It is hardly too much to say that the man quailed before her. And it certainly is not too much to say that, had Lizzie Eustace been trained as an actress, she would have become a favourite with the town. When there came to her any fair scope for acting, she was perfect. In the ordinary scenes of ordinary life, such as befell her during her visit to Fawn Court, she could not acquit herself well. There was no reality about her, and the want of it was strangely plain to most unobservant eyes. But give her a part to play that required exaggerated, strong action, and she hardly ever failed. Even in that terrible moment, when, on her return from the theatre, she thought that the police had discovered her secret about the diamonds, though she nearly sank through fear, she still carried on her acting in the presence of Lucinda Roanoke; and when she had found herself constrained to tell the truth to Lord George Carruthers, the power to personify a poor, weak, injured creature was not wanting to her. The reader will not think that her position in society at the present moment was very well established—will feel, probably, that she must still have known herself to be on the brink of social ruin. But she had now fully worked herself up to the necessities of the occasion, and was as able to play her part as well as any actress that ever walked the boards. She had called him a dastard, and now stood looking him in the face. “I didn’t mean anybody in particular,” said Lord Fawn.
“Then what right can you have to ask me whether I have received attentions? Had it not been for the affectionate attention of my cousin, Mr. Greystock, I should have died beneath the load of sorrow you have heaped upon me!” This she said quite boldly, and yet the man she named was he of whom Andy Gowran told his horrid story, and whose lovemaking to Lizzie had, in Mrs. Hittaway’s opinion, been sufficient to atone for any falling off of strength in the matter of the diamonds.
“A rumour reached me,” said Lord Fawn, plucking up his courage, “that you were engaged to marry your cousin.”
“Then rumour lied, my lord. And he or she who repeated the rumour to you, lied also. And any he or she who repeats it again will go on with the lie.” Lord Fawn’s brow became very black. The word “lie” itself was offensive to him—offensive, even though it might not be applied directly to himself; but he still quailed, and was unable to express his indignation—as he had done to poor Lucy Morris, his mother’s governess. “And now let me ask, Lord Fawn, on what ground you and I stand together. When my friend, Lady Glencora, asked me, only this morning, whether my engagement with you was still an existing fact, and brought me the kindest possible message on the same subject from her uncle, the duke, I hardly knew what answer to make her.” It was not surprising that Lizzie in her difficulties should use her new friend, but perhaps she overdid the friendship a little. “I told her that we were engaged, but that your lordship’s conduct to me had been so strange, that I hardly knew how to speak of you among my friends.”
“I thought I explained myself to your cousin.”
“My cousin certainly did not understand your explanation.”
Lord Fawn was certain that Greystock had understood it well; and Greystock had in return insulted him—because the engagement was broken off. But it is impossible to argue on facts with a woman who has been ill-used. “After all that has passed, perhaps we had better part,” said Lord Fawn.
“Then I shall put the matter into the hands of the Duke of Omnium,” said Lizzie boldly. “I will not have my whole life ruined, my good name blasted—”
“I have not said a word to injure your good name.”
“On what plea, then, have you dared to take upon yourself to put an end to an engagement which was made at your own pressing request—which was, of course, made at your own request? On what ground do you justify such conduct? You are a Liberal, Lord Fawn; and everybody regards the Duke of Omnium as the head of the Liberal nobility in England. He is my friend, and I shall put the matter into his hands.” It was, probably, from her cousin Frank that Lizzie had learned that Lord Fawn was more afraid of the leaders of his own party than of any other tribunal upon earth—or perhaps elsewhere.
Lord Fawn felt the absurdity of the threat, and yet it had effect upon him. He knew that the Duke of Omnium was a worn-out old debauchee, with one foot in the grave, who was looked after by two or three women who were only anxious that he should not disgrace himself by some absurdity before he died. Nevertheless, the Duke of Omnium, or the duke’s name, was a power in the nation. Lady Glencora was certainly very powerful, and Lady Glencora’s husband was Chancellor of the Exchequer. He did not suppose that the duke cared in the least whether Lizzie Eustace was or was not married;—but Lady Glencora had certainly interested herself about Lizzie, and might make London almost too hot to hold him if she chose to go about everywhere saying that he ought to marry the lady. And in addition to all this prospective grief, there was the trouble of the present moment. He was in Lizzie’s own room—fool that he had been to come there—and he must get out as best he could. “Lady Eustace,” he said, “I am most anxious not to behave badly in
