“I need hardly say how much obliged we are. But we will submit one or two other cases to you.”
“I am inclined to think the court would not allow them to her as paraphernalia, seeing that their value is excessive as compared with her income and degree; but if it did, it would do so in a fashion that would guard them from alienation.”
“She would sell them—under the rose.”
“Then she would be guilty of stealing them—which she would hardly attempt, even if not restrained by honesty, knowing, as she would know, that the greatness of the value would almost assuredly lead to detection. The same feeling would prevent buyers from purchasing.”
“She says, you know, that they were given to her, absolutely.”
“I should like to know the circumstances.”
“Yes;—of course.”
“But I should be disposed to think that in equity no allegation by the receiver of such a gift, unsubstantiated either by evidence or by deed, would be allowed to stand. The gentleman left behind him a will, and regular settlements. I should think that the possession of these diamonds—not, I presume, touched on in the settlements—”
“Oh dear no;—not a word about them.”
“I should think, then, that, subject to any claim for paraphernalia, the possession of the diamonds would be ruled by the will.” Mr. Camperdown was rushing into the further difficulty of the chattels in Scotland and those in England, when the Turtle Dove stopped him, declaring that he could not venture to discuss matters as to which he knew none of the facts.
“Of course not;—of course not,” said Mr. Camperdown. “We’ll have cases prepared. I’d apologise for coming at all, only that I get so much from a few words.”
“I’m always delighted to see you, Mr. Camperdown,” said the Turtle Dove, bowing.
XXIX
“I Had Better Go Away”
When Lord Fawn gave a sudden jump and stalked away towards the house on that Sunday morning before breakfast, Lucy Morris was a very unhappy girl. She had a second time accused Lord Fawn of speaking an untruth. She did not quite understand the usages of the world in the matter; but she did know that the one offence which a gentleman is supposed never to commit is that of speaking an untruth. The offence may be one committed oftener than any other by gentlemen—as also by all other people; but, nevertheless, it is regarded by the usages of society as being the one thing which a gentleman never does. Of all this Lucy understood something. The word “lie” she knew to be utterly abominable. That Lizzie Eustace was a little liar had been acknowledged between herself and the Fawn girls very often—but to have told Lady Eustace that any word spoken by her was a lie, would have been a worse crime than the lie itself. To have brought such an accusation, in that term, against Lord Fawn, would have been to degrade herself forever. Was there any difference between a lie and an untruth? That one must be, and that the other need not be, intentional, she did feel; but she felt also that the less offensive word had come to mean a lie—the world having been driven so to use it because the world did not dare to talk about lies; and this word, bearing such a meaning in common parlance, she had twice applied to Lord Fawn. And yet, as she was well aware, Lord Fawn had told no lie. He had himself believed every word that he had spoken against Frank Greystock. That he had been guilty of unmanly cruelty in so speaking of her lover in her presence, Lucy still thought, but she should not therefore have accused him of falsehood. “It was untrue all the same,” she said to herself, as she stood still on the gravel walk, watching the rapid disappearance of Lord Fawn, and endeavouring to think what she had better now do with herself. Of course Lord Fawn, like a great child, would at once go and tell his mother what that wicked governess had said to him.
In the hall she met her friend Lydia. “Oh, Lucy, what is the matter with Frederic?” she asked.
“Lord Fawn is very angry indeed.”
“With you?”
“Yes;—with me. He is so angry that I am sure he would not sit down to breakfast with me. So I won’t come down. Will you tell your mamma? If she likes to send to me, of course I’ll go to her at once.”
“What have you done, Lucy?”
“I’ve told him again that what he said wasn’t true.”
“But why?”
“Because—Oh, how can I say why? Why does any person do everything that she ought not to do? It’s the fall of Adam, I suppose.”
“You shouldn’t make a joke of it, Lucy.”
“You can have no conception how unhappy I am about it. Of course Lady Fawn will tell me to go away. I went out on purpose to beg his pardon for what I said last night, and I just said the very same thing again.”
“But why did you say it?”
“And I should say it again and again and again, if he were to go on telling me that Mr. Greystock isn’t a gentleman. I don’t think he ought to have done it. Of course, I have been very wrong; I know that. But I think he has been wrong too. But I must own it, and he needn’t. I’ll go up now and stay in my own room till your mamma sends for me.”
“And I’ll get Jane to bring you some breakfast.”
“I don’t care a bit about breakfast,” said Lucy.
Lord Fawn did tell his mother, and Lady Fawn was perplexed in the extreme. She was divided in her judgment and feelings between the privilege due to Lucy as a girl possessed of an authorised lover—a privilege which no doubt existed, but which was not extensive—and the very much greater privilege which attached to Lord Fawn as a man, as a peer, as
