The Eustace Diamonds (75 page)

‘Of course you will marry Sir Griffin tomorrow.'

‘I shall never be married to him. How I shall escape from him – by dying, or going mad – or by destroying him, God only knows.' Then she paused, and her aunt looking into her face almost began to fear that she was in earnest. But she would not take it as at all indicating any real result for the morrow. The girl had often said nearly the same thing before, and had still submitted. ‘Do you know, Aunt Jane, I don't think I could feel to any man as though I loved him. But for this man – Oh God, how I do detest him! I cannot do it'

‘You had better go to bed, Luanda, and let me come to you in the morning.'

‘Yes; – come to me in the morning; – early.'

‘I will – at eight.'

‘I shall know then, perhaps.'

‘My dear, will you come to my room tonight, and sleep with me?'

‘Oh, no. I have ever so many things to do. I have papers to burn, and things to put away. But come to me at eight. Good night, Aunt Jane.' Mrs Carbuncle went up to her room with her, kissed her affectionately, and then left her.

She was now really frightened. What would be said of her if she should press the marriage forward to a completion, and if after that some terrible tragedy should take place between the bride and bridegroom? That Lucinda, in spite of all that had
been said, would stand at the altar and allow the ceremony to be performed, she still believed. Those last words about burning papers and putting things away, seemed to imply that the girl still thought that she would be taken away from her present home on the morrow. But what would come afterwards? The horror which the bride expressed was, as Mrs Carbuncle well knew, no mock feeling, no pretence at antipathy. She tried to think of it, and to realize what might in truth be the girl's action and ultimate fate when she should find herself in the power of this man whom she so hated. But had not other girls done the same thing and lived through it all, and become fat, indifferent, and fond of the world? It is only the first step that signifies.

At any rate, the thing must go on now; – must go on, whatever might be the result to Lucinda or to Mrs Carbuncle herself. Yes; it must go on. There was, no doubt, very much of bitterness in the world for such as them – for persons doomed by the necessities of their position to a continual struggle. It always had been so, and always would be so. But each bitter cup must be drained in the hope that the next might be sweeter. Of course the marriage must go on; though, doubtless, this cup was very bitter.

More than once in the night Mrs Carbuncle crept up to the door of her niece's room, endeavouring to ascertain what might be going on within. At two o‘clock, while she was on the landing-place, the candle was extinguished, and she could hear that Lucinda put herself to bed. At any rate, so far things were safe. An indistinct, incompleted idea of some possible tragedy had flitted across the mind of the poor woman, causing her to shake and tremble, forbidding her, weary as she was, to lie down; – but now she told herself at last that this was an idle phantasy, and she went to bed. Of course Lucinda must go through with it. It had been her own doing, and Sir Griffin was not worse than other men. As she said this to herself, Mrs Carbuncle hardened her heart by remembering that her own married life had not been peculiarly happy.

Exactly at eight on the following morning she knocked at her niece's door, and was at once bidden to enter. ‘Come in, Aunt
Jane.' The words cheered her wonderfully. At any rate, there had been no tragedy as yet, and as she turned the handle of the door, she felt that, as a matter of course, the marriage would go on just like any other marriage. She found Lucinda up and dressed, – but so dressed certainly to show no preparation for a wedding-toilet. She had on an ordinary stuff
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morning frock, and her hair was close tucked up and pinned, as it might have been had she already prepared herself for a journey. But what astonished Mrs Carbuncle more than the dress was the girl's manner. She was sitting at a table with a book before her, which was afterwards found to be the Bible, and she never turned her head as her aunt entered the room. ‘What, up already' said Mrs Carbuncle – ‘and dressed?'

‘Yes; I am up – and dressed. I have been up ever so long. How was I to lie in bed on such a morning as this? Aunt Jane, I wish you to know as soon as possible that no earthly consideration will induce me to leave this room today.'

‘What nonsense, Lucinda!'

‘Very well; – all the same you might as well believe me. I want you to send to Mr Emilius, and to those girls – and to the man. And you had better get Lord George to let the other people know. I'm quite in earnest'

And she was in earnest – quite in earnest, though there was a flightiness about her manner which induced Mrs Carbuncle for awhile to think that she was less so than she had been on the previous evening. The unfortunate woman remained with her niece for an hour and a half, imploring, threatening, scolding and weeping. When the maids came to the door, first one maid and then another, they were refused entrance. It might still be possible, Mrs Carbuncle thought, that she would prevail. But nothing now could shake Lucinda or induce her even to discuss the subject She sat there looking steadfastly at the book – hardly answering, never defending herself, but protesting that nothing should induce her to leave the room on that day. ‘Do you want to destroy me?' Mrs Carbuncle said at last.

‘You have destroyed me' said Lucinda.

At half-past nine Lizzie Eustace came to the room, and Mrs
Carbuncle, in her trouble, thought it better to take other counsel. Lizzie, therefore, was admitted. ‘Is anything wrong?' asked Lizzie.

‘Everything is wrong' said the aunt. 'she says that – she won't be married.'

‘Oh, Lucinda!'

‘Pray speak to her. Lady Eustace. You see it is getting so late, and she ought to be nearly dressed now. Of course she must allow herself to be dressed.'

‘I am dressed,' said Lucinda.

‘But, dear Lucinda – everybody will be waiting for you,' said Lizzie.

‘Let them wait – till they're tired. If Aunt Jane doesn't choose to send, it is not my fault. I shan't go out of this room today unless I am carried out. Do you want to hear that I have murdered the man?'

They brought her tea, and endeavoured to induce her to eat and drink. She would take the tea, she said, if they would promise to send to put the people off. Mrs Carbuncle so far gave way as to undertake to do so, if she would name the next day or the day following for the wedding. But, on hearing this, she arose almost in a majesty of wrath. Neither on this day, or on the next, or on any following day, would she yield herself to the wretch whom they had endeavoured to force upon her. ‘she must do it, you know,' said Mrs Carbuncle, turning to Lizzie. ‘You'll see if I must,' said Lucinda, sitting square at the table, with her eyes firmly fixed upon the book.

Then came up the servant to say that the four bridesmaids were all assembled in the drawing-room. When she heard I his, even Mrs Carbuncle gave way, and threw herself upon the bed and wept. ‘Oh, Lady Eustace, what are we to do? Lucinda. you have destroyed me. You have destroyed me altogether, after all that I have done for you.'

‘And what has been done to me, do you think?' said Lucinda.

Something must be settled. All the servants in the house by this time knew that there would be no wedding, and no doubt some tidings as to the misadventure of the day had already
reached the four ladies in the drawing-room. ‘What am I to do?' said Mrs Carbuncle, starting up from the bed.

‘I really think you had better send to Mr Emilius,' said Lizzie; – ‘and to Lord George.'

‘What am I to say? Who is there to go? Oh – I wish that somebody would kill me this minute! Lady Eustace, would you mind going down and telling those ladies to go away?'

‘And had I not better send Richard to the church?'

‘Oh yes; – send anybody everywhere. I don't know what to do. Oh, Lucinda, this is the unkindest and the wickedest, and the most horrible thing that anybody ever did! I shall never, never be able to hold up my head again.' Mrs Carbuncle was completely prostrate, but Lucinda sat square at table, firm as a rock, saying nothing, making no excuse for herself, with her eyes fixed upon the Bible.

Lady Eustace carried her message to the astonished and indignant bridesmaids, and succeeded in sending them back to their respective homes. Richard, glorious in new livery, forgetting that his flowers were still on his breast – ready dressed to attend the bride's carriage – went with his sad message, first to the church and then to the banqueting-hall in Albemarle Street.

‘Not any wedding?' said the head waiter at the hotel. ‘I knew they was folks as would have a screw loose somewheres. There's lots to stand for the bill, anyways,' he added, as he remembered all the tribute.

‘Much as other men do, I suppose.'

‘But you're always sparring, already.'

‘It's that old woman that you're so fond of,' said Sir Griffin. ‘I don't mean to have any ill-humour from my wife, I can tell you. I know who will have the worst of it if there is.'

‘Upon my word. I think you'll have your hands full,' said Lord George. They got out at a sort of private door attached to the chapel, and were there received by the clerk, who wore a very long face. The news had already come, and liad been communicated to Mr Emilius, who was in the vestry. ‘Are the ladies here yet?' asked Lord George. The woebegone clerk told them that the ladies were not vet there, and suggested that they should see Mr Emilius. Into the presence of Mr Emilius they were led, and then they heard the truth.

‘Sir Griffin,' said Mr Emilius, holding the baronet by the hand, ‘I'm sorry to have to tell you that there's something wrong in Her.ford Street.'

‘What's wrong?' asked Sir Griffin.

‘You don't mean to say that Miss Roanoke is not to be here?' demanded Lord George. ‘By George, I thought as much. I did indeed.'

‘I can only tell you what I know. Lord George. Mrs Carbuncle's servant was here ten minutes since, Sir Griffin – before I came down, and he told the clerk that – that –'

‘What the d— did he tell him?' asked Sir Griffin.

‘He said that Miss Roanoke had changed her mind, and didn't mean to be married at all. That's all that I can learn from what he says. Perhaps you will think it best to go up to Hertford Street?'

‘I'll be — if I do' said Sir Griffin.

‘I am not in the least surprised,' repeated Lord George. Tewett, my boy, we might as well go home to lunch, and the sooner you're out of town the better.'

‘I knew that I should be taken in at last by that accursed woman' said Sir Griffin.

‘It wasn't Mrs Carbuncle, if you mean that. She'd have given her left hand to have had it completed. I rather think you've had an escape. Griff; and if I were you, I'd make the best of it' Sir Griffin spoke not another word, but left the church with his friend in the brougham that had brought them, and so he disappears from our story. Mr Emilius looked after him with wistful eyes, regretful for his fee. Had the baronet been less coarse and violent in his language he would have asked for it; but he feared that he might be cursed in his own church, before his clerk, and abstained. Late in the afternoon Lord George, when he had administered comfort to the disappointed bridegroom in the shape of a hot lunch, Curaçao, and cigars, walked up to Hertford Street, calling at the hotel in Albemarle Street on the way. The waiter told him all that he knew. Some thirty or forty guests had come to the wedding-banquet, and had all been sent away with tidings that the marriage had been – postponed. ‘You might have told ‘em a trifle more than that' said Lord George. ‘Postponed was pleasantest, my lord' said the waiter. ‘Anyways, that was said, and we supposes, my lord, as the things ain't wanted now' Lord George replied that, as far as he knew, the things were not wanted, and then continued his way up to Hertford Street.

At first he saw Lizzie Eustace, upon whom the misfortune of the day had had a most depressing effect. The wedding was to have been the one morsel of pleasing excitement which would come before she underwent the humble penance to which she was
doomed. That was frustrated and abandoned, and now she could think only of Mr Camperdown, her cousin Frank, and Lady Glen-cora Palliser. ‘What's up now?' said Lord George, with that disrespect which had always accompanied his treatment of her since she had told him her secret. ‘What's the meaning of all this?'

‘I dare say that you know as well as I do, my lord.'

‘I must know a good deal if I do. It seems that among you there is nothing but one trick upon another.'

‘I suppose you are speaking of your own friends, Lord George. You doubtless know much more than I do of Miss Roanoke's affairs.'

‘Does she mean to say that she doesn't mean to marry the man at all?'

‘So I understand; – but really you had better send for Mrs Carbuncle.'

He did send for Mrs Carbuncle, and after some words with her, was taken up into Lucinda's room. There sat the unfortunate girl, in the chair from which she had not moved since the morning. There had come over her face a look of fixed but almost idiotic resolution; her mouth was compressed, and her eyes were glazed, and she sat twiddling her book before her with her fingers. She had eaten nothing since she had got up, and had long ceased to be violent when questioned by her aunt. But, nevertheless, she was firm enough when her aunt begged to be allowed to write a letter to Sir Griffin, explaining that all this had arisen from temporary indisposition. ‘No; it isn't temporary. It isn't temporary at all. You can write to him; but I'll never come out of this room if I am told that I am to see him.'

‘What is all this about, Lucinda?' said Lord George, speaking in his kindest voice.

‘Is he there?' said she, turning round suddenly.

‘Sir Griffin ; – no indeed. He has left town.'

‘You're sure he's not there. It's no good his coming. If he comes for ever and ever and ever he shall never touch me again; – not alive; he shall never touch me again alive.' As she spoke she moved across the room to the fireplace and grasped the poker in her hand.

‘Has she been like that all the morning?' whispered Lord George.

‘No; – not like that. She has been quite quiet. Lucinda!'

‘Don't let him come here, then; that's all. What's the use? They can't make me marry him. And I won't marry him. Everybody has known that I hated him – detested him. Oh, Lord George, it has been very, very cruel.'

‘Has it been my fault, Lucinda?'

‘She wouldn't have done it if you had told her not. But you won't bring him again; – will you?'

‘Certainly not. He means to go abroad.'

‘Ah – yes; that will be best. Let him go abroad. He knew it, all the time – that I hated him. Why did he want me to be his wife? If he has gone abroad, I will go downstairs. But I won't go out of the house. Nothing shall make me go out of the house. Are the bridesmaids gone?'

‘Long ago,' said Mrs Carbuncle, piteously.

‘Then I will go down.' And between them, they led her into the drawing-room.

‘It is my belief,' said Lord George to Mrs Carbuncle, some minutes afterwards, ‘that you have driven her mad.'

‘Are you going to turn against me?'

‘It is true. How you have had the heart to go on pressing it upon her, I could never understand. I am about as hard as a milestone, but I'll be shot if I could have done it. From day to day I thought that you would have given way.'

‘That is so like a man – when it is all over, to turn upon a woman and say that she did it'

‘Didn't you do it? I thought you did, and that you took a great deal of pride in the doing of it. When you made him offer to her down in Scotland, and made her accept him, you were so proud that you could hardly hold yourself. What will you do now? Go on just as though nothing had happened?'

‘I don't know what we shall do. There will be so many things to be paid.'

‘I should think there would – and you can hardly expect Sir Griffin to pay for them. You'll have to take her away somewhere.
You'll find that she can't remain here. And that other woman will be in prison before the week's over, I should say – unless she runs away.'

There was not much of comfort to be obtained by any of them from Lord George, who was quite as harsh to Mrs Carbuncle as he had been to Lizzie Eustace. He remained in Hertford Street for an hour, and then took his leave, saying that he thought that he also should go abroad. ‘I didn't think,' he said, ‘that anything could have hurt my character much; but upon my word, between you and Lady Eustace, I begin to find that in every deep there may be a lower depth. All the town has given me credit for stealing her ladyship's necklace, and now I shall be mixed up in this mock marriage. I shouldn't wonder if Rooper were to send his bill in to me.' – Mr Rooper was the keeper of the hotel in Albe-marle Street. – ‘I think I shall follow Sir Griffin abroad. You have made England too hot to hold me.' And so he left them.

The evening of that day was a terrible time to the three ladies in Hertford Street – and the following day was almost worse. Nobody came to see them, and not one of them dared to speak of the future. For the third day, the Wednesday, Lady Eustace had made her appointment with Mr Camperdown, having written to the attorney, in compliance with the pressing advice of Major Mackintosh, to name an hour. Mr Camperdown had written again sending his compliments, and saying that he would receive Lady Eustace at the time fixed by her. The prospect of this interview was very bad, but even this was hardly so oppressive as the actual existing wretchedness of that house. Mrs Carbuncle, whom Lizzie had always known as high-spirited, bold, and almost domineering, was altogether prostrated by her misfortunes. She was querulous, lachrymose, and uttterly despondent. From what Lizzie now learned, her hostess was enveloped in a mass of debt which would have been hopeless, even had Lucinda gone off as a bride; but she had been willing to face all that with the object of establishing her niece. She could have expected nothing from the marriage for herself. She well knew that Sir Griffin would neither pay her debts nor give her a home nor lend her money. But to have married the girl who was in her charge would have been itself a
success, and would have in some sort repaid her for her trouble. There would have been something left to show for her expenditure of time and money. But now there was nothing around her but failure and dismay. The very servants in the house seemed to know that ordinary respect was hardly demanded from them.

As to Lucinda, Lizzie felt, from the very hour in which she first saw her on the morning of the intended wedding, that her mind was astray. She insisted on passing the time up in her own room, and always sat with the Bible before her. At every knock at the door, or ring at the bell, she would look round suspiciously, and once she whispered into Lizzie's ear that, if ever ‘he' should come there again, she would ‘give him a kiss with a vengeance.' On the Tuesday, Lizzie recommended Mrs Carbuncle to get medical advice – and at last they sent for Mr Emilias that they might ask counsel of him. Mr Einilius was full of smiles and consolation, and still allowed his golden hopes as to some Elysian future to crop out; – but he did acknowledge at last, in a whispered conference with Lady Eustace, that somebody ought to see Miss Roanoke. Somebody did see Miss Roanoke – and the doctor who was thus appealed to shook his head. Perhaps Miss Roanoke had better be taken into the country for a little while.

‘Dear Lady Eustace,' said Mrs Carbuncle, ‘now you can be a friend indeed,' – meaning of course, that an invitation to Portray Castle would do more than could anything else towards making straight the crooked things of the hour. Mrs Carbuncle, when she made the request, of course knew of Lizzie's coming troubles; – but let them do what they could to Lizzie, they could not take away her house.

But Lizzie felt at once that this would not suit. ‘Ah. Mrs Carbuncle,' she said. ‘You do not know the condition which I am in myself!'