“I know every bit as much as you do, Aunt Penelope, and I don’t want you to teach me.”
“Will you give up the jewels to Mr. Camperdown?”
“No—I won’t.”
“Or to the jewellers?”
“No; I won’t. I mean to—keep them—for—my child.” Then there came forth a sob, and a tear, and Lizzie’s handkerchief was held to her eyes.
“Your child! Wouldn’t they be kept properly for him, and for the family, if the jewellers had them? I don’t believe you care about your child.”
“Aunt Penelope, you had better take care.”
“I shall say just what I think, Lizzie. You can’t frighten me. The fact is, you are disgracing the family you have married into, and as you are my niece—”
“I’m not disgracing anybody. You are disgracing everybody.”
“As you are my niece, I have undertaken to come to you and to tell you that if you don’t give ’em up within a week from this time, they’ll proceed against you for—stealing ’em!” Lady Linlithgow, as she uttered this terrible threat, bobbed her head at her niece in a manner calculated to add very much to the force of her words. The words, and tone, and gesture combined were, in truth, awful.
“I didn’t steal them. My husband gave them to me with his own hands.”
“You wouldn’t answer Mr. Camperdown’s letters, you know. That alone will condemn you. After that there isn’t a word to be said about it;—not a word. Mr. Camperdown is the family lawyer, and when he writes to you letter after letter you take no more notice of him than a—dog!” The old woman was certainly very powerful. The way in which she pronounced that last word did make Lady Eustace ashamed of herself. “Why didn’t you answer his letters, unless you knew you were in the wrong? Of course you knew you were in the wrong.”
“No; I didn’t. A woman isn’t obliged to answer everything that is written to her.”
“Very well! You just say that before the judge! for you’ll have to go before a judge. I tell you, Lizzie Greystock, or Eustace, or whatever your name is, it’s downright picking and stealing. I suppose you want to sell them.”
“I won’t stand this, Aunt Penelope!” said Lizzie, rising from her seat.
“You must stand it;—and you’ll have to stand worse than that. You don’t suppose Mr. Camperdown got me to come here for nothing. If you don’t want to be made out to be a thief before all the world—”
“I won’t stand it!” shrieked Lizzie. “You have no business to come here and say such things to me. It’s my house.”
“I shall say just what I please.”
“Miss Macnulty, come in.” And Lizzie threw open the door, hardly knowing how the very weak ally whom she now invoked could help her, but driven by the stress of the combat to seek assistance somewhere. Miss Macnulty, who was seated near the door, and who had necessarily heard every word of the conversation, had no alternative but to appear. Of all human beings Lady Linlithgow was to her the most terrible, and yet, after a fashion, she loved the old woman. Miss Macnulty was humble, cowardly, and subservient; but she was not a fool, and she understood the difference between truth and falsehood. She had endured fearful things from Lady Linlithgow; but she knew that there might be more of sound protection in Lady Linlithgow’s real wrath than in Lizzie’s pretended affection.
“So you are there, are you?” said the countess.
“Yes;—I am here, Lady Linlithgow.”
“Listening, I suppose. Well;—so much the better. You know well enough, and you can tell her. You ain’t a fool, though I suppose you’ll be afraid to open your mouth.”
“Julia,” said Lady Eustace, “will you have the kindness to see that my aunt is shown to her carriage. I cannot stand her violence, and I will go upstairs.” So saying she made her way very gracefully into the back drawing-room, whence she could escape to her bedroom.
But her aunt fired a last shot at her. “Unless you do as you’re bid, Lizzie, you’ll find yourself in prison as sure as eggs!” Then, when her niece was beyond hearing, she turned to Miss Macnulty. “I suppose you’ve heard about these diamonds, Macnulty?”
“I know she’s got them, Lady Linlithgow.”
“She has no more right to them than you have. I suppose you’re afraid to tell her so, lest she should turn you out;—but it’s well she should know it. I’ve done my duty. Never mind about the servant. I’ll find my way out of the house.” Nevertheless the bell was rung, and the countess was shown to her carriage with proper consideration.
The two ladies went to the opera, and it was not till after their return, and just as they were going to bed, that anything further was said about either the necklace or the visit. Miss Macnulty would not begin the subject, and Lizzie purposely postponed it. But not for a moment had it been off Lady Eustace’s mind. She did not care much for music, though she professed to do so—and thought that she did. But on this night, had she at other times been a slave to St. Cecilia, she would have been free from that thraldom. The old woman’s threats had gone into her very heart’s blood. Theft, and prison, and juries, and judges had been thrown at her head so violently that she was almost stunned. Could it really be the case that they would prosecute her for stealing? She was Lady Eustace, and who but Lady Eustace should have these diamonds or be allowed to wear them? Nobody could say that Sir Florian had not given them to her. It could not, surely, be brought against her as an actual crime that she had not answered Mr. Camperdown’s letters? And yet she was not sure. Her ideas about law and judicial proceedings were very vague. Of what was wrong and what was right she
