The Eustace Diamonds (33 page)

‘Yes, sir; he's here,' said the Turtle Dove's clerk. ‘He is talking of going away, but he won't go. He's told me I can have a week, but I don't know that I like to leave him. Mrs Dove and the children are down at Ramsgate, and he's here all night. He hadn't been out so long that when he wanted to go as far as the Temple yesterday, we couldn't find his hat.' Then the clerk opened the door, and ushered Mr Camperdown into the room. Mr Dove was the younger man by five or six years, and his hair was still black. Mr Camperdown's was nearer white than grey; but nevertheless, Mr Camperdown looked as though he were the younger man. Mr Dove was a long, thin man, with a stoop in his shoulders, with deep-set, hollow eyes, and lanthorn cheeks, and sallow complexion, with long, thin hands, who seemed to acknowledge by every movement of his body and every tone of his voice that old age was, creeping on him – whereas the attorney's step was still elastic, and his speech brisk. Mr Camperdown wore a blue frock-coat, and a coloured cravat, and a light waistcoat. With Mr Dove every visible article of his raiment was black, except his shirt, and he had that peculiar blackness which a man achieves when he wears a dress-coat over a high black waistcoat in the morning.

‘You didn't make much, I fear, of what I sent you about heirlooms,' said Mr Dove, divining the purport of Mr Camperdown's visit.

‘A great deal more than I wanted, I can assure you, Mr Dove.'

‘There is a common error about heirlooms.'

‘Very common, indeed, I should say. God bless my soul! when one knows how often the word occurs in family deeds, it does startle one to be told that there isn't any such thing.'

‘I don't think I said quite so much as that. Indeed, I was careful to point out that the law does acknowledge heirlooms.'

‘But not diamonds,' said the attorney.

‘I doubt whether I went quite so far as that.'

‘Only the Crown diamonds.'

‘I don't think I ever debarred all other diamonds. A diamond in a star of honour might form a part of an heirloom; but I do not think that a diamond itself could be an heirloom.'

‘If in a star of honour, why not in a necklace?' argued Mr Camperdown almost triumphantly.

‘Because a star of honour, unless tampered with by fraud, would naturally be maintained in its original form. The setting of a necklace will probably be altered from generation to generation. The one, like a picture or a precious piece of furniture —'

‘Or a pot or a pan,' said Mr Camperdown, with sarcasm.

‘Pots and pans may be precious, too,' replied the Dove. ‘Such things can be traced, and can be held as heirlooms without imposing too great difficulties on their guardians. The Law is generally very wise and prudent, Mr Camperdown; – much more so often than are they who attempt to improve it.'

‘I quite agree with you there, Mr Dove.'

‘Would the Law do a service, do you think, if it lent its authority to the special preservation in special hands of trinkets only to be used for vanity and ornament? Is that a kind of property over which an owner should have a power of disposition more lasting, more autocratic, than is given him even in regard to land? The land, at any rate, can be traced. It is a thing fixed and known. A string of pearls is not only alterable, but constantly altered, and cannot easily be traced.'

‘Property of such enormous value should, at any rate, be protected,' said Mr Camperdown indignantly.

‘All property is protected, Mr Camperdown; – although, as we know too well, such protection can never be perfect. But the system of heirlooms, if there can be said to be such a system, was not devised for what you and I mean when we talk of protection of property.'

‘I should have said that that was just what it was devised for.'

‘I think not. It was devised with the more picturesque idea of maintaining chivalric associations. Heirlooms have become so, not that the future owners of them may be assured of so much wealth – whatever the value of the thing so settled may be – but that the son or grandson or descendant may enjoy the satisfaction which is derived from saying, My father or my grandfather or my ancestor sat in that chair, or looked as he now looks in that picture, or was graced by wearing on his breast that very ornament which you now see lying beneath the glass. Crown jewels are heirlooms in the same way, as representing not the possession of the sovereign, but the time-honoured dignity of the Crown. The Law, which, in general, concerns itself with our property, our lives and our liberties, has in this matter bowed gracefully to the spirit of chivalry and has lent its aid to romance; – but it certainly did not do so to enable the discordant heirs of a rich man to settle a simple dirty question of money, which, with ordinary prudence, the rich man should himself have settled before he died.'

The Turtle Dove had spoken with emphasis and had spoken well, and Mr Camperdown had not ventured to interrupt him while he was speaking. He was sitting far back on his chair, but with his neck bent and his head forward, rubbing his long thin hands slowly over each other, and with his deep bright eyes firmly fixed on his companion's face. Mr Camperdown had not unfrequently heard him speak in the same fashion before, and was accustomed to his manner of unravelling the mysteries and searching into the causes of Law with a spirit which almost lent a poetry to the subject. When Mr Dove would do so, Mr Camperdown would not quite understand the words spoken, but he
would listen to them with an undoubting reverence. And he did understand them in part, and was conscious of an infusion of a certain amount of poetic spirit into his own bosom. He would think of these speeches afterwards, and would entertain high but somewhat cloudy ideas of the beauty and the majesty of law. Mr Dove's speeches did Mr Camperdown good, and helped to preserve him from that worst of all diseases – a low idea of humanity.

‘You think, then, we had better not claim them as heirlooms?' he asked.

‘I think you had better not.'

‘And you think that she could claim them – as paraphernalia.'

‘That question has hardly been put to me – though I allowed myself to wander into it. But for my intimacy with you, I should hardly have ventured to stray so far.'

‘I need hardly say how much obliged we are. But we will submit one or two other cases to you.'

‘I am inclined to think the court would not allow them to her as paraphernalia, seeing that their value is excessive as compared with her income and degree; but if it did, it would do so in a fashion that would guard them from alienation.'

‘She would sell them – under the rose.'
³

‘Then she would be guilty of stealing them – which she would hardly attempt, even if not restrained by honesty, knowing, as she would know, that the greatness of the value would almost assuredly lead to detection. The same feeling would prevent buyers from purchasing.'

‘She says, you know, that they were given to her, absolutely.'

‘I should like to know the circumstances.'

‘Yes; – of course.'

‘But I should be disposed to think that in equity no allegation by the receiver of such a gift, unsubstantiated either hy evidence or by deed, would be allowed to stand. The gentleman left behind him a will, and regular settlements. I should think that the possession of these diamonds – not, I presume, touched on in the settlements –'

‘Oh dear no; – not a word about them.'

‘I should think, then, that, subject to any claim for paraphernalia, the possession of the diamonds would be ruled by the will.' Mr Camperdown was rushing into the further difficulty of the chattels in Scotland and those in England, when the Turtle Dove stopped him, declaring that he could not venture to discuss matters as to which he knew none of the facts.

‘Of course not; – of course not,' said Mr Camperdown. ‘We'll have cases prepared. I'd apologise for coming at all, only that I get so much from a few words.'

‘I'm always delighted to see you, Mr Camperdown,' said the Turtle Dove, bowing.

*       *       *       

In the hall she met her friend Lydia. ‘Oh, Lucy, what is the matter with Frederic?' she asked.

‘Lord Fawn is very angry indeed.'

‘With you?'

‘Yes; – with me. He is so angry that I am sure he would not sit down to breakfast with me. So I won't come down. Will you tell your mamma? If she likes to send to me, of course I'll go to her at once.'

‘What have you done, Lucy?'

‘I've told him again that what he said wasn't true.'

‘But why?'

‘Because – Oh, how can I say why? Why does any person do everything that she ought not to do? It's the fall of Adam, I suppose.'

‘You shouldn't make a joke of it, Lucy.'

‘You can have no conception how unhappy I am about it. Of course, Lady Fawn will tell me to go away. I went out on purpose to beg his pardon for what I said last night, and I just said the very same thing again.'

‘But why did you say it?'

‘And I should say it again and again and again, if he were to go on telling me that Mr Greystock isn't a gentleman. I don't think he ought to have done it. Of course, I have been very wrong; I know that. But I think he has been wrong too. But I must own it, and he needn't. I'll go up now and stay in my own room till your mamma sends for me.'

‘And I'll get Jane to bring you some breakfast.'

‘I don't care a bit about breakfast,' said Lucy.

Lord Fawn did tell his mother, and Lady Fawn was perplexed in the extreme. She was divided in her judgment and feelings between the privilege due to Lucy as a girl possessed of an authorized lover – a privilege which no doubt existed, but which was not extensive-and the very much greater privilege which attached to Lord Fawn as a man, as a peer, as an Under-Secretary of State – but which attached to him especially as the head and only man
belonging to the Fawn family. Such a one, when, moved by filial duty, he condescends to come once a week to his mother's house, is entitled to say whatever he pleases, and should on no account be contradicted by any one. Lucy no doubt had a lover – an authorized lover; but perhaps that fact could not be taken as more than a balancing weight against the inferiority of her position as a governess. Lady Fawn was of course obliged to take her son's part, and would scold Lucy. Lucy must be scolded very seriously. But it would be a thing so desirable if Lucy could be induced to accept her scolding and have done with it, and not to make matters worse by talking of going away! ‘You don't mean that she came out into the shrubbery, having made up her mind to be rude to you?' said Lady Fawn to her son.

‘No; – I do not think that. But her temper is so ungovernable, and she has, if I may say so, been so spoilt among you here – I mean by the girls, of course – that she does not know how to restrain herself.'

‘She is as good as gold, you know, Frederic.' He shrugged his shoulders, and declared that he had not a word more to say about it. He could, of course, remain in London till it should suit Mr Greystock to take his bride. ‘You'll break my heart if you say that!' exclaimed the unhappy mother. ‘Of course, she shall leave the house if you wish it.'

‘I wish nothing,' said Lord Fawn. ‘But I peculiarly object to be told that I am a – liar.' Then he stalked away along the corridor and went down to breakfast, as black as a thunder-cloud.

Lady Fawn and Lucy sat opposite to each other in church, but they did not speak till the afternoon. Lady Fawn went to church in the carriage and Lucy walked, and as Lucy retired to her room immediately on her return to the house, there had not been an opportunity even for a word. After lunch Amelia came up to her and sat down for a long discussion. ‘Now, Lucy, something must be done, you know,' said Amelia.

‘I suppose so.'

‘Of course, mamma must see you. She can't allow things to go on in this way. Mamma is very unhappy, and didn't eat a morsel of breakfast.' By this latter assertion Amelia simply intended to
imply that her mother had refused to be helped a second time to fried bacon, as was customary.

‘Of course, I shall go to her the moment she sends for me. Oh – I am so unhappy!'

‘I don't wonder at that, Lucy. So is my brother unhappy. These things make people unhappy. It is what the world calls – temper, you know, Lucy.'

‘Why did he tell me that Mr Greystock isn't a gentleman? Mr Greystock is a gentleman. I meant to say nothing more than that.'

‘But you did say more, Lucy.'

‘When he said that Mr Greystock wasn't a gentleman, I told him it wasn't true. Why did he say it? He knows all about it. Everybody knows. Would you think it wise to come and abuse him to me, when you know what he is to me? I can't bear it, and I won't. I'll go away tomorrow, if your mamma wishes it.' But that going away was just what Lady Fawn did not wish.

‘I think you know, Lucy, you should express your deep sorrow at what has passed.'

‘To your brother?'

‘Yes.'

‘Then he would abuse Mr Greystock again, and it would all be as bad as ever. I'll beg Lord Fawn's pardon if he'll promise beforehand not to say a word about Mr Greystock.'

‘You can't expect him to make a bargain like that, Lucy.'

‘I suppose not. I daresay I'm very wicked, and I must be left wicked. I'm too wicked to stay here. That's the long and the short of it.'

‘I'm afraid you're proud, Lucy.'

‘I suppose I am. If it wasn't for all that I owe to everybody here, and that I love you all so much, I should be proud of being proud; – because of Mr Greystock. Only it kills me to make Lady Fawn unhappy.'

Amelia left the culprit, feeling that no good had been done, and Lady Fawn did not see the delinquent till late in the afternoon. Lord Fawn had, in the meantime, wandered out along the river all alone to brood over the condition of his affairs. It had been an evil day for him in which he had first seen Lady Eustace.
From the first moment of his engagement to her he had been an unhappy man. Her treatment of him, the stories which reached his ears from Mrs Hittaway and others, Mr Camperdown's threats of law in regard to the diamonds, and Frank Greystock's insults, altogether made him aware that he could not possibly marry Lady Eustace. But yet he had no proper and becoming way of escaping from the bonds of his engagement. He was a man with a conscience, and was made miserable by the idea of behaving badly to a woman. Perhaps it might have been difficult to analyse his misery, and to decide how much arose from the feeling that he was behaving badly, and how much from the conviction that the world would accuse him of doing so; but, between the two, he was wretched enough. The punishment of the offence had been commenced by Greystock's unavenged insults; – and it now seemed to him that this girl's conduct was a continuation of it. The world was already beginning to treat him with that want of respect which he so greatly dreaded. He knew that he was too weak to stand up against a widely-spread expression of opinion that he had behaved badly. There are men who can walk about the streets with composed countenances, take their seats in Parliament if they happen to have seats, work in their offices, or their chambers, or their counting-houses with diligence, and go about the world serenely, even though everybody be saying evil of them behind their backs. Such men can live down temporary calumny, and almost take a delight in the isolation which it will produce. Lord Fawn knew well that he was not such a man. He would have described his own weakness as caused, perhaps, by a too thin-skinned sensitiveness. Those who knew him were inclined to say that he lacked strength of character, and, perhaps, courage.

He had certainly engaged himself to marry this widow, and he was most desirous to do what was right. He had said that he would not marry her unless she would give up the necklace, and he was most desirous to be true to his word. He had been twice insulted, and he was anxious to support these injuries with dignity. Poor Lucy's little offence against him rankled in his mind with the other great offences. That this humble friend of his mother's should have been insolent, was a terrible thing to him.
He was not sure even whether his own sisters did not treat him with scantier reverence than of yoke. And yet he was so anxious to do right, and do his duty in that state of life to which it had pleased God to call him! As to much he was in doubt; but of two things he was quite sure – that Frank Greystock was a scoundrel, and that Lucy Morris was the most impertinent young woman in England.

‘What would you wish to have done, Frederic?' his mother said to him on his return.

‘In what respect, mother?'

‘About Lucy Morris? I have not seen her yet. I have thought it better that she should be left to herself for a while before I did so. I suppose she must come down to dinner. She always does.'

‘I do not wish to interfere with the young lady's meals.'

‘No; – but about meeting her? If there is to be no talking it will be so very unpleasant. It will be unpleasant to us all, but I am thinking chiefly of you.'

‘I do not wish anybody to be disturbed for my comfort.' A young woman coming down to dinner as though in disgrace, and not being spoken to by any one, would, in truth, have had rather a soothing effect upon Lord Fawn, who would have felt that the general silence and dullness had been produced as a sacrifice in his honour. ‘I can, of course, insist that she should apologize; but if she refuses, what shall I do then?'

‘Let there be no more apologies, if you please, mother.'

‘What shall I do then, Frederic?'

‘Miss Morris's idea of an apology is a repetition of her offence with increased rudeness. It is not for me to say what you should do. If it be true that she is engaged to that man –'

‘It is true, certainly.'

‘No doubt that will make her quite independent of you, and I can understand that her presence here in such circumstances must be very uncomfortable to you all. No doubt she feels her power.'

‘Indeed, Frederic, you do not know her.'

‘I can hardly say that I desire to know her better. You cannot suppose that I can be anxious for further intimacy with a young lady who has twice given me the lie in your house. Such conduct
is, at least, very unusual; and as no absolute punishment can be inflicted, the offender can only be avoided. It is thus and thus only that such offences can be punished. I shall be satisfied if you will give her to understand that I should prefer that she should not address me again.'

Poor Lady Fawn was beginning to think that Lucy was right in saying that there was no remedy for all these evils but that she should go away. But whither was she to go? She had no home but such home as she should earn for herself by her services as a governess, and in her present position it was almost out of the question that she should seek another place. Lady Fawn, too, felt that she had pledged herself to Mr Greystock that till next year Lucy should have a home at Fawn Court. Mr Greystock, indeed, was now an enemy to the family; but Lucy was not an enemy, and it was out of the question that she should be treated with real enmity. She might be scolded, and scowled at, and put into a kind of drawing-room Coventry for a time – so that all kindly intercourse with her should be confined to schoolroom work and bedroom conferences. She could be generally ‘sat upon', as Nina would call it. But as for quarrelling with her – making a real enemy of one whom they all loved, one whom Lady Fawn knew to be ‘as good as gold', one who had become so dear to the old lady that actual extrusion from their family affections would be like the cutting off of a limb – that was simply impossible. ‘I suppose I had better go and see her,' said Lady Fawn – ‘and I have got such a headache.'

‘Do not see her on my account,' said Lord Fawn. The duty, however, was obligatory, and Lady Fawn with slow steps sought Lucy in the schoolroom.

‘Lucy,' she said, seating herself, ‘what is to be the end of all this?'

Lucy came up to her and knelt at her feet. ‘If you knew how unhappy I am, because I have vexed you!'

‘I am unhappy, my dear, because I think you have been betrayed by warm temper into misbehaviour.'

‘I know I have.'

‘Then why do you not control your temper?'

‘If anybody were to come to you, Lady Fawn, and make horrible accusations against Lord Fawn, or against Augusta, would not you be angry? Would you be able to stand it?'

Lady Fawn was not clear-headed; she was not clever; nor was she even always rational. But she was essentially honest. She knew that she would fly at anybody who should in her presence say such bitter things of any of her children as Lord Fawn had said of Mr Greystock in Lucy's hearing; – and she knew also that Lucy was entitled to hold Mr Greystock as dearly as she held her own sons and daughters. Lord Fawn, at Fawn Court, could not do wrong. That was a tenet by which she was obliged to hold fast. And yet Lucy had been subjected to great cruelty. She thought awhile for a valid argument. ‘My dear,' she said, ‘your youth should make a difference.'

‘Of course it should.'

‘And though to me and to the girls you are as dear as any friend can be, and may say just what you please – indeed, we all live here in such a way that we all do say just what we please – young and old together. But you ought to know that Lord Fawn is different.'

‘Ought he to say that Mr Greystock is not a gentleman to me?'

‘We are, of course, very sorry that there should be any quarrel. It is all the fault of that – nasty, false young woman.'

‘So it is, Lady Fawn. Lady Fawn, I have been thinking about it all the day, and I am quite sure that I had better not stay here while you and the girls think badly of Mr Greystock. It is not only about Lord Fawn but because of the whole thing. I am always wanting to say something good about Mr Greystock, and you are always thinking something bad about him. You have been to me – oh, the very best friend that a girl ever had. Why you should have treated me so generously I never could know.'