“I’m sure you mean to do a kind thing.”
“Well;—yes, I do. I think we have not met since you were at my house near the end of last season.”
“No, indeed. I have been in London six weeks, but have not been out much. For the last fortnight I have been in bed. I have had things to trouble me so much that they have made me ill.”
“So I have heard, Lady Eustace, and I have just come to offer you my sympathy. When I was told that you did see people, I thought that perhaps you would admit me.”
“So willingly, Lady Glencora!”
“I have heard, of course, of your terrible losses.”
“The loss has been as nothing to the vexation that has accompanied it. I don’t know how to speak of it. Ladies have lost their jewels before now, but I don’t know that any lady before me has ever been accused of stealing them herself.”
“There has been no accusation, surely?”
“I haven’t exactly been put in prison, Lady Glencora, but I have had policemen here wanting to search my things;—and then you know yourself what reports have been spread.”
“Oh, yes; I do. Only for that, to tell you plainly, I should hardly have been here now.” Then Lady Glencora poured out her sympathy—perhaps with more eloquence and grace than discretion. She was, at any rate, both graceful and eloquent. “As for the loss of the diamonds, I think you bear it wonderfully,” said Lady Glencora.
“If you could imagine how little I care about it!” said Lizzie with enthusiasm. “They had lost the delight which I used to feel in them as a present from my husband. People had talked about them, and I had been threatened because I chose to keep what I knew to be my own. Of course, I would not give them up. Would you have given them up, Lady Glencora?”
“Certainly not.”
“Nor would I. But when once all that had begun, they became an irrepressible burden to me. I often used to say that I would throw them into the sea.”
“I don’t think I would have done that,” said Lady Glencora.
“Ah—you have never suffered as I have suffered.”
“We never know where each other’s shoes pinch each other’s toes.”
“You have never been left desolate. You have a husband and friends.”
“A husband that wants to put five farthings into a penny! All is not gold that glistens, Lady Eustace.”
“You can never have known trials such as mine,” continued Lizzie, not understanding in the least her new friend’s allusion to the great currency question. “Perhaps you may have heard that in the course of last summer I became engaged to marry a nobleman, with whom I am aware that you are acquainted.” This she said in her softest whisper.
“Oh, yes;—Lord Fawn. I know him very well. Of course I heard of it. We all heard of it.”
“And you have heard how he has treated me?”
“Yes—indeed.”
“I will say nothing about him—to you, Lady Glencora. It would not be proper that I should do so. But all that came of this wretched necklace. After that, can you wonder that I should say that I wish these stones had been thrown into the sea?”
“I suppose Lord Fawn will—will come all right again now?” said Lady Glencora.
“All right!” exclaimed Lizzie in astonishment.
“His objection to the marriage will now be over.”
“I’m sure I do not in the least know what are his lordship’s views,” said Lizzie in scorn, “and, to tell the truth, I do not very much care.”
“What I mean is, that he didn’t like you to have the Eustace diamonds—”
“They were not Eustace diamonds. They were my diamonds.”
“But he did not like you to have them; and as they are now gone—forever—”
“Oh, yes;—they are gone forever.”
“His objection is gone too. Why don’t you write to him, and make him come and see you? That’s what I should do.”
Lizzie, of course, repudiated vehemently any idea of forcing Lord Fawn into a marriage which had become distasteful to him—let the reason be what it might. “His lordship is perfectly free, as far as I am concerned,” said Lizzie with a little show of anger. But all this Lady Glencora took at its worth. Lizzie Eustace had been a good deal knocked about, and Lady Glencora did not doubt but that she would be very glad to get back her betrothed husband. The little woman had suffered hardships—so thought Lady Glencora—and a good thing would be done by bringing her into fashion, and setting the marriage up again. As to Lord Fawn—the fortune was there, as good now as it had been when he first sought it; and the lady was very pretty, a baronet’s widow too!—and in all respects good enough for Lord Fawn. A very pretty little baronet’s widow she was, with four thousand a year, and a house in Scotland, and a history. Lady Glencora determined that she would remake the match.
“I think, you know, friends who have been friends should be brought together. I suppose I may say a word to Lord Fawn?”
Lizzie hesitated for a moment before she answered, and then remembered that revenge, at least, would be sweet to her. She had sworn that she would be revenged upon Lord Fawn. After all, might it not suit her best to carry out her oath by marrying him? But whether so or otherwise, it would not but be well for her that he should be again at her feet. “Yes—if you think good will come of it.” The acquiescence was given with much hesitation;—but the circumstances required that it should be so, and Lady Glencora fully understood the circumstances. When she took her leave, Lizzie was profuse in her gratitude. “Oh, Lady Glencora, it has been so good of you to come. Pray come again, if you can spare me another moment.” Lady Glencora said that she would come again.
During the visit she had asked some
