 CHAPTER 71 Early on Wednesday morning, two or three hours before the time fixed for Lizzie's visit to Mr. Camperdown, her cousin Frank came to call upon her. She presumed him to be altogether ignorant of all that Major Macintosh had known, and therefore endeavored to receive him as though her heart were light. "'Oh, Frank,' she said, "'you have heard of our terrible misfortune here.' "'I have heard so much,' said he gravely, that I hardly know what to believe and what not to believe.' "'I mean about Miss Roanoke's marriage.' "'Oh, yes, I have been told that it is broken off.' Then Lizzie, with affected eagerness, gave him a description of the whole affair, declaring how horrible, how tragic the thing had been from its very commencement. "'Don't you remember, Frank, down at Portray? They never really cared for each other. They became engaged the very time you were there.' "'I have not forgotten it.' "'The truth is, Lucinda Roanoke did not understand what real love means. She had never taught herself to comprehend what is the very essence of love. And as for Sir Griffin to it, though he was anxious to marry her, he never had any idea of love at all. Did not you always feel that, Frank?' "'I'm sorry you have had so much to do with them, Lizzie.' "'There's no help for spilt milk, Frank. And as for that, I don't suppose that Mrs. Carbunkle can do me any harm. The man is a bare-knit, and the marriage would have been respectable. Mrs. Roanoke has been eccentric, and that has been the long and the short of it. What will be done, Frank, with all the presents that were bought?' "'I haven't an idea. They'd better be sold to pay the bills. But I come to you, Lizzie, about another piece of business.' "'What piece of business?' she asked, looking him in the face for a moment, trying to be bold, but trembling as she did so. She had believed him to be ignorant of her story, but she had soon perceived, from his manner to her, that he knew it all, or, at least, that he knew so much that she would have to tell him all the rest. There could be no longer any secret with him. Indeed, there could be no longer any secret with anybody. She must be prepared to encounter a world accurately informed, as to every detail of the business which, for the last three months, had been to her a burden so oppressive, that at some periods she had sunk altogether under the weight. She had already endeavored to realize her position, and to make clear to herself the condition of her future life. Lord Dord had talked to her of perjury and prison, and had tried to frighten her by making the very worst of her faults. According to him she would certainly be made to pay for the diamonds, and would be enabled to do so by saving her income during a long term of incarceration. This was a terrible prospect of things, and she had almost believed in it. Then the Major had come to her. The Major, she thought, was the truest gentleman she had ever seen, and her best friend. Ah, if it had not been for the wife and seven children, there might still have been comfort. That which had been perjury with Lord George, had by the Major been so simply and yet so correctly called an incorrect version of facts. And so it was, and no more than that. Fizzy, in defending herself to herself, felt that, though cruel magistrates and hard-hearted lawyers and pig-headed jurymen might call her little fault by the name of perjury, it could not be real wicked perjury, because the diamonds had been her own. She had defrauded nobody, had wished to defraud nobody, if only the people would have left her alone. It had suited her to give an incorrect version of facts, because people had troubled themselves about her affairs. And now all this had come upon her. The Major had comforted her very greatly, but still, what would the world say, even he, kind and comfortable as he had been, had made her understand that she must go into court and confess the incorrectness of her own version. She believed every word the Major said. Ah, there was a man worthy to be believed, a man of men. They could not take away her income or her castle. They could not make her pay for the diamonds. But still, what would the world say, and what would her lovers say? What one of her lovers thought proper to say, she had already heard. Lord George had spoken out, and had made himself very disagreeable. Lord Fawn, she knew, would withdraw the renewal of his offer, let her answer to him be what it might. But what would Frank say? And now Frank was with her, looking into her face with severe eyes. She was more than ever convinced that her life of a widow was not suited for her, and that among her several lovers, she must settle her wealth and her heart upon some special lover. Neither her wealth nor her heart would be in any way injured by the confession which she was prepared to make. But then men are so timid, so false, and so blind. In regard to Frank, whom she now believed that she had loved, with all the warmth of her young affections, from the first moment in which she had seen him after Sir Florian's death, she had been at great trouble to clear the way for him. She knew of his silly engagement to Lucy Morris, and was willing to forgive him that offence. She knew that he could not marry Lucy because of her pennilessness and his indebtedness, and therefore she had taken the trouble to see Lucy with the view of making things straight on that side. Lucy had, of course, been rough with her, and ill-mannered, but Lizzie thought that upon the whole she had succeeded. Lucy was rough and ill-mannered, but was, at the same time, what the world calls good, and would hardly persevere after what had been said to her. Lizzie was sure that, a month since, her cousin would have yielded himself to her willingly, if he could only have freed himself from Lucy Morris. But now, just in this very nick of time which was so momentous to her, the police had succeeded in unraveling her secret, and there sat Frank, looking at her with stern, ill-natured eyes, like an enemy rather than a lover. What piece of business! she asked in answer to his question. She must be bold, if she could. She must brazen it out with him, if only she could be strong enough to put on her brass in his presence. He had been so stupidly chivalrous in believing all her stories about the robbery, when nobody else had quite believed them, that she felt that she had, before her, a task that was very disagreeable and very difficult. She looked up at him, struggling to be bold, and then her glance sank before his gaze and fell upon the floor. "'I do not at all wish to pry into your secrets,' he said. "'Secrets from him!' some such exclamation was on her lips, when she remembered that her special business, at the present moment, was to acknowledge a secret which had been kept from him. "'It is unkind of you to speak to me in that way,' she said. "'I am quite an earnest. I do not wish to pry into your secrets, but I hear rumors which seem to be substantiated. And though, of course, I could stay away from you, oh, whatever happens, pray, pray, do not stay away from me. Where am I to look for advice if you stay away from me?' "'That is all very well, Lizzie. Oh, Frank, if you desert me, I am undone.' "'It is, of course, true, that some of the police have been with you lately?' Major Macintosh was here, about the end of last week, a most kind man, altogether a gentleman, and I was so glad to see him. What made him come? What made him come? How should she tell her story?' "'Oh, he came, of course, about the robbery. They had found out everything. It was the jeweler, Benjamin, who concocted it all. That harrots-like girl I had, patience-crab-stick, put him up to it. And there were two regular housebreakers. They had found it all out at last. So I hear. And Major Macintosh came to tell me about it. But the diamonds are gone?' "'Oh, yes. Those weary, weary diamonds. Do you know, Frank, that, though they were my own, as much as the coat you wear is your own, I am glad they are gone. I am glad that the police have not found them. They tormented me so, that I hated them. Do you remember that I told you how I longed to throw them into the sea, and to be rid of them for ever? That, of course, was a joke. It was no joke, Frank. It was solemn, serious truth. What I want to know is, where were they stolen?' That, of course, was the question which hitherto Lizzie Eustace had answered with an incorrect version of facts, and now she must give the true version. She tried to put a bold face upon it, but it was very difficult. A face bold with brass she could not assume. Perhaps a little bit of acting might serve her turn, and a face that should be tender rather than bold. "'Oh, Frank!' she exclaimed, bursting out into tears. "'I always suppose that they were taken at Carlisle,' said Frank. Lizzie fell on her knees at his feet, with her hands clasped together, and her one long lock of hair hanging down so as to touch his arm. Her eyes were bright with tears, but were not as yet wet and red with weeping. Was not this confession enough? Was he so hard-hearted as to make her tell her own disgrace in spoken words? Of course he knew well enough now, when the diamonds had been stolen. If he were possessed of any tenderness, any tact, any manliness, he would go on presuming that question to have been answered. "'I don't quite understand at all,' he said, laying his hand softly upon her shoulder. "'I have been led to make so many statements to other people which now seem to have been incorrect. It was only the box that was taken at Carlisle? Only the box?' She could answer that question. "'But the thieves thought that the diamonds were in the box?' "'I suppose so, but oh Frank, don't cross-question me about it. If you could know what I have suffered, you would not punish me any more. I have got to go to Mr. Camperdowns this very day. I offered to do that at once, and I shan't have strength to go through with it, if you are not kind to me now. Dear, dear Frank, do be kind to me.' And he was kind to her. He lifted her up to the sofa, and did not ask her another question about the necklace. Of course she had lied to him and to all the world. From the very commencement of his intimacy with her, he had known that she was a liar, and what else could he have expected but lies? As it happened, this particular lie had been very big, very efficacious, and the cause of boundless troubles. It had been wholly unnecessary, and from the first, though injurious to many, more injurious to her than to any other. He himself had been injured, but it seemed to him now that she had absolutely ruined herself. And all this had been done for nothing. Had been done, as he thought, that Mr. Camperdown might be kept in the dark, whereas all the light in the world would have assisted Mr. Camperdown nothing. He brought to mind, as he stood over her, all those scenes which she had so successfully performed in his presence since she had come to London, scenes in which the robbery in Carlyle had been discussed between them. She had, on these occasions, freely expressed her opinion about the necklace, saying in a low whisper, with a pretty little shrug of her shoulders, that she presumed it to be impossible that Lord George should have been concerned in the robbery. Frank had felt, as she said so, that some suspicion was intended by her to be attached to Lord George. She had wondered whether Mr. Camperdown had known anything about it. She had hoped that Lord Fawn would now be satisfied. She had been quite convinced that Mr. Benjamin had the diamonds. She had been indignant that the police had not traced the property. She had asked in another whisper, a very low whisper indeed, whether it was possible that Mrs. Carbunkle should know more about it than she was pleased to tell, and all that while the necklace had been lying in her own desk, and she had put it there with her own hands. It was marvelous to him that the woman could have been so false and have sustained her falsehood so well, and this was his cousin, his well-beloved, as a cousin, certainly well-beloved. And there had doubtless been times in which he had thought that he would make her his wife. He could not but smile as he stood looking at her, contemplating all the confusion which she had caused, and thinking how very little the disclosure of her iniquity seemed to confound herself. Oh Frank, do not laugh at me, she said. I am not laughing, Lizzy. I am only wondering. And now, Frank, what had I better do? Ah, that is difficult, is it not? You see, I hardly know all the truth yet. I do not want to know more. But how can I advise you? I thought you knew everything. I don't suppose anybody can do anything to you. Major Macintosh says that nobody can. He quite understands that they were my own property, and that I had a right to keep them in my desk if I pleased. Why was I to tell everybody where they were? Of course I was foolish, and now they are lost. It is I that have suffered. Major Macintosh quite understands that, and says that nobody can do anything to me. Finally I must go to Mr. Camperdown. You will have to be examined again, before a magistrate. Yes, I suppose I must be examined. You will go with me, Frank, won't you? He winced and made no immediate reply. I don't mean to Mr. Camperdown, but before the magistrate, will it not be in a court? I suppose so. The gentleman came here before. Couldn't he come here again? Then he explained to her the difference of her present position, and in doing so he did say something of her iniquity. He made her understand that the magistrate had gone out of his way at the last inquiry, believing her to be a lady who had been grievously wronged, and one therefore to whom much consideration was due. And I have been grievously wronged," said Lizzie. But now she would be required to tell the truth in opposition to the false evidence which she had formally given, and she would herself be exempted from prosecution for perjury only on the ground that she would be called on to criminate herself in giving evidence against criminals whose crimes had been deeper than her own. I suppose they can't quite eat me, she said, smiling through her tears. No, they won't eat you, he replied gravely. And you will go with me? Yes, I suppose I had better do so. Ah, that will be so nice. The idea of the scene at the police court was not at all nice to Frank Greystock. I shall not mind what they say to me as long as you are by my side. Everybody will know that they were my own, won't they? And there will be a trial afterwards. Another trial? Then he explained to her the course of affairs that the men might not improbably be tried at Carlisle for stealing the box, and again in London for stealing the diamonds, that two distinct acts of burglary had been committed, and that her evidence would be required on both occasions. He told her also that her attendance before the magistrate on Friday would only be a preliminary ceremony, and that, before the thing was over, she would, doubtless, be doomed to bear a great deal of annoyance, and to answer very many disagreeable questions. I shall care for nothing if you will only be at my side, she exclaimed. He was very urgent with her to go to Scotland as soon as her examination before the magistrates should be over, and was much astonished at the excuse she made for not doing so. Mrs. Carbunkle had borrowed all her ready money, but as she was now in Mrs. Carbunkle's house she would repay herself a portion of the loan by remaining there and eating it out. She did not exactly say how much Mrs. Carbunkle had borrowed, but she left an impression on Frank's mind that it was about ten times the actual sum. With this excuse he was not satisfied and told her that she must go to Scotland if only for the sake of escaping from the Carbunkle connection. She promised to obey him if he would be her convoy. The Easter holidays were just now at hand, and he could not refuse on the plea of time. Oh, Frank, do not refuse me this! Only think how terribly forlorn is my position. He did not refuse, but he did not quite promise. He would still tender hearted towards her in spite of her enormities. One iniquity, perhaps her worst iniquity, he did not yet know. He had not as yet heard of her disinterested appeal to Lucy Morris. When he left her she was almost joyous for a few minutes, till the thought of her coming interview with Mr. Camperdown again overshadowed her. She had dreaded two things, chiefly. Her first interview with her cousin Frank after he should have learnt the truth, and those perils in regard to perjury with which Lord George had threatened her. Both these bug-bearers had now vanished. That dear man, the Major, had told her that there would be no such perils, and her cousin Frank had not seemed to think so very much of her lies and treachery. He had still been affectionate with her. He would support her before the magistrate, and would travel with her to Scotland. And after that, who could tell what might come next? How foolish she had been to trouble herself as she had done, almost to choke herself with an agony of fear, because she had feared detection. Now she was detected, and would come of it. That great officer of justice, Major Macintosh, had been almost more than civil to her. And her dear cousin Frank was still a cousin, dear as ever. People, after all, did not think so very much of perjury, of perjury such as hers, committed in regard to one's own property. It was that odious Lord George who had frightened her instead of comforting, as he would have done had there been a spark of the true Corsair poet free about him. She did not feel comfortably confident as to what might be said of her by Lady Glencora and the Duke of Omnium, but she was almost inclined to think that Lady Glencora would support her. Lady Glencora was no poor mealy-mouthed thing, but a woman of the world who understood what was what. Lizzie no doubt wished that the trials and examinations were over. But her money was safe. They could not take away Portray, nor could they rob her of four thousand a year. As for the rest, she could live it down. She had ordered the carriage to take her to Mr. Kempredown's chambers, and now she dressed herself for the occasion. He should not be made to think, at any rate, by her outside appearance, that she was ashamed of herself. But before she started she had just a word with Mrs. Carbunkle. I think I shall go down to Scotland on Saturday, she said, proclaiming her news not in the most gracious manner. That is, if they let you go, said Mrs. Carbunkle. What do you mean? Who is to prevent me? The police. I know all about it, Lady Eustis, and you need not look like that. Lord George informs me that you will probably be locked up to-day or to-morrow. Lord George is a storyteller. I don't believe he ever said so, and if he did he knows nothing about it. He ought to know, considering all that you have made him suffer, that you should have gone on with the necklace in your own box all the time, letting people think that he had taken it, and accepting his attentions all the while is what I cannot understand. And, however, you were able to look those people at Carlyle in the face, passes me. Of course, Lady Eustis, you can't stay here after what has occurred. I shall stay just as long as I like, Mrs. Carbunkle. Poor dear Lucinda, I do not wonder that she should be driven beyond herself by so horrible a story. The feeling that she had been living all this time in the same house with the woman who had deceived all the police, all the police, has been too much for her. I know it has been almost too much for me. And yet, as Lizzie at once understood, Mrs. Carbunkle knew nothing now which she had not known when she made her petition to be taken to Portray. And this was the woman, too, who had borrowed her money last week, whom she had entertained for months at Portray, and who had pretended to be her bosom friend. You are quite right in getting off to Scotland as soon as possible, if they will let you go, continued Mrs. Carbunkle. Of course you could not stay here. Up to Friday night it can be permitted. But the servants had better wait upon you in your own rooms. How dare you talk to me in that way! screamed Lizzie. When a woman has committed perjury, said Mrs. Carbunkle, holding up both her hands in awe and grief, nothing too bad can possibly be said to her. You are amenable to the outraged laws of the country, and it is my belief that they can keep you upon the treadmill and bread and water for months and months, if not for years. Having pronounced this terrible sentence, Mrs. Carbunkle stalked out of the room, that they can sequester your property for your creditors, I know, she said, returning for a moment and putting her head within the door. The carriage was ready, and it was time for Lizzie to start if she intended to keep her appointment with Mr. Camperdown. She was much flustered and weakened by Mrs. Carbunkle's ill usage, and had difficulty in restraining herself from tears. And yet what the woman had said was false from beginning to end. The maid who was the successor of the patient's crab-stick was to accompany her, and as she passed through the hall, she so far recovered herself as to be able to conceal her dismay from the servants. CHAPTER 72 Lizzie Triumphs Reports had, of course, reached Mr. Camperdown of the true story of the Eustace Diamonds. He had learned that the Jew-Jeweler had made a determined set at them, having in the first place hired housebreakers to steal them at Carlyle, and having again hired the same housebreakers to steal them from the house in Hertford Street, as soon as he knew that Lady Eustace had herself secreted them. By degrees this information had reached him, but not in a manner to induce him to declare himself satisfied with the truth. But now Lady Eustace was coming to him, as he presumed, to confess everything. When he first heard that the Diamonds had been stolen at Carlyle, he was eager with Mr. Eustace in contending that the widow's liability in regard to the property was not at all the less because she had managed to lose it through her own pig-headed obstinacy. He consulted his trusted friend, Mr. Dove, on the occasion making out another case for the barrister, and Mr. Dove had opined that if it would be first proved that the Diamonds were the property of the estate and not of Lady Eustace, and afterwards proved that they had been stolen through her latches, then could the Eustace estate recover the value from her estate? As she had carried the Diamonds about with her in an absurd manner, her responsibility might probably be established. But the non-existence of ownership by her must be first declared by a vice-chancellor, with probability of appeal to the Lord's justices and to the House of Lords. A bill and chancery must be filed in the first place to have the question of ownership settled. And then, should the estate be at length declared the owner, restitution of the property which had been lost through the Lady's fault must be sought at the common law. That had been the opinion of the turtle Dove, and Mr. Camperdown had at once submitted to the law of his great legal mentor. But John Eustace had positively declared when he had heard it, that no more money should be thrown away in looking after property which would require two lawsuits to establish, and which, when established, might not be recovered. How can we make her pay ten thousand pounds? She might die first, said John Eustace. And Mr. Camperdown had been forced to yield. Then came the second robbery, and gradually there was spread about a report that the diamonds had been in Hertford Street all the time, that they had not been taken at Carlisle, but certainly had been stolen at last. Mr. Camperdown was again in a fever, and again had recourse to Mr. Dove and to John Eustace. He learned from the police all that they would tell him, and now the whole truth was to be divulged to him by the chief culprit herself. For to the mind of Mr. Camperdown, the two housebreakers, and Patience Crabstick, and even Mr. Benjamin himself, were white as snow compared with the blackness of Lady Eustace. In his estimation no punishment could be too great for her, and yet he began to understand that she would escape scot-free. Her evidence would be needed to convict the thieves, and she could not be prosecuted for perjury when once she had been asked for her evidence. After all she had only told a fib about her own property, said the turtle dove. About property not her own, replied Mr. Camperdown stoutly. Her own, till the contrary shall be proved. Her own, for all purposes of defense before a jury, if she were prosecuted now, were she tried for the perjury, your attempt to obtain possession of the diamonds would be all so much in her favour. With infinite regrets Mr. Camperdown began to perceive that nothing could be done to her. But she was to come to him and let him know from her own lips, facts of which nothing more than rumour had yet reached him. He had commenced his bill in chancery, and had hitherto stayed proceeding simply because it had been reported, falsely as it now appeared, that the diamonds had been stolen at Carlisle. Major Macintosh, in his desire to use Liz's evidence against the thieves, had recommended her to tell the truth openly to those who claimed the property on behalf of her husband's estate, and now, for the first time in her life, this odious woman was to visit him in his own chambers. He did not think it expedient to receive her alone. He consulted his mentor Mr. Dove and his client John Eustis, and the latter consented to be present. It was suggested to Mr. Dove that he might, on so peculiar an occasion as this, venture to depart from the established rule, and visit the attorney on his own quarter-deck. But he smiled, and explained that, though he was altogether superior to any such prejudice as that, and would not object at all to call on his friend Mr. Camperdown, could any good effect arise from his doing so, he considered that, were he to be present on this occasion, he would simply assist in embarrassing the poor lady. On this very morning, while Mrs. Carbunkle was abusing Lizzie in Hertford Street, John Eustis and Mr. Camperdown were in Mr. Dove's chambers, wither they had gone to tell him of the coming interview. The turtle Dove was sitting back in his chair, with his head leaning forward as though it were going to drop from his neck, and the two visitors were listening to his words. "'Be merciful,' I should say,' suggested the barrister. John Eustis was clearly of opinion that they ought to be merciful. Mr. Camperdown did not look merciful. What can you get by harassing the poor, weak, ignorant creature?' continued Mr. Dove. She has hankered after her bobble, and has told falsehoods in her efforts to keep it. Have you never heard of older persons, and more learned persons, and persons nearer to ourselves, who have done the same? At that moment there was presumed to be great rivalry, not unaccompanied by intrigue. Among certain leaders of the learned profession, with reference to various positions of high honor and emolument, vacant or expected to be vacant. A Lord Chancellor was about to resign, and a Lord Justice had died. Whether a somewhat unpopular attorney general should be forced to satisfy himself with the one place, or allowed to wait for the other, had been debated in all the newspapers. It was agreed that there was a middle course in reference to a certain second-class chief justice-ship, only that the present second-class chief justice objected to shelving himself. There existed considerable jealousy, and some statements had been made, which were not, perhaps, strictly founded on fact. It was understood, both by the attorney and by the Member of Parliament, that the turtledove was referring to these circumstances when he spoke of bobbles and falsehoods, and of learned persons near to themselves. He himself had hankered after no bobble, but, as is the case with many men and women, who are free from such hankerings, he was hardly free from that dash of malice, which the possession of such things in the hands of others is so prone to excite. Spare her, said Mr. Dove. There is no longer any material question as to the property, which seems to be gone irrecoverably. It is upon the whole, well for the world, that property so fictitious as diamonds, should be subject to the risk of such annihilation. As far as we are concerned, the property is annihilated, and I would not harass the poor, ignorant young creature. As Eustace and the attorney walked across from the old to the new square, the former declared that he quite agreed with Mr. Dove. In the first place, Mr. Camperdown, she is my brother's widow. Mr. Camperdown would sorrow admit it the fact, and she is the mother of the head of our family. It should not be for us to degrade her, but rather to protect her from degradation, if that be possible. I heartily wish she had got her merits before your poor brother ever saw her, said Mr. Camperdown. Lisey in her fears had been very punctual, and when the two gentlemen reached the door leading up to Mr. Camperdown's chambers, the carriage was already standing there. Lisey had come up the stairs, and had been delighted at hearing that Mr. Camperdown was out, and would be back in a moment. She instantly resolved that it did not become her to wait. She had kept her appointment, had not found Mr. Camperdown at home, and would be off as fast as her carriage-wheels could take her. But, unfortunately, while, with the gentle murmur, she was explaining to the clerk how impossible it was that she should wait for a lawyer who did not keep his own appointment, John Eustis and Mr. Camperdown appeared upon the landing, and she was at once convoyed into the attorney's particular room. Lisey, who always dressed well, was now attired as became a lady of rank, who had four thousand a year, and was the intimate friend of Lady Glencora Palliser. When last she saw Mr. Camperdown, she had been arrayed for a long, dusty summer journey down to Scotland, and neither by her outside garniture nor by her manner had she then been able to exact much admiration. She had been taken by surprise in the street, and was frightened. Now, in difficulty though she was, she resolved that she would hold up her head and be very brave. She was a little taken aback when she saw her brother-in-law, but she strove hard to carry herself with confidence. Ah, John, she said, I did not expect to find you with Mr. Camperdown. I thought at best that I should be here, as a friend, he said. It makes it much pleasanter for me, of course, said Lisey. I am not quite sure that Mr. Camperdown will allow me to regard him as a friend. You have never had any reason to regard me as your enemy, Lady Eustace, said Mr. Camperdown. Will you take a seat? I understand that you wish to state the circumstances under which the Eustace family diamonds were stolen while they were in your hands. My own diamonds, Mr. Camperdown. I cannot admit that for a moment, my lady. What does it signify? said Eustace. The wretched stones are gone for ever, and whether they were of right the property of my sister-in-law or of her son cannot matter now. Mr. Camperdown was irritated and shook his head. It cut him to the heart that everybody should take the part of that wicked, fraudulent woman who had caused him such infinite trouble. Lisey saw her opportunity, and was bolder than ever. You will never get me to acknowledge that they were not my own, she said. My husband gave them to me, and I know that they were my own. They have been stolen at any rate, said the lawyer. Yes, they have been stolen. And now, will you tell us how? Lisey looked around upon her brother-in-law, and sighed. She had never yet told the story in all its nakedness, although it had been three or four times extracted from her by admission. She paused, hoping that questions might be asked her which she could answer by easy monosyllables. But not a word was uttered to help her. I suppose you know all about it, she said at last. I know nothing about it, said Mr. Camperdown. We heard that your jewel-case was taken out of your room at Carlyle and broken open, said Eustace. So it was. They broke into my room in the dead of night when I was in bed, fast asleep, and took the case away. When the morning came, everybody rushed into my room, and I was so frightened that I did not know what I was doing. How would your daughter bear it, if two men cut away the locks and got into her bedroom when she was asleep? You don't think about that at all. And where was the necklace? asked Eustace. Lizzie remembered that her friend the Major had especially advised her to tell the whole truth to Mr. Camperdown, suggesting that by doing so she would go far towards saving herself from any prosecution. It was under my pillow, she whispered. And why did you not tell the magistrate that it had been under your pillow? Mr. Camperdown's voice, as he put to her this vital question, was severe and almost justified the little burst of sobs which came forth as a prelude to Lizzie's answer. I did not know what I was doing. I don't know what you expect from me. You had been persecuting me ever since Sir Florian's death about the diamonds, and I didn't know what I was to do. They were my own, and I thought I was not obliged to tell everybody where I kept them. There are things which nobody tells. If I were to ask you all your secrets, would you tell them? When Sir Walter Scott was asked whether he wrote the novels, he didn't tell. He was not upon his oath, Lady Eustace. He did take his oath ever so many times. I don't know what difference an oath makes. People ain't obliged to tell their secrets, and I wouldn't tell mine. The difference is this, Lady Eustace, that if you give false evidence upon oath, you commit perjury. How was I to think of that when I was so frightened and confused that I didn't know where I was or what I was doing? There, now I have told you everything. Not quite everything. The diamonds were not stolen at Carlisle, but they were stolen afterwards. Did you tell the police what you had lost, or the magistrate, after the robbery at Hertford Street? Yes, I did. There was some money taken, and the rings, and other jewellery. Did you tell them that the diamonds had been really stolen on that occasion? They never asked me, Mr. Camperdown. "'It is all as clear as a pike-staff, John,' said the lawyer. "'Quite clear, I should say,' replied Mr. Eustace. "'And I suppose I may go,' said Lizzie, rising from her chair. There was no reason why she should not go, and indeed, now that the interview was over, there did not seem to be any reason why she should have come. Though they had hurt so much from her own mouth, they knew no more than they had known before. The great mystery had been elucidated, and Lizzie Eustace had been found to be the intriguing villain. But it was not quite clear, even to Mr. Camperdown, that nothing could be done to her. He had never really thought that it would be expedient that she should be prosecuted for perjury. And he now found that she must go utterly scadeless, although, by her obstinacy and dishonesty, she had inflicted so great a loss on the distinguished family which had taken her to its bosom. "'I have no reason for wishing to detain you, Lady Eustace,' he said. If I were to talk for ever, I should not, probably, make you understand the extent of the injury you have done, or teach you to look in a proper light at the position in which you have placed yourself and all those who belong to you. When your husband died, good advice was given you, and given, I think, in a very kind way. You would not listen to it, and you see the result.' "'I ain't a bit ashamed of anything,' said Lizzie. "'I suppose not,' rejoined Mr. Camperdown. "'Good-bye, John.' And Lizzie put out her hand to her brother-in-law. "'Good-bye, Lizzie. Mr. Camperdown, I have the honour to wish you good morning.' And Lizzie made a low curtsy to the lawyer, and was then attended to her carriage by the lawyer's clerk. She had certainly come forth from the interview without fresh wounds. "'The barrister, who will have the cross-examining of her at the central criminal court,' said Mr. Camperdown, as soon as the door was closed behind her, will have a job of work on his hands. There's nothing a pretty woman can't do when she has got rid of all sense of shame.' "'She is a very great woman,' said John Eustace, a very great woman. And if the sex could have its rights, would make an excellent lawyer.' In the meantime Lizzie Eustace returned home to Hertford Street in triumph.' For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Lizzie's interview with the lawyer took place on the Wednesday afternoon, and on her return to Hertford Street she found a note from Mrs. Carbunkle. "'I have made arrangements for dining out today, and shall not return till after ten. I will do the same to-morrow, and on every day till you leave town, and you can breakfast in your own room. Of course you will carry out your plan for leaving this house on Monday. After what has passed I shall prefer not to meet you again, J.C.' And this was written by a woman who, but a few days since, had borrowed a hundred fifty pounds from her, and who at this moment had in her hands fifty pounds worth of silver plate supposed to have been giving to Lucinda, and which clearly ought to have been returned to the donor when Lucinda's marriage was post-poned, as the newspapers had said. Lucinda at this time had left the house in Hertford Street, but Lizzie had not been informed whether she had been taken. She could not apply to Lucinda for restitution of the silver, which was, in fact, held at the moment by the Albemarle Street hotel-keeper as part security for his debt, and she was quite sure that any application to Mrs. Carbunkle for either the silver or the debt would be unavailing. But she might perhaps cause annoyance by a letter, and could at any rate return insult for insult. She therefore wrote to her late friend, Ma'am, I am certainly not desirous of continuing an acquaintance into which I was led by false representations, and in the course of which I have been almost absurdly hospitable to persons altogether unworthy of my kindness. You and your niece, and your special friend Lord George Caruthers, and that unfortunate young man, your niece's lover, were entertained at my country-house as my guests for some months. I am here in my own right by arrangement, and as I pay more than a proper share of the expense of the establishment, I shall stay as long as I please and go when I please. In the meantime, as we are about to part, certainly for ever, I must beg you at once to repay me the sum of one hundred fifty pounds, which you have borrowed from me, and I must also insist on your letting me have back the present of silver which was prepared for your niece's marriage. That you should retain it as a perquisite for yourself cannot for a moment be thought of, however convenient it might be to yourself. Yours, etc. Eustis. As far as the application for restitution went, or indeed in regard to the insult, she might as well have written to a milestone. Mrs. Carbunkle was much too strong and had fought her battle with the world much too long to regard such word pelting as that. She paid no attention to the note, and as she had come to terms with the agent of the house by which she was to evacuate it on the following Monday, a fact which was communicated to Lizzie by the servant, she did not much regard Lizzie's threat to remain there. She knew moreover the arrangements were already being made for the journey to Scotland. Lizzie had come back from the attorney's chambers in Triumph, and had been triumphant when she wrote her note to Mrs. Carbunkle, but her elation was considerably repressed by a short notice which she read in the fashionable evening paper of the day. She always took the fashionable evening paper, and had taught herself to think that life without it was impossible. But on this afternoon she quarreled with that fashionable evening paper for ever. The popular and well-informed organ of intelligence and question informed its readers that the usedest diamonds, etc., etc. In fact, it told the whole story, and then expressed a hope that, as the matter had from the commencement been one of great interest to the public, who had sympathized with Lady Eustace deeply as to the loss of her diamonds, Lady Eustace would be able to explain that part of her conduct which certainly at present was quite unintelligible. Lizzie threw the paper from her with indignation, asking what right newspaper scribblers could have to interfere with the private affairs of such persons as herself. But on this evening the question of her answer to Lord Fawn was the one which most interested her. Lord Fawn had taken long in the writing of this letter, and she was justified in taking what time she pleased in answering it. But for her own sake it had better be answered quickly. She had tried her hand at two different replies, and did not at all doubt but what she would send the affirmative answer if she were sure that these latter discoveries would not alter Lord Fawn's decision. Lord Fawn had distinctly told her that if she pleased he would marry her. She would please, having been much troubled by the circumstances of the past six months. But then was it not almost a certainty that Lord Fawn would retreat from his offer on learning the facts which were now so well known as to have been related in the public papers? She thought that she would take one more night to think of it. Alas! she took one night too many. On the next morning while she was still in bed, a letter was brought to her from Lord Fawn, dated from his club the preceding evening. Lord Fawn presents his compliments to Lady Eustace. Lady Eustace will be kind enough to understand that Lord Fawn received altogether from the proposition made by him in his letter to Lady Eustace dated March 28th last. Should Lady Eustace think proper to call and question the propriety of this decision on the part of Lord Fawn, she had better refer the question to some friend, and Lord Fawn will do the same. Lord Fawn thinks it best to express his determination under no circumstances to communicate again personally with Lady Eustace on this subject, or as far as he can see it present on any other. The letter was a blow to her, although she had felt quite certain that Lord Fawn would have no difficulty in escaping from her hands as soon as the story of the diamond should be made public. It was a blow to her, although she had assured herself a dozen times that the marriage with such a one as Lord Fawn, a man who had not a grain of poetry in his composition, would make her unutterably wretched. What escape would her heart have had from itself in such a union? This question she had asked herself over and over again, and there had been no answer to it. But then why had she not been beforehand with Lord Fawn? Why had she not rejected his second offer with the scorn which such an offer had deserved? Ah, there was her misfortune, there was her fault. But with Eustace, when she could not do a thing which it was desirable that she should be known to have done, the next consideration was whether she could not so arrange as to have seen to have done it. The arrival of Lord Fawn's note, just as she was about to write to him, was unfortunate. But she would still write to him, and date her letter before the time that his was dated. He probably would not believe her date. She hardly ever expected to be really believed by anybody. But he would have to read what she wrote, and writing on this pretense she would avoid the necessity of alluding to his last letter. Neither of the notes which she had by her quite suited the occasion. So she wrote a third. The former letter in which she declined his offer was, she thought, very charmingly insolent, and the allusion to his lordship's scullion would have been successful had it been sent on the moment. But now a graver letter was required, and the graver letter was as follows. Hartford Street, Wednesday, April 3. The date it will be observed, was the day previous to the morning on which she had received Lord Fawn's last very conclusive note. My Lord! I have taken a week to answer the letter which your lordship has done me the honour of writing to me, because I have thought it best to have time for consideration in a matter of such importance. In this I have copied your lordship's official caution. I think I have never read a letter so false, so unmanly, and so cowardly, as that which you have found yourself capable of sending to me. You became engaged to me when, as I admit with shame, I did not know your character. You have since repudiated me and vilified my name, simply because, having found that I had enemies, and being afraid to face them, you wished to escape from your engagement. It has been cowardice from the beginning to the end. Your whole conduct to me has been one long unprovoked insult, studiously concocted, because you have feared that there might possibly be some trouble for you to encounter. Nobody ever heard of anything so mean, either in novels or in real life. And now you again offer to marry me, because you are again afraid. You think you'll be thrashed, I suppose, if you decline to keep your engagement, and feel that if you offer to go on with it, my friends cannot beat you. You need not be afraid. No earthly consideration would induce me to be your wife. And if any friend of mine should look at you as though he meant to punish you, you can show him this letter and make him understand that it is I who have refused to be your wife, and not you who have refused to be my husband. Eustis. This epistle Lizzie did send, believing that she could add nothing to its insolence, let her study it as she might. And she thought, as she read it for the fifth time, that it sounded as though it had been written before her receipt of the final note from himself, and that it would therefore irritate him the more. This was to be the last week of her sojourn in town, and then she was to go down and bury herself at Portray, with no other companionship than that of the faithful McNulty, who had been left in Scotland for the last three months as nurse-in-chief to the little air. She must go and give her evidence before the Magistrate on Friday, as to which she had already received an odious slip of paper, but Frank would accompany her. Other misfortunes had passed off so lightly that she hardly dreaded this. She did not understand why she was to be so banished and thought much on the subject. She had submitted herself to Frank's advice when first she had begun to fear that her troubles would be unsuperable. Her troubles were now disappearing, and, as for Frank, Frank was frank to her that she should obey him. Nevertheless, her trunks were being already packed, and she knew that she must go. He was to accompany her on her journey, and she would still have one more chance with him. As she was thinking of all this, Mr. Amelius the clergyman was announced. In her loneliness she was delighted to receive any visitor, and she knew that Mr. Amelius would be at least courteous to her. When he had seated himself, he had once began to talk about the misfortune of the unaccomplished marriage, and in a very low voice hinted that from the beginning to end there had been something wrong. He had always feared that an alliance based on a footing that was so openly pecuniary—he declared that the word pecuniary expressed his meaning better than any other epitaph—could not lead to matrimonial happiness. We all know, said he, that our dear friend Mrs. Carbogel had views of her own quite distinct from her niece's happiness. I have the greatest possible respect for Mrs. Carbogel, and I may say esteem, that it is impossible to live long in any degree of intimacy with Mrs. Carbogel without seeing that she is—mercenary. Mercenary, indeed, she is, said Lizzie. You have observed it? Oh, yes, it is so, and it casts the shadow of her character which otherwise is so much to charm. She is the most insolent and the most ungrateful woman that I ever heard of, explained Lizzie with energy. Mr. Amelius opened his eyes, but did not contradict her assertion. As you have mentioned her name, Mr. Amelius, I must tell you, I have done everything for that woman. You know how I treated her down in Scotland. With splendid hospitality, said Mr. Amelius, of course she did not pay for anything here. Oh, no! The idea of anyone being called upon to pay for what one ate and drank at a friend's house was peculiarly painful to Mr. Amelius. And I paid for everything here. That is to say, we have made an arrangement very much in her favour, and she has borrowed large sums of money from me. I am not at all surprised at that, Mr. Amelius. And when that unfortunate girl, her niece, was to be married to poor Sir Griffin Tewitt, I gave her a whole service of plate. What unparalleled generosity! Would you believe she has taken the whole for her own base purposes? And then what do you think she has done? My dear lady used us hardly anything would astonish me. Lizzie suddenly found a difficulty in describing to her friend the fact that Mrs. Carmichael was endeavouring to turn her out of the house without also alluding to her own troubles about the robbery. She has actually told me, she continued, that I must leave the house without a day's warning. But I believe the truth is that she has run so much into debt that she cannot remain. I know that she is very much in debt, Lady Eustace. But she owed me some civility. Instead of that, she has treated me with nothing but insolence. And why do you think it is all because I would not allow her to take that poor insane young woman to Portrait Castle? You don't mean that she asked to go there. She did, though. I never heard such impertence in my life. Never! said Mr. Amelius, again opening his eyes and shaking his head. She proposed that I should ask them both down to Portrait, for, for, of course, it would have been almost forever. I don't know how I should have got rid of them. And that poor young woman is mad, you know, quite mad. She never recovered herself after that morning. Oh, what I have suffered about that unhappy marriage and the cruel, cruel way in which Mrs. Carmichael urged it on. Mr. Amelius, you can't conceive the scenes which have been acted in this house during the last month. It has been dreadful. I wouldn't go through such a thing again for anything that could be offered to me. It is maybe so ill that I am obliged to go down to Scotland to recruit my house. I heard you were going to Scotland, and I wish to have an opportunity of saying just a word to you in private before you go. Mr. Amelius had thought a good deal about this interview and had prepared himself for considerable care. He knew, with tolerable accuracy, the whole story of the necklace, being disgusted with Mrs. Carmichael, who, as the reader well remember, had been told the tale by Lord George. He was aware of the engagement with Lord Fawn, and of the growing intimacy which had existed between Lord George and Lizzie. He had been watchful, diligent, patient, and had at last become hopeful. When he learned that his beloved was about to start for Scotland, he felt that it would be well that he should strike a blow before she went. Asked to a journey down to Ayrshire, that would be nothing to one so enamoured as was Mr. Amelius, and he would not scruple to show himself at the castle door without invitation. Whatever may have been his deficiencies, Mr. Amelius did not lack the courage needed to carry such an enterprise as this to a happy conclusion. As far as pluck and courage might serve a man, he was well served by his own gifts. He could, without a blush or a quiver in his voice, have asked a duchess to marry him, with ten times Lizzie's income. He had now considered deeply whether, with a view of prevailing, it would be better that he should allude to the lay's trespasses in regard to the diamonds, or that he should pretend to be an ignorance, and he had determined that ultimate success might, with most probability, be achieved by a bold declaration of the truth. I know how desperately you must be in want of someone to help you through your troubles, and I know also that your grand lovers will avoid you because of what you have done, and therefore you had better take me at once. Take me, and I'll bring you through everything. Refuse me, and I'll help to crush you. Such were the arguments which Mr. Amelius had determined to use, and such the language, of course, with some modifications. He was now commencing his work, and was quite resolved to leave no stone unturned in carrying it to a successful issue. He drew his chair nearer to Lizzie, as he announced his desire for a private interview, and leaned over towards her with his two hands closed together between his knees. He was a dark hooky-nosed, well-made man, with an exuberance of greasy hair, who would have been considered handsome by many women had there not been something almost amounting to a squint amiss with one of his eyes. When he was preaching it could hardly be seen, but in the closeness of private conversation it was disagreeable. "'Oh, indeed,' said Lizzie, with a look of astonishment perfectly well-assumed, she had already begun to consider whether, after all, Mr. Amelius would do. "'Yes, Lady Eustace, it is so. You and I have known each other now for many months, and I have received the most unaffected pleasure from the acquaintance. May I not say from the intimacy which has sprung up between us?' Lizzie did not forbid the use of the pleasant word, but merely bowed. "'I think that, as a devoted friend and a clergyman, I shall not be thought to be intruding on private ground in saying that circumstances have made me aware of the details of the robberies, by which you have been so cruelly persecuted.' So the man had come about the diamonds, and not to make an offer. Lizzie raised her eyebrows and bowed her head in the slightest possible motion. I do not know how far your friends or the public may condemn you, but my friends don't condemn me at all, sir. I am so glad to hear it. Nobody has dared to condemn me, except this impudent woman here, who wants an excuse for not paying me what she owes me. I am delighted, I was going to explain, that although I am aware you have infringed the letter of the law, and made yourself liable to proceedings which may perhaps be unpleasant, I hate liable to anything unpleasant at all, Mr. Amelius. Then my mind is greatly relieved. I was about to remark, having heard in the outer world that there were those who ventured to accuse you of... of perjury. Nobody has dared to accuse me of anything. What makes you come here and say such things?' Ah, Lady Eustis, it is because these calamities are spoken so openly behind your back. Who speaks them? Mrs. Carbmurkel, and Lord George Caruthers, my enemies. Mr. Amelius was beginning to feel that he was not making progress. I was on the point of observing to you that according to the view of the matter which I, as a clergyman, have taken, you were altogether justified in the steps which you took for the protection of property which was your own, but which had been attacked by designing persons. Of course I was justified, as soon as he... You know best, Lady Eustis, whether any assistance I can offer will avail you anything. I don't want any assistance, Mr. Amelius. Thank you. I certainly have been given to understand that they who ought to stand by you with the closest devotion have, in this period of what I may perhaps call tribulation, deserted your side with cold selfishness. But there isn't any tribulation, and nobody has deserted my side. I was told that Lord Faun... Lord Faun is an idiot. Quite so, no doubt. And I have deserted him. I wrote to him this very morning an answer to a pressing letter from him to renew our engagement, to tell him that it was out of the question. I despise Lord Faun, and my heart never can be given where my respect does not accompany it. A noble sentiment, Lady Eustis, which I reciprocate completely. And now, to come to what I may call the inner purpate of my visit to you this morning, the sweet calls of my attendance on you, let me assure you that I should not now offer you my heart, unless with my heart went the most perfect respect and esteem which any man ever felt for a woman. Mr. Amelius had found the necessity of coming to the point by some direct road, as the lady had refused to allow him to lead up to it in the manner he had proposed to himself. He still thought that what he had said might be efficacious, as he did not for a moment believe her assertions as to her own friends and the non-existence for any trouble as to the odes which he had falsely sworn. But she carried the matter with a better courage than he had expected to find, and drove him out of his intended line of approach. He had, however, seized his opportunity without losing much time. What on earth do you mean, Mr. Amelius, she said? I mean to lay my heart, my hand, my fortunes, my profession, my career at your feet. I make bold to say of myself that I have, by my own, unaided eloquence and intelligence, worn for myself a great position in this swarming metropolis. Lady Eustace, I know your great rank. I feel your transcendent beauty ah, too acutely. I have been told that you are rich. But I, myself, who venture to approach you as a suitor for your hand, am also somebody in the world. The blood that runs in my veins is as illustrious as your own, having descended to me from the great and ancient nobles of my native country. The profession which I have adopted is the grandest which ever filled the heart of man with aspirations. I have barely turned my thirty-second year, and I am known as the greatest preacher of my day, though I preach in a language which is not my own. Your house of lords would be open to me as a spiritual peer would I condescend to come to terms with those who crave the assistance which I could give them. I can move the masses. I can touch the hearts of men. And in this greatest assemblage of mankind which you call London, I can choose my own society among the highest of land. Lady Eustace, will you share with me my career and my fortunes? I ask you, because you are the only woman whom my heart has stooped to love. The man was a nasty, greasy, lying, squinting Jew preacher, an imposter over forty years of age, whose greatest social success had been achieved when, through the agency of Mrs. Carmichael, he made his way into Portray Castle. He was about as near an English mitre as had been that great man, a past generation, the deputy shepherd. He was a creature to loathe, because he was greasy and a liar and an imposter. But there was a certain manliness in him. He was not afraid of the woman, and in pleading his cause with her he could stand up for himself courageously. He had studied his speech, and having studied it he knew how to utter the words. He did not blush, nor stammer, nor cringe. Of grandfather or grandmother belonging to himself he had probably never heard, but he could so speak of his noble ancestors as to produce belief in Lizzie's mind. And he almost exceeded in convincing her that he was, by the consent of mankind, the greatest preacher of the day. While he was making his speech she almost liked his squint. She certainly liked the grease and nastiness, presuming, as she naturally did, that something of what he said was false. She liked the lies. There was a dash of poetry about him, and poetry, as she thought, was not compatible with humdrum truth. A man, to be a man in her eyes, should be able to swear that all his geese are swans, should be able to reckon his swans by the dozen, though he have not a feather belonging to him, even from a goose's wing. She liked his audacity, and then, when he was making love, he was not afraid of talking out boldly about his heart. Nevertheless, he was only Mr. Amelius the clergyman, and she had means of knowing that his income was not generous. Though she admired his manner in his language, she was quite aware that he was in pursuit of her money, and from the moment in which she first understood his object she was resolved that she would never become the wife of Mr. Amelius as long as there was a hope as to Frank Graystock. I was told, Mr. Amelius, she said, that sometimes since he used to have a wife. It was a falsehood, Lady Eustis. From motors of pure charity I gave a home to a distant cousin. I was then in a land of strangers, and my life was misinterpreted. I made no complaint, but sent the lady back to her native country. My compassion could supply her wants there as well as here. Then you still support her? Mr. Amelius bethought himself for a moment. There might be danger in asserting that he was subject to such an encumbrance. I did do so, he answered, till she found a congenial home as the wife of an honest man. Oh, indeed, I'm quite glad to hear that. And now, Lady Eustis, may I venture to hope for a favourable answer? Upon this Lizzie made him a speech, as long and almost as well turned as his own. Her heart had, of late, been subject to many visitudes. She had lost the dearest husband that a woman had ever worshipped. She had ventured, for purposes with reference to her child, which he could not now explain, to think once again of matrimony with a man of high rank, but who had turned out to be unworthy of her. She receded, Lizzie, as she said this, acted the part of proceeding with a fine expression of scornful face, and after that she was unwilling to entertain any further idea of marriage. Upon hearing this, Mr. Amelius, bad low, and before the street door was closed against him, had begun to calculate how much a journey to Scotland would cost him. The Eustis Diamonds, by Anthony Trollop, Chapter 74, Lizzie at the police court. 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 Bethany Simpson. On the Wednesday and Thursday, Lizzie had been triumphant, for she had certainly come out unscathed from Mr. Camperdown's chambers, and a lady may surely be said to triumph when a gentleman lays his hand, his heart, his fortunes, and all that he has got at her feet. But when the Friday came, though she was determined to be brave, her heart did sink within her bosom. She understood well that she would be called upon to admit in public the falseness of the oaths she had sworn upon two occasions, and that though she would not be made amenable to any absolute punishment for her perjury, she would be subject to very damaging remarks from the magistrate. And probably also from some lawyers employed to defend the prisoners. She went to bed in fairly good spirits, but in the morning she was cowed and unhappy. She dressed herself from head to foot in black, and prepared for herself a heavy black veil. She had ordered from the livery stable a browam for the occasion, thinking it wise to avoid the display of her own carriage. She breakfasted early, and then took a large glass of wine to support her. When Frank called for her at a quarter to ten, she was quite ready, and grasped his hand almost without a word. But she looked into his face with her eyes filled with tears. It will soon be over, he said. She pressed his hand and made him a sign to show that she was ready to follow him to the door. The case will come on at once, he said, so that you will not be kept waiting. Oh, you are so good, so good to me. She pressed his arm and did not speak another word on their way to the police court. There was a great crowd about the office, which was in a little by street, and so circumstance that Lizzie's browam could hardly make its way to the door. But Wei was at once made for her when Frank handed her out of it, and the policemen about the place were as courteous to her as though she had been the Lord Chancellor's wife. Evil doing will be spoken of with bated breath and soft words even by policemen when the evil doer comes in a carriage and with a title. Lizzie was led at once into a private room and told that she would be kept there only a very few minutes. Frank made his way into the court and found the two magistrates had just seated themselves on the bench. One would have sufficed for the occasion, but this was a case of great interest, and even police magistrates are human in their interests. Graystock was allowed to get round to the bench and to whisper a word or two to the gentleman who was to preside. The magistrate nodded his head, and then the case began. The unfortunate Mr. Benjamin had been sent back in Durant's Veal from Vienna, and was present in the court. With him as joint malefactor stood Mr. Smiler, the great housekeeper, a huge, ugly, resolute-looking scoundrel, possessed of enormous strength, who was very intimately known to the police with whom he had had various dealings since he had been turned out upon the town to earn his bread some 15 years before. Indeed, long before that he had known the police. As far as his memory went back he had always known them, but the sportive industry of his boyish years was not now counted up against him. In the last 15 years his biography had been written with all the accuracy due to the achievements of a great man, and during those 180 months he had spent over 100 in prison and had been convicted 23 times. He was now growing old as a thief, and it was thought by his friends that he would be settled for life in some quiet retreat. Mr. Benjamin was a very respectable-looking man of about 50, with slightly grizzled hair, with excellent black clothes, showing by a surprised air his great astonishment at finding himself in such a position. He spoke constantly both to his attorney and to the barrister, who was about to show cause why he should not be committed, and throughout the whole morning was very busy. Smiler, who was quite at home and who understood his position, never said a word to anyone. He stood perfectly straight, looking at the magistrate, and never for a moment leaning on the rail before him during the four hours that the case consumed. Once when his friend Billy Kahn was brought into court to give evidence against him, dressed up to the eyes serene and sleek as when we saw him once before at the rising sun in Meek Street, Smiler turned a glance upon him, which to the eyes of all present contained a threat of most bloody revenge. But Billy knew the advantages of his situation, and nodded at his old comrade and smiled. His old comrade was very much stronger than he, and possessed of many natural advantages. But perhaps upon the whole his old comrade had been the less intelligent thief of the two. It was thus that the bystanders read the meaning of Billy's smile. The case was opened very shortly, and very clearly by the gentleman who was employed for the prosecution. It would all, he said, have laid in a nutshell, had it not been complicated by a previous robbery at Carlisle. Were it necessary, he said, there would be no difficulty in convicting the prisoners for that offense also, but it had been thought advisable to confine the prosecution to the act of burglary committed at Hertford Street. He stated the facts of what had happened at Carlisle, merely for explanation, but would state nothing that could not be proved. Then he told all the reader knows about the iron box, but the diamonds were not then in the box, and he told that story also, treating Lizzie with great tenderness as he did so. Lizzie, all this time, was sitting behind her veil in the private room and did not hear a word of what was going on. Then he came to the robbery in Hertford Street. He would prove by Lady Eustis that the diamonds were left by her in a locked desk, were so deposited, though all her friends believed them to have been taken at Carlisle, and he would moreover prove by accomplices that they were stolen by two men, the younger prisoner at the bar being one of them, and the witness who would be adduced the other, that they were given up by these men to the elder prisoner, and that a certain sum had been paid by him for the execution of the two robberies. There was much more of it, but to the reader who knows all, it would be but a thrice-told tale. He then said that he first proposed to take the evidence of Lady Eustis, the lady who had been in possession of the diamonds when they were stolen. Then Frank Graystock left the court and returned with poor Lizzie on his arm. She was handed to a chair, and after she was sworn was told that she might sit down, but she was requested to remove her veil, which she had replaced as soon as she had kissed the book. The first question asked her was very easy. Did she remember the night at Carlisle? Would she tell the story of what occurred on that night? When the box was stolen, were the diamonds in it? No, she had taken the diamonds out for security and had kept them under her pillow. Then came a bitter moment, in which she had to confess her perjury before the Carlisle bench. But even that seemed to pass off smoothly. The magistrate asked one severe question. Do you mean to say, Lady Eustis, that you gave false evidence on that occasion, knowing it to be false? I was in such a state, sir, from fear, that I did not know what I was saying, exclaimed Lizzie, bursting into tears and stretching forth towards the bench her two clasped hands with the air of a supplient. From that moment the magistrate was all together on her side, and so were the public, poor, ignorant, ill-used young creature, and then so lovely. That was the general feeling. But she had not as yet accompanied the hero of the learned gentleman on the other side, whose best talents were due to Mr. Benjamin. Then she told all she knew about the other robbery. She certainly had not said, when examined on that occasion, that the diamonds had then been taken. She had admitted to name the diamonds in her catalogue of the things stolen, but she was sure that she had never said that they were not taken then. She had said nothing about the diamonds, knowing them to be her own, and preferring to lose them to the trouble of again referring to the night at Carlisle. Such was her evidence for the prosecution. And then she was turned over to the very learned and very acute gentleman, whom Mr. Benjamin had hired for his defense, or rather to show cause why he should not be sent for trial. It must be owned that poor Lizzie did receive from his hands some of that punishment which she certainly deserved. This acute and learned gentleman seemed to possess for the occasion the blandest and most dulcet voice that ever was bestowed upon an English barrister. He addressed Lady Eustace with the softest words, as though he hardly dared to speak to a woman so eminent for wealth, rank, and beauty. But nevertheless, he asked her some very disagreeable questions. Was he to understand that she went of her very own will before the bench of magistrates at Carlisle with the view of enabling the police to capture certain persons for stealing certain jewels, while she knew that the jewels were actually in her own possession? Lizzie, confounded by the softness of his voice as joined to the harshness of the question, could hardly understand him, and he repeated it thrice, becoming every time more and more mellifluous. Yes, said Lizzie at last. Yes, he asked. Yes, said Lizzie. Your ladyship did send the Cumberland police after men for stealing jewels which were in your ladyship's own hands when you swore the information. Yes, said Lizzie. And your ladyship knew that the information was untrue. Yes, said Lizzie. And the police were pursuing the men for many weeks. Yes, said Lizzie. On your information? Yes, said Lizzie, through her tears. And your ladyship knew all the time that the poor men were altogether innocent of taking the jewels. But they took the box, said Lizzie, through her tears. Yes, said the acute and learned gentleman. Somebody took your ladyship's iron box out of the room and you swore that the diamonds had been taken. Was it not the fact that legal proceedings were being taken against you for recovery of the diamonds by persons who claimed the property? Yes, said Lizzie. And these persons withdrew their proceedings as soon as they heard that the diamonds had been stolen. Soft as he was in his manner he nearly reduced Lizzie's use just to fainting. It seemed to her that the questions would never end. It was in vain that the magistrate pointed out to the learned gentleman that Lady Eustace had confessed her own false swearing both at Carlyle and in London a dozen times. He continued his questions over and over again, harping chiefly on the affair at Carlyle and saying very little as to the second robbery in Hertford Street. His idea was to make it appear that Lizzie had arranged the robbery with the view of defrauding Mr. Camperdown and that Lord George Carothers was her accomplice. He even asked her, almost in a whisper, and with the sweetest smile, whether she was not engaged to marry Lord George. When Lizzie denied this, he still suggested that some such alliance might be in contemplation. Upon this, Frank Greystock called upon the magistrate to defend Lady Eustace from such unnecessary vulgarity. And there was a scene in the court. Lizzie did not like the scene, but it helped protect her from the contemplation of the public, who of course were much gratified by high words between two barristers. Lady Eustace was forced to remain in the private room during the examination of patients' crab stick and Mr. Cam, and she did not hear it. Patience was a most obdurate and difficult witness, extremely averse to say evil things of herself, and on that account, unworthy of the good things which she had received. But Billy Cam was charming, graceful, communicative, and absolutely accurate. There was no shaking him. The learned and acute gentleman who tried to tear him in pieces could do nothing with him. He was asked whether he had not been a professional thief for 10 years. 10 or 12, he said. Did he expect that any juryman would believe him on his oath? Not unless I'm fully corroborated. Can you look that man in the face? That man who is at any rate so much honester than yourself, asked the learned gentleman with pathos? Billy said he thought he could, and the way in which he smiled upon Smiler caused a roar through the whole court. The two men were, as a matter of course, committed for trial at the central criminal court, and Lizzie Eustace was bound by certain penalties to come forward when called upon and give her evidence again. I'm glad that's all over, said Frank, as he left her at Mrs. Carbunkle's hall door. Oh, Frank, dearest Frank, where should I be if it were not for you? End of Chapter 74 The Eustace Diamonds by Anthony Trollop Chapter 75 Lord George Gives His Reasons 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 Bethany Simpson Lady Eustace did not leave the house during the Saturday and Sunday, and engaged herself exclusively with preparing for her journey. She had no further interview with Mrs. Carbunkle, but there were messages between them and even notes were written. They resulted in nothing. Lizzie was desirous of getting back the spoons and forks and, if possible, some of her money. The spoons and forks were out of Mrs. Carbunkle's power in Abimoral Street, and the money had, of course, been spent. Lizzie might have saved herself the trouble had it not been that it was a pleasure to her to insult her late friend, even though in doing so new insults were heaped upon her own head. As for the Trumpery Spoons, they, so said Mrs. Carbunkle, were the property of Ms. Roanoke, having been made over to her unconditionally long before the wedding as a part of a separate pecuniary transaction. Mrs. Carbunkle had no power of disposing of Ms. Roanoke's property. As to the money which Lady Eustace claimed, Mrs. Carbunkle asserted that when the final accounts should be made up between them, it would be found that there was a considerable balance due to Mrs. Carbunkle. But even were there anything due to Lady Eustace, Mrs. Carbunkle would decline to pay it, as she was informed that all monies possessed by Lady Eustace were now confiscated to the Crown by reason of the perjuries. The word was doubly scored in Mrs. Carbunkle's note, which Lady Eustace had committed. This, of course, was unpleasant. But Mrs. Carbunkle did not have the honors of the battle all to herself. Lizzie also said some unpleasant things, which perhaps were the more unpleasant because they were true. Mrs. Carbunkle had come pretty nearly to the end of her career, whereas Lizzie's income, in spite of her perjuries, was comparatively untouched. The undoubted mistress of Portray Castle and mother of Sir Florian Eustace of the day could still despise and look down upon Mrs. Carbunkle, although she were known to have told fibs about the family diamonds. Lord Eustace always came to Hertford Street on a Sunday, and Lady Eustace left word for him with the servant that she would be glad to see him before her journey into Scotland. Goes, tomorrow does she, said Lord George to the servant. Well, I'll see her. And he was shown up to her room before she went to Mrs. Carbunkle. Lizzie in sending to him had had some half-formed idea of a romantic farewell. The man, she thought, had behaved very badly to her, had accepted very much from her hands, and had refused to give her anything in return, had become the first depository of her great secret, and had placed no mutual confidence in her. He had been harsh to her and unjust, and then, too, he had declined to be in love with her. She was full of spite against Lord George and would have been glad to injure him. But, nevertheless, there would be some excitement in a farewell in which some mock affection might be displayed, and she would have an opportunity of abusing Mrs. Carbunkle. So you're off tomorrow, said Lord George, taking his place on the rug before her fire and looking down at her with his head a little on one side. Lizzie's anger against the man chiefly arose from a feeling that he treated her with all a corsair's freedom without any of a corsair's tenderness. She could have forgiven the want of deferential manner, had there been any devotion. But Lord George was both impudent and indifferent. Yes, she said, thank goodness I shall get out of this frightful place tomorrow and soon have once more a roof of my own over my head. What an experience I've had since I've been here. We have all had an experience, said Lord George, still looking at her with that half-comic turn of his face, almost as though he were investigating some curious animal of which so remarkable a specimen had never come before under his notice. No woman ever intended to show a more disinterested friendship than I have done. And what has been my return? You mean to me disinterested friendship to me? And Lord George tapped his breast lightly with his fingers. His head was still a little on one side, and there was still the smile upon his face. I was alluding particularly to Mrs. Carbunkle. Lady Eustace, I cannot take charge of Mrs. Carbunkle's friendships. I have enough to do to look after my own. If you have any complaint to make against me, I will at least listen to it. God knows I do not want to make complaints, said Lizzie, covering her face with her hands. They don't do much good, do they? It's better to take people as you find them, and then make the best of them. They're a queer lot, ain't they, the sort of people one meets about in the world? I don't know what you mean by that, Lord George. Just what you were saying when you talked of your experiences, these experiences do surprise one. I've knocked about the world a great deal, and would have almost said that nothing would surprise me. You are no more than a child to me, but you have surprised me. I hope I've not injured you, Lord George. Do you remember how you rode to Hounds the day your cousin took that other man's horse? That surprised me. Oh, Lord George, that was the happiest day of my life. How little happiness there is for people. And when Tuit got that girl to say she'd marry him, the coolness with which you bore all the abomination of it in your house, for people who were nothing to you, that surprised me. I meant to be so kind to you all. And when I found that you always traveled with ten thousand pounds worth of diamonds in a box, that surprised me very much. I thought that you were a very dangerous companion. Pray don't talk about the horrid necklace. Then came the robbery, and you seemed to lose your diamonds without being at all unhappy about them. Of course, we understand that now. On hearing this, Lizzie smiled but did not say a word. Then I perceived that I, I was supposed to be the thief. You, you yourself, couldn't have suspected me of taking the diamonds because, because you'd got them. You know, all safe in your pocket. But you might as well own the truth now. Didn't you think that it was I who stole the box? I wish it had been you, said Lizzie, laughing. All that surprised me. The police were watching me every day as a cat watches a mouse and thought that they surely had got the thief when they found that I had dealings with Benjamin. Well, you, you were laughing at me in your sleeve all the time. Not laughing, Lord George. Yes, you were. You had got the kernel yourself and thought that I had taken all the trouble to crack the nut and had found myself with nothing but the shell. Then when you found you couldn't eat the kernel, that you couldn't get rid of the swag without assistance, you came to me to help you. I began to think them that you were too many for all of us. By Jove, I did. Then I heard of that second robbery. And of course, I thought you had managed that, too. Oh, no, said Lizzie. Unfortunately, you didn't, but I thought you did. And you thought that I had done it. Mr. Benjamin was too clever for us both. And now he's going to have penal servitude for the rest of his life. I wonder who will be the better of it all. Who will have the diamonds at last? I do not care in the least. I hate the diamonds. Of course, I would not give them up because they were my own. The end of it seems to be that you have lost your property and sworn ever so many false oaths, and have brought all your friends into trouble and have got nothing by it. What was the good of being so clever? You need not come here to tease me, Lord George. I came here because you sent for me. There's my poor friend, Mrs. Carbunkle, declares that all her credit is destroyed and her niece unable to marry and her house taken away from her all because of her connection with you. Oh, Mrs. Carbunkle is... Oh, Lord George, don't you know what she is? I know that Mrs. Carbunkle is in a very bad way and that that girl has gone crazy and that poor Griff has taken himself off to Japan and that I am so knocked about that I don't know where to go. And somehow it seems all to have come from your little maneuvers. You see, we have all of us been made remarkable, haven't we? You're always remarkable, Lord George. And it's all you're doing. To be sure you've lost your diamonds for your pains. I wouldn't mind it so much if anybody were the better for it. I shouldn't have begrudged even Benjamin the Pole if he'd got it. He stood there, still looking down upon her, speaking with a sarcastic subrice of tone, and as she felt intending to be severe to her, she had sent for him and now she didn't know what to say to him. Though she believed that she hated him, she would have liked to get up some show of an affectionate farewell, some scene in which there might have been tears and tenderness and poetry and perhaps a parting caress. But with his jeering words and sneering face, he was as hard to her as a rock. He was now silent, but still looking down upon her as he stood motionless upon the rug, so that she was compelled to speak again. I sent for you, Lord George, because I did not like the idea of parting with you forever without one word of adieu. You're going to tear yourself away, are you? I'm going to portray on Monday. And never coming back anymore. You'll be up here before the season is over with 50 more wonderful schemes in your little head. So Lord Fawn is done with, is he? I have told Lord Fawn that nothing shall induce me ever to see him again. And cousin Frank? My cousin attends me down to Scotland. Oh, that makes it altogether another thing. He attends you down to Scotland, does he? Does Mr. Emilius go to? I believe you are trying to insult me, sir. You can't expect but what a man should be a little jealous when he has been so completely cut out himself. There was a time, you know, when even cousin Frank wasn't a better fellow than myself. Much you thought about it, Lord George. Well, I did. I thought about it a good deal, my lady. And I liked the idea of it very much. Lizzie pricked up her ears. In spite of all his harshness, could it be that he should be the Corsair still? I am a rambling, uneasy, ill-to-it sort of man. But I still thought about it. You are pretty, you know. Uncommonly pretty. Don't, Lord George. And I'll acknowledge that the income goes for much. I suppose that's real at any rate? Well, I hope so. Of course it's real. And so is the prettiness, Lord George. If there is any. I never doubted that lady used us. But when it came to my thinking that you had stolen the diamonds and you thinking that I had stolen the box, I'm not a man to stand on trifles. But by George it wouldn't do then. Who wanted it to do? Said Lizzie. Go away. You're very unkind to me. I hope I may never see you again. I believe you care more for that odious vulgar woman downstairs than you do for anybody else in the world. Ah, dear. I've known her for many years, Lizzie. And that both covers and discovers many faults. One learns to know how bad one's old friends are, but then one forgives them because they are old friends. You can't forgive me because I'm bad and only a new friend. Ah, yes I will. I forgive you all and hope that you may do well yet. If I may give you one bit of advice at parting, it is to caution you against being clever when there is nothing to get by it. I ain't clever at all, said Lizzie, beginning to whimper. Goodbye, my dear. Goodbye, said Lizzie. He took her hand in one of his, patted her on the head with the other as though she had been a child, and then he left her. End of Chapter 75