The Eustace Diamonds. Anthony Trollope

return nothing but dust and ashes—nothing but ashes and dust. Oh, I have been so disappointed in Lady Fawn!"

      "You know she is my dearest friend," said Lucy.

      "Psha! I know that you have worked for her like a slave, and that she gives you but a bare pittance."

      "She has been more like a mother to me than anything else," said Lucy angrily.

      "Because you have been tame. It does not suit me to be tame. It is not my plan to be tame. Have you heard the cause of the disagreement between Lord Fawn and me?"

      "Well—no."

      "Tell the truth, Lucy."

      "How dare you tell me to tell the truth? Of course I tell the truth. I believe it is something about some property which he wants you to give back to somebody; but I don't know any more."

      "Yes, my dear husband, Sir Florian, who understood me—whom I idolized—who seemed to have been made for me—gave me a present. Lord Fawn is pleased to say that he does not approve of my keeping any gift from my late lord. Considering that he intends to live upon the wealth which Sir Florian was generous enough to bestow upon me, this does seem to be strange! Of course, I resented such interference. Would not you have resented it?"

      "I don't know," said Lucy, who thought that she could bring herself to comply with any request made to her by Frank Greystock.

      "Any woman who had a spark of spirit would resent it, and I have resented it. I have told Lord Fawn that I will, on no account, part with the rich presents which my adored Florian showered upon me in his generosity. It is not for their richness that I keep them, but because they are, for his sake, so inexpressibly dear to me. If Lord Fawn chooses to be jealous of a necklace, he must be jealous." Lucy, who had, in truth, heard but a small fragment of the story—just so much of it as Lydia had learned from the discreet Amelia, who herself had but a very hazy idea of the facts—did not quite know how much of the tale, as it was now told to her, might be true and how much false. After a certain fashion she and Lizzie Eustace called themselves friends. But she did not believe her friend to be honest, and was aware that in some matters her friend would condescend—to fib. Lizzie's poetry, and romance, and high feelings, had never had the ring of true soundness in Lucy's ears. But her imagination was not strong enough to soar to the altitude of the lies which Lizzie was now telling. She did believe that the property which Lizzie was called upon to restore was held to be objectionable by Lord Fawn simply because it had reached Lizzie from the hands of her late husband. "What do you think of such conduct as that?" asked Lady Eustace.

      "Won't it do if you lock them up instead of wearing them?" asked Lucy.

      "I have never dreamed of wearing them."

      "I don't understand about such things," said Lucy, determined not to impute any blame to one of the Fawn family.

      "It is tyranny, sheer tyranny," continued the other, "and he will find that I am not the woman to yield to it. No. For love I could give up everything;—but nothing from fear. He has told me in so many words that he does not intend to go on with his engagement!"

      "Has he indeed?"

      "But I intend that he shall. If he thinks that I am going to be thrown over because he takes ideas of that kind into his head, he's mistaken. He shall know that I'm not to be made a plaything of like that. I'll tell you what you can do for me, Lucy."

      "What can I do for you?"

      "There is no one in the world I trust more thoroughly than I do you," said Lizzie—"and hardly any one that I love so well. Think how long we have known each other! And you may be sure of this;—I always have been, and always will be, your friend with my cousin Frank."

      "I don't want anything of that kind," said Lucy—"and never did."

      "Nobody has so much influence with Frank as I. Just do you write to me to-morrow, and the next day—and the day after—a mere line, you know, to tell me how the land lies here."

      "There would be nothing to tell."

      "Yes, there will; ever so much. They will be talking about me every hour. If you'll be true to me, Lucy, in this business, I'll make you the handsomest present you ever saw in your life. I'll give you a hundred-guinea brooch;—I will, indeed. You shall have the money, and buy it yourself."

      "A what!" said Lucy.

      "A hundred guineas to do what you please with!"

      "You mean thing!" said Lucy. "I didn't think there was a woman so mean as that in the world. I'm not surprised now at Lord Fawn. Pick up what I hear, and send it you in letters—and then be paid money for it!"

      "Why not? It's all to do good."

      "How can you have thought to ask me to do such a thing? How can you bring yourself to think so badly of people? I'd sooner cut my hand off; and as for you, Lizzie—I think you are mean and wicked to conceive such a thing. And now good-bye." So saying, she left the room, giving her dear friend no time for further argument.

      Lady Eustace got away that morning, not in time, indeed, for the 11.30 train, but at such an hour as to make it unnecessary that she should appear at the early dinner. The saying of farewell was very cold and ceremonious. Of course, there was no word as to any future visit—no word as to any future events whatever. They all shook hands with her, and special injunctions were given to the coachman to drive her safely to the station. At this ceremony Lucy was not present. Lydia had asked her to come down and say good-bye; but Lucy refused. "I saw her in her own room," said Lucy.

      "And was it all very affectionate?" Lydia asked.

      "Well—no; it was not affectionate at all." This was all that Lucy said, and thus Lady Eustace completed her visit to Fawn Court.

      The letters were taken away for the post at eight o'clock in the evening, and before that time it was necessary that Lucy should write to her lover. "Lady Fawn," she said in a whisper, "may I tell him to come here?"

      "Certainly, my dear. You had better tell him to call on me. Of course he'll see you, too, when he comes."

      "I think he'd want to see me," said Lucy, "and I'm sure I should want to see him!" Then she wrote her answer to Frank's letter. She allowed herself an hour for the happy task; but though the letter, when written, was short, the hour hardly sufficed for the writing of it.

      "Dear Mr. Greystock;"—there was matter for her of great consideration before she could get even so far as this; but, after biting her pen for ten minutes, during which she pictured to herself how pleasant it would be to call him Frank when he should have told her to do so, and had found, upon repeated whispered trials, that of all names it was the pleasantest to pronounce, she decided upon refraining from writing it now—

      Lady Fawn has seen your letter to me—the dearest letter that ever was written—and she says that you may call upon her. But you mustn't go away without seeing me too.

      Then there was great difficulty as to the words to be used by her for the actual rendering herself up to him as his future wife. At last the somewhat too Spartan simplicity of her nature prevailed, and the words were written, very plain and very short.

      I love you better than all the world, and I will be your wife. It shall be the happiness of my life to try to deserve you.

      I am, with all my heart,

       Most affectionately your own

      Lucy.

      When it was written it did not content her. But the hour was over, and the letters must go. "I suppose it'll do," she said to herself. "He'll know what it means." And so the letter was sent.

CHAPTER XVI

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Certainly an Heirloom