CHAPTER 1 LIZY GRAYSTOCK It was admitted by all her friends, and also by her enemies, who were in truth the more numerous and active body of the two, that Lizzy Graystock had done very well with herself. We will tell the story of Lizzy Graystock from the beginning, but we will not dwell over it at great length as we might do if we loved her.  The Admiral was a man who liked wist, wine, and wickedness in general, we may perhaps say, and whose ambition it was to live every day of his life up to the end of it. People say that he succeeded, and that the wist, wine, and wickedness were there, at the side even of his dying bed. He had no particular fortune, and yet his daughter, when she was little more than a child, went about everywhere, with jewels on her fingers, and red gems hanging round her neck, and yellow gems pendant from her ears, and white gems shining in her black hair. She was hardly nineteen when her father died, and she was taken home by that dreadful old termigent, her aunt, Lady Lynlithko. Lizzie would have sooner gone to any other friend or relative, had there been any other friend or relative to take her, possessed of a house in town. Her uncle, Dean Graystock, of Bobsboro, would have had her, and a more good-natured old soul than the dean's wife did not exist, and there were three pleasant good-tempered girls in the denary, who had made various little efforts at friendship with their cousin, Lizzie. But Lizzie had higher ideas for herself than life in the denary at Bobsboro. She hated Lady Lynlithko. During her father's lifetime, when she hoped to be able to settle herself before his death, she was not in the habit of concealing her hatred for Lady Lynlithko. Lady Lynlithko was not indeed amiable or easily managed. But when the admiral died, Lizzie did not hesitate for a moment in going to the old vulturesse, as she was in the habit of calling the Countess in her occasional correspondence with the girls at Bobsboro. The admiral died greatly in debt, so much so that it was a marvel how tradesmen had trusted him. There was literally nothing left for anybody. And M. Harder and Benjamin of Old Bond Street condescended to call at Lady Lynlithko's house in Brook Street, and to beg that the jewels supplied during the last twelve months might be returned. Lizzie protested that there were no jewels, nothing to signify, nothing worth restoring. Lady Lynlithko had seen the diamonds, and demanded an explanation. They had been parted with by the admiral's orders, so said Lizzie, for the payment of other debts. Of this Lady Lynlithko did not believe a word, but she could not get at any exact truth. At that moment the jewels were in very truth pawned for money, which had been necessary for Lizzie's needs. Some things must be paid for, one's own maid, for instance, and one must have some money in one's pocket, for railway trains and little knickknacks, which cannot be had on credit. Lizzie, when she was nineteen, knew how to do without money as well as most girls, but there were calls which she could not withstand, debts which even she must pay. She did not, however, drop her acquaintance with Monsieur's Harder and Benjamin. Before her father had been dead eight months she was closeted with Mr. Benjamin, transacting a little business with him. She had come to him, she told him, the moment she was of age, and was willing to make herself responsible for the debt, signing any bill, note, or document which the firm might demand from her to that effect. Of course she had nothing of her own, and never would have anything. That Mr. Benjamin knew. As for payment of the debt by Lady Lynlithco, who for accountess was as poor as Job, Mr. Benjamin, she was quite sure, did not expect anything of the kind. But—then Lizzie paused, and Mr. Benjamin, with the sweetest and wittiest of smiles, suggested that perhaps Miss Greystock was going to be married. Lizzie, with a pretty maiden blush, admitted that such a catastrophe was probable. She had been asked in marriage by Sir Florian Eustis. Now, Mr. Benjamin knew, as all the world knew, that Sir Florian Eustis was a very rich man indeed, a man in no degree embarrassed, and who could pay any amount of jeweler's bills for which claim might be made upon him. Well, what did Miss Greystock want? Mr. Benjamin did not suppose that Miss Greystock was actuated simply by a desire to have her old bills paid by her future husband. Miss Greystock wanted alone, sufficient to take the jewels out of pawn. She would then make herself responsible for the full amount to do. Mr. Benjamin said that he would make a few inquiries. But you won't betray me, said Lizzie, for the match might be off. Mr. Benjamin promised to be more than cautious. There was not so much of falsehood as might have been expected in the statement which Lizzie Greystock made to the jeweler. It was not true that she was of age, and therefore no future husband would be legally liable for any debt which she might then contract. And it was not true that Sir Florian Eustis had asked her in marriage. Those two little blemishes in her statement must be admitted. But it was true that Sir Florian was at her feet, and that by a proper use of her various charms, the pawned jewels included, she might bring him to an offer. Mr. Benjamin made his inquiries and acceded to the proposal. He did not tell Miss Greystock that she had lied to him in that matter of her age, though he had discovered the lie. Sir Florian would no doubt pay the bill for his wife, without any arguments as to the legality of the claim. From such information as Mr. Benjamin could acquire, he thought that there would be a marriage, and that the speculation was on the whole in his favour. Lizzie recovered her jewels, and Mr. Benjamin was in possession of a promissory note, purporting to have been executed by a person who was no longer a minor. The jeweler was ultimately successful in his views, and so was the lady. Dylan Lithgow saw the jewels come back, one by one, ring added to ring on the little taper fingers, the rubies for the neck, and the pendant yellow earrings. Though Lizzie was in mourning for her father, still these things were allowed to be visible. The Countess was not the woman to see them without inquiry, and she inquired vigorously. She threatened, stormed, and protested. She attempted even a raid upon the young lady's jewel-box, but she was not successful. Lizzie snapped and snarled and held her own, for at that time the match with Sir Florian was near its accomplishment, and the Countess understood too well the value of such a disposition of her niece to risk it at the moment by any open rupture. The little house in Brook Street, for the house was very small and very comfortless. A house that had been squeezed in, as it were, between two others without any fitting space for it, did not contain a happy family. One bedroom, and that the biggest, was appropriated to the Earl of Lynn Lithgow, the son of the Countess, a young man who passed perhaps five nights in town during the year. After inmate there was none besides the aunt and the niece and the four servants, of whom one was Lizzie's own maid. Why should such a Countess have troubled herself with the custody of such a niece? Simply because the Countess regarded it as a duty. Lady Lynn Lithgow was worldly, stingy, ill-tempered, selfish, and mean. Lady Lynn Lithgow would cheat a butcher out of a mutton-shop, or a cook out of a month's wages, if she could do so with some slant of legal wind in her favour. She would tell any number of lies to carry a point in what she believed to be social success. It was said of her that she cheated at cards. In backbiting no venomous old woman between Bond Street and Park Lane could beat her, or more wonderful still, no venomous old man at the clubs. But nevertheless she recognized certain duties, and performed them though she hated them. She went to church, not merely that people might see her there, as to which in truth she cared nothing, but because she thought it was right. And she took in Lizzie Greystock, whom she hated almost as much as she did sermons, because the admiral's wife had been her sister, and she recognized a duty. But having thus bound herself to Lizzie, who was a beauty, of course it became the first object of her life to get rid of Lizzie by a marriage. And though she would have liked to think that Lizzie would be tormented all her days, though she thoroughly believed that Lizzie deserved to be tormented, she set her heart upon a splendid match. She would at any rate be able to throw it daily in her niece's teeth, that the splendor was of her doing. Now a marriage with Sir Florian Eustace would be very splendid, and therefore she was unable to go into the matter of the jewels, with that rigor which in other circumstances she would certainly have displayed. The match with Sir Florian Eustace, for a match it came to be, was certainly very splendid. Sir Florian was a young man about eight and twenty, very handsome, of immense wealth, quite unencumbered, moving in the best circles, popular, so far prudent that he never risked his fortune on the turf or in the gambling-houses, with the reputation of a gallant soldier and a most devoted lover. There were two facts concerning him which might, or might not, be taken as objections. He was vicious and he was dying. When a friend, intending to be kind, hinted the latter circumstance to Lady Linlithco, the countess blinked and winked and nodded, and then swore that she had procured medical advice on the subject. Medical advice declared that Sir Florian was not more likely to die than another man, if only he would get married, all of which statement on her ladyship's part was a lie. When the same friend hinted the same thing to Lizzie herself, Lizzie resolved that she would have her revenge upon that friend. At any rate the courtship went on. We have said that Sir Florian was vicious. But he was not altogether a bad man, nor was he vicious in the common sense of the word. He was one who denied himself no pleasure, let the cost be what it might in health, pocket or morals. Of sin or wickedness he had probably no distinct idea. In virtue, as an attribute of the world around him, he had no belief. Of honour he thought very much, and had conceived a somewhat noble idea that because much had been given to him much was demanded of him. He was haughty, polite, and very generous. There was almost a nobility even about his vices. And he had a special gallantry, of which it is hard to say whether it is or is not to be admired. They told him that he was like to die, very like to die, if he did not change his manner of living. Would he go to Algiers for a period? Certainly not. He would do no such thing. If he died there was his brother John left to succeed him, and the fear of death never cast a cloud over that grandly beautiful brow. They had all been short-lived, the Eustices. John had swept a hecatome of victims from the family. But still they were grand people, and never were afraid of death. And then Sir Florian fell in love. Discussing this matter with his brother, who was perhaps his only intimate friend, he declared that if the girl he loved would give herself to him he would make what atonement he could to her for his own early death by a princely settlement. John Eustice, who was somewhat nearly concerned in the matter, raised no objection to this proposal. There was ever something grand about these Eustices. Sir Florian was a grand gentleman. But surely he must have been dull of intellect, slow of discernment, blear eyed in his ways about the town, when he took Lizzy Greystock, of all the women whom he could find in the world, to be the purest, the truest, and the noblest. It has been said of Sir Florian that he did not believe in virtue. He freely expressed disbelief in the virtue of women around him, in the virtue of women of all ranks. But he believed in his mother and sisters, as though they were heaven-born, and he was one who could believe in his wife, as though she were the queen of heaven. He did believe in Lizzy Greystock, thinking that intellect, purity, truth, and beauty, each perfect in its degree, were combined in her. The intellect and beauty were there, but for the purity and truth? How could it have been that such a one, as Sir Florian Eustice, should have been so blind?  And believing himself to be a fool, he desired, nay, painfully longed, for some of those results of cleverness, which might, he thought, come to him from contact with a clever woman. She read poetry well, and she read verses to him, sitting very near to him, almost in the dark, with a shaded lamp throwing its light on her book. He was astonished to find how sweet a thing was poetry. By himself he could never read a line, but as it came from her lips it seemed to charm him. It was a new pleasure, and one which, though he had ridiculed it, he had so often coveted. And then she told him of such wondrous thoughts, such wondrous joys in the world, which would come from thinking. He was proud, I have said, and haughty, but he was essentially modest and humble in his self-estimation. How divine was this creature, whose voice to him was as that of a goddess! Then he spoke out to her, with his face a little turned from her. Would she be his wife? But before she answered him, let her listen to him. They had told him that an early death must probably be his fate. He did not himself feel that it must be so. Sometimes he was ill, very ill, but often he was well. If she would run the risk with him, he would endeavor to make her such recompense, as might come from his wealth. The speech he made was somewhat long, and as he made it he hardly looked into her face. But it was necessary to him that he should be made to know by some signal from her how it was going with her feelings. Once he spoke of his danger there came a gurgling little trill of wailing from her throat, a soft, almost musical sound of woe, which seemed to add an unaccustomed eloquence to his words. When he spoke of his own hope the sound was somewhat changed, but it was still continued. When he alluded to the disposition of his fortune she was at his feet. Not that," she said, not that. He lifted her, and with his arm round her waist he tried to tell her what it would be his duty to do for her. She escaped from his arm and would not listen to him. But, but— When he began to talk of love again she stood with her forehead bowed against his bosom. Of course the engagement was then a thing accomplished. But still the cup might slip from her lips. Her father was now dead but ten months. And what answer could she make when the common pressing petition for an early marriage was poured into her ear? This was in July, and it would never do that he should be left, unmarried, to the rigor of another winter. She looked into his face and knew that she had cause for fear. Oh, heavens! If all these golden hopes should fall to the ground, and she should come to be known only as the girl who had been engaged to the late Sir Florian. But he himself pressed the marriage on the same ground. They tell me, he said, that I had better get a little south by the beginning of October. I won't go alone.  Of course she married him in September. They spent a honeymoon of six weeks at a place he had in Scotland, and the first blow came upon him as they passed through London, back from Scotland, on their way to Italy. Monsieur's Harder and Benjamin sent in their little bill, which amounted to something over four hundred pounds, and other little bills were sent in. Sir Florian was a man by whom such bills would certainly be paid, but by whom they would not be paid, without his understanding much, and conceiving more as to their cause and nature. How much he really did understand she was never quite aware, but she did know that he detected her in a positive falsehood. She might certainly have managed the matter better than she did, and had she admitted everything there might probably have been but few words about it. She did not, however, understand the nature of the note she had signed, and thought that simply new bills would be presented by the jewelers to her husband. She gave a false account of the transaction, and the lie was detected. I do not know that she cared very much, as she was utterly devoid of true tenderness. So also was she devoid of conscience. They went abroad, however, and by the time the winter was half over in Naples, he knew what his wife was, and before the end of the spring, he was dead. She had so far played her game well, and had won her stakes. What regrets, what remorse she suffered when she knew that he was going from her, and then knew that he was gone? Who can say? As man is never strong enough to take unmixed delight in good, so may we presume also that he cannot be quite so weak as to find perfect satisfaction in evil. There must have been calms as she looked at his dying face, soured with the disappointment she had brought upon him, and listened to the harsh, quarrelous voice that was no longer eager in the expressions of love. There must have been some pang when she reflected that the cruel wrong which she had inflicted on him had probably hurried him to his grave. As a widow in the first solemnity of her widowhood, she was wretched and would see no one. Then she returned to England, and shut herself up in a small house at Brighton. Lady Linlithko offered to go to her, but she begged that she might be left to herself. For a few short months the awe arising from the rapidity with which it had all occurred did afflict her. Twelve months since she had hardly known the man who was to be her husband. Now she was a widow—a widow very richly endowed, and she bore beneath her bosom the fruit of her husband's love. But even in these early days friends and enemies did not hesitate to say that Lizzie Greystock had done very well with herself. For it was known by all concerned that in the settlements made she had been treated with unwanted generosity. CHAPTER II Lady Eustis There were circumstances in her position which made it impossible that Lizzie Greystock, or Lady Eustis, as we must now call her, should be left altogether to herself in the modest widow's retreat which she had found at Brighton. It was then April, and it was known that if all things went well with her she would be a mother before the summer was over. And what the fates might ordain in this matter immense interest to the dependent. If a son should be born he would inherit everything, subject, of course, to his mother's settlement. If a daughter to her would belong's great personal wealth which the Florian had owned at the time of his death. Should there be no son John Eustis the brother would inherit the estates in Yorkshire which had been the backbone of the Eustis' wealth. Should no child be born John Eustis would inherit everything that had not been settled upon or left to the widow. So Florian had made a settlement immediately before his marriage, and a will immediately afterwards. Of what he had done then nothing had been altered in those sad Italian days. The settlement had been very generous. The whole property in Scotland was to belong to Lizzie for her life, and after her death was to go to a second son, if such second son there should be. By the will money was left to her more than would be needed for any possible temporary emergency. When she knew how it was all arranged, as far as she did know it, she was aware that she was a rich woman.  As for the Scotch property, she thought that it was her own, for ever, because there could not now be a second son, and yet was not quite sure whether it would be her own at all if she had no son. Concerning that some of money left to her, she did not know whether it was to come out of the Scotch property or be given to her separately, and whether it was to come annually or to come only once. She had received while still in Naples a letter from the family lawyer giving her such details of the will as it was necessary that she should know, and now she longed to ask questions, to have her belongings made plain to her, and to realize her wealth. She had brilliant prospects, and yet, through it all, there was a sense of loneliness that nearly killed her. Would it not have been much better if her husband had lived, and still worshipped her, and still allowed her to read poetry to him? But she had read no poetry to him after that affair of Mrs. Harter and Benjamin. The reader has, or will have, but little to do with these days, and may be hurried on through the twelve or even twenty-four months which followed the death of Paul Siflorian. The question of the airship, however, was very grave, and early in the month of May Lady Eustace was visited by her husband's uncle, Bishop Eustace of Bobsborough. The bishop had been the younger brother of Siflorian's father, was at this time a man about fifty, very active and very popular, and was one who stood high in the world even among bishops. He suggested to his niece-in-law that it was very expedient that during her coming hour of trial she should not absent herself from her husband's family, and at last persuaded her to take up her residence at the palace at Bobsborough till such time as the event should be over. Lady Eustace was taken to the palace, and in due time a son was born. John, who was now the uncle of the air, came down, and with the frankest good humour declared that he would devote himself to the little head of the family. He had been left as guardian, and the management of the great family Eustace was to be in his hands. Lizzie had read no poetry to him, and he had never liked her, and the bishop did not like her, and the ladies of the bishop's family disliked her very much, and it was thought by them that the dean's people—the dean of Bobsborough was Lizzie's uncle—were not very fond of Lizzie since Lizzie had so raised herself in the world as to want no assistance from them. But still they were bound to do their duty by her as the widow of the late and the mother of the present Baronet. And they did not find much cause of complaining as to Lizzie's conduct in these days—in that matter of the great family Diamond Necklace, which certainly should not have been taken to Naples at all, and as to which the jeweller had told the lawyer, and the lawyer had told John Eustace that it certainly should not now be detained among the widow's own private property, the bishop strongly recommended that nothing should be said at the moment. The mistake, if there was a mistake, could be remedied at any time, and nothing in those very early days was said about the great Eustace Necklace, which afterwards became so famous. Why Lizzie should have been so generally disliked by the Eustaces, it might be hard to explain. While she remained at the palace she was very discreet, and perhaps demure. It may be said they disliked her expressed determination to cut her aunt Lady Linnithgo, for they knew that Lady Linnithgo had been at any rate a friend to Lizzie Greystock. There are people who can be wise within a certain margin, but beyond that commit great imprudences. Lady Eustace submitted herself to the palace people for that period of her prostration, but she could not hold her tongue as to her future intentions. She would too now and then ask of Mrs. Eustace, and even of her daughter, an eager, anxious question about her own property. She is dying to handle her money, said Mrs. Eustace to the bishop. She is only like the rest of the world in that, said the bishop. If she would be really open I wouldn't mind it, said Mrs. Eustace. None of them liked her, and she did not like them. She remained at the palace for six months, and at the end of that time she went to her own place in Scotland. Mrs. Eustace had strongly advised her to ask her aunt Lady Linnithgo to accompany her, but in refusing to do this Lizzie was quite firm. She had endured Lady Linnithgo for that year between her father's death and her marriage. She was now beginning to dare to hope for the enjoyment of the good things which she had won, and the presence of the Dowager Countess, the Vulture S, was certainly not one of these good things. In what her enjoyment was to consist, she had not as yet quite formed a definite conclusion. She liked jewels. She liked admiration. She liked the power of being arrogant to those around her. And she liked good things to eat. But there were other matters that were also dear to her. She did like music, though it may be doubted whether she would ever play it or even listen to it alone. She did like reading, and especially the reading of poetry, though even in this she was false and pretentious, skipping, pretending to have read, lying about books and making up her market of literature for outside admiration at the easiest possible cost of trouble. And she had some dream of being in love, and would take delight even in building castles in the air, which she would people with friends and lovers whom she would make happy with the most open-hearted benevolence. She had theoretical ideas of life which were not bad, but in practice she had gained her objects, and she was in a hurry to have liberty to enjoy them. There was considerable anxiety in the palace in reference to the future mode of life of Lady Eustace. Had it not been for that baby air, of course there would have been no cause for interference, but the rites of that baby were so serious and important that it was almost impossible not to interfere. The mother, however, gave some little signs that she did not intend to submit to much interference, and there was no real reason why she should not be as free as air. But did she really intend to go down to Portray Castle all alone, that is, with her baby and nurses? This was ended by an arrangement in accordance with which she was accompanied by her eldest cousin, Eleanor Greystock, a lady who was just ten years her senior. They could hardly be a better woman than Eleanor Greystock, or a more good-humoured, kindly being. After many debates in the denary and in the palace, for there was much friendship between the two ecclesiastical establishments, the offer was made, and the advice given. Eleanor had accepted the martyrdom on the understanding that if the advice were accepted she was to remain at Portray Castle for three months. After a long discussion between Lady Eustace and the Bishop's wife, the offer was accepted, and the two ladies went to Scotland together. During those three months the widow still bided her time. Of her future ideas of life she said not a word to her companion. Of her infant she said very little. She would talk of books, choosing such books as her cousin did not read, and she would interlard her conversation with much Italian, because her cousin did not know the language. There was a carriage kept by the window, and they had themselves driven out together. Of real companionship there was none. Lizzie was biding her time, and at the end of three months Miss Greystock thankfully, and indeed of necessity, returned to Bobsborough. I've done no good, she said to her mother, and I've been very uncomfortable. My dear, said her mother, we have disposed of three months out of a two-year period of danger. In two years from Safflorean's death she will be married again. When this was said Lizzie had been a widow nearly a year, and had bided her time upon the whole discreetly. Some foolish letters she had written chiefly to the lawyer about her money and property, and some foolish things she had said, as when she told Eleanor Greystock that the portrait property was her own for ever to do what she liked with it. The sum of money left to her by her husband had by that time been paid in her own hands, and she had opened a bankers' account. The revenues from the Scotch estate, some four thousand pounds a year, were clearly her own for life. The family diamond necklace was still in her possession, and no answer had been given by her to a postscript to a lawyer's letter in which a little advice had been given respecting it. At the end of another year, when she had just reached the age of twenty-two, and had completed her second year of widowhood, she was still Lady Eustis, thus contradicting the prophecy made by the dean's wife. It was then spring, and she had a house of her own in London. She had broken openly with Lady Linlithgow. She had opposed, though not absolutely refused, all overtures of brotherly care from John Eustis. She had declined a further invitation both for herself and for her child, to the palace. And she had positively asserted her intention of keeping the diamonds. Her late husband, she said, had given the diamonds to her. As they were supposed to be worth ten thousand pounds, and were really family diamonds, the matter was felt by all concerned to be one of much importance. And she was oppressed by a heavy load of ignorance which became serious from the isolation of her position. She had learned to draw checks, but she had no other correct notion as to business. She knew nothing as to spending money, saving it, or investing it. Though she was clever, sharp, and greedy, she had no idea what her money would do and what it would not. And there was no one whom she would trust to tell her. She had a young cousin, a barrister, a son of the dean's, whom she perhaps liked better than any other of her relations. But she declined advice even from her friend the barrister. She would have no dealings on her own behalf with the old family solicitor of the Eustaces, the gentleman who had now applied very formally for the restitution of the diamonds, but had appointed other solicitors to act for her. Mrs. Mobri and Mopus were of opinion that, as the diamonds had been given into her hands by her husband, without any terms as to their surrender, no one could claim them. Of the manner in which the diamonds had been placed in her hands, no one knew more than she chose to tell. But when she started with her own house in town, a modest little house in Mount Street near the park, just two years after her husband's death, she had a large circle of acquaintances. The Eustace people, and the Grey Stock people, and even the Linlithgow people did not entirely turn their backs on her. The Countess, indeed, was very venomous, as she well might be. But then the Countess was known for her venom. The Dean and his family were still anxious that she should be encouraged to discreet living, and, though they feared many things, thought that they had no ground for open complaint. The Eustace people were forbearing, and hoped the best. D. the necklace, John Eustace had said, and the Bishop, unfortunately, had heard him say it. John, said the prelate, whatever is to become of the bauble, you might express your opinion in more sensible language. I beg your lordship's pardon, said John, I only mean to say, I think we shouldn't trouble ourselves about a few stones. But the family lawyer, Mr. Camperdown, would by no means take this view of the matter. It was, however, generally thought that the young widow had opened her campaign more prudently than had been expected. And now, as so much has been said of the character and fortune and special circumstances of Lizzie Greystock, who became Lady Eustace as a bride, and Lady Eustace as a widow and a mother, all within the space of twelve months, it may be as well to give some description of her person and habits, such as they were at the period in which our story is supposed to have its commencement. It must be understood in the first place that she was very lovely. Much more so indeed now than when she had fascinated the Florian. She was small, but taller than she looked to be, for her form was perfectly symmetrical. Her feet and hands might have been taken as models by a sculptor. Her figure was live and soft and slim and slender. If it had a fault it was this, that it had in it too much of movement. There were some who said that she was almost snake-like in her rapid bendings, and the almost too easy gestures of her body, for she was much given to action and to the expression of her thought by the motion of her limbs. She might certainly have made her way as an actress had fortune called upon her to earn her bread in that fashion. And her voice would have suited the stage. It was powerful when she called upon it for power, but at the same time flexible and capable of much pretense at feeling. She could bring it to a whisper that would almost melt your heart with tenderness, as she had melted the Florians when she sat near to him reading poetry. And then she could raise it to a pitch of indignant roth befitting a Lady Macbeth when her husband ventured to rebuke her. And her ear was quite correct in modulating these tones. She knew, and it must have been by instinct for her culture in such matters as small, how to use her voice so that neither its tenderness nor its roth should be misapplied. There were pieces in verse that she could read, things not wondrously good in themselves, so that she would ravish you. And she would so look at you as she did it, that you would hardly dare either to avert your eyes or to return her gaze. So Florian had not known whether to do the one thing or the other, and had therefore seized her in his arms. Her face was oval, somewhat longer than an oval, with little in it, perhaps nothing in it, of that brilliancy of colour which we call complexion. And yet the shades of her countenance were ever changing between the softest and most transparent white and the richest mellowest shades of brown. It was only when she simulated anger, she was almost incapable of real anger, that she would succeed in calling the thinnest streak of pink from her heart, to show that there was blood running in her veins. Her hair, which was nearly black, but in truth with more of softness and of lustre than ever belonged to hair that is really black, she wore bound tight round her perfect forehead, with one long love-lock hanging over her shoulder. The form of her head was so good that she could dare to carry it without a chignon or any advantageous adjuncts from an artist's shop. Very bitter what she inconsequence when speaking of the headgear of other women. Her chin was perfect in its round, not over long, as is the case with so many such faces, utterly spoiling the symmetry of the countenance. But it lacked a dimple, and therefore lacked feminine tenderness. Her mouth was perhaps faulty in being too small, or at least her lips were too thin. There was wanting from the mouth that expression of eager-speaking truthfulness, which full lips will often convey. Her teeth were without flaw or blemish, even small, white and delicate, but perhaps they were shown too often. Her nose was small, but struck many as the prettiest feature of her face, so exquisite was the moulding of it, and so eloquent and so graceful the slight inflations of the transparent nostrils. Her eyes, in which she herself thought that the luster of her beauty lay, were blue and clear, bright as cerulean waters. They were long, large eyes, but very dangerous. To those who knew how to read a face there was danger plainly written in them. Poor Sophrlorian had not known.  This was felt by many even who could not read the book fluently. They were too expressive, too loud in their demands for attention, and they lacked tenderness. How few there are among women, few perhaps also among men, who know that the sweetest, softest, tenderest, truest eyes which a woman can carry in her head are green in colour. These eyes were not tender, neither were they true.  We have said that she was clever. We must add that she had in truth studied much. She spoke French, understood Italian, and read German. She played well on the harp and moderately well on the piano. She sang, at least in good taste and in tune. Of things to be learned by reading she knew much, having really taken diligent trouble with herself. She had learned much poetry by heart and could apply it. She forgot nothing, listened to everything, understood quickly, and was desirous to show not only as a beauty, but as a wit. There were men at this time who declared that she was simply the cleverest and the handsomest woman in England. As an independent young woman she was, perhaps, one of the richest. End of Chapter 2. Chapter 3 of The Eustace Diamonds This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Carl Hummel. The Eustace Diamonds by Anthony Trollop. Chapter 3. Lucy Morris Although the first two chapters of this new history have been devoted to the fortunes and personal attributes of Lady Eustace, the historian begs his readers not to believe that the opulent and aristocratic Becky Sharp is to assume the dignity of heroin in the forthcoming pages. That there shall be any heroin this historian will not take upon himself to assert. But if there is to be a heroin that heroin shall not be Lady Eustace. Poor Lizzie Graystock, as men double her own age and who had known her as a forward capricious spoiled child in her father's lifetime, would still call her. She did so many things, made so many efforts, caused so much suffering to others, and suffered so much herself throughout the scenes with which we are about to deal, that the story can hardly be told without giving her that prominence of place which has been assigned to her in the last two chapters. Nor does the chronicler dare to put forward Lucy Morris as a heroin. The real heroin, if it is found possible to arrange her drapery for her becomingly, and to put that part which she shall enacted into properly heroic words, shall stock in among us at some considerably later period of the narrative, when the writer shall have accustomed himself to the flow of words, and have worked himself up to a state of mind fit for the reception of noble acting and noble speaking. In the meantime, let it be understood that poor little Lucy Morris was at governess in the house of old Lady Fawn, when our beautiful young widow established herself in Mount Street. Lady Eustace and Lucy Morris had known each other for many years, had indeed been children together, there having been some old family friendship between the Graystocks and the Eustaces. When the admiral's wife was living, Lucy had, as a little girl of eight or nine, been her guest. She had often been a guest at the denary. When Lady Eustace had gone down to the Bishop's Palace at Boggsboro, in order that an heir to the Eustaces might be borne under an auspicious roof, Lucy Morris was with the Graystocks. Lucy, who was a year younger than Lucy, had at that time been an orphan for the last four years. She too had been left penniless, but no such brilliant future awaited her as that which Lucy had earned for herself. There was no countess aunt to take her into London-house. The dean and the dean's wife and the dean's daughters had been her best friends, but they were not friends on whom she could be dependent. They were in no way connected with her by blood. Therefore at the age of eighteen she had gone out to be a child's governess. When old Lady Fawn had heard of her virtues, Lady Fawn, who had seven unmarried daughters running down from seven in twenty to thirteen, and Lucy Morris had been hired to teach English, French, German, and something of music to the two youngest Miss Fawns. During that visit at the denary, when the heir of the Eustaces was being borne, Lucy was undergoing a sort of probation for the Fawn establishment that proposed engagement with Lady Fawn was thought to be a great thing for her. Lady Fawn was known as a miracle of virtue, benevolence, and persistency. Every good quality that she possessed was so marked as to be worthy of being expressed with a capital. But her virtues were that of extraordinarily high character that there were no weaknesses in them. No getting over them, no perverting them with follies or even exaggerations. When she heard of the excellencies of Miss Morris from the dean's wife, and then after the minutest investigation learned the exacting qualities of the young lady, she expressed herself willing to take Lucy into her house on special conditions. She must be able to teach music up to a certain point. Then it's all over, said Lucy to the dean with her pretty smile, that smile which caused all the old and middle-aged men to fall in love with her. It's not over at all, said the dean. You've got four months. Our organist is about as good a teacher as there is in England.  So Lucy went to Bossborough and was afterwards accepted by Lady Fawn. While she was at the deanery, there sprung up a renewed friendship between her and Lizzie. It was indeed, chiefly a one-sided friendship, for Lucy, who was quick and unconsciously capable of reading that book to which we eluded in a previous chapter, was somewhat afraid of the rich widow. And when Lizzie talked to her of their old childish days and quoted poetry and spoke of things romantic, as she was much given to do, Lucy felt that the medal did not ring true.  Now Lucy did not like to hear the Grey Stokes amused and would say so.  Lucy by no means thought the Grey Stokes were asses and was very strongly of the opinion that one of them was as far removed from being an ass as any human being she had ever known. This one was Frank Greystock, the Barrister. Of Frank Greystock some special, but let it be hoped very short, description must be given by and by. For the present it will be sufficient to declare that, during that short Easter holiday which he spent at his father's house in Bosborough, he found Lucy Morris to be a most agreeable companion. Remember her position, said Mrs. Dean to her son. Her position? Well, and what is her position, mother?  She is as sweet a girl as ever lived, and a perfect lady. But with the governess, unless you mean to marry her, you should be more careful than with another girl, because you may do her such a world of mischief. I don't see that at all. If Lady Fawn knew that she had an admirer, Lady Fawn would not let her come into her house.  If a girl can be admirable, of course she will be admired, who can hinder it.  Yes, I do. Well, I don't suppose I can afford to marry Lucy Morris. At any rate, mother, I will never say a word to raise a hope in her, if it would be a hope. Of course it would be a hope. I don't know that at all. But I will never say any such word to her, unless I can make up my mind that I can afford to marry her. Oh, Frank, it would be impossible, said Mrs. Dean. Mrs. Dean was a very good woman, but she had aspirations in the direction of filthy lucre on behalf of her children, or at least on behalf of this special child. And she did think it would be very nice if Frank would marry an heiress. This, however, was a long time ago, nearly two years ago, and many grave things had gotten themselves transacted since Lucy's visit to the denary. She had become quite an old and accustomed member of Lady Fawn's family. The youngest Fawn girl was not yet 15, and it was understood that Lucy was to remain with the Fawns for some quite indefinite time to come. Lady Fawn's eldest daughter, Mrs. Hadaway, had a family of her own, having been married 10 or 12 years, and it was quite probable that Lucy might be transferred. Lady Fawn fully appreciated her treasure and was, and ever had been, conscientiously anxious to make Lucy's life happy. But she thought that a governess should not be desirous of marrying, at any rate till a somewhat advanced period of life. A governess, if she were given to falling in love, could hardly perform her duties in life. No doubt not to be a governess, but a young lady free from the embarrassing necessity of earning bread, free to have a lover and a husband, would be on the whole nicer. So it is nicer to be born to 10,000 a year than to have to wish for 500. Lady Fawn could talk excellent sense on this subject by the hour, and always admitted that much was due a governess who knew her place and did her duty. She was very fond of Lucy Morris and treated her dependent with affectionate consideration. But she did not approve of visits from Mr. Frank Graystock. Lucy, blushing up to the eyes, had once declared that she desired to have no personal visitors at Lady Fawn's house, but that, as regarded her own friendships, the matter was one for her own bosom. Dear Mrs. Morris, Lady Fawn had said, We understand each other so perfectly, and you are so good, that I am quite sure everything will be as it ought to be. Lady Fawn lived down at Richmond all the year through in a large old-fashioned house with a large old-fashioned garden called Fawn Court. After that speech of hers to Lucy, Frank Graystock did not call again at Fawn Court for many months, and it is possible that her ladyship had said a word to him. But Lady Eustis, with her pretty little pair of gray ponies, would sometimes drive down to Richmond to see her dear little old friend Lucy, and her visits were allowed. Lady Fawn had expressed an opinion among her daughters that she did not see any harm in Lady Eustis. She thought she rather liked Lady Eustis. But then Lady Fawn hated Lady Linnlithgau as only two old women can hate each other, and she had not heard the story of the diamond necklace. Lucy Morris certainly was a treasure, a treasure, though no heroine. She was a sweetly social, genial little human being, whose presence in the house was ever felt to be like sunshine. She was never forward, but never bashful. She was always open to familiar intercourse without ever putting herself forward. There was no man or woman with whom she would not talk so as to make the man or woman feel that the conversation was remarkably pleasant, and she could do the same with any child.  She had catalogued the library, which had been collected by the late Lord Fawn with peculiar reference to Christian theology of the third and fourth centuries. She had planned the new flower garden. Though Lady Fawn thought she had done that herself, she had been invaluable during Clara Fawn's long illness. She knew every rule at croquet, and could play the pique. When the girls got up charades they had to acknowledge that everything depended on Miss Morris. They were good-natured, plain, unattractive girls who spoke of her to her face as one who could easily do anything to which she might put her hand. Lady Fawn did really love her. Lord Fawn, the eldest son, a young man of about thirty-five, a peer of parliament and an undersecretary of state, very prudent, very diligent, of whom his mother and sister stood in great awe, consulted her frequently and made no secret of his friendship. The mother knew her awful son well, and was afraid of nothing wrong in that direction. Lord Fawn had suffered a disappointment in love, but he had consoled himself with blue books and mastered his passion by incessant attendance at the India Board. The lady he had loved had been rich, and Lord Fawn was poor. But nevertheless he had mastered his passion. There was no fear that his feelings towards the governess would become too warm, nor was it likely that Miss Morris should encounter danger in regards to him. It was quite an understood thing in the family that Lord Fawn must marry money. Lucy Morris was indeed a treasure. No brighter face ever looked into another to seek sympathy there, either in mirth or woe. There was a gleam in her eye that was almost magnetic. So sure was she to obtain by it that community of interest which she desired, though it were but for a moment. Lord Fawn was pompous, slow, dull, and careful, but even he had given way to it at once. Lady Fawn too was very careful, but she had owed to herself long since that she could not bear to look forward to any permanent severance. Of course Lucy would be made over to the Hittaways, whose mother lived in Warwick Square, in whose father was chairman of the Board of Civil Appeals. The Hittaways were the only grandchildren with whom Lady Fawn had as yet been blessed, and of course Lucy must go to the Hittaways. She was but a little thing, and it cannot be said of her, as of Lady Eustis, that she was a beauty. The charm of her face consisted in the peculiar watery brightness of her eyes, in the corners of which it would always seem that a diamond of a tear was lurking whenever any matter of excitement was afoot. Her light brown hair was soft and smooth and pretty. As hair it was very well, but it had no specialty.  Her forehead was low and broad, with prominent temples, on which it was her habit to clasp tightly her little outstretched fingers as she sat listening to you. Of listeners she was the very best, for she would always be saying a word or two just to help you, the best word that could be spoken, and then again she would be hanging on your lips. There are listeners who show by their mode of listening that they listen as a duty. Not because they're interested. Lucy Morris was not such a one. She would take up your subject whatever it was, and make it her own. There was forward just then a question as to whether the saw-wab of my guab should have twenty millions of rupees paid to him and be placed upon a throne, or whether he should be kept in prison all his life. The British world generally could not be made to interest itself about the saw-wab, but Lucy positively mastered the subject, and almost got Lord Fawn into a difficulty by persuading him to stand up against his chief on behalf of the injured prince. What else can be said of her face, or personal appearance that will interest a reader?  Her hands were very thin and long, and so were her feet. By no means models as were those of her friend Lady Eustace. She was a little, thin, quick, graceful creature, whom it was impossible that you should see without wishing to have near you. A most unselfish little creature she was, but one who had a well-formed idea of her own identity. She was quite resolved to be somebody among her fellow creatures, not somebody in the way of marrying a lord or a rich man, or somebody in the way of being a beauty, or somebody as a wit, but somebody as having a purpose and a use in life. She was the humblest little thing in the world in regard to any possible putting of herself forward or needful putting of herself back, and yet to herself nobody was her superior. What she had was her own, whether it was the old gray silk dress which she had brought with the money she had earned, or the wit which nature had given her. And Lord Fawn's title was his own, and Lady Fawn's rank was her own. She coveted no man's possessions and no woman's, but she was minded to hold by her own. Of present advantages or disadvantages, whether she had the one or suffered from the other, she thought not at all. It was her fault that she had nothing of feminine vanity, but to no man or woman was ever more anxious to be effective, to persuade, to obtain belief, sympathy, and cooperation. Not for any result personal to herself, but because, by obtaining these things, she could be effective in the object then before her, be it what it might. One other thing may be told of her. She had given her heart, for good and all, as she owned to herself, to Frank Graystock. She had owned to herself that it was so, and had owned to herself that nothing could come of it. Frank was becoming a man of mark, but was becoming a man of mark without much money. Of all men, he was the last who could afford to marry a governess, and then, moreover, he had never said a word to make her think that he loved her. He had called upon her once or twice at Fawn Court, as why should he not, seeing that there had been friendship between the families for so many years, who could complain of that? Lady Fawn, however, had—not complained, but just said a word—a word in season, how good is it? Lucy did not much regard the word spoken to herself, but when she reflected that a word must also have been spoken to Mr. Graystock—otherwise, how should it have been that he never came again—that she did not like? In herself she regarded this passion of hers as a healthy man regards the loss of the leg or an arm. It is a great nuisance, a loss that maims the whole life, a misfortune to be much regretted. But because the leg is gone, everything is not gone. A man with a wooden leg may stump about through much action and may enjoy the keenest pleasures of humanity. He has his eyes left to him, and his ears, and his intellect. He will not break his heart for the loss of that leg. And so it was with Lucy Morris. She would still stump about and be very active. Eyes, ears, and intellect were left to her. Looking at her position, she told herself that a happy love could hardly have been her lot in life. Lady Fawn, she thought, was right. A governess should make up her mind to do without a lover. She had given away her heart, and yet she would do without a lover. When, on one dull dark afternoon, as she was thinking of all this, Lord Fawn suddenly put her into her hands a cruelly long-printed document respecting the Sa'ab. She went to work upon it immediately. As she read it, she could not refrain from thinking how wonderfully Frank Greystock would plead the caisse of the Indian Prince if the privilege of pleading it could be given to him. The spring had come round, with May and the London butterflies, at the time which our story begins, and during six months Frank Greystock had not been at Fawn Court. On one day Lady Eustis came down with her ponies and her footmen, and a dear new friend of hers, Miss McNulty. While Miss McNulty was being honoured by Lady Fawn, Lizzie had retreated to a corner with her dear old friend Lucy Morris. It was pretty to see how so wealthy and fashionable a woman as Lady Eustis could show so much friendship to a governess. Have you seen Frank lately? said Lady Eustis, referring to her cousin the Barrister. Not for ever so long, said Lucy, with her churriest smile. He's not going to prove a false knight, asked Lady Eustis and her Lois Whisper. I don't know that Mr. Greystock is much given to knighthood at all, said Lucy, unless it is to being made Sir Francis by his party. Nonsense, my dear, as if I didn't know. I suppose Lady Fawn has been interfering like an old cat that she is. She is not an old cat, Lizzie, and I won't hear her called so. If you think so, you shouldn't come down here. And she hasn't interfered, that is, she has done nothing she ought not to have done. Then she has interfered, said Lady Eustis, and she got up and walked across the room, with a sweet smile, to the old cat. End of Chapter 3 Coming by Carl Hummel, Framingham, Massachusetts, www.noddlerack.com This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Eustis Diamonds by Anthony Trellis. Chapter 4 Frank Greystock Frank Greystock, the Barrister, was the only son of the Dean of Bobfro. Now, the Dean had a family of daughters, not quite so numerous indeed as that of Lady Fawn, for there were only three of them, was by no means a rich man. Unless a Dean have a private fortune, or a chance to draw the happy lot of Durham in the lottery of Deans, he can hardly be wealthy. At Bobfro, the Dean was endowed with a large, rambling, picturesque, uncomfortable house, and was 5,500 pounds a year. In regard to personal property, it may be asserted all of the Greystocks that they had never had any. They were a family of which the males would surely come to be Deans and admirals, and the females would certainly find husbands. And they lived on the good things in the world and mixed with the wealthy people, but they never had any money. The Eustises always had money, and the bishops of Bobfro was wealthy. The Dean was a man very different from his brother, the admiral, who had never paid anybody anything. The Dean did pay, but he was a little slow in his payments, and money with him was never plentiful. In these circumstances, it became very expedient that Frank Greystock should earn his bread early in life. Nevertheless, he had chosen a profession which is not often lucrative at first. He'd been called to the bar and had gone and was still going, the circuit in which lies the cathedral city of Bobfro. Bobfro is not much of a town, and was honored with the judge's visits only every other circuit. Frank began pretty well getting some little work in London, and perhaps nearly enough to pay the cost of the circuit out of the county in which the cathedral was situated. But he began life after that impecunious fashion for which the Greystocks had been noted. Tailors, roadmakers, and booksellers gave him trust, and did believe that they would get their money. But any persistent tradesman did get it. He did not actually hoist the black fag of impacuniosity and proclaim his intention of preying generally upon the retail dealers, as his uncle the admiral had done. But he became known as a young man with whom money was tight. All this had been going on for three or four years before he'd met Lucy Morris at the denary. He was then eight and 20 and had been four years cold. He was 30 when old lady Faughn hinted to him that he had better not pay any more visits at Faughn Court. But things had much altered with him of late. At the time of that visit to the denary, he had made a sudden start of his profession. The corporation of the city of London had brought an action against the Bank of England with reference to certain alleged encroachments of which action, considerable as it was in all its interest, no further notice need be taken of here that is given by the statement that a great deal of money in this cause had found its way among the lawyers. Some of it penetrated into the pocket of Frank Greystock, but here more than money, better than money out of that affair. It was attributed to him by the attorneys that the Bank of England was saved from the necessity of reconstructing all its bullion sellers. And he had made his character for industry. In a year after that, the Bob's Row people were rather driven into a corner in search of a clever, young, conservative candidate for the borough, and Frank Greystock was invited to stand. He was not thought that there was much chance of success, and the dean was against it, but Frank liked the honor and the glory of the contest, and so did Frank's mother. Frank Greystock stood, and at the time in which he was warned away from Faughn Court had been nearly a year in parliament. Of course, it does interfere with one's business, he said to his father, but then it brings one business also, a man with a seat in parliament who shows that he means to work will always get nearly as much work as he can do. Such was Frank's exposition to his father. It may perhaps not be found to hold water in all cases. Mrs. Dean was of course delighted with her son's success and so were the girls. Women like to feel that the young men belonging to them are doing something in the world, so that a reflected glory may be theirs. It was pleasant to talk of Frank as a member for the city. Brothers do not always care much for a brother's success, but a sister is generally sympathetic. If Frank would only marry money, there was nothing he might not achieve. That he would live to sit on the wool sack was now almost a certainty to the dear old lady. But in order that he might sit there comfortably, it was necessary that he should at least abstain from marrying a poor wife, for there was fear at the denary also in regard to Lucy Morris. That notion of marrying money, as you call it, Frank said to his second sister Margaret, is the most disgusting idea in the world. It is as easy to love a girl who has something as one who has nothing to Margaret. No, it is not, because the girls with money are scarce and those without it are plentiful, an argument of which I don't suppose you see the force. Then Margaret for the moment was snubbed and retired. Indeed, Frank, I think Lady Fawn was right, said the mother, and I think she was quite wrong. If there be anything in it, it won't be expelled by Lady Fawn's interference. Do you think I should allow Lady Fawn to tell me not to choose such or such a woman for my wife? It's the habit of seeing her, my dear. Nobody loves Lucy Morris better than I do. We all like her, but dear Frank, what would it do for you to make her your wife? Frank Graystock was silent for a moment and then he answered his mother's question. I'm not quite sure whether it would or would not, but I do think this, that if I were bold enough to marry now and to trust all the future and could get Lucy to be my wife, I should be doing a great thing. I doubt however whether I had the courage, all of which made the Dean's wife uneasy. The reader who has read so far will perhaps think that Frank Graystock was in love with Lucy as Lucy was in love with him, but such was not exactly the case. To be in love as an absolute, well-marked, acknowledged fact is not the condition of a woman more frequently and more readily than of a man. Such is not the common theory on the matter as it is the man's business to speak and the woman's business to be resident. And the woman is presumed to have a kept her heart free from any load of love until she may accept the burden with an assurance that it shall become a joy and a comfort to her. But such presumptions, though they may be very useful for the regulation of conduct, may not always be true. It comes more within the scope of a woman's mind than of a man's to think closely and decide sharply on such a matter. With a man it's often chance that settles the question for him. He resolved to propose to a woman or proposes without resolving because she is close to him. Frank Graystock ridiculed the idea of lady fawns interference and so high a matter as his love or abstinence from love. Nevertheless, he had been made a welcome guest at fawn court. He would undoubtedly have told his love to Lucy Morris. He was not a welcome guest, but he had been banished. And as a consequence of that banishment, he had formed no resolution in regard to Lucy and did not absolutely know whether she was necessary to him or not. But Lucy Morris knew all about it. Moreover, it frequently happens with men that they fail to analyze these things and do not make out for themselves any clear definition of what their feelings are or what they mean. We hear that a man has behaved badly to a girl when the behavior of which he has been guilty has resulted simply from one thought. He has found a certain companionship to be a real bull to him and he has accepted the pleasure without inquiry. Some vague idea has floated across his brain and the world is wrong in supposing that such friendship cannot exist without marriage or question of marriage. It is simply friendship. And yet, were his friend to tell him that she intended to give herself a marriage elsewhere, he would suffer all the pangs of jealousy and would imagine himself to be horribly ill-treated. To have such a friend, a friend whom he cannot or will not make his wife is no injury to him. To him, it is simply a delight, an excitement in life, a thing to be known to himself only and not talked of to others, a source of pride and inward exaltation. It is a joy to think of when he wakes and a consolation in his little trouble. It dispels the weariness of life and makes a green spot of holiday within his daily work. It is indeed death to her, but he does not know it. Frank did think that he could not marry Lucy Moore without making an imprudent plunge into deep water. And yet, he felt that Lady Faun was an ill-natured old woman for hinting to him that he had better not, for the present, continue his visits to Fauncourt. Of course you understand me, Mr. Frank Raystock, she had said, trying to be civil. When Miss Morris has left us, she should ever leave us. I should be most happy to see you. What on earth would take me to Fauncourt if Lucy would not there, he said to himself, not choosing to appreciate Lady Faun's civility. Frank Raystock was at this time nearly 30 years old. He was a good-looking, but not a strikingly handsome man. Thin of moderate height with sharp gray eyes, a face clean-shawned with the exception of a small bisquer, with wiry, strong dark hair, which was already beginning to show a tinge of gray, the very opposite in appearance to his late friend, Sophorian Eustace. He was quick, ready-witted, self-reliant, and not over-srupulous in the outward things of the world. He was desirous of doing his duty to others, but he was especially desirous that others should do their duty to him. He intended to get on in the world and believe that happiness was to be achieved by success. He was certainly made for the profession which he had adopted. His father, looking to certain morsels of church patronage, which occasionally came his way, and to the fact that he and the bishop were on most friendly terms, had wished his son to take orders. But Frank had known himself in his own qualities too well to follow his father's advice. He had chosen to be a barrister, and now, at 30, was in parliament. He had been asked to stand for Bobsboro in the conservative interest, and as a conservative, he had been returned. Those who invited him knew probably but little of his own political beliefs or feelings. Did not probably know that he hadn't. His father was a fine old Tory of the ancient school who thought things were going from bad to worse, but was able to live happily in spite of his anticipations. The dean was one of those old world politicians. We meet them every day, and they are generally very pleasant people who enjoy the politics of the side to which they belong without any special belief in them. If pressed hard, they will almost always own that their so-called convictions are prejudices. But not for worlds would they be rid of them. When two or three of them meet together, they are as free masons who are bound by a pleasant bond which separates them from the outer world. They feel among themselves that everything that is being done is bad, even though that everything is done by their own party. It was bad to interfere with Charles, bad to endure Cromwell, bad to banish James, bad to put up with William. The House of Hanover was bad. All interference with prerogatives was bad. The reform bill was very bad. The encroachment on the estates of the bishops was bad. Emancipation of Roman Catholics was the worst of all. Abolition of Coran laws, church rates, and oaths and tests were all bad. The meddling with the universities has been grievous. The treatment of the Irish church has been satanic. The overhauling of schools is most injurious to English education. Education bills and Irish land bills were all bad. Every step taken has been bad. And yet to them, old England is, of all the countries in the world, the best to live in. And it's not at all the less comfortable because of the changes that have been made. These people are ready to grumble at every boon conferred on them and yet to enjoy every boon. They know to their privileges and after a fashion understand their position. It is picturesque and it pleases them to have been always in the right and yet always on the losing side, always being ruined, always under persecution from the wild spirit of Republican demagoguism and yet never to lose anything. Not even position or public esteem is pleasant enough. A huge living, daily increasing grievance that does no one palpable harm is the happiest possession that a man can have. There is a large body of such men in England and personally they are the very salt of the nation.   The well educated, widely read conservative who is well assured that all good things are gradually being brought to an end by the voice of the people is generally the pleasantest man to be met. But he is a Buddhist possessing a religious creed which is altogether dark and mysterious to the outer world. Those who watch the waves of the advanced Buddhists hardly know whether the man does believe himself in his hidden God. But men perceive that he is respectable, self-satisfied and a man of note. It is of course from the society of such that conservative candidates are to be sought. But alas, it is hard to indoctrinate young minds with the old belief that since new theories of life have become so rife. Nevertheless, Frank Greystock when he was invited to stand for Bobsboro in the conservative interest had not for a moment allowed any political heterodoxy on his own part to stand in the way of his advancement. It may perhaps be the case that a barrister is less likely to be influenced by personal convictions and taking his side in politics than any other man who devotes himself to public affairs. No slur on the profession is intended by this suggestion. A busy, clever, useful man who has been at work all his life finds that his own progress towards success demands from him that he shall become a politician. The highest work of a lawyer can be reached only through political struggle. As a large-minded man of the world, peculiarly conversant with the fact that every question has two sides and that as much may often be said on one side as on the other, he has probably not become violent in his feelings as a political partisan. Thus, he sees that there is an opening here or an opening there and the offense in either case is not great to him. With Frank Greystock, the matter was very easy. There certainly was no apostasy. He had now and again attacked his father's ultritorialism and had rebuked his mother and sisters when they spoke of Gladstone as a Pollyon and called John Bright the Abomination of Desolation. But it was easy for him to fancy himself a conservative and as such, he took a seat in the house without any feeling of discomfort. During the first four months of his first session, he had not spoken, but he had made himself useful. He had sat on one or two committees, though as a barrister he might have excused himself and had done his best to learn the forms of the house. But he had already begun to find that his time with which he devoted to Parliament was much wanted for his profession. Money was very necessary to him. Then a new idea was presented to him. John Eustis and Greystock were very intimate, as also had been Sir Florian and Greystock. I tell you what I wish you'd do, Greystock, Eustis said to him one day as they were standing aisle together in the lobby of the house, for John Eustis was also in Parliament. Anything to oblige you, my friend, it's only a trifle, said Eustis, just to marry your cousin, my brother's widow. By Jove, I wish I had the chance. I don't see why you shouldn't. She is sure to marry somebody and at her age, so she ought. She's not 23 yet. We could trust you with the child and all the rest of it. As it is, she's giving us a deal of trouble. But my dear fellow, I know she's fond of you. You were dining there last Sunday. And so was Faun. Lord Faun is the man to marry Lizzie. You see, if he doesn't, he was uncommonly sweet on her the other night. And really interested her about the swab. She'll never be Lady Faun, said John Eustis. And to tell the truth, I shouldn't care to have to deal with Lord Faun. He would be infinitely troublesome. And I can hardly wash my hands of her affairs. She's worth nearly 5,000 a year as long as she lives. And I really don't think that she's much amiss. Much amiss? I don't know whether she's not the prettiest woman I ever saw, said Grace Dodge. Yes, but I mean in conduct and all that.  But it's only because she doesn't know that she ought to be at and what she ought not. You could tell her. It wouldn't suit me at all to have to quarrel with Camperdown, said the barrister, laughing. You and he would settle everything in five minutes and it would save me a world of troubles and Eustis. Faun is your man. Take my word for it, said Grace Dodge, as he walked back into the house. Drama twists, when they write plays, have a delightful privilege of prefixing a list of their personages. And the dramatists of old used to tell us who was in love with whom and what were the blood relationships of all the persons. In such a narrative as this, any proceeding of that kind would be unusual. And therefore the poor narrator has been driven to expend his first four chapters in the mere task of introducing his characters. He regrets the lengths of these introductions and will now begin at once the action of his story. End of chapter four. Chapter five of The Eustis Diamonds. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Philippa. The Eustis Diamonds by Anthony Trollop. Chapter five, The Eustis Necklace. John Eustis, Lady Eustis's brother-in-law, had told his friend Greystock, the lady's cousin, that Mr. Campadown, the lawyer, intended to jump upon that lady. Making such allowance and deduction from the force of these words, as the slang expression requires, we may say that John Eustis was right. Mr. Campadown was in earnest and did intend to obtain the restoration of those jewels. Mr. Campadown was a gentleman of about sixty, who had been lawyer to Siflorean's father and whose father had been lawyer to Siflorean's grandfather. His connection with the property and with the family was of a nature to allow him to take almost any liberty with the Eustis's. When, therefore, John Eustis, in regard to those diamonds, had pleaded that the heir in his long minority would obtain ample means of buying more diamonds and of suggesting that the plunder for the sake of tranquillity should be allowed, Mr. Campadown took upon himself to say that he'd be blank if he'd put up with it. I really don't know what you ought to do, said John Eustis. I'll file a bill in chancery if it's necessary, said the old lawyer, heaven on earth. As trustee, how are you to reconcile yourself to such a robbery? They represent five hundred pounds a year for ever and she is to have them simply because she chooses to take them. I suppose Florian could have given them away. At any rate, he could have sold them. I don't know that, said Mr. Campadown. I have not looked as yet, but I think that this necklace has been made an heirloom. At any rate, it represents an amount of property that shouldn't and couldn't be made over legally without some visible evidence of transfer. It's as clear a case of stealing as I ever knew in my life and as bad a case. She hadn't a farthing and she has got the whole of the Ayrshire property for her life. She goes about and tells everybody that it's hers to sell tomorrow if she pleases to sell it. No, John. Mr. Campadown had known Eustis when he was a boy and had watched him become a man and hadn't yet learned to drop the name by which he had called the boy. We mustn't allow it. What do you think of her applying to me for an income to support her child? A baby not yet two years old. Mr. Campadown had been very adverse to all the circumstances of Sophorian's marriage and had subjected himself to Sophorian's displeasure for expressing his opinion. He had tried to explain that as the lady brought no money into the family she was not entitled to such a jointure as Sophorian was determined to lavish upon her. But Sophorian had been obstinate, both in regard to the settlement and the will. It was not till after Sophorian's death that this terrible matter of the jewels had even suggested itself to Mr. Campadown. The jewel is in whose custody the things had been since the death of the late Lady Eustis had mentioned the affair to him immediately on the young widow's return from Naples. Sophorian had withdrawn not all the jewels, but by far the most valuable of them, from the jewelers' care on his return to London from their marriage to a to Scotland, and this was the result. The jewelers were at that time without any doubt as to the date at which the necklace was taken from them. Mr. Campadown's first attempt was made by a most courteous and even complimentary note in which he suggested to Lady Eustis that it would be for the advantage of all parties that the family jewels should be kept together. Lizzie, as she read this note, smiled, and said to herself that she did not exactly see how her own interest would be best served by such an arrangement. She made no answer to Mr. Campadown's note. Some months after this, when the heir was born, and as Lady Eustis was passing through London on her journey from Bobsborough to Portray, a meeting had been arranged between her and Mr. Campadown. She had endeavoured by all the while she knew to avoid this meeting, but it had been forced upon her. She had been almost given to understand that unless she submitted to it, she would not be able to draw her income from the Portray property. Mrs. Mobrian Mopus had advised her to submit. My husband gave me a necklace, and they want me to give it back. She had said to Mr. Mopus, Do nothing of the kind, Mr. Mopus had replied. If you find it necessary, refer Mr. Campadown to us. We will answer him. The interview had taken place, during which Mr. Campadown took the trouble to explain, very plainly, and more than once, that the income from the Portray property belonged to Lady Eustis for her life only. It would, after her death, be rejoined of necessity to the rest of the Eustis property. This was repeated to Lady Eustis in the presence of John Eustis, but she made no remark on being so informed. You understand the nature of the settlement, Lady Eustis? Mr. Campadown had said. I believe I understand everything, she replied. Then, just at the close of the interview, he asked a question about the jewels. They might as well be sent back to Mrs. Garnett's, said Mr. Campadown. I don't know that I have any to send back, she answered, and then she escaped, before Mr. Campadown was able to arrange any further attack. I can manage with her better by letter than I can personally, he said to John Eustis. Lawyers such as Mr. Campadown are slow, and it was three or four months after that, when he wrote a letter in his own name to Lady Eustis, explaining to her, still courteously, that it was his business to see that the property of the Eustis family was placed in fit hands, and that a certain valuable necklace of diamonds, which was an heirloom of the family, and which was undeniably the property of the heir, was believed to be in her custody. As such property was peculiarly subject to risks, would she have the kindness to make arrangements for handing over the necklace to the custody of Mrs. Garnett? To this letter Lizzie made no answer whatever, nor did she to a second note calling attention to the first. When John Eustis told Greystock that Campadown intended to jump on Lady Eustis, the following further letter had been written by the firm, but up to that time Lizzie had not replied to it. 62 New Square, Lincoln's Inn. May the 5th, 1860-something. Madam. It is our duty as attorneys acting on behalf of the estate of your late husband, Sir Florian Eustis, and in the interest of your son, his heir, to ask for restitution of a certain valuable diamond necklace, which is believed to be now in the possession of your ladyship. Our senior partner, Mr. Campadown, has written to your ladyship, more than once on the subject, but has not been honoured with any reply. Doubtless had there been any mistake as to the necklace being in your hands, we should have been so informed. The diamonds were withdrawn from Mrs. Garnett's the jewelers by Sir Florian soon after his marriage, and were no doubt entrusted to your keeping. They are appanages of the family, which should not be in your hands as the widow of the late baronet, and they constitute an amount of property which certainly cannot be alienated from the family without inquiry or right, as might any trifling article either of use or ornament. The jewels are valued at over ten thousand pounds. We are reluctantly compelled, by the fact of your having left unanswered three letters from Mr. Campadown, senior, on the subject, to explain to you that if attention be not paid to this letter, we shall be obliged, in the performance of our duty, to take legal steps for the restitution of the property. We have the honour to be, madam, your ladyship's most obedient servants, Campadown and Son, to Lady Eustis, etc., etc. A few days after it was sent, old Mr. Campadown got the letter-book of the office, and read the letter to John Eustis. I don't see how you're to get them, said Eustis. We'll throw upon her the birthing of showing that they have become legally her property. She can't do it. Suppose she sold them. We'll follow them up. Ten thousand pounds, my dear John! God bless my soul! It's a magnificent dowry for a daughter, an ample provision for a younger son. And she is to be allowed to filch it, as other widows filch china cups in a silver teaspoon or two. It's quite a common thing, but I never heard of such a haul as this. It will be very unpleasant, said Eustis. And then she still goes about everywhere declaring that the portrait property is her own. She's a bad lot. I knew it from the first. Of course we shall have trouble. Then Mr. Eustis explained to the lawyer that their best way out of it all would be to get the widow married to some respectable husband. She was sure to marry sooner or later, so John Eustis said, and any decently decent fellow would be easier to deal with than she herself. He must be very indecently indecent if he is not, said Mr. Camperdown. But Mr. Eustis did not name Frank Greystock the Barrister, as the probable future decent husband. When Lizzy first got the letter, which she did on the day after the visit at Fawn Court, of which mention has been made, she put it by unread for a couple of days. She opened it, not knowing the clerk's handwriting, but read only the first line and the signature. For two days she went on with the ordinary affairs and amusements of her life, as though no such letter had reached her. But she was thinking of it all the time. The diamonds were in her possession, as she had had them valued by her old friend Mr. Benjamin, of the firm of Harter and Benjamin. Mr. Benjamin had suggested that stones of such a value should not be left to the risk of an ordinary London house. But Lizzy had felt that if Mr. Benjamin got them into his hands, Mr. Benjamin might perhaps not return them. Messers Camperdown and Garnet between them might form a league with Mr. Benjamin. Where would she be should Mr. Benjamin tell her that under some legal sanction he had given the jewels up to Mr. Camperdown? She hinted to Mr. Benjamin that she would perhaps sell them if she got a good offer. Mr. Benjamin, who was very familiar with her, hinted that there might be a little family difficulty. Oh, none in the least, said Lizzy. But I don't think I shall part with them. Then she gave Mr. Benjamin an order for a strong box, which was supplied to her. The strong box, which was so heavy that she could barely lift it herself, was now in her London bedroom. On the morning of the third day she read the letter. Miss McNulty was staying with her, but she had not said a word to Miss McNulty about the letter. She read it up in her own bedroom, and then sat down to think about it. Sir Florian, as he had handed to her the stones for the purpose of a special dinner party which had been given to them when passing through London, had told her that they were family jewels. That setting was done for my mother, he said, but it is already old, when we are at home again it will reset. Then he had added some little husband's joke as to a future daughter-in-law who should wear them. Nevertheless, she was not sure whether the fact of their being so handed to her did not make them her own. She had spoken a second time to Mr. Mopus, and Mr. Mopus had asked her whether there existed any family deed as to the diamonds. She had heard of no such deed, nor did Mr. Campadown mention such a deed. After reading the letter once she read it a dozen times, and then, like a woman, made up her mind that the safest course would be not to answer it. But yet she felt sure that something unpleasant would come of it. Mr. Campadown was not a man to take up such a question and to let it drop. Legal steps! What did legal steps mean, and what could they do to her? Would Mr. Campadown be able to put her in prison, or to take away from her the estate of Portray? She could swear that her husband had given them to her, and could invent any form of word she pleased as accompanying the gift. No one else had been near them then. But she was, and felt herself to be, absolutely alarmingly ignorant, not only of the laws, but of custom in such matters. Mrs. Mobrian Mopus and Mr. Benjamin were the allies to whom she looked for guidance, but she was wise enough to know that Mobrian Mopus and Harter and Benjamin were not trustworthy. Whereas Campadown and Sun and the Mrs. Garnet were all as firm as rocks and as respectable as the Bank of England. Circumstances, unfortunate circumstances, drove her to Harter and Benjamin and to Mobrian Mopus, when she would have taken so much delight in feeling the strong honesty of the other people to be on her side. She would have talked to her friends about Mr. Campadown and the people at Garnet's with so much satisfaction. But ease, security, and even respectability may be bought too dearly. Ten thousand pounds! Was she prepared to surrender such a sum as that? She had indeed already realised the fact that it might be very difficult to touch the money. When she had suggested to Mr. Benjamin that he should buy the jewels, that worthy tradesman had by no means jumped at the offer. Of what used to her would be a necklace always locked up in an iron box, which box for ought she knew murmidans from Mr. Campadown might carry off during her absence from the house. Would it not be better to come to terms and surrender? But then what should the terms be? If only there had been a friend whom she could consult, a friend whom she could consult on a really friendly footing, not a simply respectable, off-handed, high-minded friend who would advise her as a matter of course to make restitution, her uncle, the dean, or her cousin Frank, or old Lady Fawn, would be sure to give her such advice as that. There are people who are so very high-minded when they have to deal with the interests of their friends. What if she were to ask Lord Fawn? Thoughts of a second marriage had, of course, crossed Lady Eustace's mind, and they were by no means the worst thoughts that found a place there. She had a grand idea, this selfish, hard-fisted little woman who could not bring herself to abandon the plunder on which she had laid her hand, a grand idea of surrendering herself and all her possessions to a great passion. For Florian Eustace she had never cared. She had sat down by his side and looked into his handsome face and read poetry to him because of his wealth and because it had been indispensable to her to settle herself well. And he had been all very well, a generous, open-hearted, chivalrous, irascible, but rather heavy-minded gentleman, but she had never been in love with him. Now she desired to be so in love that she could surrender everything to her love. There was as yet nothing of such love in her bosom. She had seen no one who would so touch her. But she was alive to the romance of the thing and was in love with the idea of being in love. Ah, she would say to herself in her moments of solitude, if I had a corsair of my own, how I would sit on watch for my lover's boat by the sea shore. And she believed it of herself that she could do so. But it would also be very nice to be a piresse, so that she might without any doubt be one of the great ladies of London. As a baronet's widow with a large income she was already almost a great lady, but she was quite alive to a suspicion that she was not altogether strong in her position. The bishop's people and the dean's people did not quite trust her. The campedowns and garnets utterly distrusted her. The mopuses and benjamins were more familiar than they would be with a really great lady. She was sharp enough to understand all this. Should it be Lord Fawn, or should it be a corsair? The worst of Lord Fawn was the undoubted fact that he was not himself a great man. He could no doubt make his wife a piresse, but he was poor, encumbered with a host of sisters, dull as a blue book, and possessed of little beyond his peerage to recommend him. If only she could find a peer unmarried with a dash of the corsair about him. In the meantime, what was she to do about the jewels? There was staying with her at this time a certain Miss McNulty, who was related after some distant fashion to old Lady Lynithco, and who was as utterly destitute of possessions or means of existence as any unfortunate, well-born and moderately educated middle-aged woman in London. To live upon her friends, such as they might be, was the only mode of life within her reach. It was not that she had chosen such dependence, nor, indeed, had she endeavoured to reject it. It had come to her as a matter of course, either that or the poor house. As to earning her bread, except by that attendance which a poor friend gives, the idea of any possibility that way had never entered her head. She could do nothing, except dress like a lady with the smallest possible cost, and endeavour to be obliging. Now, at this moment, her condition was terribly precarious. She had quarrelled with Lady Lynithco, and had been taken in by her old friend Lizzie. Her old enemy might perhaps be a truer expression, because of that quarrel. But a permanent home had not even been promised to her, and poor Miss McNulty was aware that even a permanent home with Lady Eustace would not be an unmixed blessing. In her way, Miss McNulty was an honest woman. They were sitting together one May afternoon in the little back drawing-room in Mount Street. They had dined early, were now drinking tea, and intended to go to the opera. It was six o'clock, and was still broad day, but the thick coloured blind was kept across the single window, and the folding doors of the room were nearly closed, and there was a feeling of evening in the room. The necklace, during the whole day, had been so heavy on Lizzie's heart, that she had been unable to apply her thoughts to the building of that castle in the air in which the Corsair was to reign supreme, but not alone. My dear, she said, she generally called Miss McNulty my dear. You know that box I had made by the jewellers. You mean the safe? Well, yes, only it isn't a safe. A safe is a great big thing. I had it made especially for the diamond Sir Florian gave me. I supposed it was so. I wonder whether there's any danger about it. If I were you, Lady Eustace, I wouldn't keep them in the house. I should have them kept where Sir Florian kept them. Suppose anybody should come and murder you. I'm not a bit afraid of that, said Lizzie. I should be. And what will you do with it when you go to Scotland? I took them with me before, in my own care. I know that wasn't safe. I wish I knew what to do with them. There are people who keep such things, said Miss McNulty. Then Lizzie paused a moment. She was dying for counsel and for confidence. I cannot trust them anywhere, she said. It is just possible there may be a lawsuit about them. How a lawsuit? I cannot explain it all. But I am very unhappy about it. They want me to give them up. But my husband gave them to me, and for his sake I will not do so. When he threw them round my neck, he told me that they were my own. So he did. How can a woman give up such a present from a husband who is dead? As to the value I care nothing but I won't do it. By this time Lady Eustace was in tears, and had so far succeeded as to have produced some amount of belief in Miss McNulty's mind.  They shan't. They shall find that I've got some spirit left. Then she reflected that a real Corsair lover would protect her jewels for her, would guard them against a score of campedowns. But she doubted whether Lord Fawn would do much in that way. Then the door was opened and Lord Fawn was announced. It was not at all unusual with Lord Fawn to call on the widow at this hour. Mount Street is not exactly in the way from the India office to the House of Lords, but a handsome cab can make it almost in the way. Of neglect of official duty Lord Fawn was never guilty. But a half hour for private business or for relaxation between one stage of duty and another, can any minister grudge so much to an indefatigable follower? Lady Eustace had been in tears as he was announced, but the light of the room was so low that the traces of them could hardly be seen. She was in her Corsair state of mind, divided between her jewels and her poetry, and caring not very much for the increased rank which Lord Fawn could give her. The Sarwab's case is coming on in the House of Commons this very night, he said, in answer to a question from Miss McNulty. Then he turned to Lady Eustace. Your cousin, Mr. Greystock, is going to ask a question in the House. Shall you be there to answer him? asked Miss McNulty innocently. Oh, dear no! but I shall be present. A peer can go, you know. Then Lord Fawn at considerable length explained to the two ladies the nature and condition of the British Parliament. Miss McNulty experienced an innocent pleasure in having such things told to her by a Lord. Lady Eustace knew that this was the way in which Lord Fawn made love, and thought that from him it was as good as any other way. If she were to marry a second time simply with the view of being a peeress, of having a respected husband and making good her footing in the world, she would as leaf listen to parliamentary details and the prospects of the Sarwab as to any other matters. She knew very well that no Corsair propensities would be forthcoming from Lord Fawn. Lord Fawn had just worked himself round to the Sarwab again when Frank Greystock entered the room. Now we have both the Houses represented, said Lady Eustace as she welcomed her cousin. You intend to ask your question about the Sarwab tonight? Asked Lord Fawn with intense interest, feeling that had it been his lot to perform that task before he went to his couch he would at this moment have been preparing his little speech. But Frank Greystock had not come to his cousin's house to talk of the Prince of the Mygawb Territory. When his friend Eustace had suggested to him that he should marry the widow, he had ridiculed the idea, but nevertheless he had thought of it a good deal. He was struggling hard, working diligently, making for himself a character in Parliament, succeeding, so said all his friends, as a barrister. He was a rising young man, one of those whose names begin to be much in the mouths of other men, but still he was poor. It seemed to himself that among other good gifts that of economy had not been bestowed upon him. He owed a little money, and though he owed it, he went on spending his earnings. He wanted just such a lift in the world as a wife with an income would give him. As for looking about for a girl whom he could honestly love, and who should have a fortune of her own as well as beauty, birth, and all the other things, that was out of his reach. If he talked to himself of love, if he were ever to acknowledge to himself that love was to have sway over him, then must Lucy Morris be the mistress of his heart? He had come to know enough about himself to be aware of that. But he knew also that he had said nothing binding him to walk in that path. It was quite open to him to indulge a discreet ambition without dishonour. Therefore he also had come to call upon the beautiful widow. The courtship with her he knew need not be long. He could ask her to marry him to-morrow, as for that matter to-day, without a feeling of hesitation. She might accept him or might reject him, but, as he said to himself, in neither case would any harm be done. An idea of the same kind flitted across Lizzie's mind as she sat and talked to the two gentlemen. She knew that her cousin Frank was poor, but she thought that she could fall in love with him. He was not exactly a corsair, but he was a man who had certain corsair propensities. He was bold and dashing, unscrupulous and clever—a man to make a name for himself, and one to whom a woman could endure to be obedient. There could be no question as to choice between him and Lord Faughn if she were to allow herself to choose by liking. And she thought that Frank Greystock would keep the necklace, if he himself were made to have an interest in the necklace. Whereas Lord Faughn would undoubtedly surrender it at once to Mr. Camperdown. Lord Faughn had some slight idea of waiting to see the cousin go, but as Greystock had a similar idea, and as he was the stronger of the two, of course Lord Faughn went. He perhaps remembered that the handsome cab was at the door, costing six pence every fifteen minutes, and that he wished to show himself in the House of Lords before the peers rose. Miss McNulty also left the room, and Frank was alone with the widow. Lizzy, said he, you must be very solitary here. I am solitary, and hardly happy—anything but happy, Frank. I have things that make me very unhappy—one thing that I will tell you if you'll let me. Frank had almost made up his mind to ask her on the spot to give him permission to console all her sorrows, when there came a cluttering double-knock at the door. They know I shall be at home to nobody else now, said Lady Eustis. But Frank Greystock had hardly regained his self-possession when Miss McNulty hurried into the room, and, with a look almost of horror, declared that Lady Lynn Lithgow was in the parlour.