The Eustace Diamonds

had a distinct notion. She knew well enough that she was endeavouring to steal the Eustace diamonds; but she did not in the least know what power there might be in the law to prevent, or to punish her for the intended theft. She knew well that the thing was not really her own; but there were, as she thought, so many points in her favour, that she felt it to be a cruelty that anyone should grudge her the plunder. Was not she the only Lady Eustace living? As to these threats from Mr. Camperdown and Lady Linlithgow, she felt certain they would be used against her whether they were true or false. She would break her heart should she abandon her prey and afterwards find that Mr. Camperdown would have been wholly powerless against her had she held on to it. But then who would tell her the truth? She was sharp enough to understand, or at any rate suspicious enough to believe, that Mr. Mopus would be actuated by no other desire in the matter than that of running up a bill against her. “My dear,” she said to Miss Macnulty, as they went upstairs after the opera, “come into my room a moment. You heard all that my aunt said?”

“I could not help hearing. You told me to stay there, and the door was ajar.”

“I wanted you to hear. Of course what she said was the greatest nonsense in the world.”

“I don’t know.”

“When she talked about my being taken to prison for not answering a lawyer’s letter, that must be nonsense?”

“I suppose that was.”

“And then she is such a ferocious old termagant⁠—such an old vulturess. Now isn’t she a ferocious old termagant?” Lizzie paused for an answer, desirous that her companion should join her in her enmity against her aunt, but Miss Macnulty was unwilling to say anything against one who had been her protectress, and might, perhaps, be her protectress again. “You don’t mean to say you don’t hate her?” said Lizzie. “If you didn’t hate her after all she has done to you, I should despise you. Don’t you hate her?”

“I think she’s a very upsetting old woman,” said Miss Macnulty.

“Oh, you poor creature! Is that all you dare to say about her?”

“I’m obliged to be a poor creature,” said Miss Macnulty, with a red spot on each of her cheeks.

Lady Eustace understood this, and relented. “But you needn’t be afraid,” she said, “to tell me what you think.”

“About the diamonds, you mean?”

“Yes; about the diamonds.”

“You have enough without them. I’d give ’em up for peace and quiet.” That was Miss Macnulty’s advice.

“No;⁠—I haven’t enough;⁠—or nearly enough. I’ve had to buy ever so many things since my husband died. They’ve done all they could to be hard to me. They made me pay for the very furniture at Portray.” This wasn’t true; but it was true that Lizzie had endeavoured to palm off on the Eustace estate bills for new things which she had ordered for her own country-house. “I haven’t near enough. I am in debt already. People talked as though I were the richest woman in the world; but when it comes to be spent, I ain’t rich. Why should I give them up if they’re my own?”

“Not if they’re your own.”

“If I give you a present and then die, people can’t come and take it away afterwards because I didn’t put it into my will. There’d be no making presents like that at all.” This Lizzie said with an evident conviction in the strength of her argument.

“But this necklace is so very valuable.”

“That can’t make a difference. If a thing is a man’s own he can give it away;⁠—not a house, or a farm, or a wood, or anything like that; but a thing that he can carry about with him⁠—of course he can give it away.”

“But perhaps Sir Florian didn’t mean to give it for always,” suggested Miss Macnulty.

“But perhaps he did. He told me that they were mine, and I shall keep them. So that’s the end of it. You can go to bed now.” And Miss Macnulty went to bed.

Lizzie, as she sat thinking of it, owned to herself that no help was to be expected in that quarter. She was not angry with Miss Macnulty, who was, almost of necessity, a poor creature. But she was convinced more strongly than ever that some friend was necessary to her who should not be a poor creature. Lord Fawn, though a peer, was a poor creature. Frank Greystock she believed to be as strong as a house.

VII

Mr. Burke’s Speeches

Lucy Morris had been told by Lady Fawn that⁠—in point of fact that, being a governess, she ought to give over falling in love with Frank Greystock, and she had not liked it. Lady Fawn no doubt had used words less abrupt⁠—had probably used but few words, and had expressed her meaning chiefly by little winks, and shakings of her head, and small gestures of her hands, and had ended by a kiss⁠—in all of which she had intended to mingle mercy with justice, and had, in truth, been full of love. Nevertheless, Lucy had not liked it. No girl likes to be warned against falling in love, whether the warning be needed or not needed. In this case Lucy knew very well that the caution was too late. It might be all very well for Lady Fawn to decide that her governess should not receive visits from a lover in her house;⁠—and then the governess might decide whether, in those circumstances, she would remain or go away; but Lady Fawn could have no right to tell her governess not to be in love. All this Lucy said to herself over and over again, and yet she knew that Lady Fawn had treated her well. The old woman had kissed her, and purred over her, and praised her, and had really loved her. As