The Eustace Diamonds

Patience Crabstick was in their hands. Nothing further had occurred, and it might be that Patience Crabstick had told no tale against her. She could not bring herself to believe that Patience had no tale to tell, but it might be that Patience, though she was in the hands of the police, would find it to her interest to tell no tale against her late mistress. At any rate, there was silence and quiet, and the affair of the diamonds seemed almost to be passing out of people’s minds. Greystock had twice called in Scotland Yard, but had been able to learn nothing. It was feared, they said, that the people really engaged in the robbery had got away scot-free. Frank did not quite believe them, but he could learn nothing from them. Thus encouraged, Lizzie determined that she would remain in London till after Lucinda’s marriage⁠—till after she should have received the promised letter from Lord Fawn, as to which, though it was so long in coming, she did not doubt that it would come at last. She could do nothing with Frank⁠—who was a fool! She could do nothing with Lord George⁠—who was a brute! Lord Fawn would still be within her reach, if only the secret about the diamonds could be kept a secret till after she should have become his wife.

About this time Lucinda spoke to her respecting her proposed journey. “You were talking of going to Scotland a week ago, Lady Eustace.”

“And am still talking of it.”

“Aunt Jane says that you are waiting for my wedding. It is very kind of you;⁠—but pray don’t do that.”

“I shouldn’t think of going now till after your marriage. It only wants ten or twelve days.”

“I count them. I know how many days it wants. It may want more than that.”

“You can’t put it off now, I should think,” said Lizzie; “and as I have ordered my dress for the occasion I shall certainly stay and wear it.”

“I am very sorry for your dress. I am very sorry for it all. Do you know;⁠—I sometimes think I shall⁠—murder him.”

“Lucinda⁠—how can you say anything so horrible! But I see you are only joking.” There did come a ghastly smile over that beautiful face, which was so seldom lighted up by any expression of mirth or good humour. “But I wish you would not say such horrible things.”

“It would serve him right;⁠—and if he were to murder me, that would serve me right. He knows that I detest him, and yet he goes on with it. I have told him so a score of times, but nothing will make him give it up. It is not that he loves me, but he thinks that that will be his triumph.”

“Why don’t you give it up, if it makes you unhappy?”

“It ought to come from him⁠—ought it not?”

“I don’t see why,” said Lizzie.

“He is not bound to anybody as I am bound to my aunt. No one can have exacted an oath from him. Lady Eustace, you don’t quite understand how we are situated. I wonder whether you would take the trouble to be good to me?”

Lucinda Roanoke had never asked a favour of her before;⁠—had never, to Lizzie’s knowledge, asked a favour of anyone. “In what way can I be good to you?” she said.

“Make him give it up. You may tell him what you like of me. Tell him that I shall only make him miserable, and more despicable than he is;⁠—that I shall never be a good wife to him. Tell him that I am thoroughly bad, and that he will repent it to the last day of his life. Say whatever you like⁠—but make him give it up.”

“When everything has been prepared!”

“What does all that signify compared to a life of misery? Lady Eustace, I really think that I should⁠—kill him, if he really were⁠—were my husband.” Lizzie at last said that she would, at any rate, speak to Sir Griffin.

And she did speak to Sir Griffin, having waited three or four days for an opportunity to do so. There had been some desperately sharp words between Sir Griffin and Mrs. Carbuncle with reference to money. Sir Griffin had been given to understand that Lucinda had, or would have, some few hundred pounds, and insisted that the money should be handed over to him on the day of his marriage. Mrs. Carbuncle had declared that the money was to come from property to be realised in New York, and had named a day which had seemed to Sir Griffin to be as the Greek Kalends. He expressed an opinion that he was swindled, and Mrs. Carbuncle, unable to restrain herself, had turned upon him full of wrath. He was caught by Lizzie as he was descending the stairs, and in the dining-room he poured out the tale of his wrongs. “That woman doesn’t know what fair dealing means,” said he.

“That’s a little hard, Sir Griffin, isn’t it?” said Lizzie.

“Not a bit. A trumpery six hundred pounds! And she hasn’t a shilling of fortune, and never will have, beyond that! No fellow ever was more generous or more foolish than I have been.” Lizzie, as she heard this, could not refrain from thinking of the poor departed Sir Florian. “I didn’t look for fortune, or say a word about money, as almost every man does⁠—but just took her as she was. And now she tells me that I can’t have just the bit of money that I wanted for our tour. It would serve them both right if I were to give it up.”

“Why don’t you?” said Lizzie. He looked quickly, sharply, and closely into her face as she asked the question. “I would, if I thought as you do.”

“And lay myself in for all manner of damages,” said Sir Griffin.

“There wouldn’t be anything of that kind, I’m sure. You see, the truth is, you and Miss Roanoke are always having⁠—having little tiffs together. I sometimes think you don’t really