“Yes—he was here.”
“And what did he say?” Lizzie did not like the way in which the man looked at her, feeling it to be not only unfriendly, but absolutely cruel. It seemed to imply that he knew that her secret was about to be divulged. And what was he to her now that he should be impertinent to her? What he knew, all the world would know before the end of the week. And that other man who knew it already, had been kind to her, had said nothing about perjury, but had explained to her that what she would have to bear would be trouble, and not imprisonment and loss of money. Lord George, to whom she had been so civil, for whom she had spent money, to whom she had almost offered herself and all that she possessed—Lord George, whom she had selected as the first repository of her secret, had spoken no word to comfort her, but had made things look worse for her than they were. Why should she submit to be questioned by Lord George? In a day or two the secret which he knew would be no secret. “Never mind what he said, Lord George,” she replied.
“Has he found it all out?”
“You had better go and ask himself,” said Lizzie. “I am sick of the subject, and I mean to have done with it.”
Lord George laughed, and Lizzie hated him for his laugh.
“I declare,” said Mrs. Carbuncle, “that you two who were such friends are always snapping at each other now.”
“The fickleness is all on her ladyship’s part—not on mine,” said Lord George; whereupon Lady Eustace walked out of the room and was not seen again till dinnertime.
Soon afterwards Lucinda also endeavoured to escape, but to this Sir Griffin objected. Sir Griffin was in a very good humour, and bore himself like a prosperous bridegroom. “Come, Luce,” he said, “get off your high horse for a little. Tomorrow, you know, you must come down altogether.”
“So much the more reason for my remaining up today.”
“I’ll be shot if you shall,” said Sir Griffin. “Luce, sit in my lap, and give me a kiss.”
At this moment Lord George and Mrs. Carbuncle were in the front drawing-room, and Lord George was telling her the true story as to the necklace. It must be explained on his behalf that in doing this he did not consider that he was betraying the trust reposed in him. “They know all about it in Scotland Yard,” he said; “I got it from Gager. They were bound to tell me, as up to this week past every man in the police thought that I had been the mastermind among the thieves. When I think of it I hardly know whether to laugh or cry.”
“And she had them all the time?” exclaimed Mrs. Carbuncle.
“Yes;—in this house! Did you ever hear of such a little cat? I could tell you more than that. She wanted me to take them and dispose of them.”
“No!”
“She did though;—and now see the way she treats me! Never mind. Don’t say a word to her about it till it comes out of itself. She’ll have to be arrested, no doubt.”
“Arrested!” Mrs. Carbuncle’s further exclamations were stopped by Lucinda’s struggles in the other room. She had declined to sit upon the bridegroom’s lap, but had acknowledged that she was bound to submit to be kissed. He had kissed her, and then had striven to drag her on to his knee. But she was strong, and had resisted violently, and, as he afterwards said, had struck him savagely. “Of course I struck him,” said Lucinda.
“By ⸻, you shall pay for it!” said Sir Griffin. This took place in the presence of Lord George and Mrs. Carbuncle, and yet they were to be married tomorrow.
“The idea of complaining that a girl hit you—and the girl who is to be your wife!” said Lord George, as they walked off together.
“I know what to complain of, and what not,” said Sir Griffin. “Are you going to let me have that money?”
“No;—I am not,” said Lord George—“so there’s an end of that.” Nevertheless, they dined together at their club afterwards, and in the evening Sir Griffin was again in Hertford Street.
This happened on the Sunday, on which day none of the ladies had gone to church. Mr. Emilius well understood the cause of their absence, and felt nothing of a parson’s anger at it. He was to marry the couple on the Monday morning, and dined with the ladies on the Sunday. He was peculiarly gracious and smiling, and spoke of the Hymeneals as though they were even more than ordinarily joyful and happy in their promise. To Lizzie he was almost affectionate, and Mrs. Carbuncle he flattered to the top of her bent. The power of the man in being sprightly under such a load of trouble as oppressed the household, was wonderful. He had to do with three women who were worldly, hard, and given entirely to evil things. Even as regarded the bride, who felt the horror of her position, so much must be in truth admitted. Though from day to day and hour to hour she would openly declare her hatred of the things around her—yet she went on. Since she had entered upon life she had known nothing but falsehood and scheming wickedness;—and, though she rebelled against the consequences, she had not rebelled against the wickedness. Now to this unfortunate young woman and her two companions, Mr. Emilius discoursed with an unctuous mixture of celestial and terrestrial glorification, which was proof, at any rate, of great ability on his part. He told them how
