The Eustace Diamonds quotes

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 Lizzie Greystock had done very well with herself.

We will tell the story of Lizzie Greystock from the beginning, but we will not dwell over it at great length, as we might do if we loved her.

She was the only child of old Admiral Greystock, who in the latter years of his life was much perplexed by the possession of a daughter.

The admiral was a man who liked whist, 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 whist, wine, and wickedness were there, at the side even of his dying bed.

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.

But, in truth, the charm of her face did not lie in her eyes. 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!

Lizzie’s eyes were not tender—neither were they true. But they were surmounted by the most wonderfully pencilled eyebrows that ever nature unassisted planted on a woman’s face.

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!

Lizzie’s eyes were not tender⁠—neither were they true.

But they were surmounted by the most wonderfully pencilled eyebrows that ever nature unassisted planted on a woman’s face.

He had called on 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. Greystock—otherwise how should it have been that he never came again?—that she did not like.

To have been always in the right and yet always on the losing side; always being ruined, always under persecution from a wild spirit of republican-demagogism—and yet never to lose anything, not even position or public esteem, is pleasant enough.

A huge, living, daily increasing grievance that does one no 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. He who said that all Conservatives are stupid did not know them. Stupid Conservatives there may be—and there certainly are very stupid Radicals.

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?

She had no imagination. She was worldly, covetous, and not unfrequently cruel. But she meant to be true and honest, though she often failed in her meaning;—and she had an idea of her duty in life. She was not self-indulgent.

She was as hard as an oak post⁠—but then she was also as trustworthy.

No human being liked her;—but she had the good word of a great many human beings. At great cost to her own comfort she had endeavoured to do her duty to her niece, Lizzie Greystock, when Lizzie was homeless.

But she meant to be true and honest, though she often failed in her meaning;—and she had an idea of her duty in life. She was not self-indulgent. She was as hard as an oak post—but then she was also as trustworthy.

No human being liked her;⁠—but she had the good word of a great many human beings.

At great cost to her own comfort she had endeavoured to do her duty to her niece, Lizzie Greystock, when Lizzie was homeless. Undoubtedly Lizzie’s bed, while it had been spread under her aunt’s roof, had not been one of roses;

Lady Fawn was a tower of strength to Lucy.

But then a tower of strength may at any moment become a dungeon.

Frank Greystock was not her lover. Ah—there was the worst of it all! She had given her heart and had got nothing in return.

Nevertheless, Lucy had not liked it.

No girl likes to be warned against falling in love, whether the warning be needed or not needed.

In this case Lucy knew very well that the caution was too late.

But, for aught he knew, she might be afflicted by every vice to which a woman can be subject. In truth, she was afflicted by so many, that the addition of all the others could hardly have made her worse than she was.

She had never sacrificed her beauty to a lover⁠—she had never sacrificed anything to anybody⁠—nor did she drink.

It would be difficult, perhaps, to say anything else in her favour; and yet Lord Fawn was quite content to marry her, not having seen any reason why she should not make a good wife!

It was not very encouraging, but Lizzie made the best of it. It was her desire to cheat Lady Fawn into a good opinion, and she was not disappointed when no good opinion was expressed at once.

It is seldom that a bad person expects to be accounted good.

It is the general desire of such a one to conquer the existing evil impression; but it is generally presumed that the evil impression is there. “Oh, Lady Fawn!” she said, “I will so strive to make him happy. What is it that he likes?

What sort of woman was this to whom he had engaged himself because she was possessed of an income? That Mr. Camperdown should be in the wrong in such a matter was an idea which never occurred to Lord Fawn.

There is no form of belief stronger than that which the ordinary English gentleman has in the discretion and honesty of his own family lawyer.

What his lawyer tells him to do, he does. What his lawyer tells him to sign, he signs. He buys and sells in obedience to the same direction, and feels perfectly comfortable in the possession of a guide who is responsible and all but divine.

It was of course necessary for the maintenance of the very constitution of his country that there should be future Lord Fawns. There could be no future Lord Fawns unless he married;—and how could he marry without money?

“A peasant can marry whom he pleases,” said Lord Fawn, pressing his hand to his brow, and dropping one flap of his coat, as he thought of his own high and perilous destiny

, standing with his back to the fireplace, while a huge pile of letters lay there before him waiting to be signed.

“Oh, I can’t tell you.

She looks like a beautiful animal that you are afraid to caress for fear it should bite you;⁠—an animal that would be beautiful if its eyes were not so restless, and its teeth so sharp and so white.

”

“I did, Lucy. Yes, I did. Thank God, I only thought of it.” She could not refrain herself from looking up into his face and clasping her hands together.

A woman never so dearly loves a man as when he confesses that he has been on the brink of a great crime⁠—but has refrained, and has not committed it.

“I did think of it. I am not telling you that she would have taken me. I have no reason whatever for thinking so.”

She thoroughly despised Augusta Fawn, and yet would have been willing—in want of a better friend—to press Augusta to her bosom, and swear that there should ever be between them the tenderest friendship.

She desired to be the possessor of the outward shows of all those things of which the inward facts are valued by the good and steadfast ones of the earth.

She knew what were the aspirations—what the ambition, of an honest woman; and she knew, too, how rich were the probable rewards of such honesty. True love, true friendship, true benevolence, true tenderness, were beautiful to her—qualities on which she could descant almost with eloquence;

She knew what were the aspirations—what the ambition, of an honest woman; and she knew, too, how rich were the probable rewards of such honesty.

True love, true friendship, true benevolence, true tenderness, were beautiful to her⁠—qualities on which she could descant almost with eloquence; and therefore she was always shamming love and friendship and benevolence and tenderness.

She could tell you, with words most appropriate to the subject, how horrible were all shams, and in saying so would be not altogether insincere;—yet she knew that she herself was ever shamming, and she satisfied herself with shams.

People called her a flirt, held up their hands in surprise at Sir Florian’s foolish generosity—for the accounts of Lizzie’s wealth were greatly exaggerated—and said that of course she would marry again.

The general belief which often seizes upon the world in regard to some special falsehood is very surprising.

Everybody on a sudden adopts an idea that some particular man is over head and ears in debt, so that he can hardly leave his house for fear of the bailiffs;—or that some ill-fated woman is cruelly ill-used by her husband;—or that some eldest son …

In thinking over all this, she saw a great deal. It was wonderful that she should see so much and tell herself so many home truths. But there was one truth she could not see, and therefore could not tell it to herself.

She had not a heart to give.

It had become petrified during those lessons of early craft in which she had taught herself how to get the better of Messrs. Harter and Benjamin, of Sir Florian Eustace, of Lady Linlithgow, and of Mr. Camperdown.

But she could see—or half see—that Lucy with her simplicity was stronger than was she with her craft. She had nearly captivated Frank Greystock with her wiles, but without any wiles Lucy had captivated him altogether.

And a man captivated by wiles was only captivated for a time, whereas a man won by simplicity would be won forever⁠—if he himself were worth the winning.

And this, too, she felt—that let her success be what it might, she could not be happy unless she could win a man’s heart. She had won Sir Florian’s, but that had been but for an hour—for a month or two.

When Lady Eustace called on her for sympathy, she had not courage enough to dare to attempt the bit of acting which would be necessary for sympathetic expression.

She was like a dog or a child, and was unable not to be true.

Lizzie was longing for a little mock sympathy—was longing to show off her Shelley, and was very kind to Miss Macnulty when she got the poor lady into the recess of the window. “This is nice;—is it not?”

“Then I should ask Mr. Macallum, the postmaster of Troon, for I have seen three or four very quiet-looking ponies standing in the carts at his door.”

“Macnulty, if there ever was an idiot you are one!”

said Lady Eustace, throwing up her hands. “To think that I should get a pony for my cousin Frank out of one of the mail carts.”

“You would not wish to have an action brought—for breach of promise?”

“I would wish to do whatever would hurt him most⁠—without hurting myself,” said Lizzie.

“You won’t give up the necklace?” said Frank.

But he was adding to all her difficulties, because she pretended to be in love with him. He knew that it was pretence; and yet, because she was pretty, and because he was a man, he could not save her from herself.

“It doesn’t do to be wiser than other men,” he said to himself as he looked round about on the bare hillside.

In the meantime he had altogether lost his way.

That Lizzie Eustace had stolen the diamonds, as a pickpocket steals a watch, was a fact as to which Mr. Camperdown had in his mind no shadow of a doubt. And, as the reader knows, he was right. She had stolen them.

Mr. Camperdown knew that she had stolen them, and was a wretched man.

From the first moment of the late Sir Florian’s infatuation about this woman, she had worked woe for Mr. Camperdown. Mr. Camperdown had striven hard—to the great and almost permanent offence of Sir Florian—to save Portray from its present condition of degradation;

“And where are the seven keys?” asked Frank.

“Next to my heart,” said Lizzie, putting her hand on her left side.

“And when I sleep they are always tied round my neck in a bag, and the bag never escapes from my grasp. And I have such a knife under my pillow, ready for Mr. Camperdown should he come to seize them!”

“I don’t know that she wishes me to mention the gentleman’s name, just at present; but I can assure you that he is all that he ought to be.”

“I hate mysteries,” said the countess.

“If Lady Linlithgow—” began Lucy. “Oh, it’s nothing to me,” continued the old woman. “It won’t come off for six months, I suppose?” Lucy gave a mute assurance that there would be no such difficulty as that. “And he can’t come here, Miss Morris.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, and prove it afterwards.”

“Then you ain’t worth anything to me.”

Having so declared, Lady Linlithgow went on with her accounts and Lucy relapsed into her great poem.

“I hope you won’t be very bad with me,” said Lucy.

“I don’t bite, if you mean that,” said her ladyship.

“I’d sooner be bitten than barked at—sometimes,” said Lucy.

“I don’t bite, if you mean that,” said her ladyship.

“I’d sooner be bitten than barked at⁠—sometimes,” said Lucy.

“Humph!” said the old woman, and then she went back to her accounts.

They are so, and we are angry. Then we forgive them, not without a consciousness of imperfection on our own part. And we know—or, at least, believe—that though they be sometimes treacherous and false, there is a balance of good.

We cannot have heroes to dine with us. There are none.

And were these heroes to be had, we should not like them. But neither are our friends villains—whose every aspiration is for evil, and whose every moment is a struggle for some achievement worthy of the devil.

He was a Greystock, and to what miseries would he not reduce his Lucy if, burdened by such propensities, he were to marry her and then become an aristocratic pauper!

The offer of herself by a woman to a man is, to us all, a thing so distasteful that we at once declare that the woman must be abominable.

There shall be no whitewashing of Lizzie Eustace. She was abominable. But the man to whom the offer is made hardly sees the thing in the same light.

His father, mother, and sister all heard his speech, and there was a strong family feeling that Frank was born to set the Greystocks once more upon their legs.

When a man can say what he likes with the certainty that every word will be reported, and can speak to those around him as one manifestly their superior, he always looms large.

When the Conservatives should return to their proper place at the head of affairs, there could be no doubt that Frank Greystock would be made Solicitor-General.

He knew, or he thought he knew, that till he answered the letter, she would not tell his secret—and therefore from day to day he put off the answer.

A man does not write a love-letter easily when he is in doubt himself whether he does or does not mean to be a scoundrel.

Then there came a letter to “Dame” Greystock from Lady Linlithgow, which filled them all with amazement.

“Oh, yes,” Lucinda had said, in answer to a remark from Sir Griffin,

“It’s easy enough⁠—till you come across something difficult.”

“Nothing difficult stops you,” said Sir Griffin;—to which compliment Lucinda vouchsafed no reply.

“What shall I do now?” said Lizzie, all in a twitter.

“Sit just where you are and light a cigar, if you’re given to smoking.”

“Pray don’t joke with me. You know I want to do it properly.”

“Chopped him!” Lord George was very patient, and explained to Lizzie, who was now indignant and disappointed, the misfortune of chopping. “And are we to go home now? Is it all over?”

“They say the country is full of foxes,” said Lord George. “Perhaps we shall chop half-a-dozen.”

“Dear me! Chop half-a-dozen foxes! Do they like to be chopped? I thought they always ran away.”

Lizzie, as she heard the order given, wondered whether she would have to pay for that, or whether Lord George and Sir Griffin would take so much off her shoulders.

Young women generally pay for nothing; and it was very hard that she, who was quite a young woman, should have to pay for all.

But she smiled, and accepted the proposition. “Oh, yes; of course a carriage at the station. It is so nice to have someone to think of things, like Lord George.” The carriage met them, and everything went prosperously.

and the huntsman took off his cap, and hoped that he would do something better for her than on the previous Monday. And the huntsman was very courteous also to Miss Roanoke, expressing the same hope, cap in hand, and smiling graciously.

A huntsman at the beginning of any day or at the end of a good day is so different from a huntsman at the end of a bad day!

A huntsman often has a very bad time out hunting, and it is sometimes a marvel that he does not take the advice which Job got from his wife.

“Are we to go on?” said Lizzie, who feared much that Lucinda would get ahead of her. There was a matter of three dozen horsemen up now, and, as far as Lizzie saw, the whole thing might have to be done again.

In hunting, to have ridden is the pleasure;⁠—and not simply to have ridden well, but to have ridden better than others.

“I call it very awkward ground,” said Mrs. Carbuncle, coming up. “It can’t be compared to the Baron’s country.” “Stone walls four feet and a half high, and well built, are awkward,” said the noble master.

and his smile will give you the lie in your teeth if you make any attempt to explain the facts. Let it be sufficient for you at such a moment to feel that you are not ashamed of yourself.

Self-respect will support a man even in such misery as this.

The fox on this occasion, having crossed the river, had not left its bank, but had turned from his course up the stream, so that the leading spirits who had followed the hounds over the water came upon a crowd of riders on the road …

“I’m sure it was thirty,” said Lizzie, forgetting her fatigue in her energy.

“Ten is always better than twenty,” said Lord George, “and five generally better than ten.”

“It was just whatever is best,” said Lizzie. “I know Frank’s friend, Mr. Nappie, said it was twenty. By the by, Frank, oughtn’t we to have asked Mr. Nappie home to dinner?”

“You’ll break my heart, Lucinda.”

“Mine’s broken long ago.”

“If you’ll accept Sir Griffin, and just get a home round yourself, you’ll find that everything will be happy. It all comes from the dreadful uncertainty. Do you think I have suffered nothing?

Carbuncle was quite understood; but it was equally well understood that Lizzie was to provide the horse on which he rode, on every third day.

It adds greatly to the comfort of friends living together when these things are accurately settled.

Mr. Emilius remained longer than had been anticipated, and did not go till Lord George and Sir Griffin took their departure. It was observed that he never spoke of his wife; and yet Mrs.

Mrs. Carbuncle undertook to find the stables, and did pay for that rick of hay and for the cartload of forage which had made Lizzie’s heart quake as she saw it dragged up the hill towards her own granaries.

It is very comfortable when all these things are clearly understood.

Early in January they were all to go back to London. Then for a while—up to the period of Lucinda’s marriage—Lizzie was to be Mrs. Carbuncle’s guest at the small house in Mayfair;—but Lizzie was to keep the carriage.

But then she was such “an infernal little liar.” Lord George was quite able to discover so much of her.

“She does lie, certainly,” said Mrs. Carbuncle, “but then who doesn’t?”

On the morning of their departure the box with the diamonds was brought down into the hall just as they were about to depart.

“I don’t think it would make me a bit unhappy. You’ve heard about it all. There never was such a persecution. I often say that I should be well pleased to take the bauble and fling it into the ocean waves.”

“I should like to be a mermaid and catch it,” said Lord George.

“And what better would you be? Such things are all vanity and vexation of spirit. I hate the shining thing.” And she hit the box with the whip she held in her hand.

… been their consternation when they found, after all the labour and perils of the night, that the box contained no diamonds—that the treasure was not there, and that they were nevertheless bound to save themselves by flight and stratagem from the hands of the police!

Lizzie, as she thought of this, almost pitied the poor thieves.

What a consternation there would be among the Camperdowns and Garnetts, among the Mopuses and Benjamins, when the news was heard in London! Lizzie almost enjoyed it.

The duke was struck with awe when he thought of all the circumstances. “The brother of a marquis!” he said to his nephew’s wife. “It’s such a disgrace to the peerage!”

“As for that, duke,” said Lady Glencora, “the peerage is used to it by this time.”

“I never heard of such an affair as this before.”

Lord Chiltern declared himself to be heartily sick of the whole subject; and Mr. Grey, who was a very just man, suggested that the evidence, as yet, against anybody, was very slight. “Of course, it’s slight,” said Lady Glencora.

“If it were more than slight, it would be just like any other robbery, and there would be nothing in it.”

On the same morning Mrs. Bonteen received a second letter from her friend Mrs. Rutter. The Tewett marriage had been certainly broken off. Sir Griffin had been very violent, misbehaving himself grossly in Mrs.

“Do you believe that I’ve got them?”

“A man in my situation, my lord, never believes anything. We has to suspect, but we never believes.”

“You suspect that I stole them?”

It is the same in regard to all public matters—army matters, navy matters, poor-law matters, and post-office matters. Day after day, and almost every day, one meets censure which is felt to be unjust;—but the general result of all this injustice is increased efficiency.

The coach does go the faster because of the whip in the coachman’s hand, though the horses driven may never have deserved the thong.

In this matter of the Eustace diamonds the police had been very active; but they had been unsuccessful, and had consequently been abused. The robbery was now more than three weeks old.

“And it is all my fault,” said Lizzie.

“I wish the diamonds had been thrown into the sea,” said Mrs. Carbuncle.

“What do you think about them yourself?” asked Lucinda.

That made me think he had got them, and that he’d get paste diamonds put into the same setting—and then give them up with some story of his own making. ‘You’d know whether they were paste or not; wouldn’t you, Lord George?’ he asked.”

The Corsair, as he repeated Mr. Benjamin’s words, imitated the Jew’s manner so well, that he made Lizzie shudder.

“While I was there, a detective named Gager came in.”

How much did he suspect? What did he believe? Had she been watched by Mrs. Carbuncle, and had something of the truth been told to him? And then would it not be better for her that he should know it all?

Unsupported and alone she could not bear the trouble which was on her.

If she were driven to tell her secret to anyone, had she not better tell it to him?

Let two unknown men be competitors for any place, with nothing to guide the judges but their own words and their own looks, and who can doubt but the dishonest man would be chosen rather than the honest?

Honesty goes about with a hangdog look about him, as though knowing that he cannot be trusted till he be proved.

Dishonesty carries his eyes high, and assumes that any question respecting him must be considered to be unnecessary.”

“Ah—you have never suffered as I have suffered.”

“We never know where each other’s shoes pinch each other’s toes.”

“You have never been left desolate. You have a husband and friends.”

“You have never been left desolate. You have a husband and friends.”

“A husband that wants to put five farthings into a penny! All is not gold that glistens, Lady Eustace.”

“You can never have known trials such as mine,” continued Lizzie, not understanding in the least her new friend’s allusion to the great currency question.

Lord Fawn was certain that Greystock had understood it well; and Greystock had in return insulted him—because the engagement was broken off.

But it is impossible to argue on facts with a woman who has been ill-used.

“After all that has passed, perhaps we had better part,” said Lord Fawn.

“Muddle it away, paying my bills with it—according to the very, very old story. The fact is,

I live in that detestable no-man’s land, between respectability and insolvency, which has none of the pleasure of either.

I am fair game for every creditor, as I am supposed to pay my way—and yet I never can pay my way.”

“

Thieves are nasty, mean creatures generally.

We shall get it all out now—as to what happened at Carlisle and what happened here. Do you know that everybody believes, up to this moment, that your dear friend Lord George de Bruce sold the diamonds to Mr. Benjamin, the jeweller?”

But as there had been nothing of the manner of a gentleman to a lady, so also had there been nothing of the lover to his mistress. That dream was over.

Lord George was no longer a Corsair, but a brute.

But what should she do? Even a brute may speak truth. She was to have gone to a theatre that evening with Mrs. Carbuncle, but she stayed at home thinking over her position. She heard nothing throughout the day from the police;

When she would lay her hand on his arm, a thrill of pleasure went through him. And yet he would willingly have seen any decent man take her and marry her, making a bargain that he should never see her again.

Young or old, men are apt to become Merlins when they encounter Viviens.

On this occasion he left her, disgusted indeed, but not having told her that he was disgusted. “Come again, Frank, tomorrow, won’t you?” she said. He made her no promise as he went, nor had she expected it.

She understood that the task she had in hand was one very difficult to be accomplished—and she did perceive, in some dark way, that, good as her acting was, it was not quite good enough. Lucy held her ground because she was real.

You may knock about a diamond, and not even scratch it; whereas paste in rough usage betrays itself.

Lizzie, with all her self-assuring protestations, knew that she was paste, and knew that Lucy was real stone.

“It is no good mincing matters nowadays,” Mrs. Carbuncle would have said, had any friend pointed out to her that she was taking strong measures in the exaction of toll.

“People have come to understand that a spade is a spade, and £10, £10,”

she would have said. Had Mrs. Hanbury Smith not noticed the application, there might, perhaps, have been an end of it, but she was silly enough to send over from Paris a little trumpery bit of finery, bought in the Palais Royal for ten francs.

“Then why not have him and have done with it?” asked Mrs. Carbuncle.

“He is such a lumpy man,” said Lizzie;⁠—“such an ass; such a load of Government wastepaper.”

“Come, my dear;—you’ve had troubles.”

But had not other girls done the same thing, and lived through it all, and become fat, indifferent, and fond of the world?

It is only the first step that signifies.

At any rate, the thing must go on now;—must go on, whatever might be the result to Lucinda or to Mrs. Carbuncle herself. Yes; it must go on.

She sat there looking steadfastly at the book—hardly answering, never defending herself, but protesting that nothing should induce her to leave the room on that day. “Do you want to destroy me?” Mrs. Carbuncle said at last.

“You have destroyed me,” said Lucinda.

At half-past nine Lizzie Eustace came to the room, and Mrs. Carbuncle, in her trouble, thought it better to take other counsel. Lizzie, therefore, was admitted. “Is anything wrong?” asked Lizzie.

“The barrister who will have the cross-examining of her at the Central Criminal Court,” said Mr. Camperdown, as soon as the door was closed behind her, “will have a job of work on his hands.

There’s nothing a pretty woman can’t do when she has got rid of all sense of shame.

”

Camperdown, as soon as the door was closed behind her, “will have a job of work on his hands. There’s nothing a pretty woman can’t do when she has got rid of all sense of shame.”

“She is a very great woman,” said John Eustace⁠—“a very great woman; and, if the sex could have its rights, would make an excellent lawyer.”

In the meantime Lizzie Eustace returned home to Hertford Street in triumph.

She certainly liked the grease and nastiness. Presuming, as she naturally did, that something of what he said was false, she liked the lies. There was a dash of poetry about him; and poetry, as she thought, was not compatible with humdrum truth.

A man, to be a man in her eyes, should be able to swear that all his geese are swans;

—should be able to reckon his swans by the dozen, though he have not a feather belonging to him, even from a goose’s wing. She liked his audacity;

But way was at once made for her when Frank handed her out of it, and the policemen about the place were as courteous to her as though she had been the Lord Chancellor’s wife.

Evildoing will be spoken of with bated breath and soft words even by policemen, when the evildoer comes in a carriage, and with a title.

Lizzie was led at once into a private room, and told that she would be kept there only a very few minutes. Frank made his way into the court and found that two magistrates had just seated themselves on the bench.

He was asked whether he had not been a professional thief for ten years. “Ten or twelve,” he said. Did he expect that any juryman would believe him on his oath?

“Not unless I am fully corroborated.”

“Can you look that man in the face—that man who is at any rate so much honester than yourself?” asked the learned gentleman with pathos.

“They don’t do much good;—do they?

It’s better to take people as you find ’em, and then make the best of ’em.

They’re a queer lot;—ain’t they—the sort of people one meets about in the world?”

“

The end of it seems to be that you have lost your property, and sworn ever so many false oaths, and have brought all your friends into trouble, and have got nothing by it. What was the good of being so clever?

”

“Ah, dear! I have known her for many years, Lizzie, and that both covers and discovers many faults.

One learns to know how bad one’s old friends are, but then one forgives them, because they are old friends.

”

“Yes, I will. I forgive you all, and hope you may do well yet.

If I may give you one bit of advice at parting, it is to caution you against being clever when there is nothing to get by it.

”

“Goodbye,” said Lizzie.

He took her hand in one of his; patted her on the head with the other, as though she had been a child, and then he left her.

But, from that moment, poor Lizzie’s sins were ranker to Lucy Morris than even to Mr. Camperdown or Mrs. Hittaway. She could not refrain from saying a word even to old Lady Linlithgow. The countess had called her niece a little liar. “Liar!” said Lucy.

“I do not think Satan himself can lie as she does.”

“Heighty-tighty,” said the countess. “I suppose, then, there’s to be a match between Lady Satan and her cousin Frank?” “They can do as they like about that,” said Lucy, walking out of the room.

Then came the paragraph in the fashionable evening newspaper; after that, the report of the examination before the magistrate, and then certain information that Lady Eustace was about to proceed to Scotland together with her cousin Mr. Greystock, the Member for Bobsborough.

“It is a large income,” said the countess; “but, upon my word, she’s dear at the money.”

Lucy did not speak, but she bit her lip till the blood ran into her mouth. She was going down to Fawn Court almost immediately, to stay there with her old friends till she should be able to find some permanent home for herself.

in the same mood when he brought her home; and, as she saw with the first glance of her eye, in the same mood again when she met him in the hall this morning. Of course she must play his tunes.

Is it not the fate of women to play the tunes which men dictate⁠—except in some rare case in which the woman can make herself the dictator?

Lizzie loved to be a dictator; but at the present moment she knew that circumstances were against her.

He was never in bed very early, and on this morning had been up at six. At Rugby he got out and ate what he said was his breakfast. Would not she have a cup of tea? Again she shook her head and smiled.

She smiled as some women smile when you offer them a third glass of champagne.

“You are joking with me, I know. You cannot think that I would take it.” That was the meaning of Lizzie’s smile.

He had no power over her. She was the lady of Portray, and he could not interfere with her. If he intended to be sullen with her to the end, and to show his contempt for her, she would turn against him.

“The worm will turn,” she said to herself. And yet she did not think herself a worm.

A few stations beyond Dumfries they were again alone. It was now quite dark, and they had already been travelling over ten hours. They would not reach their own station till eight, and then again there would be the journey to Portray.

If he would have rated her soundly for her wickednesses, she could have made something of that. She could have thrown herself on her knees, and implored his pardon; or, if hard pressed, have suggested the propriety of throwing herself out of the carriage-window.

She could have brought him round if he would only have talked to her, but there is no doing anything with a silent man.

He was not her master. He had no power over her. She was the lady of Portray, and he could not interfere with her.

“You cannot afford to marry her.”

“Then I shall do it without affording.”

Lizzie was about to speak—had already pronounced her rival’s name in that tone of contempt which she so well knew how to use, when he stopped her. “Do not say anything against her, Lizzie, in my hearing, for I will not bear it.