The Eustace Diamonds

of a human heart. And there are other men⁠—very many men⁠—who have felt this love, and have resisted it, feeling it to be unfit that Love should be Lord of all. Frank Greystock had told himself, a score of times, that it would be unbecoming in him to allow a passion to obtain such mastery of him as to interfere with his ambition. Could it be right that he who, as a young man, had already done so much, who might possibly have before him so high and great a career, should miss that, because he could not resist a feeling which a little chit of a girl had created in his bosom⁠—a girl without money, without position, without even beauty; a girl as to whom, were he to marry her, the world would say, “Oh, heaven!⁠—there has Frank Greystock gone and married a little governess out of old Lady Fawn’s nursery!” And yet he loved her with all his heart, and today he had told her of his love. What should he do next?

The complicated legal case received neither much ravelling nor unravelling from his brains that night; but before he left his chambers he wrote the following letter:⁠—

Midnight, Saturday,
All among my books and papers,
2, Bolt Court, Middle Temple.

Dear, dear Lucy,

I told you today that you had ever been the Queen who reigned in those palaces which I have built in Spain. You did not make me much of an answer; but such as it was⁠—only just one muttered doubtful-sounding word⁠—it has made me hope that I may be justified in asking you to share with me a home which will not be palatial. If I am wrong⁠—? But no;⁠—I will not think I am wrong, or that I can be wrong. No sound coming from you is really doubtful. You are truth itself, and the muttered word would have been other than it was, if you had not⁠—! may I say⁠—had you not already learned to love me?

You will feel, perhaps, that I ought to have said all this to you then, and that a letter in such a matter is but a poor substitute for a spoken assurance of affection. You shall have the whole truth. Though I have long loved you, I did not go down to Fawn Court with the purpose of declaring to you my love. What I said to you was God’s truth; but it was spoken without thought at the moment. I have thought of it much since;⁠—and now I write to ask you to be my wife. I have lived for the last year or two with this hope before me; and now⁠—Dear, dear Lucy, I will not write in too great confidence; but I will tell you that all my happiness is in your hands.

If your answer is what I hope it may be, tell Lady Fawn at once. I shall immediately write to Bobsborough, as I hate secrets in such matters. And if it is to be so⁠—then I shall claim the privilege of going to Fawn Court as soon and as often as I please.

Yours ever and always⁠—if you will have me⁠—

F. G.

He sat for an hour at his desk, with his letter lying on the table, before he left his chambers⁠—looking at it. If he should decide on posting it, then would that life in Belgravia-cum-Pimlico⁠—of which in truth he was very fond⁠—be almost closed for him. The lords and countesses, and rich county members, and leading politicians, who were delighted to welcome him, would not care for his wife; nor could he very well take his wife among them. To live with them as a married man, he must live as they lived;⁠—and must have his own house in their precincts. Later in life, he might possibly work up to this;⁠—but for the present he must retire into dim domestic security and the neighbourhood of Regent’s Park. He sat looking at the letter, telling himself that he was now, at this moment, deciding his own fate in life. And he again muttered the Quaker’s advice, “Doan’t thou marry for munny, but goa where munny is!” It may be said, however, that no man ever writes such a letter, and then omits to send it. He walked out of the Temple with it in his hand, and dropped it into a pillar letter-box just outside the gate. As the envelope slipped through his fingers, he felt that he had now bound himself to his fate.

XIV

“Doan’t Thou Marry for Munny”

As that Saturday afternoon wore itself away, there was much excitement at Fawn Court. When Lady Fawn returned with the carriage, she heard that Frank Greystock had been at Fawn Court; and she heard also, from Augusta, that he had been rambling about the grounds alone with Lucy Morris. At any exhibition of old ladies, held before a competent jury, Lady Fawn would have taken a prize on the score of good humour. No mother of daughters was ever less addicted to scold and to be fretful. But just now she was a little unhappy. Lizzie’s visit had not been a success, and she looked forward to her son’s marriage with almost unmixed dismay. Mrs. Hittaway had written daily, and in all Mrs. Hittaway’s letters some addition was made to the evil things already known. In her last letter Mrs. Hittaway had expressed her opinion that even yet “Frederic” would escape. All this Lady Fawn had, of course, not told to her daughters generally. To the eldest, Augusta, it was thought expedient to say nothing, because Augusta had been selected as the companion of the, alas! too probable future Lady Fawn. But to Amelia something did leak out, and it became apparent that the household was uneasy. Now⁠—as an evil added to this⁠—Frank Greystock had been there in Lady Fawn’s absence, walking about the grounds alone with Lucy Morris. Lady Fawn could hardly restrain