“I shouldn’t care the least for losing them,” said Lizzie—“only that Florian gave them to me. They have been such a vexation to me that to be without them will be a comfort.” Her desk had been brought into the carriage and was now used as a footstool in place of the box which was gone.
They arrived at Mrs. Carbuncle’s house in Hertford Street quite late, between ten and eleven;—but a note had been sent from Lizzie to her cousin Frank’s address from the Euston Square station by a commissionaire. Indeed, two notes were sent—one to the House of Commons, and the other to the Grosvenor Hotel. “My necklace has been stolen. Come to me early tomorrow at Mrs. Carbuncle’s house, No. —, Hertford Street.” And he did come—before Lizzie was up. Crabstick brought her mistress word that Mr. Greystock was in the parlour soon after nine o’clock. Lizzie again hurried on her clothes so that she might see her cousin, taking care as she did so that though her toilet might betray haste, it should not be other than charming. And as she dressed she endeavoured to come to some conclusion. Would it not be best for her that she should tell everything to her cousin, and throw herself upon his mercy, trusting to his ingenuity to extricate her from her difficulties? She had been thinking of her position almost through the entire night, and had remembered that at Carlisle she had committed perjury. She had sworn that the diamonds had been left by her in the box. And should they be found with her it might be that they would put her in gaol for stealing them. Little mercy could she expect from Mr. Camperdown should she fall into that gentleman’s hands! But Frank, if she would even yet tell him everything honestly, might probably save her.
“What is this about the diamonds?” he asked as soon as he saw her. She had flown almost into his arms as though carried there by the excitement of the moment. “You don’t really mean that they have been stolen?”
“I do, Frank.”
“On the journey?”
“Yes, Frank;—at the inn at Carlisle.”
“Box and all?” Then she told him the whole story;—not the true story, but the story as it was believed by all the world. She found it to be impossible to tell him the true story. “And the box was broken open, and left in the street?”
“Under an archway,” said Lizzie.
“And what do the police think?”
“I don’t know what they think. Lord George says that they believe he is the thief.”
“He knew of them,” said Frank, as though he imagined that the suggestion was not altogether absurd.
“Oh, yes;—he knew of them.”
“And what is to be done?”
“I don’t know. I’ve sent for you to tell me.” Then Frank averred that information should be immediately given to Mr. Camperdown. He would himself call on Mr. Camperdown, and would also see the head of the London police. He did not doubt but that all the circumstances were already known in London at the police office;—but it might be well that he should see the officer. He was acquainted with the gentleman, and might perhaps learn something. Lizzie at once acceded, and Frank went direct to Mr. Camperdown’s offices. “If I had lost ten thousand pounds in that way,” said Mrs. Carbuncle, “I think I should have broken my heart.” Lizzie felt that her heart was bursting rather than being broken, because the ten thousand pounds’ worth of diamonds was not really lost.
XLVI
Lucy Morris in Brook Street
Lucy Morris went to Lady Linlithgow early in October, and was still with Lady Linlithgow when Lizzie Eustace returned to London in January. During these three months she certainly had not been happy. In the first place, she had not once seen her lover. This had aroused no anger or suspicion in her bosom against him, because the old countess had told her that she would have no lover come to the house, and that, above all, she would not allow a young man with whom she herself was connected to come in that guise to her companion. “From all I hear,” said Lady Linlithgow, “it’s not at all likely to be a match;—and at any rate it can’t go on here.” Lucy thought that she would be doing no more than standing up properly for her lover by asserting her conviction that it would be a match;—and she did assert it bravely; but she made no petition for his presence, and bore that trouble bravely. In the next place, Frank was not a satisfactory correspondent. He did write to her occasionally;—and he wrote also to the old countess immediately on his return to town from Bobsborough a letter which was intended as an answer to that which she had written to Mrs. Greystock. What was said in that letter Lucy never knew;—but she did know that Frank’s few letters to herself were not full and hearty—were not such thoroughgoing love-letters as lovers write to each other when they feel unlimited satisfaction in the work. She excused him—telling herself that he was overworked, that with his double trade of legislator and lawyer he could hardly be expected to write letters—that men, in respect of letter-writing, are not as women are, and the like; but still there grew at her heart a little weed of care, which from week to week spread its noxious, heavy-scented leaves, and robbed her of her joyousness. To be loved by her lover, and to feel that she was his—to have a lover of her own to whom she could thoroughly devote herself—to be conscious that she was one of those happy women in the world who find a mate worthy of worship as well as love—this to her was so great a joy that even the sadness of her present position could not utterly depress her. From day to day she assured herself that she did not doubt and
