“Mr. Camperdown,” continued Greystock, “has consented to prepare a case for opinion, though he will not agree that the Eustace estate shall be bound by that opinion.”
“Then what’s the good of it?”
“We shall at least know, all of us, what is the opinion of some lawyer qualified to understand the circumstances of the case.”
“Why isn’t your opinion as good as that of any lawyer?”
“I couldn’t give an opinion;—not otherwise than as a private friend to you, which is worth nothing, unless for your private guidance. Mr. Camperdown—”
“I don’t care one straw for Mr. Camperdown.”
“Just let me finish.”
“Oh, certainly;—and you mustn’t be angry with me, Frank. The matter is so much to me; isn’t it?”
“I won’t be angry. Do I look as if I were angry? Mr. Camperdown is right.”
“I daresay he may be—what you call right. But I don’t care about Mr. Camperdown a bit.”
“He has no power, nor has John Eustace any power, to decide that the property which may belong to a third person shall be jeopardised by any arbitration. The third person could not be made to lose his legal right by any such arbitration, and his claim, if made, would still have to be tried.”
“Who is the third person, Frank?”
“Your own child at present.”
“And will not he have it anyway?”
“Camperdown and John Eustace say that it belongs to him at present. It is a point that, no doubt, should be settled.”
“To whom do you say that it belongs?”
“That is a question I am not prepared to answer.”
“To whom do you think that it belongs?”
“I have refused to look at a single paper on the subject, and my opinion is worth nothing. From what I have heard in conversation with Mr. Camperdown and John Eustace, I cannot find that they make their case good.”
“Nor can I,” said Lizzie.
“A case is to be prepared for Mr. Dove.”
“Who is Mr. Dove?”
“Mr. Dove is a barrister, and no doubt a very clever fellow. If his opinion be such as Mr. Camperdown expects, he will at once proceed against you at law for the immediate recovery of the necklace.”
“I shall be ready for him,” said Lizzie, and as she spoke all her little feminine softnesses were for the moment laid aside.
“If Mr. Dove’s opinion be in your favour—”
“Well,” said Lizzie—“what then?”
“In that case Mr. Camperdown, acting on behalf of John Eustace and young Florian—”
“How dreadful it is to hear of my bitterest enemy acting on behalf of my own child!” said Lizzie, holding up her hands piteously. “Well?”
“In that case Mr. Camperdown will serve you with some notice that the jewels are not yours—to part with them as you may please.”
“But they will be mine.”
“He says not;—but in such case he will content himself with taking steps which may prevent you from selling them.”
“Who says that I want to sell them?” demanded Lizzie indignantly.
“Or from giving them away—say to a second husband.”
“How little they know me!”
“Now I have told you all about Mr. Camperdown.”
“Yes.”
“And the next thing is to tell you about Lord Fawn.”
“That is everything. I care nothing for Mr. Camperdown; nor yet for Mr. Dove—if that is his absurd name. Lord Fawn is of more moment to me—though, indeed, he has given me but little cause to say so.”
“In the first place, I must explain to you that Lord Fawn is very unhappy.”
“He may thank himself for it.”
“He is pulled this way and that, and is half distraught; but he has stated with as much positive assurance as such a man can assume, that the match must be regarded as broken off unless you will at once restore the necklace.”
“He does?”
“He has commissioned me to give you that message;—and it is my duty, Lizzie, as your friend, to tell you my conviction that he repents his engagement.”
She now rose from her chair and began to walk about the room. “He shall not go back from it. He shall learn that I am not a creature at his own disposal in that way. He shall find that I have some strength—if you have none.”
“What would you have had me do?”
“Taken him by the throat,” said Lizzie.
“Taking by the throat in these days seldom forwards any object—unless the taken one be known to the police. I think Lord Fawn is behaving very badly, and I have told him so. No doubt he is under the influence of others—mother and sisters—who are not friendly to you.”
“False-faced idiots!” said Lizzie.
“He himself is somewhat afraid of me—is much afraid of you;—is afraid of what people will say of him; and—to give him his due—is afraid also of doing what is wrong. He is timid, weak, conscientious, and wretched. If you have set your heart upon marrying him—”
“My heart!” said Lizzie scornfully.
“Or your mind—you can have him by simply sending the diamonds to the jewellers. Whatever may be his wishes, in that case he will redeem his word.”
“Not for him or all that belongs to him! It wouldn’t be much. He’s just a pauper with a name.”
“Then your loss will be so much the less.”
“But what right has he to treat me so? Did you ever before hear of such a thing? Why is he to be allowed to go back—without punishment—more than another?”
“What punishment would you wish?”
“That he should be beaten within an inch of
