“Pray don’t. Most people like presents, but they only bore me.”
“Because you are so indifferent, Frank;—so cold. Do you remember giving me a little ring?”
“Very well indeed. It cost eight and sixpence.”
“I never thought what it cost;—but there it is.” This she said, drawing off her glove and showing him her finger. “And when I am dead, there it will be. You say you want money, Frank. May I not give it you? Are not we brother and sister?”
“My dear Lizzie, you say you hate money. Don’t talk about it.”
“It is you that talk about it. I only talk about it because I want to give it you;—yes, all that I have. When I first knew what was the real meaning of my husband’s will, my only thought was to be of assistance to you.”
In real truth Frank was becoming very sick of her. It seemed to him now to have been almost impossible that he should ever soberly have thought of making her his wife. The charm was all gone, and even her prettiness had in his eyes lost its value. He looked at her, asking himself whether in truth she was pretty. She had been travelling all day, and perhaps the scrutiny was not fair. But he thought that even after the longest day’s journey Lucy would not have been soiled, haggard, dishevelled, and unclean, as was this woman.
Travellers again entered the carriage, and they went on with a crowd of persons till they reached the platform at which they changed the carriage for Troon. Then they were again alone, for a few minutes, and Lizzie with infinite courage determined that she would make her last attempt. “Frank,” she said, “you know what it is that I mean. You cannot feel that I am ungenerous. You have made me love you. Will you have all that I have to give?” She was leaning over, close to him, and he was observing that her long lock of hair was out of curl and untidy—a thing that ought not to have been there during such a journey as this.
“Do you not know,” he said, “that I am engaged to marry Lucy Morris?”
“No;—I do not know it.”
“I have told you so more than once.”
“You cannot afford to marry her.”
“Then I shall do it without affording.” Lizzie was about to speak—had already pronounced her rival’s name in that tone of contempt which she so well knew how to use, when he stopped her. “Do not say anything against her, Lizzie, in my hearing, for I will not bear it. It would force me to leave you at the Troon station, and I had better see you now to the end of the journey.” Lizzie flung herself back into the corner of her carriage, and did not utter another word till she reached Portray Castle. He handed her out of the railway carriage, and into her own vehicle which was waiting for them, attended to the maid, and got the luggage; but still she did not speak. It would be better that she should quarrel with him. That little snake, Lucy, would of course now tell him of the meeting between them in Hertford Street, after which anything but quarrelling would be impossible. What a fool the man must be, what an idiot, what a softhearted, mean-spirited fellow! Lucy, by her sly, quiet little stratagems, had got him once to speak the word, and now he had not courage enough to go back from it! He had less strength of will even than Lord Fawn! What she offered to him would be the making of him. With his position, his seat in Parliament, such a country house as Portray Castle, and the income which she would give him, there was nothing that he might not reach! And he was so infirm of purpose, that though he had hankered after it all, he would not open his hand to take it—because he was afraid of such a little thing as Lucy Morris! It was thus that she thought of him as she leaned back in the carriage without speaking. In giving her all that is due to her, we must acknowledge that she had less feeling of the injury done to her charms as a woman than might have been expected. That she hated Lucy was a matter of course;—and equally so that she should be very angry with Frank Greystock. But the anger arose from general disappointment, rather than from any sense of her own despised beauty. “Ah, now I shall see my child,” she said, as the carriage stopped at the castle-gate.
When Frank Greystock went to his supper, Miss Macnulty brought to him his cousin’s compliments with a message saying that she was too weary to see him again that night. The message had been intended to be curt and uncourteous, but Miss Macnulty had softened it—so that no harm was done. “She must be very weary,” said Frank.
“I suppose though that nothing would ever really tire Lady Eustace,” said Miss Macnulty. “When she is excited nothing will tire her. Perhaps the journey has been dull.”
“Exceedingly dull,” said Frank, as he helped himself to the collops which the Portray cook had prepared for his supper.
Miss Macnulty was very attentive to him, and had many questions to ask. About the necklace she hardly dared to speak, merely observing how sad it was that all those precious diamonds should have been lost forever. “Very sad indeed,” said Frank with his mouth full. She then went on to the marriage—the marriage that was no marriage. Was not that very dreadful? Was it true that Miss Roanoke was really—out of her mind? Frank acknowledged that it was dreadful, but thought that the marriage had it been completed would have been more so. As for the young lady, he only knew that she had been taken somewhere out of the way. Sir Griffin, he had been told, had gone
