The Eustace Diamonds

was the spirited attack which Mrs. Carbuncle made on a certain Mrs. Hanbury Smith, who for the last six or seven years had not been among Mrs. Carbuncle’s more intimate friends. Mrs. Hanbury Smith lived with her husband in Paris, but before her marriage had known Mrs. Carbuncle in London. Her father, Mr. Bunbury Jones, had, from certain causes, chosen to show certain civilities to Mrs. Carbuncle just at the period of his daughter’s marriage, and Mrs. Carbuncle being perhaps at that moment well supplied with ready money, had presented a marriage present. From that to this present day Mrs. Carbuncle had seen nothing of Mrs. Hanbury Smith, nor of Mr. Bunbury Jones, but she was not the woman to waste the return-value of such a transaction. A present so given was seed sown in the earth⁠—seed, indeed, that could not be expected to give back twenty-fold, or even tenfold, but still seed from which a crop should be expected. So she wrote to Mrs. Hanbury Smith, explaining that her darling niece Lucinda was about to be married to Sir Griffin Tewett, and that, as she had no child of her own, Lucinda was the same to her as a daughter. And then, lest there might be any want of comprehension, she expressed her own assurance that her friend would be glad to have an opportunity of reciprocating the feelings which had been evinced on the occasion of her own marriage. “It is no good mincing matters nowadays,” Mrs. Carbuncle would have said, had any friend pointed out to her that she was taking strong measures in the exaction of toll. “People have come to understand that a spade is a spade, and £10, £10,” she would have said. Had Mrs. Hanbury Smith not noticed the application, there might, perhaps, have been an end of it, but she was silly enough to send over from Paris a little trumpery bit of finery, bought in the Palais Royal for ten francs. Whereupon Mrs. Carbuncle wrote the following letter:⁠—

My dear Mrs. Hanbury Smith,

Lucinda has received your little brooch, and is much obliged to you for thinking of her; but you must remember that when you were married, I sent you a bracelet which cost £10. If I had a daughter of my own, I should, of course, expect that she would reap the benefit of this on her marriage;⁠—and my niece is the same to me as a daughter. I think that this is quite understood now among people in society. Lucinda will be disappointed much if you do not send her what she thinks she has a right to expect. Of course you can deduct the brooch if you please.

Yours very sincerely,

Jane Carbuncle.

Mr. Hanbury Smith was something of a wag, and caused his wife to write back as follows:⁠—

Dear Mrs. Carbuncle,

I quite acknowledge the reciprocity system, but don’t think it extends to descendants⁠—certainly not to nieces. I acknowledge, too, the present quoted at £10. I thought it had been £7 10s.⁠—

“The nasty, mean creature,” said Mrs. Carbuncle, when showing the correspondence to Lizzie, “must have been to the tradesman to inquire! The price named was £10, but I got £2 10s. off for ready money.”

—At your second marriage I will do what is needful; but I can assure you I haven’t recognised nieces with any of my friends.

Yours very truly,

Caroline Hanbury Smith.

The correspondence was carried no further, for not even can a Mrs. Carbuncle exact payment of such a debt in any established court; but she inveighed bitterly against the meanness of Mrs. Smith, telling the story openly, and never feeling that she told it against herself. In her set it was generally thought that she had done quite right.

She managed better with old Mr. Cabob, who had certainly received many of Mrs. Carbuncle’s smiles, and who was very rich. Mr. Cabob did as he was desired, and sent a cheque⁠—a cheque for £20; and added a message that he hoped Miss Roanoke would buy with it any little thing that she liked. Miss Roanoke⁠—or her aunt for her⁠—liked a thirty-guinea ring, and bought it, having the bill for the balance sent in to Mr. Cabob. Mr. Cabob, who probably knew that he must pay well for his smiles, never said anything about it.

Lady Eustace went into all this work, absolutely liking it. She had felt nothing of anger even as regarded her own contribution⁠—much as she had struggled to reduce the amount. People, she felt, ought to be sharp;⁠—and it was nice to look at pretty things, and to be cunning about them. She would have applied to the Duke of Omnium had she dared, and was very triumphant when she got the smelling-bottle from Lady Glencora. But Lucinda herself took no part whatever in all these things. Nothing that Mrs. Carbuncle could say would induce her to take any interest in them, or even in the trousseau, which, without reference to expense, was being supplied chiefly on the very indifferent credit of Sir Griffin. What Lucinda had to say about the matter was said solely to her aunt. Neither Lady Eustace, nor Lord George, nor even the maid who dressed her, heard any of her complaints. But complain she did, and that with terrible energy. “What is the use of it, Aunt Jane? I shall never have a house to put them into.”

“What nonsense, my dear! Why shouldn’t you have a house as well as others?”

“And if I had, I should never care for them. I hate them. What does Lady Glencora Palliser or Lord Fawn care for me?” Even Lord Fawn had been put under requisition, and had sent a little box full of stationery.

“They are worth money, Lucinda; and when a girl marries she always gets them.”

“Yes;⁠—and when they come from people who love her, and who pour them into her lap with kisses, because she has given herself to a man she loves, then it must be