Lizzie and Mrs. Carbuncle had quite come to understand each other comfortably about money. It suited Mrs. Carbuncle very well to remain at Portray. It was no longer necessary that she should carry Lucinda about in search of game to be run down. The one head of game needed had been run down, such as it was—not, indeed, a very noble stag; but the stag had been accepted; and a home for herself and her niece, which should have about it a sufficient air of fashion to satisfy public opinion—out of London—better still, in Scotland, belonging to a person with a title, enjoying the appurtenances of wealth, and one to which Lord George and Sir Griffin could have access—was very desirable. But it was out of the question that Lady Eustace should bear all the expense. Mrs. Carbuncle undertook to find the stables, and did pay for that rick of hay and for the cartload of forage which had made Lizzie’s heart quake as she saw it dragged up the hill towards her own granaries. It is very comfortable when all these things are clearly understood. Early in January they were all to go back to London. Then for a while—up to the period of Lucinda’s marriage—Lizzie was to be Mrs. Carbuncle’s guest at the small house in Mayfair;—but Lizzie was to keep the carriage. There came at last to be some little attempt, perhaps, at a hard bargain at the hand of each lady, in which Mrs. Carbuncle, as the elder, probably got the advantage. There was a question about the liveries in London. The footman there must appertain to Mrs. Carbuncle, whereas the coachman would as necessarily be one of Lizzie’s retainers. Mrs. Carbuncle assented at last to finding the double livery—but, like a prudent woman, arranged to get her quid pro quo. “You can add something, you know, to the present you’ll have to give Lucinda. Lucinda shall choose something up to forty pounds.” “We’ll say thirty,” said Lizzie, who was beginning to know the value of money. “Split the difference,” said Mrs. Carbuncle, with a pleasant little burst of laughter—and the difference was split. That the very neat and even dandified appearance of the groom who rode out hunting with them should be provided at the expense of Mrs. Carbuncle was quite understood; but it was equally well understood that Lizzie was to provide the horse on which he rode, on every third day. It adds greatly to the comfort of friends living together when these things are accurately settled.
Mr. Emilius remained longer than had been anticipated, and did not go till Lord George and Sir Griffin took their departure. It was observed that he never spoke of his wife; and yet Mrs. Carbuncle was almost sure that she had heard of such a lady. He had made himself very agreeable, and was, either by art or nature, a courteous man—one who paid compliments to ladies. It was true, however, that he sometimes startled his hearers by things which might have been considered to border on coarseness if they had not been said by a clergyman. Lizzie had an idea that he intended to marry Miss Macnulty. And Miss Macnulty certainly received his attentions with pleasure. In these circumstances his prolonged stay at the castle was not questioned;—but when towards the end of November Lord George and Sir Griffin took their departure, he was obliged to return to his flock.
On the great subject of the diamonds Lizzie had spoken her mind freely to Mrs. Carbuncle early in the days of their friendship—immediately, that is, after the bargainings had been completed. “Ten thousand pounds!” ejaculated Mrs. Carbuncle, opening wide her eyes. Lizzie nodded her head thrice, in token of reiterated assurance. “Do you mean that you really know their value?” The ladies at this time were closeted together, and were discussing many things in the closest confidence.
“They were valued for me by jewellers.”
“Ten thousand pounds! And Sir Florian gave them to you?”
“Put them round my neck, and told me they were to be mine—always.”
“Generous man!”
“Ah, if you had but known him!” said Lizzie, just touching her eye with her handkerchief.
“I daresay. And now the people claim them. I’m not a bit surprised at that, my dear. I should have thought a man couldn’t give away so much as that—not just as one makes a present that costs forty or fifty pounds.” Mrs. Carbuncle could not resist the opportunity of showing that she did not think so very much of that coming thirty-five-pound “gift” for which the bargain had been made.
“That’s what they say. And they say ever so many other things besides. They mean to prove that it’s an—heirloom.”
“Perhaps it is.”
“But it isn’t. My cousin Frank, who knows more about law than any other man in London, says that they can’t make a necklace an heirloom. If it was a brooch or a ring it would be different. I don’t quite understand it, but it is so.”
“It’s a pity Sir Florian didn’t say something about it in his will,” suggested Mrs. Carbuncle.
“But he did;—at least, not just about the necklace.” Then Lady Eustace explained the nature of her late husband’s will, as far as it regarded chattels to be found in the Castle of Portray at the time of his death; and added the fiction, which had now become common to her, as to the necklace having been given to her in Scotland.
“I shouldn’t let them have it,” said Mrs. Carbuncle.
“I don’t mean,” said Lizzie.
“I should—sell them,” said Mrs. Carbuncle.
“But why?”
“Because there are so many accidents. A woman should be very rich
