In these days Mrs. Carbuncle was very urgent with her friend not to leave London till after the marriage. Lizzie had given no promise—had only been induced to promise that the loan of one hundred and fifty pounds should not be held to have any bearing on the wedding present to be made to Lucinda. That could be got on credit from Messrs. Harter and Benjamin; for though Mr. Benjamin was absent—on a little tour through Europe in search of precious stones in the cheap markets, old Mr. Harter suggested—the business went on the same as ever. There was a good deal of consultation about the present, and Mrs. Carbuncle at last decided, no doubt with the concurrence of Miss Roanoke, that it should consist simply of silver forks and spoons—real silver as far as the money would go. Mrs. Carbuncle herself went with her friend to select the articles—as to which, perhaps, we shall do her no injustice in saying that a ready sale, should such a lamentable occurrence ever become necessary, was one of the objects which she had in view. Mrs. Carbuncle’s investigations as to the quality of the metal quite won Mr. Harter’s respect; and it will probably be thought that she exacted no more than justice—seeing that the thing had become a matter of bargain—in demanding that the thirty-five pounds should be stretched to fifty, because the things were bought on long credit. “My dear Lizzie,” Mrs. Carbuncle said, “the dear girl won’t have an ounce more than she would have got, had you gone into another sort of shop with thirty-five sovereigns in your hand.” Lizzie growled, but Mrs. Carbuncle’s final argument was conclusive. “I’ll tell you what we’ll do,” said she; “we’ll take thirty pounds down in ready money.” There was no answer to be made to so reasonable a proposition.
The presents to be made to Lucinda were very much thought of in Hertford Street at this time, and Lizzie—independently of any feeling that she might have as to her own contribution—did all she could to assist the collection of tribute. It was quite understood that as a girl can only be married once—for a widow’s chance in such matters amounts to but little—everything should be done to gather toll from the taxpayers of society. It was quite fair on such an occasion that men should be given to understand that something worth having was expected—no trumpery thirty-shilling piece of crockery, no insignificant glass bottle, or fantastic paper-knife of no real value whatever, but got up just to put money into the tradesmen’s hands. To one or two elderly gentlemen upon whom Mrs. Carbuncle had smiled, she ventured to suggest in plain words that a cheque was the most convenient cadeau. “What do you say to a couple of sovereigns?” one sarcastic old gentleman replied, upon whom probably Mrs. Carbuncle had not smiled enough. She laughed and congratulated her sarcastic friend upon his joke;—but the two sovereigns were left upon the table, and went to swell the spoil.
“You must do something handsome for Lucinda,” Lizzie said to her cousin.
“What do you call handsome?”
“You are a bachelor and a Member of Parliament. Say fifteen pounds.”
“I’ll be ⸻ if I do!” said Frank, who was beginning to be very much disgusted with the house in Hertford Street. “There’s a five-pound note, and you may do what you please with it.” Lizzie gave over the five-pound note—the identical bit of paper that had come from Frank; and Mrs. Carbuncle, no doubt, did do what she pleased with it.
There was almost a quarrel because Lizzie, after much consideration, declared that she did not see her way to get a present from the Duke of Omnium. She had talked so much to Mrs. Carbuncle about the duke, that Mrs. Carbuncle was almost justified in making the demand. “It isn’t the value, you know,” said Mrs. Carbuncle; “neither I nor Lucinda would think of that; but it would look so well to have the dear duke’s name on something.” Lizzie declared that the duke was unapproachable on such subjects. “There you’re wrong,” said Mrs. Carbuncle. “I happen to know there is nothing his grace likes so much as giving wedding presents.” This was the harder upon Lizzie as she actually did succeed in saying such kind things about Lucinda, that Lady Glencora sent Miss Roanoke the prettiest smelling-bottle in the world. “You don’t mean to say you’ve given a present to the future Lady Tewett?” said Madame Max Goesler to her friend. “Why not? Sir Griffin can’t hurt me. When one begins to be good-natured, why shouldn’t one be good-natured all round?” Madame Max remarked that it might, perhaps, be preferable to put an end to good-nature altogether. “There I daresay you’re right, my dear,” said Lady Glencora. “I’ve long felt that making presents means nothing. Only if one has a lot of money and people like it, why shouldn’t one? I’ve made so many to people I hardly ever saw that one more to Lady Tewett can’t hurt.”
Perhaps the most wonderful affair in that campaign
