The Eustace Diamonds

a good wife was a crown, or rather a chaplet of aetherial roses to her husband, and how high rank and great station in the world made such a chaplet more beautiful and more valuable. His work in the vineyard, he said, had fallen lately among the wealthy and nobly born; and though he would not say that he was entitled to take glory on that account, still he gave thanks daily in that he had been enabled to give his humble assistance towards the running of a godly life to those who, by their example, were enabled to have so wide an effect upon their poorer fellow-creatures. He knew well how difficult it was for a camel to go through the eye of a needle. They had the highest possible authority for that. But Scripture never said that the camel⁠—which, as he explained it, was simply a thread larger than ordinary thread⁠—could not go through the needle’s eye. The camel which succeeded, in spite of the difficulties attending its exalted position, would be peculiarly blessed. And he went on to suggest that the three ladies before him, one of whom was about to enter upon a new phase of life tomorrow, under auspices peculiarly propitious, were, all of them, camels of this description. Sir Griffin, when he came in, received for a while the peculiar attention of Mr. Emilius. “I think, Sir Griffin,” he commenced, “that no period of a man’s life is so blessed, as that upon which you will enter tomorrow.” This he said in a whisper, but it was a whisper audible to the ladies.

“Well;⁠—yes; it’s all right, I daresay,” said Sir Griffin.

“Well, after all, what is life till a man has met and obtained the partner of his soul? It is a blank⁠—and the blank becomes every day more and more intolerable to the miserable solitary.”

“I wonder you don’t get married yourself,” said Mrs. Carbuncle, who perceived that Sir Griffin was rather astray for an answer.

“Ah!⁠—if one could always be fortunate when one loved!” said Mr. Emilius, casting his eyes across to Lizzie Eustace. It was evident to them all that he did not wish to conceal his passion.

It was the object of Mrs. Carbuncle that the lovers should not be left alone together, but that they should be made to think that they were passing the evening in affectionate intercourse. Lucinda hardly spoke, hardly had spoken since her disagreeable struggle with Sir Griffin. He said but little, but with Mrs. Carbuncle was better humoured than usual. Every now and then she made little whispered communications to him, telling that they would be sure to be at the church at eleven to the moment, explaining to him what would be the extent of Lucinda’s boxes for the wedding tour, and assuring him that he would find Lucinda’s new maid a treasure in regard to his own shirts and pocket-handkerchiefs. She toiled marvellously at little subjects, always making some allusion to Lucinda, and never hinting that aught short of Elysium was in store for him. The labour was great; the task was terrible; but now it was so nearly over! And to Lizzie she was very courteous, never hinting by a word or a look that there was any new trouble impending on the score of the diamonds. She, too, as she received the greasy compliments of Mr. Emilius with pretty smiles, had her mind full enough of care.

At last Sir Griffin went, again kissing his bride as he left. Lucinda accepted his embrace without a word and almost without a shudder. “Eleven to the moment, Sir Griffin,” said Mrs. Carbuncle, with her best good humour. “All right,” said Sir Griffin as he passed out of the door. Lucinda walked across the room, and kept her eyes fixed on his retreating figure as he descended the stairs. Mr. Emilius had already departed, with many promises of punctuality, and Lizzie now withdrew for the night. “Dear Lizzie, good night,” said Mrs. Carbuncle, kissing her.

“Good night, Lady Eustace,” said Lucinda. “I suppose I shall see you tomorrow?”

“See me!⁠—of course you will see me. I shall come into your room with the girls, after you have had your tea.” The girls mentioned were the four bridesmaids, as to whom there had been some difficulty, as Lucinda had neither sister nor cousins, and had contracted no peculiarly tender friendships. But Mrs. Carbuncle had arranged it, and four properly-equipped young ladies were to be in attendance at ten on the morrow.

Then Lucinda and Mrs. Carbuncle were alone. “Of one thing I feel sure,” said Lucinda in a low voice.

“What is that, dear?”

“I shall never see Sir Griffin Tewett again.”

“You talk in that way on purpose to break me down at the last moment,” said Mrs. Carbuncle.

“Dear Aunt Jane, I would not break you down if I could help it. I have struggled so hard⁠—simply that you might be freed from me. We have been very foolish, both of us; but I would bear all the punishment⁠—if I could.”

“You know that this is nonsense now.”

“Very well. I only tell you. I know that I shall never see him again. I will never trust myself alone in his presence. I could not do it. When he touches me my whole body is in agony. To be kissed by him is madness.”

“Lucinda, this is very wicked. You are working yourself up to a paroxysm of folly.”

“Wicked;⁠—yes, I know that I am wicked. There has been enough of wickedness certainly. You don’t suppose that I mean to excuse myself?”

“Of course you will marry Sir Griffin tomorrow.”

“I shall never be married to him. How I shall escape from him⁠—by dying, or going mad⁠—or by destroying him, God only knows.” Then she paused, and her aunt looking into her face almost began to fear that she was in earnest. But she would not take it as at all indicating any real result for the morrow. The girl had often said nearly the same thing before, and had