. Galrin who had enabled her to conquer the horticultural Leviathan who had oppressed her, and who in point of wages had been a much bigger man than Mr. Galrin himself. She trusted Mr. Galrin and hated him, whereas Mr. Galrin hated her and did not trust her. I believe you think that nothing can be done at Portray except by that man, said Lady Eustace. He'll know how much you ought to pay for the pony. Yes, and get some brute not fit for my cousin to ride on purpose, perhaps, to break his neck. Then I should ask Mr. McCallum, the postmaster of Trune, for I have seen three or four very quiet looking ponies standing in the carts at his door. McNulty, if there ever was an idiot, you are one, said Lady Eustace, throwing up her hands, to think that I should get a pony for my cousin Frank out of one of the mail carts. I dare say I am an idiot, said Miss McNulty, resuming her novel. Lady Eustace was, of course, obliged to have recourse to Galrin to whom she applied on the Monday morning. Not even Lizzie Eustace, on behalf of her cousin Frank, would have dared to disturb Mr. Galrin with considerations respecting a pony on the Sabbath. On the Monday morning she found Mr. Galrin superintending four boys and three old women who were making a bit of her ladyship's hay on the ground above the castle. The ground about the castle was poor and exposed and her ladyship's hay was apt to be late. "'Andy,' she said, I shall want to get a pony for the gentlemen who are coming to the cottage. It must be there by Tuesday evening.' "'Apony, my lady?' "'Yes, a pony. I suppose a pony may be purchased in Iershire, though of all places in the world it seems to have the fewest of the comforts of life.' "'Them is find it like that, my lady, needn't buy it there.' "'Never mind. You will have the kindness to have a pony purchased and put into the stables of the cottage on Tuesday afternoon. There are stables, no doubt.' "'Oh, I, there's shelter, no doubt, for mere ponies than they'll ride. When the cottage was bigot, my lady, there was nay cause for sparing nout. Andy Galrin was continually throwing her comparative poverty in poor Lizzie's teeth, and there was nothing he could do which displeased her more.' "'And I didn't spare my cousin the use of a pony,' she said grandiloquently, but feeling as she did so that she was exposing herself before the man. You'll have the goodness to procure one for him on Tuesday.' "'But there ain't eights, nor yet father, nor note for bedding down. And what's to tent the pony? There's mere in keeping a pony than your ladyship thinks. It'll be a matter of octene and saxpence a week, will a pony.' Mr. Galrin, as he expressed his prudential scruples, put a very strong emphasis, indeed, on the sixpence. "'Very well, let it be so. And there'll be the beastie to buy, my lady. He'll be a lump of money, my lady. Ponies ain't to be had for nought in Iershire, as was aunt's, my lady. Of course I must pay for him. He'll be a matter of ten pound, my lady. Very well. Or may be twile, just as likely. And Mr. Galrin took his head at his mistress in a most uncomfortable way. It was not surprising that she should hate him. You must give the proper price, of course. There ain't no proper prices for ponies, as there is for jewels and such like. If this was intended for sarcasm upon Lady Eustis in regard to her diamonds, Mr. Galrin ought to have been dismissed on the spot. In such a case no English jury would have given him his current wages. "'And he'll be to sell again, my lady. We shall see about that afterwards.' "'You'll never let him eat his head off there a winter. He'll be to sell. And the gentiles ride him, maybe, aunt's across the hillside out and back. As to the grouse, they can't catch them with the pony, for there ain't none to catch. There had been two keepers on the mountains, men who were paid five or six shillings a week to look after the game in addition to their other callings, and one of these had been sent away, actually in obedience to Galrin's advice, so that this blow was cruel and unmanly. He made it too as severe as he could by another shake of his head. "'Do you mean to tell me that my cousin cannot be supplied with an animal to ride upon?' "'My lady, I've said naught of the kind. There ain't no useful animal, as I can see the name and nature of, as he can't have an irsher, for paying for it, my lady. Horse, pony, or ass, just whichever you please, my lady, but there'll be a saddle—a what? There can be no doubt that Galrin purposely slurred the word so that his mistress should not understand him. Settles don't come for naught, my lady, though it be irsher. I don't understand what it is that you say, andy. "'A saddle, my lady,' said he, shouting the word at her at the top of his voice, and a brittle, I suppose, as your ladyship's cousin don't ride bareback up in London. "'Of course there must be the necessary horse-furniture,' said Lady Eustace, retiring to the castle. Andy Galrin had certainly ill used her, and she swore that she would have revenge. Nor when she was informed on the Tuesday that an adequate pony had been hired for eighteen pence a day, saddle, bridle, groom, and all included, was her heart at all softened towards Mr. Galrin. CHAPTER XXIII. When Frank Graystock's first visit to Portray Had Frank Graystock known that all his cousin endured for his comfort, would he have been grateful? Women, when they are fond of men, do think much of men's comfort in small matters, and men are apt to take the good things provided, almost as a matter of course. When Frank Graystock and Harriet reached the cottage about nine o'clock in the morning, having left London overnight by the limited mail train, the poignette once presented itself to them. It was a little shaggy, black beast, with the boy almost as shaggy as itself, but they were both good of their kind. Oh, you're the laddie with the pony, are you? said Frank, in answer to an announcement made to him by the boy. He did at once perceive that Lizzie had taken notice of the word in his note, in which he had suggested that some means of getting over to Portray would be needed, and he learned from the fact that she was thinking of him and anxious to see him. His friend was a man a couple of years younger than himself, who had hitherto achieved no success at the bar, but who was nevertheless a clever, diligent, well-instructed man. He was what the world calls penniless, having an income from his father just sufficient to keep him like a gentleman. He was not much known as a sportsman, whose opportunities for shooting not having been great, but he dearly loved the hills and fresh air, and the few grass which were, or were not, on Lady Eustace's mountains, would go as far with him as they would with any man. Before he had consented to come with Frank, he had especially inquired whether there was a gamekeeper, and was not until he had been assured that there was no officer attached to the estate worthy of such a name, that he had consented to come upon this present expedition. "'I don't clearly know what a ghillie is,' he said in answer to one of Frank's explanations. If a ghillie means a lad without any breeches on, I don't mind. But I couldn't stand a severe man got up in well-made Velbertines, who would see through my ignorance in a moment, and make no in my comment the fact that he had done so.' Greystock had promised that there should be no severity, and Harriet had come. Greystock brought with him two guns, two fishing rods, a man-servant, and a huge hammer from Fortnum and Mason. Arthur Harriet, whom the attorneys had not yet loved, brought some very thick boots, a pair of nigger-bockers, together with stone and toddies, digest of the common law. The best of the legal profession consists in this, that when you get fairly at work you may give overworking, an aspirant must learn everything, but a man may make his fortune at it, and know almost nothing. You may examine a witness's judgment, see through a case of precision, address a jury with eloquence, and yet be altogether ignorant of law. But you must be believed to be a very pundit before he will get a chance of exercising his judgment, his precision, or his eloquence. The men whose names are always in the newspapers never looked at their stone and toddy, care for it not all had their stone and toddy got up for them by their juniors when their cases required that reference should be made to precedence. But till that blessed time has come, a barrister whom in success should carry his stone and toddy with him everywhere. Greystock never thought of the law now, unless he had some special case in hand, but Harriet could not afford to go out on his holiday, without two volumes of stone and toddy's digest in his portmanteau. You won't mind being left alone for the first morning, said Frank, as soon as they had finished the contents of one of the pots from Fortnum and Mason. Not on the least. Stone and toddy will carry me through. I'd go on the mountain to file you, and get into a habit of steady loading. Perhaps I will take a turn, just to find out how I feel in the knickerbockers. At what time shall I dine if you don't come back? I shall certainly be here to dinner, said Frank, unless the pony fails me or I get lost in the mountain. Then he started, and Harriet at once went to work on stone and toddy with a pipe in his mouth. He had travelled all night, and it is hardly necessary to say that in five minutes he was fast asleep. So also had Frank travelled all night, but the pony in the fresh air kept him awake. The boy had offered to go with him, but that he had altogether refused, and therefore to his other cares was added that of finding his way. The sweep of the valleys, however, is long and not abrupt, and he could hardly miss his road if he would only make one judicious turn through a gap in a certain wall, which lay halfway between the cottage and the castle. He was thinking of the work in hand, and he found the gap without difficulty. When through that he ascended the hill for two miles, and then the sea was before him, and portray Castle, lying as it seemed to him at that distance, close upon the seashore. Upon my word Lizzie has not done badly for herself, he said almost aloud, if it looked down upon the fair site beneath him, and round upon the mountains, and remembered that, for her life at least, it was all hers, and after her death we belonged to her son. What more does any human being desire such a property than that? He rode down to the Great Doorway, the mountain track which fell into the road about half a mile from the castle, having been plain enough, and there he gave up the pony into the hands of no less a person, the Mr. Garan himself. Garan had watched the pony coming down the mountain side, and had desired to see of what like was her ladyship's cousin. In telling the whole truth of Mr. Garan, it must be acknowledged that he thought that his late master had made a very great mistake in the matter of his marriage. He could not imagine bad things enough of Lady Eustace, and almost believed that she was not now and been before her marriage any better than she should be. The name of Admiral Greystock, as having been the father of his mistress, had indeed reached his ears. But Andy Garan was a suspicious man, and he felt no confidence, even in Admiral, in regard to whom he had heard nothing of his having or having had a wife. It's my firm opinion she's just nobody and were, he had said, more than once to his own wife, nodding his head with a great emphasis at the last word. He was very anxious, therefore, to see her ladyship's cousin. Mr. Garan thought that he knew a gentleman when he saw one. He thought also that he knew a lady, and that he didn't see one when he was engaged with his mistress. Cousin, indeed. For the matter of that, any man that comes away may be called a cousin. So Mr. Garan was on the grand suite before the garden gate, and took the pony from Frank's hand. His lady used to sit at home, Frank asked. Mr. Garan perceived that Frank was a gentleman, and was disappointed. And Frank didn't come as a man comes who might call himself by a false name, and pretend to be on his cousin when in fact he is something, or whoever so wicked. Mr. Garan, who was a stern moralist, was certainly disappointed at Frank's appearance. Lizzie was in a little sitting-room, reached by a long passage with steps in the middle, at some corner of the castle, which seemed a long way from the great door. It was a cheerful little room, with chintz curtains, and a few shelves laden with brightly-bound books, which had been prepared for Lizzie immediately on her marriage. He looked out upon the sea, and she had almost taught herself to think that here she had sat with her adored Florian, gazing in mutual ecstasy upon the wide expanse of glittering waves. She was lying back in a low armchair as her cousin ended, and she did not rise to receive him. Of course she wasn't alone, Miss McNulty having received a suggestion that it would be well that she should do a little gardening in the moat. Well, Frank, she said, with her sweetest smile, and she gave him her hand. She felt and understood the extreme intimacy which would be implied by her not rising to receive him. And she couldn't have rushed into his arms, there was no device by which she could more clearly show to him how close she regarded his friendship. So I'm at Portray Castle at last, he said, still holding her hand. Yes, at the dullest, dreariest, deadliest spot in all Christendom, I think, if airship it Christendom. But never mind about that now. Perhaps, as you were on the other side of the mountain at the cottage, we shall find it less dull here at the castle. I thought you were to be so happy here. Sit down, and we'll talk it all over by degrees. What will you have? Breakfast or lunch? Neither thank you. Of course you'll stay to dinner. No, indeed, I have a man there at the cottage with me, who would cut his throat in his solitude. Let him cut his throat, but never mind now. As for being happy, women are never happy without men. I didn't tell any lies to you, you know. What makes me sure that this fuss is about making men and women all the same must be wrong. It's just the fact that men can get along without women, and women can't without men. My life has been a burden to me, but never mind. Tell me about my lord, my lord and master. Lord Fawn? Who else? What other lord and master? My bosom's own, my heart's best hope, my spot of terror firmer, my cool running brook of fresh water, my rock, my love, my lord, my all. Is he always thinking of his absent Lizzie? Does he still toil at Downing Street? Oh dear, do you remember, Frank, when he told us that one of us must remain in town? I have seen him. So he wrote me word. And I have seen a very obstinate pig-headed, but nevertheless honest and truth-speaking gentleman. Frank, I don't care too toughence for his honesty and truth, if he ill-treats me. Then she paused, looking into his face she had seen at once by the manner in which he had taken her bandage, without a smile, that it was necessary that she should be serious to her matrimonial prospects. I suppose I had better let you tell your story, she said. And I will sit still and listen. He means to ill-treat you. And you will let him? You had better listen, as you promised, Lizzie. He declares that the marriage must be off at once, unless he will send those diamonds to Mr. Camperdown or to the Jewelers. And by what law or rule does he justify himself in a decision so monstrous? Is he prepared to prove that the property is not my own? If you ask my opinion as a lawyer, I doubt whether any proof can be shown. But as a man and a friend, I do advise you to give them up. Never! You must, of course, judge for yourself, but that is my advice. You had better, however, hear my whole story. Certainly, said Lizzie, her whole manner was now changed. She had extricated herself from the crouching position in which her feet, her curl, her arms, her body had been so arranged as to combine the charm of her beauty with the charm of profit intimacy. Her dress was such as a woman would wear to receive her brother, a year that had been studied. She had no gems about her, but what she might well wear in her ordinary life. And yet the very rings on her fingers had not been put on without reference to her cousin Frank. Her position had been one of lounging ease, such as a woman might adopt when all alone, giving herself all the luxuries of solitude. But she had adopted it in special reference to cousin Frank. Now she was in earnest with business before her, and though it may be said of her that she could never forget her appearance in presence of a man whom she desired to please, her curl and rings and attitude were for the moment in the background. She had seated herself on a common chair with her hands upon the table, and was looking into Frank's face with eager, eloquent and combative eyes. She would take his law because she believed in it, but as far as she could see yet as yet, she would not take his advice unless it was backed by his law. Mr. Campadown continued great stock, has consented to prepare a case for opinion, though he will not agree that the use to the state shall be bound by that opinion. Then what's the good of it? We shall at least know, all of us, what is the opinion of some lawyer qualified to understand the circumstances of the case. Why isn't your opinion as good as that of any lawyer? I couldn't give an opinion, not otherwise than as a private friend to you, which is worth nothing, unless for your private guidance. Mr. Campadown, I don't care one straw for Mr. Campadown. Just let me finish. Oh, certainly, and you mustn't be angry with me, Frank, the matter is so much to me, isn't it? I won't be angry. Do I look as if I'm angry? Mr. Campadown is right. I dare say he may be what you call right, but I don't care about Mr. Campadown a bit. He has no power, nor has John used us any power to decide that the property which may belong to a third person shall be jeopardized by any arbitration. The third person could not be made to lose his legal right by any such arbitration, and his claim is made would still have to be tried. Who is this third person, Frank? Your own child at present, and will not he have it any way? Campadown and John Eustace say that it belongs to him at present, is a point that, no doubt, should be settled. To whom do you say that it belongs? That is a question I'm not prepared to answer. To whom do you think that it belongs? I refuse to look at a single paper on the subject, and my opinion is worth nothing. From what I have heard in conversation with Mr. Campadown and John Eustace, I cannot find they make their case good. Nor can I, said Lizzie. The case is to be prepared for Mr. Dove. Who is Mr. Dove? Mr. Dove is a barrister, and no doubt a very clever fellow. If his opinion be, such as Mr. Campadown expects, he will at once proceed against you at law for the immediate recovery of the necklace. I shall be ready for him, said Lizzie, and as she spoke, all her little feminine softnesses were up for the moment later side. If Mr. Dove's opinion be in your favor, well, said Lizzie, what then? In that case Mr. Campadown, acting on behalf of John Eustace and young Florian. How dreadful it is to hear my bitterest enemy acting on behalf of my own child, said Lizzie, holding up her hands piteously. Well, in that case Mr. Campadown will serve you with some notice that the jewels are not yours, to part with them as you may please. But they will be mine. He says not, but in such case he will contend himself for taking steps which may prevent you from selling them. Who says that I want to sell them, demanded Lizzie indignantly? Or from giving them away, say, to a second husband? How little they know me! Now I have told you all about Mr. Campadown, yes. And the next thing is to tell you about Lord Faun. That is everything. I care nothing for Mr. Campadown, nor yet for Mr. Dove, if that is his absurd name. Lord Faun is of more moment to me, though indeed he has given me but little cause to say so. In the first place I must explain to you that Lord Faun is very unhappy. He may thank himself for it. He is pulled this way and that, and is half distraught, but he is stated with as much positive assurance as such a man can assume that the match must be regarded as broken off unless you will at once restore the necklace. He does. He has commissioned me to give you that message, and it is my duty, Lizzie, as your friend, to tell you my conviction that he repents his engagement. She now has rose from her chair and began to walk about the room. He shall not go back from it. He shall learn that I am not a creature at his own disposal in that way. He shall find that I have some strength, if you have none. What would you have me do? Taking him by the throat, said Lizzie. Taking him by the throat in these days seldom forwards any object, unless the taken one be known to the police. I think Lord Faun is behaving very badly, and I have told him so. No doubt he is under the influence of others, mothers and sisters who are not friendly to you. False-faced idiots, said Lizzie. He himself is somewhat afraid of me, is much afraid of you, is afraid of what people will say of him, and, to give him his due, is afraid also of doing what is wrong. He is timid, weak, conscientious, and wretched. If you had set your heart upon marry him, my heart, said Lizzie scornfully, or your mind, you can have him simply by sending the diamonds to the jewelers. Whatever may be his wishes, in that case, he will redeem his word. Not for him or all that belongs to him, it wouldn't be much, he is just a pauper with a name. Then your loss will be so much the less. But what right has he to treat me so? Did you ever before hear of such a thing? Why is he allowed to go back, without punishment, more than another? What punishment would you wish? That he should be beaten within an inch of his life, and if the inch were not there, I should not complain. And am I to do it, to my absolute ruin, and to your great injury? I think I could almost do it myself. And Lizzie raised her hand, as though there was some whip in it. But Frank, there must be something. You wouldn't have me sit down and bear it. All the world has been told of the engagement. There must be some punishment. You would not wish to have an action brought, so breach of promise. I would wish to do whatever would hurt him most, without hurting myself, said Lizzie. You won't give up the necklace, said Frank. Certainly not, said Lizzie. Give it up for his sake, a man that I have always despised? Then you had better let him go. I will not let him go. What, to be pointed out as the woman that Lord Fawn had jilted? Never. My necklace should be nothing more to him than this ring. And she drew from her finger a little circle of gold with a stone, for which she had owed Mrs. Carter and Benjamin five and thirty pounds, till Sir Florian had settled that account for her. What cause can it give me for such treatment? He acknowledges that there is no cause which he can state openly. And am I to bear it? And it is you that tell me so, or Frank? Let us understand each other, Lizzie. I will not fight him. That is, with pistols. Nor will I attempt to thrash him. It will be useless to argue whether public opinion is right or wrong. But public opinion is now so much opposed to that kind of thing, that it is out of the question. I should injure your position and destroy my own. If you meant quarrel with me on that score, you would better say so. Perhaps at that moment he almost wished that she would quarrel with him, but she was otherwise disposed. Oh Frank, she said, do not desert me. I will not desert you. Do you feel that I am ill-used, Frank? I do. I think that his conduct is inexcusable. And there is to be no punishment, she asked, with the strong indignation at injustice, which the unjust always feel when they are injured. If you carry yourself well, quietly on with dignity, the world will punish me. I do not believe a bit of it. I am not a patient grizzle who can content myself with heaping benefits on those who injure me, and then thinking that they are the coals of fire. Lucy Murray is one of that sort. Frank ought to have resented the attack, but he did not. I have no such tame virtues. I will tell him to his face what he is. I will leave him such a life that he is sick of the name of the necklace. You cannot ask him to marry you. I will. What, not ask a man to keep his promise when you engage to him? I am not going to be such a girl as that. Do you love him, then? Love him. I hate him. I always despise him, and now I hate him. And yet you would marry him. Not for worlds, Frank. No. Because you advised me, I thought that I would do so. Yes, you did, Frank. But for you I would never have dreamed of taking him. You know, Frank, how it was, when you told me of him, and wouldn't come to me yourself. Now again she was sitting close to him, and had her hand upon his arm. No, Frank. Even to please you, I could not marry him now. But I will tell you what I will do. He shall ask me again, in spite of those idiots of Richmond, he shall kneel at my feet, necklace or no necklace, and then I will tell him what I think of him. Marry him. I will not touch him with a pair of tongs. And as she said this, she was holding her cousin fast by the hand. End of Chapter 23 Chapter 24 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 24 Showing What Frank Graystock Thought About Marriage It had not been much afternoon when Frank Graystock reached Portray Castle, and it was very nearly five when he left it. Of course he had lunched with the two ladies, and as the conversation before lunch had been long and interesting, they did not sit down till near three. Then Lizzie had taken him out to show him the grounds and garden, and they had clambered together down to the sea beach. Leave me here, she had said, when he insisted on going because of his friend at the cottage. When he suggested that she would want help to climb back up the rocks to the castle, she shook her head, as though her heart was too full to admit of a consideration so trifling. My thoughts flow more freely here with the surge of the water in my ears than they will with that old woman droning to me. I come here often, and I know every rock and every stone. That was not exactly true, as she had never been down but once before. You mean to come again? He told her that, of course, he should come again. I will name neither day nor hour. I have nothing to take me away. If I am not at the castle, I shall be at this spot. Goodbye, Frank. He took her in his arms and kissed her, of course, as a brother, and then he clambered up, got on his pony, and rode away. I did not ken just what to make of him, said Gorin to his wife. Maybe he is her Cousin, but Cousins are night that sib that a widow is to be hailed to boot, just ain't as though she were only queen at a fair, from which it may be inferred that Mr. Galrin had watched the pair as they were descending together towards the shore. Frank had so much to think of, writing back to the cottage, that when he came to the gap, instead of turning around along the wall down the valley, he took the track right on across the mountain and lost his way. He had meant to be back at the cottage by three or four, and yet had made his visit to the castle so long, that without any losing of his way, he should not have been there before seven. As it was, when that hour arrived, he was up on the top of a hill, and could again see Portray Castle clustering down close upon the sea, and the thin belt of trees and the shining water beyond, but of the road to the cottage he knew nothing. For a moment he thought of returning to Portray, till he had taught himself to perceive that the distance was much greater than it had been from the spot at which he had first seen the castle in the morning, and then he turned his pony around and descended on the other side. His mind was very full of Lizzy Eustis, and full also of Lucy Morris. If it were to be asserted here that a young man may be perfectly true to a first young woman while he is falling in love with a second, the readers of this story would probably be offended. But undoubtedly, many men believe themselves to be quite true while undergoing this process, and many young women expect nothing else from their lovers. If only he will come right at last, they are contented. And if he don't come right at all, it is the way of the world, and the game has to be played over again. Lucy Morris, no doubt, had lived a life too retired for the learning of such useful forbearance, but Frank Reisdach was quite a proficient. He still considered himself to be true to Lucy Morris, with a truth seldom found in this degenerate age, with a truth to which he intended to sacrifice some of the brightest hopes of his life, with a truth which, after much thought, he had generously preferred to his ambition. Perhaps there was found some shade of regret to tinge the merit which he assumed on this head in respect of the bright things which it would be necessary that he should abandon. But if so, the feeling only assisted him in defending his present conduct from any aspersions his conscience might bring against it. He intended to marry Lucy Morris, without a shilling, without position, a girl who had earned her bread as a governess, simply because he loved her. It was a wonder to himself that he, a lawyer, a man of the world, a member of parliament, one who had been steeped up to his shoulders in the ways of the world, should still be so pure as to be capable of such a sacrifice. But it was so, and the sacrifice would undoubtedly be made some day. It would be absurd in one conscious of such high merit to be afraid of the ordinary social incidents of life. It is the debauched, broken drunkard who should become a teetotaler, and not the healthy, hard-working father of a family who never drinks a drop of wine till dinnertime. He need not be afraid of a glass of champagne when, on a chance occasion, he goes to a picnic. Frank Greystock was now going to his picnic, and, though he meant to be true to Lucy Morris, he had enjoyed his glass of champagne with Lizzie Eustace under the rocks. He was thinking a good deal of his champagne when he lost his way. What a wonderful woman was his cousin Lizzie, and so unlike any other girl he had ever seen! How full she was of energy, how courageous, and then how beautiful! No doubt her special treatment of him was sheer flattery. He told himself that it was so. But, after all, flattery is agreeable. That she did like him better than anybody else was probable. He could have no feeling of the injustice he might do to the heart of a woman, who at the very moment that she was expressing her partiality for him, was also expressing her anger that another man would not consent to marry her. And then women who have had one husband already are not like young girls in respect to their hearts. So, at least, thought Frank Greystock. Then he remembered the time at which he had intended to ask Lizzie to be his wife, the very day on which he would have done so had he been able to get away from that early division in the house, and he asked himself whether he felt any regret on that score. It would have been very nice to come down to portray Castle as to his own mansion after the work of the courts and of the session. Had Lizzie become his wife, her fortune would have helped him to the very highest steps beneath the throne. At present he was almost nobody, because he was so poor and in debt. It was so undoubtedly. But what did all that matter in comparison with the love of Lucy Morris? A man is bound to be true. And he would be true, only as matter of course Lucy must wait. When he had first kissed his cousin up in London, she suggested that the kiss was given as by a brother and asserted that it was accepted as by a sister. He had not demurred having been allowed the kiss. Nothing of the kind had been said under the rocks today. But then that fraternal arrangement, when once made and accepted, remains no doubt in force for a long time. He did like his cousin Lizzie. He liked to feel that he could be her friend with the power of domineering over her. She also was fond of her own way and loved to domineer herself. But the moment that he suggested to her that there might be a quarrel, she was reduced to a prayer that he would not desert her. Such a friendship has charms for a young man, especially if the lady be pretty. As to Lizzie's prettiness, no man or woman could entertain a doubt. And she had a way of making the most of herself, which it was very hard to resist. Some young women, when they clamber over rocks, are awkward, heavy, unattractive, and troublesome. But Lizzie had at one moment touched him, as a fairy might have done, had sprung at another from stone to stone, requiring no help. And then, on a sudden, had become so powerless that he had been forced almost to carry her in his arms. That probably must have been the moment which induced Mr. Galrin to liken her to a queen at a fair. But, undoubtedly, there might be trouble. Frank was sufficiently experienced in the ways of the world to know that trouble would sometimes come from young ladies who treat young men like their brothers when those young men are engaged to other young ladies. The other young ladies are apt to disapprove of brothers who are not brothers by absolute right of birth. He knew also that all the circumstances of his cousin's position would make it expedient that she should marry a second husband. As he could not be that second husband, that matter was settled, whether for good or bad, was he not creating trouble both for her and for himself? Then there arose in his mind a feeling, very strange, but by no means uncommon, that prudence on his part would be mean, because by such prudence he would be securing safety for himself as well as for her. What he was doing was not only imprudent, but wrong also. He knew that it was so. But Lizzie Eustis was a pretty young woman, and when a pretty young woman is in the case, a man is bound to think neither of what is prudent nor of what is right. Such was, perhaps, his instinct rather than his theory. For her sake, if not for his own, he should have abstained. She was his cousin and was so placed in the world especially to require some strong hand to help her. He knew her to be, in truth, heartless, false and greedy. But she had so lived that even yet her future life might be successful. He had called himself her friend as well as cousin, and was bound to protect her from evil if protection were possible. But he was adding to all her difficulties because she pretended to be in love with him. He knew that it was a pretense, and yet because she was pretty and because he was a man he could not save her from herself. It doesn't do to be wiser than other men, he said to himself, as he looked round about on the bare hillside. In the meantime, he had altogether lost his way. It was between nine and ten when he reached the cottage. Of course you have dined, said Harriet. Not a bit of it. I left before five, being sure that I could get here in an hour and a half. I have been riding up and down these dreary hills for nearly five hours. You have dined? There was a neck of mutton and a chicken. She said the neck of mutton would keep hot best, so I took the chicken. I hope you like lukewarm neck of mutton. I'm hungry enough to eat anything, not but what I had a first rate luncheon. What have you done all day? Stone and toddy, said Harriet. Stick to that. If anything can pull you through, Stone and toddy will. I lived upon them for two years. Stone and toddy, with a little tobacco, have been all my comfort. I began, however, by sleeping for a few hours. Then I went upon the mountains. Did you take a gun? I took it out of the case, but it didn't come right, and so I left it. A man came to me and said he was the keeper. He'd have put the gun right for you. I was too bashful for that. I persuaded him that I wanted to go out alone and see what birds there were, and at last I induced him to stay here with the old woman. He is to be at the cottage at nine tomorrow. I hope that is all right. In the evening, as they smoked and drank whiskey and water, probably supposing that to be correct in airshire, they were led on by the combined warmth of the spirit, the tobacco, and their friendship to talk about women. Frank, some month or six weeks since, in a moment of soft confidence, had told his friend of his engagement with Lucy Morris. Of Lizzie Eustis he had spoken only as of a cousin whose interests were dear to him. Her engagement with Lord Fawn was known to all London, and was therefore known to Arthur Harriet. Some distant rumour, however, had reached him that the course of true love was not running quite smooth, and therefore on that subject he would not speak at any rate until Greystock should first mention it. How odd it is to find two women living all alone in a great house like that, Frank had said. Because so few women have means to live in large houses unless they live with fathers or husbands. The truth is, said Frank, that women don't do well alone. There is always a savor of misfortune, or at least of melancholy, about a household which has no man to look after it. With us, generally, old maids don't keep houses, and widows marry again. No doubt it was an unconscious appreciation of this feeling which brought about the burning of Indian widows. There is an unfitness in women for solitude. A female Prometheus, even without a vulture, would indicate cruelty worse even than joves. A woman should marry once, twice, and thrice if necessary. Women can't marry without men to marry them. Frank Greystock filled his pipe as he went on with his lecture. That idea as to the greater number of women is all nonsense. Of course we are speaking of our own kind of men and women, and the disproportion of the numbers in so small a division of the population amounts to nothing. We have no statistics to tell us whether there be any such disproportion in classes where men do not die early from overwork. More females are born than males. That's more than I know. As one of the legislators of the country, I am prepared to state that statistics are always false. What we have to do is to induce men to marry. We can't do it by statute. No, thank God. Nor yet by fashion. Fashion seems to be going the other way, said Harriet. It can be only done by education and conscience. Take men of forty all round, men of our own class. You believe that the married men are happier than the unmarried? I want an answer, you know, just for the sake of the argument. I think the married men are the happier, but you speak as the fox who had lost his tail, or at any rate as a fox in the act of losing it. Never mind my tail. If morality in life and in large affections are conducive to happiness, it must be so. Short commons and unpaid bills are conducive to misery. That's what I should say if I wanted to oppose you. I never came across a man willing to speak the truth who did not admit that in the long run married men are the happier. As regards women, there isn't even ground for an argument, and yet men don't marry. They can't. You mean there isn't food enough in the world. The man fears that he won't get enough of what there is for his wife and family. The laborer with twelve shillings a week has no such fear, and if he did marry the food would come. It isn't that. The man is unconscious and ignorant as to the sources of true happiness and won't submit himself to cold mutton and three clean shirts a week, not because he dislikes mutton and dirty linen himself, but because the world says they are vulgar. That's the feeling that keeps you from marrying Harriet. As for me, said Harriet, I regard myself as so placed that I do not dare to think of a young woman of my own rank except as a creature that must be foreign to me. I cannot make such a one my friend as I would a man because I should be in love with her at once, and I do not dare to be in love because I would not see a wife and children starve. I regard my position as one of enforced monasticism and myself as a monk under the cruelest compulsion. I often wish that I had been brought up as a journeyman-hatter. Why a hatter? I'm told it's an active sort of life. You're fast asleep, and I was just now when you were preaching. We'd better go to bed. Nine o'clock for breakfast, I suppose? End of Chapter 24 Chapter 25 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. Recording by Catherine Millward The Eustis Diamonds by Anthony Trollop, Chapter 25, Mr. Dove's Opinion Mr. Thomas Dove, familiarly known among clubmen, attorneys clerks, and perhaps even among judges, when very far from their seats of judgment, as turtledove, was a counsel learned in the law. He was a counsel so learned in the law that there was no question within the limits of an attorney's capability of putting to him that he could not answer with the aid of his books. And when he had once given an opinion, all Westminster could not move him from it, nor could Chantry Lane and Lincoln's Inn and the Temple added to Westminster. When Mr. Dove had once been positive, no man on earth was more positive. It behooved him, therefore, to be right when he was positive. And though, whether wrong or right, he was equally stubborn, it must be acknowledged that he was seldom proved to be wrong. Consequently, the attorneys believed in him and he prospered. He was a thin man, over fifty years of age, very full of scorn and wrath, impatient of a fool, and thinking most men to be fools, afraid of nothing on earth, and so his enemy said of nothing elsewhere. Eaten up by conceit. Fond of law, but fonder, perhaps, of dominion. Soft as milk to those who acknowledged his power, but a tyrant to all who contested it. Conscientious, thoughtful, sarcastic, bright-witted, and laborious. He was a man who never spared himself. If he had a case in hand, though the interest to himself in it was almost nothing, he would rob himself a rest for a week, should appoint a rise which required such labor. It was the theory of Mr. Dove's life that he would never be beaten. Perhaps it was some fear in this respect that had kept him from parliament and confined him to the courts and the company of attorneys. He was, in truth, a married man with a family. But they who knew him as the terror of opponents and as the divulger of legal opinions heard nothing of his wife and children. He kept all such matters quite to himself, and was not given to much social intercourse with those among whom his work lay. Out of Stratham, where he lived, Mrs. Dove probably had her circle of acquaintances, but Mr. Dove's domestic life and his forensic life were kept quite separate. At the present moment Mr. Dove is interesting to us solely as being the learned counsel in whom Mr. Camperdon trusted, to whom Mr. Camperdon was willing to trust for an opinion in so grave a matter as that of the Eustace Diamonds. A case was made out and submitted to Mr. Dove immediately after that scene on the pavement in Mount Street, at which Mr. Camperdon had endeavored to induce Lizzie to give up the necklace, and the following is the opinion which Mr. Dove gave. There is much error about heirlooms. Many think that any chattel may be made an heirloom by any owner of it. This is not the case. The law, however, does recognize heirlooms, as to which the exors or admirers are excluded in favor of the successor, and when there are such heirlooms they go to the heir by special custom. Any device of an heirloom is necessarily void, for the will takes place after death, and the heirloom is already vested in the heir by custom. We have it from Littleton that law prefers custom to devise. Brooks says that the best thing of every sort may be an heirloom, such as the best bed, the best table, the best pot or pan. Koch says that heirlooms are so by custom and not by law. Spellman says, in denning an heirloom, that it may be om untenso robustius, which would exclude a necklace. In the termese delay, as it is denned, as ascun parcel de utensils, we are told in Koch upon Littleton that crown jewels are heirlooms, which decision, as far as it goes, denies the right to other jewels. Certain chattels may undoubtedly be held and claimed as being in the nature of heirlooms, as swords, penins of honor, garter, and collar of SS, sea case of the Earl of Northumberland, and that of the Pusy horn, Pusy versus Pusy. The journals in the House of Lords, delivered officially to peers, may be so claimed, see Upton versus Lord Ferrer's. A divisor may clearly devise or limit the possession of chattels, making them inalienable by deviceese in succession. But in such cases they will become the absolute possession of the first person seized entail, even though an infant, and in case of death without will, would go to the Exors. Such arrangement, therefore, can only hold good for lives in existence, and for twenty-one years afterwards. Chattels so secured would not be heirlooms, see Carr versus Lord Errol, 14 V.C., and Roland versus Morgan. Lord Eldon remarks that such chattels held in families are rather favorites of the court. This was in the Ormond case. Executors, therefore, even when setting aside any claim as for heirlooms, ought not to apply such property and payment of debts unless obliged. The law allows of claims for paraphernalia for widows, and, having adjusted such claims, seems to show that the claim may be limited. If a man deliver cloth to his wife and die, she shall have it, though she has not fashioned it into the garment intended. Pearls and jewels, even though only worn on state occasions, may go to the widow as paraphernalia, but with a limit. In the case of Lady Douglas, she, being the daughter of an Irish url and widow of the king's sergeant, Temp Carr I, it was held that three hundred seventy pounds was not too much, and she was allowed a diamond and a pearl chain to that value. In sixteen seventy-four, Lord Keeper Finch declared that he would never allow paraphernalia, except to the widow of a nobleman. But, in seventeen twenty-one, Lord Maklisfield gave Mistress Tipping paraphernalia to the value of two hundred pounds, whether so persuaded by law and precedent, or otherwise, may be uncertain. Lord Talbot allowed a gold watch as paraphernalia. Lord Hardwick went much further, and decided that Mrs. Northie was entitled to wear jewels to the value of three thousand pounds, saying that value made no difference, but seems to have limited the nature of her possession in the jewels by declaring her to be entitled to wear them only when full-dressed. It is, I think, clear that the Eustace estate cannot claim the jewels as an heirloom. They are last mentioned, and so far as I know only mentioned as an heirloom in the will of the great-grandfather of the present baronet, if these be the diamonds then named by him. As such, he could not have devised them to the present claimant as he died in eighteen twenty, and the present claimant is not yet two years old. Whether the widow could claim them as paraphernalia is more doubtful. I do not know that Lord Hardwick's ruling would decide the case, but if so, she would, I think, be debarred from selling, as he limits the use of jewels of lesser value than these to the wearing of them when full-dressed. The use being limited, possession with power of alienation cannot be intended. The ladies claim to them as a gift from her husband amounts to nothing. If they are not hers by will, and it seems that they are not so, she can only hold them as paraphernalia belonging to her station. I presume it to be capable of proof that the diamonds were not in Scotland when Sir Florian made his will, or when he died. The former fact might be used as tending to show his intention when the will was made. I understand that he did leave to his widow by will all the chattels in Portray Castle, J.D. 15 August 18 When Mr. Camperdown had twice read this opinion, he sat down in his chair an unhappy old man. It was undoubtedly the case that he had been a lawyer for upward of forty years, and had always believed that any gentleman could make any article of value in heirloom in his family. The title deeds of vast estates had been confided to his keeping, and he has had much to do with property of every kind, and now he was told that in reference to property of a certain description, property which by its nature could belong only to such as they who were his clients. He had been long without any knowledge whatsoever. He had called this necklace an heirloom to John Eustis above a score of times, and now he was told by Mr. Dove not only that the necklace was not an heirloom, but that it couldn't have been an heirloom. He was a man who trusted much in a barrister, and was natural with an attorney, but he was now almost inclined to doubt Mr. Dove, and he was hardly more at ease in regard to the other clauses of the opinion. Not only could not the estate claim the necklace as an heirloom, but that greedy siren, that heartless snake, that harpy of a widow, for it was thus that Mr. Camperdown and his solitude spoke to himself of poor Lizzy, perhaps throwing in a harder word or two, that female swindler could claim it as paraphernalia. There was a crumb of comfort for him in the thought that he could force her to claim that privilege from a decision of the Court of Queen's Bench, and that her greed would be exposed should she do so, and she could be prevented from selling the diamonds. Mr. Dove seemed to make that quite clear. But then came that other question as to the inheritance of the property under the husband's will. That Sir Florian had not intended that she should inherit the necklace, Mr. Camperdown was quite certain. On that point he suffered no doubt. But would he be able to prove that the diamonds had never been in Scotland since Sir Florian's marriage? He had traced their history from that date with all the diligence he could use, and he thought that he knew it. But it might be doubtful whether he could prove it. Lady Eustace had first stated, had so stated before she had learned the importance of any other statement, that Sir Florian had given her the diamonds in London as they passed through London from Scotland to Italy, and that she had carried them fence to Naples, where Sir Florian had died. If this were so, they could not have been at Portray Castle till she took them there as a widow, and they would undoubtedly be regarded as a portion of that property which Sir Florian habitually kept in London. That this was so, Mr. Camperdown entertained no doubt. But now the widow alleged that Sir Florian had given the necklace to her in Scotland, wither they had gone immediately after their marriage, and that she herself had brought them up to London. They had been married on the 5th of September, and by the jeweler's books it was hard to tell whether the trinket had been given up to Sir Florian on the 4th or 24th of September. On the 24th Sir Florian and his young bride had undoubtedly been in London. Mr. Camperdown anathematized the carelessness of everybody connected with the masseuse's garnet establishment. Those sorts of people have no more idea of accuracy than he had of heirlooms, his conscience whispered to him, filling up the blank. Nevertheless, he thought he could prove that the necklace was first put into Lizzie's hands in London. The middle-aged and very discreet man at Mrs. Garnet's who had given up the jewel case to Sir Florian was sure that he had known Sir Florian to be a married man when he did so. The ladies made who had been in Scotland with Lady Eustis and who was now living in Turin having married a courier had given evidence before an Italian man of law stating that she had never seen the necklace till she came to London. There were moreover the probabilities of the case. Was it likely that Sir Florian should take such a thing down in his pocket to Scotland? And there was the statement as first made by Lady Eustis herself to her cousin Frank, repeated by him to John Eustis, and not to be denied by anyone. It was all very well for her now to say that she had forgotten, but would anyone believe that on such a subject she could forget? But still the whole thing was very uncomfortable. Mr. Dove's opinion, if seen by Lady Eustis and her friends, would rather fortify them than frighten them. Were she once to get hold of that word paraphernalia, it would be as a tower of strength to her. Mr. Camperdown specially felt this, that whereas he had hitherto believed that no respectable attorney would take up such a case as that of Lady Eustis, he could not now but confess to himself that any lawyer seeing Mr. Dove's opinion would be justified in taking it up. And yet he was as certain as ever that the woman was robbing the estate which it was his duty to guard, and that should he cease to be active in the matter the necklace would be broken up and the property sold and scattered before a year was out, and then the woman would have got the better of him. She shall find that we have not done with her yet, he said to himself, as he wrote a line to John Eustis. But John Eustis was out of town, as a matter of course, and on the next day Mr. Camperdown himself went down and joined his wife and family at a little cottage which he had at Dowlish. The necklace, however, interfered much with his holiday. Chapter 26 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. Recording by Katherine Millward. The Eustis Diamonds by Anthony Trollop. Chapter 26. Mr. Galron is very funny. Frank Greystock certainly went over to portray too often, so often that the pony was proved to be quite necessary. Miss McNulty held her tongue and was gloomy, believing that Lady Eustis was still engaged to Lord Faun, and feeling that in that case there should not be so many visits to the rocks. Mr. Galron was very attentive and could tell on any day to five minutes how long the two cousins were sitting together on the seashore. Arthur Harriet, who cared nothing for Lady Eustis, but who knew that his friend had promised to marry Lucy Morris, was inclined to be serious on the subject. But, as always the case with men, was not willing to speak about it. Once and once only, the two men dying together at the castle, for the doing of which it was necessary that a gig should be hired all the way from Prestwick. Harriet had not been anxious to go over, alleging various excuses, the absence of dress-clothes, the calls of Stone and Toddy, his bashfulness, and the absurdity of paying fifteen shillings for a gig. But he went at last, constrained by his friend, and a very dull evening he passed. Lizzie was quite unlike her usual self, was silent, grave, and solemnly courteous. Miss McNulty had not a word to say for herself, and even Frank was dull. Arthur Harriet had not tried to exert himself, and the dinner had been a failure. You don't think much of my cousin, I dare say, said Frank as they were driving back. She is a very pretty woman. And I should say that she does not think much of you. Probably not. Why on earth wouldn't you speak to her? I went on making speeches to Miss McNulty on purpose to give you a chance. Lizzie generally talks about as well, as in a young woman I know. But you had not a word to say to her, nor she to you. Because you devoted yourself to Miss Mack, whatever her name is. That's nonsense, said Frank. Lizzie and I are more like brother and sister than anything else. She has no one else belonging to her, and she has come to me for advice, and all that sort of thing. I wanted you to like her. I never like people, and people never like me. There is an old saying that you should know a man seven years before you poke his fire. I want to know persons seven years before I can ask them how they do. To take me out to dine in this way was at all things the most hopeless. But you do dine out in London. That's different. There's a certain routine of conversation going, and one falls into it. At such affairs as that, this evening one has to be intimate, or it is a bore. I don't mean to say anything against Lady Eustis. Her beauty is undeniable, and I don't doubt her cleverness. She is sometimes too clever, said Frank. I hope she is not becoming too clever for you. You've got to remember that you're due elsewhere, eh, old fellow? This was the first word that Harriet had said on the subject, and to that word Frank Greystock made no answer. But it had its effect, as also did the gloomy looks of Miss Bignolty and the not unobserved presence of Mr. Andy Gowran on various occasions. Between them they shot more grouse, so the keepers swore, than had ever been shot on these mountains before Harriet absolutely killed one or two himself to his own great delight, and Frank, who was fairly skillful, would get four or five in a day. There were excursions to be made, and the air of the hills was in itself a treat to both of them. Though Greystock was so often away at the castle, Harriet did not find the time hang heavily on his hands, and was sorry when his fortnight was over. I think I shall stay a couple of nights longer, Frank said, when Harriet spoke of their return. The truth is, I must see Lizzie again. She is bothered by business, and I have to see her about a letter that came this morning. You needn't pull such a long face. There's nothing of the kind you're thinking of. I thought so much of what you once said to me about another girl, that I hope she, at any rate, may never be in trouble. I hope she never may on my account, said Frank, and what troubles she may have, as life will be troublesome. I trust that I may share and lessen. On that evening Harriet went, and on the next morning Frank Greystock again rode over to Portray Castle. But when he was alone after Harriet's departure, he wrote a letter to Lucy Morris. He had expressed a hope that he might never be a cause of trouble to Lucy Morris, and he knew that his silence would trouble her. There could be no human being less inclined to be suspicious than Lucy Morris. Of that, Frank was sure. But there had been an expressed stipulation with Lady Fawn that she should be allowed to receive letters from him, and she would naturally be vexed when he did not write to her. So he wrote. Portray Cottage, September 3, 18 Dearest Lucy, we have been here for a fortnight shooting grouse, wandering about the mountains and going to sleep on the hillsides. You will say that there never was a time so fit for the writing of letters, but that will be because you have not learned yet that the idler people are, the more inclined they are to be idle. We hear of Lord Chancellor's writing letters to their mothers every day of their lives, but men who have nothing on earth to do cannot bring themselves to face a sheet of paper. I would promise that when I am Lord Chancellor, I would write to you every day were it not that when that time comes, I shall hope to be always with you. And, in truth, I have had to pay constant visits to my cousin, who lives in a big castle on the seaside, ten miles from here, over the mountains, and who is in a peck of troubles. In spite of her prosperity, one of the unhappiest women, I should say, that you could meet anywhere. You know so much of her affairs that without breach of trust I may say so much. I wish she had a father or a brother to manage her matters for me, but she has none, and I cannot desert her. Your Lord fawn is behaving badly to her, and so, as far as I can see, are the people who manage the useless property. Lizzie, as you know, is the most tractable of women, and altogether I have more to do in the matter than I like. Writing ten times backwards and forwards so often over the same route on a little pony is not good fun, but I am almost glad the distance is not less. Otherwise I might have been always there. I know you don't quite like Lizzie, but she is to be pitted. I go up to London on Friday, but shall only be there for one or two days, that is, for one night. I go almost entirely on her business and must, I fear, be here again, or at the castle, before I can settle myself either for work or happiness. On Sunday night I go down to Bobsboro, where indeed I ought to have been earlier. I fear I cannot go to Richmond on the Saturday, and on the Sunday Lady Fawn would hardly make me welcome. I shall be at Bobsboro for about three weeks, and there, if you have commands to give, I will obey them. I may, however, tell you the truth at once, though it is a truth, you must keep very much to yourself. In the position in which I now stand as to Lord Fawn, being absolutely forced to quarrel with him on Lizzie's behalf, Lady Fawn could hardly receive me with comfort to herself. She is the best of women, and as she is your dear friend, nothing is further from me than any idea of quarreling with her. But, of course, she takes her son's part, and I hardly know how all illusion to the subject could be avoided. This, however, dearest, need ruffle no feather between you and me, who love each other better than we love either the Fawns or the Lizzie's. Let me find a line at my chambers to say that it is so and always shall be so. God bless my own darling, ever and always your own, F. G. On the following day he wrote over to the castle. He had received a letter from John Eustis, who had found himself forced to run up to London to meet Mr. Camperdown. The lawyer had thought to postpone further consideration of the whole matter till he, and everybody else, would be naturally in London. Till November that might be, or perhaps even till after Christmas. But his mind was ill at ease, and he knew that so much might be done with the diamonds in four months. They might, even now, be in the hands of some Benjamin or of some Harder, and it might soon be beyond the power either of lawyers or of policemen to trace them. He therefore went up from Dowlish and persuaded John Eustis to come from Yorkshire. It was a great nuisance, and Eustis freely anathletized the necklace. If only someone would steal it so that we might hear no more of the thing, he said. But as Mr. Camperdown had frequently remarked, the value was too great for trifling, and Eustis went up to London. Mr. Camperdown put into his hands the total Doves' opinion, explaining that it was by no means expedient that it should be shown to the other party. Eustis thought that the opinion should be common to them all. We pay for it, said Mr. Camperdown, and they can get their opinion from any other barrister they please. But what was to be done? Eustis declared that as to the present whereabouts of the necklace he did not in the least doubt that he could get the truth from Frank Greystock. He therefore wrote to Greystock, and with that letter in his pocket, Frank rode over to the castle for the last time. He, too, was heartily sick of the necklace, but unfortunately he was not equally sick of her who held it in possession, and he was, too, better alive to the importance of the value of the trinket than John Eustis, though not so keenly as was Mr. Camperdown. Lady Eustis was out somewhere among the cliffs, the servant said. He regretted this as he followed her, but he was obliged to follow her. Halfway down to the seashore, much below the gnawp on which she had attempted to sit with her Shelly. But yet, not below, the need of assistance, he found her seated in a little ravine. I knew you would come, she said. Of course she had known he would come. She did not rise or even give him her hand, but there was a spot close beside her on which it was to be presumed that he would seat himself. She had a volume of Byron in her hand, the Corsair, Lara, and the Gheower, a kind of poetry which was in truth more intelligible to her than Queen Mob. You go to-morrow? Yes, I go to-morrow. And Lubin has gone? Arthur Harriet was Lubin. Lubin has gone, though why Lubin I cannot guess. The normal Lubin to me is a stupid fellow always in love. Harriet is not stupid and is never in love. Nevertheless, he is Lubin if I choose to call him so. Why did he twiddle his thumbs instead of talking? Have you heard anything of Lord Fawn? I have had a letter from your brother-in-law. And what is John the Just pleased to say? John the Just, which is a better name for the man than the other, has been called up to London much against his will by Mr. Camperdown. Who is Samuel the Unjust? Mr. Camperdown's name was Samuel. And now wants to know where this terrible necklace is at the present moment. He paused a moment, but Lizzie did not answer him. I suppose you have no objection to telling me where it is? None in the least, or to giving it to you to keep for me, only that I would not so far trouble you. But I have an objection to telling them. They are my enemies. Let them find out. You are wrong, Lizzie. You do not want, or at any rate should not want, to have any secret in the matter. They are here in the castle, in the very place in which Sir Florian kept them when he gave them to me. Where should my own jewels be but in my own house? What does that Mr. Dove say who was to be asked about them? No doubt they can pay a barrister to say anything. Lizzie, you think too hardly of people. And do not people think too hardly of me? Does not all this amount to an accusation against me that I am a thief? Am I not persecuted among them? Did not this impudent attorney stop me in the public street and accuse me of theft before my very servants? Have they not so far succeeded in misrepresenting me that the very man who was engaged to be my husband betrays me? And now you are turning against me. Can you wonder that I am hard? I'm not turning against you. Yes, you are. You take their part, not mine and everything. I tell you what, Frank. I would go out in that boat that you see yonder and drop the bobble into the sea. Did I not know that they'd drag it up again with their devilish ingenuity? If the stones would burn, I would burn them. But the worst of it all is that you are becoming my enemy. Then she burst into violent and almost hysterical tears. It would be better that you should give them into the keeping of someone whom you can both trust till the law has decided to whom they belong. I will never give them up. What does Mr. Dove say? I have not seen what Mr. Dove says. It is clear that the necklace is not an heirloom. Then how dared Mr. Camperdon say so often that it was? He said what he thought, pleaded Frank, and he is a lawyer. I am a lawyer, and I did not know what is or what is not an heirloom. But Mr. Dove is clearly of opinion that such a property could not have been given away simply by a word of mouth. John Eustis in his letter had made no allusion to that complicated question of paraphernalia. But it was, said Lizzy, who can know but myself when no one else was present? The jewels are here now. Not in my pocket. I do not carry them around with me. They are in the castle. And will they go back with you to London? Was a lady ever so interrogated? I do not know yet that I shall go back to London. Why am I asked such questions? As to you, Frank, I would tell you everything, my whole heart, if you only cared to know it. But why is John Eustis to make inquiry as to personal ornaments which are my own property? If I go to London I will take them there and wear them at every house I enter. I will do so in defiance of Mr. Camperdown and Lord Vaughn. I think, Frank, that no woman was ever so ill-treated as I am. He himself thought that she was ill-treated. She had so pleaded her case, and had been so lovely in her tears and her indignation, that he began to feel something like true sympathy for her cause. What right had he, or had Mr. Camperdown, or any one, to say that the jewels did not belong to her? And if her claim to them was just, why should she be persuaded to give up the possession of them? He knew well that were she to surrender them with the idea that they should be restored to her if her claim were found to be just, she would not get them back very soon. If once the jewels were safe, locked up in Mr. Garnett's strongbox, Mr. Camperdown would not care how long it might be before a jury or judge should have decided on the case. The burden of proof would then be thrown upon Lady Eustis. In order that she might recover her own property she would have to thrust herself forward as a witness and appear before a world acclaimant, greedy, for rich ornaments. Why should he advise her to give them up? I am only thinking, said he. What may be best for your own peace? Peace, she exclaimed. How am I to have peace? Remember the condition in which I find myself? Remember the manner in which that man is treating me, when all the world has been told of my engagement to him? When I think of it my heart is so bitter that I am inclined to throw not the diamonds but myself from off these rocks. All that remains to me is the triumph of getting the better of my enemies. Mr. Camperdown shall never have the diamonds, even if they could prove that they did not belong to me, they should find them gone. I don't think they can prove it. I'll flaunt them in the eyes of all of them till they do, and then they shall be gone. And I'll have such revenge on Lord Svann before I have done with him that he shall know that it may be worse to have to fight a woman than a man. Oh, Frank, I do not think that I am hard by nature, but these things make a woman hard. As she spoke she took his hand in hers and looked up into his eyes through her tears. I know you do not care for me, and you know how much I care for you. Not care for you, Lizzie? No, that little thing at Richmond is everything to you. She is tame and quiet, a cat that will sleep on the rug before the fire, and you think that she will never scratch. Do not suppose that I mean to abuse her, she was my dear friend before you had ever seen her. And men I know have tastes which women do not understand. You want what you call repose. We seldom know what we want, I fancy. We take what the gods send us. Frank's words were perhaps more true than wise. At the present moment the gods had clearly sent Lizzie Eustis to him, and unless he could call up some increased strength of his own, quite independent of the gods, or of what we may perhaps call chance, he would have to put up with the article sent. Lizzie had declared that she would not touch Lord Fawn with a pair of tongs, and in saying so had resolved that she could not and would not now marry his lordship, even were his lordship in her power. It had been decided by her as quickly as thoughts flash, but it was decided. She would torture the unfortunate lord, but not torture him by becoming his wife. And so much being fixed as the stars in heaven might it be possible that she should even yet induce her cousin to take the place that had been intended for Lord Fawn? After all that had passed between them she need hardly hesitate to tell him of her love, and with the same flashing thoughts she declared to herself that she did love him, and that therefore this arrangement would be so much better than the other one which she had proposed to herself. The reader, perhaps by this time, has not a high opinion of Lady Eustis, and may believe that among other drawbacks on her character there is especially this, that she was heartless. But that was by no means her own opinion of herself. She would have described herself, and would have meant to do so with truth, as being all heart. She probably thought that an over amount of heart was the malady under which she specially suffered. Her heart was overflowing now toward the man who was sitting by her side, and that it would be so pleasant to punish that little chit who had spurned her gift, and had dared to call her mean. This man, too, was needy, and she was wealthy. Surely were she to offer herself to him, the generosity of the thing would make it noble. She was still dissolved in tears and was still hysteric. Oh, Frank! she said, and threw herself upon his breast. Frank Greystock felt his position to be one of intense difficulty, but whether this difficulty was increased or diminished by the appearance of Mr. Andy Galrin's head over a rock at the entrance of the little cave in which they were sitting, it might be difficult to determine. But there was the head, and it was not a head that just popped itself up and then retreated. As a head would do, that was discovered, doing that which, made it ashamed of itself. The head, with its eyes wide open, held its own and seemed to say, I, I've caught you, haven't I? And the head did speak, though not exactly in those words. Cousins! said the head, and then the head was wagged. In the meantime, Lizzie Eustis, whose back was turned to the head, raised her own and looked up into Greystock's eyes for love. She perceived at once that something was amiss, and, starting to her feet, turned quickly around. How dare you intrude here! she said to the head. Cousins! replied the head, wagging itself. It was clearly necessary that Greystock should take some steps, if only with the object of proving to the imprudent factorum that he was not altogether overcome by the awkwardness of his position. That he was a good deal annoyed, and that he felt not altogether quite equal to the occasion must be acknowledged. What is it that the man wants? he said, glaring at the head. Cousins! said the head, wagging itself again. If you don't take yourself off, I shall have to thrash you, said Frank. Cousins! said Andy Galrin, stepping from behind the rock and showing his full figure. Andy was a man on the wrong side of fifty, and therefore, on the score of age, hardly fit for thrashing. And he was compact, short, broad, and as hard as flint. A man bad to thrash. Look at it from what side you would. Cousins! he said yet again. Andy Galrin, I dismiss you from my service for your impertinence, said Lady Eustis. It's I want to end the Galrin for that, my lady. There's timber and a world of things about the place as one's protection on behalf of the air. If your ladyship is minded to be quit on my services, I'll find a maester in Mr. Camperdune, as now allow me to be thrown out or employ. Cousins! Walk off from this, said Frank Greystock, coming forward and putting his hand upon the man's breast. Mr. Galrin repeated the objectionable word, yet once again, and then retired. Frank Greystock immediately felt how very bad for him was his position. For the lady, if only she could succeed in her object, the annoyance of the interruption would not matter much after its first absurdity had been endured. When she had become the wife of Frank Greystock there would be nothing remarkable in the fact that she had been found sitting with him in a cavern by the sea shore. But for Frank the difficulty of extricating himself from his dilemma was great. Not in regard to Mr. Galrin, but in reference to his cousin Lizzie. He might, it was true, tell her that he was engaged to Lucy Morris, but then why had he not told her so before? He had not told her so, nor did he tell her on this occasion. When he attempted to lead her away up the cliff she insisted on being left where she was. I can find my way alone, she said, endeavouring to smile through her tears. The man has annoyed me by his impudence, that is all. Go, if you are going. Of course he was going, but he could not go without a word of tenderness. Dear, dear Lizzie, he said embracing her. Frank, you'll be true to me? I will be true to you. Then go now, she said, and he went his way up the cliff and got his pony, and rode back to the cottage. Very uneasy in his mind. End of Chapter 26 Chapter 27 OF THE USED AS DIMONS This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Catherine Millward The used as diamonds by Anthony Trollop Chapter 27 Lucy Morris Misbehaves Lucy Morris got her letter and was contented. She wanted some demonstration of love from her lover, but very little sufficed for her comfort. With her it was almost impossible that a man should be loved and suspected at the same time. She could not have loved the man, or at any rate confessed her love, without thinking well of him, and she could not think good and evil at the same time. She had longed for some word from him since she last saw him, and now she had got a word. She had known that he was close to his fair cousin, the cousin whom she despised and whom, with womanly instinct, she had almost regarded as a rival. But to her the man had spoken out, and though he was far away from her, living close to the fair cousin, she would not allow a thought of trouble on that score to annoy her. He was her own, and let Lizzie Eustace do her worst, he would remain her own. But she had longed to be told that he was thinking of her, and at last the letter had come. She answered it that same night with the sweetest, prettiest little letter, very short, full of love and full of confidence. Lady Fawn, she said, was the dearest of women. But what was Lady Fawn to her, or all the Fawns, compared with her lover? If he could come to Richmond without disturbance to himself, let him come. But if he felt that, in the present unhappy condition of affairs between him and Lord Fawn, it was better that he should stay away, she had not a word to say in the way of urging him. To see him would be a great delight. But had she not the greater delight of knowing that he loved her, that was quite enough to make her happy. Then there was a little prayer that God might bless him, and an assurance that she was in all things his own, own Lucy. When she was writing her letter, she was in all respects a happy girl. But on the very next day there came a cloud upon her happiness, not at the least, however, affecting her full confidence in her lover. It was a Saturday and Lord Fawn came down to Richmond. Lord Fawn had seen Mr. Greystock in London on that day, and the interview had been by no means pleasant to him. The Under Secretary of State for India was as dark as a November day when he reached his mother's house. And there fell upon everyone the unintermittent cold drizzling shower of his displeasure from the moment in which he entered the house. There was never much reticence among the ladies at Richmond in Lucy's presence, and since the completion of Lucy's unfortunate visit to Fawn Court, they had not hesitated to express open opinions at first to the prospects of the proposed bride. Lucy herself could say but little in defence of her old friend, who had last all claimed upon that friendship since the offer of the bribe had been made, so that it was understood among them all that Lucy was to be regarded as a black sheep. But hitherto Lord Fawn himself had concealed his feelings before Lucy. Now, unfortunately, he spoke out, and in speaking was especially bitter against Frank. Mr. Greystock has been most insolent, he said, as they were all sitting together in the library after dinner. Lady Fawn made a sign to him and shook her head. Lucy felt the hot blood fly into both her cheeks, but at the moment she did not speak. Lydia Fawn put out her hand beneath the table and took hold of Lucy's. We must all remember that he is her cousin, said Augusta. His relationship to Lady Eustis cannot justify un-gentleman-like impertinence to me, said Lord Fawn. He has dared to use words to me which would make it necessary that I should call him out, only, Frederick, you shall do nothing of the kind, said Lady Fawn, jumping up from her chair. Oh, Frederick, pray, pray don't, said Augusta, springing on to her brother's shoulder. I am sure that Frederick does not mean that, said Amelia. Only that nobody does call anybody out now, added the Pacific Lord. But nothing on earth shall ever induce me to speak again to a man who is so little like a gentleman. Lydia now held Lucy's hand still tighter as though to prevent her from rising. He has never forgiven me, continued Lord Fawn, because he was so ridiculously wrong about the saw-ab. I am sure that had nothing to do with it, said Lucy. Miss Morris, I shall venture to hold my own opinion, said Lord Fawn. And I shall hold mine, said Lucy bravely. The saw-ab of my guab had nothing to do with what Mr. Graystock may have said or done about his cousin. I am quite sure of it. Lucy, you are forgetting yourself, said Lady Fawn. Lucy, dear, you shouldn't contradict my brother, said Augusta. Take my advice, Lucy, and let it pass, said Amelia. How can I hear such things and not notice them? demanded Lucy. Why does Lord Fawn say them when I am by? Lord Fawn had now condescended to be full of wrath against his mother's governess. I suppose I may express my own opinion, Miss Morris, in my mother's house. And I shall express mine, said Lucy. Mr. Graystock is a gentleman. If you say that he is not a gentleman, it is not true. Upon hearing these terrible words spoken, Lord Fawn rose from his seat, and slowly left the room. Augusta followed him, with both her arms stretched out. Lady Fawn covered her face with her hands, and even Amelia was dismayed. Oh, Lucy, why could you not hold your tongue? said Lydia. I won't hold my tongue, said Lucy, bursting into tears. He is a gentleman. Then there was great commotion at Fawn Court. After a few moments Lady Fawn followed her son without having said a word to Lucy, and Amelia went with her. Poor Lucy was left with the younger girls, and was no doubt very unhappy. But she was still indignant, and would yield nothing. When Georgina, the fourth daughter, pointed out to her that, in accordance with all rules of good breeding, she should have abstained from asserting that her brother had spoken in untruth. She blazed up again. It was untrue, she said. But Lucy, people never accuse each other of untruth. No lady should use such a word to a gentleman. He should not have said so. He knows that Mr. Graystock is more to me than all the world. If I had a lover, said Nina, and anybody were to say a word against him, I know I'd fly at them. I don't know why Frederick is to have it all his own way. Nina, you're a fool, said Diana. I do think it was very hard for Lucy to bear, said Lydia. And I won't bear it, exclaimed Lucy, to think that Mr. Graystock should be so mean as to bear malice without a thing like that wild Indian because he takes his own cousin's part. Of course I'd better go away. You all think that Mr. Graystock is an enemy now, but he never can be an enemy to me. We think that Lady Eustis is an enemy, said Cecilia, and a very nasty enemy too. I did not say a word about Lady Eustis, said Lucy. But Mr. Graystock is a gentleman. About an hour after this Lady Fawn sent for Lucy, and the two were closeted together for a long time. Lord Fawn was very angry and had hitherto altogether declined to overlook the insult offered. I am bound to tell you, declared Lady Fawn with much emphasis, that nothing can justify you in having accused Lord Fawn of telling an untruth. Of course I was sorry that Mr. Graystock's name should have been mentioned in your presence, but as it was mentioned you should have borne what was said with patience. I couldn't be patient, Lady Fawn. That is what wicked people say when they commit murder and they are hung for it. I'll go away, Lady Fawn. That is ungrateful, my dear. You know I don't wish you to go away, but if you behave badly, of course I must tell you. I'd sooner go away. Everybody here thinks ill of Mr. Graystock. But I don't think ill of Mr. Graystock, and I never shall. Why did Lord Fawn say such very hard things about him? It was suggested to her that she should be downstairs early the next morning and apologize to Lord Fawn for her rudeness. But she would not, on that night, undertake to do any such thing. Let Lady Fawn say what she might. Lucy thought that the injury had been done to her, and not to his lordship. And so they parted hardly friends. Lady Fawn gave her no kiss as she went, and Lucy, with obstinate pride, all together refused to own her fault. She would only say that she had better go. And when Lady Fawn over and over again pointed out to her that the last thing that such a one as Lord Fawn could bear was to be accused of an untruth, she would continue to say that in that case he should be careful to say nothing that was untrue. All this was very dreadful, and created great confusion and unhappiness of Fawn court. Lydia came to her room that night, and the two girls talked the matter over for hours. In the morning Lucy was up early, and found Lord Fawn walking the grounds. She had been told that he would probably be found walking the grounds, if she were willing to tender to him any apology. Her mind had been very full of the subject, not only in reference to her lover, but as it regarded her own conduct. One of the elder Fawn girls had assured her that under no circumstances could a lady be justified in telling a gentleman that he had spoken an untruth, and she was not quite sure, but that the law so laid down was right. And then she could not but remember that the gentleman in question was Lord Fawn, and that she was Lady Fawn's governess. But Mr. Greystock was her affianced lover, and her first duty was to him. And then, granting that she herself had been wrong in accusing Lord Fawn of untruth, she could not refrain from asking herself whether he had not been much more wrong in saying in her hearing that Mr. Greystock was not a gentleman. And his offence had preceded her offence and had caused it. She hardly knew whether she did or did not own apology to Lord Fawn, but she was quite sure that Lord Fawn owed an apology to her. She walked straight up to Lord Fawn and met him beneath the trees. He was still black and solemn and was evidently brooding over his grievance, but he bowed to her and stood still as she approached him. My lord, said she, I am very sorry for what happened last night. And so was I very sorry, Miss Morris. I think you know that I am engaged to bury Mr. Greystock. I cannot allow that that has anything to do with it. When you think that he must be dearer to me than all the world, you will acknowledge that I couldn't hear hard things said about him without speaking. His face became blacker than ever, but he made no reply. He wanted an abject begging of unconditional pardon from the little girl who loved his enemy. If that were done, he would vouchsafe his forgiveness. But he was too small by nature to grant it on other terms. Of course, continued Lucy, I am bound to treat you with special respect in Lady Fawn's house. She looked almost beseechingly into his face as she paused for a moment. But you treated me with a special disrespect, said Lord Fawn. And how did you treat me, Lord Fawn? Miss Morris, I must be allowed in discussing matters with my mother to express my own opinions in such language as I may think fit to use. Mr. Greystock's conduct to me was all together most un-gentlemanlike. Mr. Greystock is a gentleman. His conduct was most offensive and most un-gentlemanlike. Mr. Greystock disgraced himself. It isn't true, said Lucy. Lord Fawn gave one start and then walked off to the house as quick as his legs could carry him. End of Chapter 27