“Lady Eustace,” said the major, “I am very sorry to trouble you. No doubt the man who called on you this morning explained to you who I am.”
“Oh yes, I know who you are, — quite well.” Lizzie made a great effort to speak without betraying her consternation; but she was nearly prostrated. The major, however, hardly observed her, and was by no means at ease himself in his effort to save her from unnecessary annoyance. He was a tall, thin, gaunt man of about forty, with large, good-natured eyes; — but it was not till the interview was half over that Lizzie took courage to look even into his face.
“Just so; I am come, you know, about the robbery which took place here, — and the other robbery at Carlisle.”
“I have been so troubled about these horrid robberies! Sometimes I think they’ll be the death of me.”
“I think, Lady Eustace, we have found out the whole truth.”
“Oh, I daresay. I wonder why — you have been so long — finding it out.”
“We have had very clever people to deal with, Lady Eustace; — and I fear that, even now, we shall never get back the property.”
“I do not care about the property, sir; — although it was all my own. Nobody has lost anything but myself; and I really don’t see why the thing should not die out, as I don’t care about it. Whoever it is, they may have it now.”
“We were bound to get to the bottom of it all, if we could; and I think that we have, — at last. Perhaps, as you say, we ought to have done it sooner.”
“Oh, — I don’t care.”
“We have two persons in custody, Lady Eustace, whom we shall use as witnesses, and I am afraid we shall have to call upon you also, — as a witness.” It occurred to Lizzie that they could not lock her up in prison and make her a witness too, but she said nothing. Then the major continued his speech, — and asked her the question which was, in fact, alone material. “Of course, Lady Eustace, you are not bound to say anything to me unless you like it, — and you must understand that I by no means wish you to criminate yourself.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“If you yourself have done anything wrong, I don’t want to ask you to confess it.”
“I have had all my diamonds stolen, if you mean that. Perhaps it was wrong to have diamonds.”
“But to come to my question, — I suppose we may take it for granted that the diamonds were in your desk when the thieves made their entrance into this house, and broke the desk open, and stole the money out of it?” Lizzie breathed so hardly, that she was quite unable to speak. The man’s voice was very gentle and very kind, — but then how could she admit that one fact? All depended on that one fact. “The woman Crabstick,” said the major, “has confessed, and will state on her oath that she saw the necklace in your hands in Hertford Street, and that she saw it placed in the desk. She then gave information of this to Benjamin, — as she had before given information as to your journey up from Scotland, — and she was introduced to the two men whom she let into the house. One of them, indeed, who will also give evidence for us, she had before met at Carlisle. She then was present when the necklace was taken out of the desk. The man who opened the desk and took it out, who also cut the door at Carlisle, will give evidence to the same effect. The man who carried the necklace out of the house, and who broke open the box at Carlisle, will be tried, — as will also Benjamin, who disposed of the diamonds. I have told you the whole story, as it has been told to me by the woman Crabstick. Of course, you will deny the truth of it, if it be untrue.” Lizzie sat with her eyes fixed upon the floor, but said nothing. She could not speak. “If you will allow me, Lady Eustace, to give you advice, — really friendly advice — “
“Oh, pray do.”
“You had better admit the truth of the story, if it is true.”
“They were my own,” she whispered.
“Or, at any rate, you believed that they were. There can be no doubt, I think, as to that. No one supposes that the robbery at Carlisle was arranged on your behalf.”
“Oh, no.”
“But you had taken them out of the box before you went to bed at the inn?”
“Not then.”
“But you had taken them?”
“I did it in the morning before I started from Scotland. They frightened me by saying the box would be stolen.”
“Exactly; — and then you put them into your desk here, in this house?”
“Yes, — sir.”
“I should tell you, Lady Eustace, that I had not a doubt about this before I came here. For some time past I have thought that it must be so; and latterly the confessions of two of the accomplices have made it certain to me. One of the housebreakers and the jeweller will be tried for the felony, and I am afraid that you must undergo the annoyance of being one of the witnesses.”
“What will they do to me, Major Mackintosh?” Lizzie now for the first time looked up into his eyes, and felt that they were kind. Could he be her rock? He did not speak to her like an enemy; — and then, too, he would know better than any man alive how she might best escape from her trouble.
“They will ask you to tell the truth.”
“Indeed I will do that,” said Lizzie, — not aware that, after so many lies, it might be difficult to tell the truth.
“And you will probably be asked to repeat it, this way and that, in a manner that will be troublesome to you. You see that here in London, and at Carlisle, you have — given incorrect versions.”
“I know I have. But the necklace was my own. There was nothing dishonest; — was there, Major Mackintosh? When they came to me at Carlisle I was so confused that I hardly knew what to tell them. And when I had once — given an incorrect version, you know, I didn’t know how to go back.”
The major was not so well acquainted with Lizzie as is the reader, and he pitied her. “I can understand all that,” he said.
How much kinder he was than Lord George had been when she confessed the truth to him. Here would be a rock! And such a handsome man as he was, too, — not exactly a Corsair, as he was great in authority over the London police, — but a powerful, fine fellow, who would know what to do with swords and pistols as well as any Corsair; — and one, too, no doubt, who would understand poetry! Any such dream, however, was altogether unavailing, as the major had a wife at home and seven children. “If you will only tell me what to do, I will do it,” she said, looking up into his face with entreaty, and pressing her hands together in supplication.
Then at great length, and with much patience, he explained to her what he would have her do. He thought that, if she were summoned and used as a witness, there would be no attempt to prosecute her for the — incorrect versions — of which she had undoubtedly been guilty. The probability was, that she would receive assurance to this effect before she would be asked to give her evidence, preparatory to the committal of Benjamin and Smiler. He could not assure her that it would be so, but he had no doubt of it. In order, however, that things might be made to run as smooth as possible, he recommended her very strongly to go at once to Mr. Camperdown and make a clean breast of it to him. “The whole family should be told,” said the major, “and it will be better for you that they should know it from yourself than from us.” When she hesitated, he explained to her that the matter could no longer be kept as a secret, and that her evidence would certainly appear in the papers. He proposed that she should be summoned for that day week, — which would be the Friday after Lucinda’s marriage, and he suggested that she should go to Mr. Camperdown’s on the morrow. “What! — to-morrow?” exclaimed Lizzie, in dismay.
“My dear Lady Eustace,” said the major, “the sooner you get back into straight running, the sooner you will be comfortable.” Then she promised that she would go on the Tuesday, — the day after the marriage. “If he learns it in the meantime, you must not be surprised,” said the major.
“Tell me one thing, Major Mackintosh,” she said, as she gave him her hand at parting, — “they can’t take away
from me anything that is my own; — can they?”
“I don’t think they can,” said the major, escaping rather quickly from the room.
CHAPTER LXIX
“I Cannot Do It”
The Saturday and the Sunday Lizzie passed in outward tranquillity, though doubtless her mind was greatly disturbed. She said nothing of what had passed between her and Major Mackintosh, explaining that his visit had been made solely with the object of informing her that Mr. Benjamin was to be sent home from Vienna, but that the diamonds were gone for ever. She had, as she declared to herself, agreed with Major Mackintosh that she would not go to Mr. Camperdown till the Tuesday, — justifying her delay by her solicitude in reference to Miss Roanoke’s marriage; and therefore these two days were her own. After them would come a totally altered phase of existence. All the world would know the history of the diamonds, — cousin Frank, and Lord Fawn, and John Eustace, and Mrs. Carbuncle, and the Bobsborough people, and Lady Glencora, and that old vulturess, her aunt, the Countess of Linlithgow. It must come now; — but she had two days in which she could be quiet and think of her position. She would, she thought, send one of her letters to Lord Fawn before she went to Mr. Camperdown; — but which should she send? Or should she write a third explaining the whole matter in sweetly piteous feminine terms, and swearing that the only remaining feeling in her bosom was a devoted affection to the man who had now twice promised to be her husband?
In the meantime the preparations for the great marriage went on. Mrs. Carbuncle spent her time busily between Lucinda’s bedchamber and the banqueting hall in Albemarle Street. In spite of pecuniary difficulties the trousseau was to be a wonder; and even Lizzie was astonished at the jewellery which that indefatigable woman had collected together for a preliminary show in Hertford Street. She had spent hours at Howell and James’s, and had made marvellous bargains there and elsewhere. Things were sent for selection, of which the greater portion were to be returned, but all were kept for the show. The same things which were shown to separate friends in Hertford Street as part of the trousseau on Friday and Saturday were carried over to Albemarle Street on the Sunday, so as to add to the quasi-public exhibition of presents on the Monday. The money expended had gone very far. The most had been made of a failing credit. Every particle of friendly generosity had been so manipulated as to add to the external magnificence. And Mrs. Carbuncle had done all this without any help from Lucinda, — in the midst of most contemptuous indifference on Lucinda’s part. She could hardly be got to allow the milliners to fit the dresses to her body, and positively refused to thrust her feet into certain golden-heeled boots with brightly-bronzed toes, which were a great feature among the raiment. Nobody knew it except Mrs. Carbuncle and the maid, — even Lizzie Eustace did not know it; — but once the bride absolutely ran amuck among the finery, scattering the laces here and there, pitching the glove-boxes under the bed, chucking the golden-heeled boots into the fire-place, and exhibiting quite a tempest of fury against one of the finest shows of petticoats ever arranged with a view to the admiration and envy of female friends. But all this Mrs. Carbuncle bore, and still persevered. The thing was so nearly done now that she could endure to persevere though the provocation to abandon it was so great. She had even ceased to find fault with her niece, — but went on in silence counting the hours till the trouble should be taken off her own shoulders and placed on those of Sir Griffin. It was a great thing to her, almost more than she had expected, that neither Lucinda nor Sir Griffin should have positively declined the marriage. It was impossible that either should retreat from it now.
Luckily for Mrs. Carbuncle, Sir Griffin took delight in the show. He did this after a bearish fashion, putting his finger upon little flaws with an intelligence for which Mrs. Carbuncle had not hitherto given him credit. As to certain ornaments, he observed that the silver was plated and the gold ormolu. A “rope” of pearls he at once detected as being false, — and after fingering certain lace he turned up his nose and shook his head. Then, on the Sunday, in Albemarle Street, he pointed out to Mrs. Carbuncle sundry articles which he had seen in the bedroom on the Saturday. “But, my dear Sir Griffin, — that’s of course,” said Mrs. Carbuncle. “Oh; — that’s of course, is it?” said Sir Griffin, turning up his nose again. “Where did that Delph bowl come from?” “It is one of Mortlock’s finest Etruscan vases,” said Mrs. Carbuncle. “Oh, — I thought that Etruscan vases came from — from somewhere in Greece or Italy,” said Sir Griffin. “I declare that you are shocking,” said Mrs. Carbuncle, struggling to maintain her good humour.
He passed hours of the Sunday in Hertford Street, and Lord George also was there for some time. Lizzie, who could hardly devote her mind to the affairs of the wedding, remained alone in her own sitting-room during the greater part of the day; — but she did show herself while Lord George was there. “So I hear that Mackintosh has been here,” said Lord George.
“Yes, — he was here.”
“And what did he say?” Lizzie did not like the way in which the man looked at her, feeling it to be not only unfriendly, but absolutely cruel. It seemed to imply that he knew that her secret was about to be divulged. And what was he to her now that he should be impertinent to her? What he knew, all the world would know before the end of the week. And that other man who knew it already, had been kind to her, had said nothing about perjury, but had explained to her that what she would have to bear would be trouble, and not imprisonment and loss of money. Lord George, to whom she had been so civil, for whom she had spent money, to whom she had almost offered herself and all that she possessed, — Lord George, whom she had selected as the first repository of her secret, had spoken no word to comfort her, but had made things look worse for her than they were. Why should she submit to be questioned by Lord George? In a day or two the secret which he knew would be no secret. “Never mind what he said, Lord George,” she replied.
“Has he found it all out?”
“You had better go and ask himself,” said Lizzie. “I am sick of the subject, and I mean to have done with it.”
Lord George laughed, and Lizzie hated him for his laugh.
“I declare,” said Mrs. Carbuncle, “that you two who were such friends are always snapping at each other now.”
“The fickleness is all on her ladyship’s part, — not on mine,” said Lord George; whereupon Lady Eustace walked out of the room and was not seen again till dinner-time.
Soon afterwards Lucinda also endeavoured to escape, but to this Sir Griffin objected. Sir Griffin was in a very good humour, and bore himself like a prosperous bridegroom. “Come, Luce,” he said, “get off your high horse for a little. To-morrow, you know, you must come down altogether.”
“So much the more reason for my remaining up to-day.”
“I’ll be shot if you shall,” said Sir Griffin. “Luce, sit in my lap, and give me a kiss.”
At this moment Lord George and Mrs. Carbuncle were in the front drawing-room, and Lord George was telling her the true story as to the necklace. It must be explained on his behalf that in doing this he did not consider that he was betraying the trust reposed in him. “They know all about it in Scotland Yard,” he said; “I got it from Gager. They were bound to tell me, as up to this week past every man in the police thought that I had been the master-mind among the thieves. When I think of it I hardly know whether to laugh or cry.”
“And she had them all the time?” exclaimed Mrs. Carbuncle.
“Yes; — in this house! Did you ever hear of such a little cat? I could tell you more than that. She wanted me to take them and dispose of them.”
“No!”
“She did though; — and now see the way she treats me! Never mind. Don’t say a word to her about it till it comes out of itself. She’ll have to be arrested, no doubt.”
“Arrested!” Mrs. Carbuncle’s further exclamations were stopped by Lucinda’s struggles in the other room. She had declined to sit upon the bridegroom’s lap, but had acknowledged that she was bound
to submit to be kissed. He had kissed her, and then had striven to drag her on to his knee. But she was strong, and had resisted violently, and, as he afterwards said, had struck him savagely. “Of course I struck him,” said Lucinda.
“By ––––, you shall pay for it!” said Sir Griffin. This took place in the presence of Lord George and Mrs. Carbuncle, and yet they were to be married to-morrow.
“The idea of complaining that a girl hit you, — and the girl who is to be your wife!” said Lord George, as they walked off together.
“I know what to complain of, and what not,” said Sir Griffin. “Are you going to let me have that money?”
“No; — I am not,” said Lord George, — “so there’s an end of that.” Nevertheless, they dined together at their club afterwards, and in the evening Sir Griffin was again in Hertford Street.
This happened on the Sunday, on which day none of the ladies had gone to church. Mr. Emilius well understood the cause of their absence, and felt nothing of a parson’s anger at it. He was to marry the couple on the Monday morning, and dined with the ladies on the Sunday. He was peculiarly gracious and smiling, and spoke of the Hymeneals as though they were even more than ordinarily joyful and happy in their promise. To Lizzie he was almost affectionate, and Mrs. Carbuncle he flattered to the top of her bent. The power of the man in being sprightly under such a load of trouble as oppressed the household, was wonderful. He had to do with three women who were worldly, hard, and given entirely to evil things. Even as regarded the bride, who felt the horror of her position, so much must be in truth admitted. Though from day to day and hour to hour she would openly declare her hatred of the things around her, — yet she went on. Since she had entered upon life she had known nothing but falsehood and scheming wickedness; — and, though she rebelled against the consequences, she had not rebelled against the wickedness. Now to this unfortunate young woman and her two companions, Mr. Emilius discoursed with an unctuous mixture of celestial and terrestrial glorification, which was proof, at any rate, of great ability on his part. He told them how a good wife was a crown, or rather a chaplet of aetherial roses to her husband, and how high rank and great station in the world made such a chaplet more beautiful and more valuable. His work in the vineyard, he said, had fallen lately among the wealthy and nobly born; and though he would not say that he was entitled to take glory on that account, still he gave thanks daily in that he had been enabled to give his humble assistance towards the running of a godly life to those who, by their example, were enabled to have so wide an effect upon their poorer fellow-creatures. He knew well how difficult it was for a camel to go through the eye of a needle. They had the highest possible authority for that. But Scripture never said that the camel, — which, as he explained it, was simply a thread larger than ordinary thread, — could not go through the needle’s eye. The camel which succeeded, in spite of the difficulties attending its exalted position, would be peculiarly blessed. And he went on to suggest that the three ladies before him, one of whom was about to enter upon a new phase of life to-morrow, under auspices peculiarly propitious, were, all of them, camels of this description. Sir Griffin, when he came in, received for a while the peculiar attention of Mr. Emilius. “I think, Sir Griffin,” he commenced, “that no period of a man’s life is so blessed, as that upon which you will enter to-morrow.” This he said in a whisper, but it was a whisper audible to the ladies.
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