“It’s the old woman I’m complaining of,” said Sir Griffin, “and I’m not going to marry her. I shall have seen the last of her when I get out of the church, Lady Eustace.”
“Do you think she wishes it?”
“Who do you mean?” asked Sir Griffin.
“Why;—Lucinda.”
“Of course she does. Where’d she be now if it wasn’t to go on? I don’t believe they’ve money enough between them to pay the rent of the house they’re living in.”
“Of course, I don’t want to make difficulties, Sir Griffin, and no doubt the affair has gone very far now. But I really think Lucinda would consent to break it off if you wish it. I have never thought that you were really in love with her.”
He again looked at her very sharply and very closely. “Has she sent you to say all this?”
“Has who sent me? Mrs. Carbuncle didn’t.”
“But Lucinda?”
She paused for a moment before she replied;—but she could not bring herself to be absolutely honest in the matter. “No;—she didn’t send me. But from what I see and hear, I am quite sure she does not wish to go on with it.”
“Then she shall go on with it,” said Sir Griffin. “I’m not going to be made a fool of in that way. She shall go on with it; and the first thing I mean to tell her as my wife is, that she shall never see that woman again. If she thinks she’s going to be master, she’s very much mistaken.” Sir Griffin, as he said this, showed his teeth, and declared his purpose to be masterful by his features as well as by his words;—but Lady Eustace was, nevertheless, of opinion that when the two came to an absolute struggle for mastery, the lady would get the better of it.
Lizzie never told Miss Roanoke of her want of success, or even of the effort she had made; nor did the unhappy young woman come to her for any reply. The preparations went on, and it was quite understood that on this peculiar occasion Mrs. Carbuncle intended to treat her friends with profuse hospitality. She proposed to give a breakfast; and as the house in Hertford Street was very small, rooms had been taken at an hotel in Albemarle Street. Thither, as the day of the marriage drew near, all the presents were taken—so that they might be viewed by the guests, with the names of the donors attached to them. As some of the money given had been very much wanted indeed, so that the actual cheques could not be conveniently spared just at the moment to pay for the presents which ought to have been bought—a few very pretty things were hired, as to which, when the donors should see their names attached to them, they should surely think that the money given had been laid out to great advantage.
LXVII
The Eye of the Public
It took Lord Fawn a long time to write his letter, but at last he wrote it. The delay must not be taken as throwing any slur on his character as a correspondent or a man of business, for many irritating causes sprang up sufficient to justify him in pleading that it arose from circumstances beyond his own control. It is, moreover, felt by us all that the time which may fairly be taken in the performance of any task depends, not on the amount of work, but on the performance of it when done. A man is not expected to write a cheque for a couple of thousand pounds as readily as he would one for five—unless he be a man to whom a couple of thousand pounds is a mere nothing. To Lord Fawn the writing of this letter was everything. He had told Lizzie, with much exactness, what he would put into it. He would again offer his hand—acknowledging himself bound to do so by his former offer—but would give reasons why she should not accept it. If anything should occur in the meantime which would, in his opinion, justify him in again repudiating her, he would of course take advantage of such circumstance. If asked himself what was his prevailing motive in all that he did or intended to do, he would have declared that it was above all things necessary that he should “put himself right in the eye of the British public.”
But he was not able to do this without interference from the judgment of others. Both Mr. and Mrs. Hittaway interfered; and he could not prevent himself from listening to them and believing them, though he would contradict all they said, and snub all their theories. Frank Greystock also continued to interfere, and Lady Glencora Palliser. Even John Eustace had been worked upon to write to Lord Fawn, stating his opinion, as trustee for his late brother’s property, that the Eustace family did not think that there was ground of complaint against Lady Eustace in reference to the diamonds which had been stolen. This was a terrible blow to Lord Fawn, and had come, no doubt, from a general agreement among the Eustace faction—including the bishop, John Eustace, and even Mr. Camperdown—that it would be a good thing to get the widow married and placed under some decent control.
Lady Glencora absolutely had the effrontery to ask him whether the marriage was not going to take place, and when a day would be fixed. He gathered up his courage to give her ladyship a rebuke. “My private affairs do seem to be uncommonly interesting,” he said.
“Why, yes, Lord Fawn,” said Lady Glencora, whom nothing could abash;—“most interesting. You see, dear Lady Eustace is so very popular, that we all want to know what is to be her fate.”
“I regret to say that I cannot answer your ladyship’s question with any precision,” said Lord Fawn.
But the Hittaway persecution was by far the worst. “You have seen her, Frederic?” said his sister.
“Yes—I
