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The Eustace Diamonds

A >> Anthony Trollope >> The Eustace Diamonds




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 Linlithgow; for they knew that Lady
Linlithgow 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 Linlithgow, to accompany her, but in refusing to do
this Lizzie was quite firm. She had endured Lady Linlithgow 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 vulturess," 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-heir, of
course there would have been no cause for interference; but the rights 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, Ellinor Greystock, a lady who was just ten years her
senior. There could hardly be a better woman than Ellinor Greystock, or a
more good-humoured, kindly being. After many debates in the deanery and in
the palace, for there was much friendship between the two ecclesiastical
establishments, the offer was made and the advice given. Ellinor 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 widow, and they had themselves driven out together. Of real
companionship there was none. Lizzie was biding her time, and at the end
of the three months Miss Greystock thankfully, and, indeed, of necessity,
returned to Bobsborough. "I've done no good," she said to her mother, "and
have been very uncomfortable." "My dear," said her mother, "we have
disposed of three months out of a two years' period of danger. In two
years from Sir Florian'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 Ellinor Greystock that the Portray
property was her own forever, to do what she liked with it. The sum of
money left to her by her husband had by that time been paid into her own
hands, and she had opened a banker's account. The revenues from the Scotch
estate, some £4,000 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 Eustace, 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 Eustace. 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 £10,000, 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
cheques, 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. Messrs. Mowbray & 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 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 Greystock
people, and even the Linlithgow people, did not entirely turn their backs
upon 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 that 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 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
Sir 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 lithe, 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 pretence at
feeling. She could bring it to a whisper that would almost melt your heart
with tenderness, as she had melted Sir Florian's, when she sat near to him
reading poetry; and then she could raise it to a pitch of indignant wrath
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 was small--how to
use her voice so that neither its tenderness nor its wrath 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. Sir 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 belong to hair that is really black, she wore bound tight round her
perfect forehead, with one long lovelock hanging over her shoulder. The
form of her head was so good that she could dare to carry it without a
chignon or any adventitious adjuncts from an artist's shop. Very bitter
was she in consequence when speaking of the head-gear 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 lustre 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 Sir Florian had not known. 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.

We have said 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 good 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.




CHAPTER III

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 that opulent and aristocratic Becky Sharp
is to assume the dignity of heroine in the forthcoming pages. That there
shall be any heroine the historian will not take upon himself to assert;
but if there be a heroine, that heroine shall not be Lady Eustace.

Poor Lizzie Greystock! 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 heroine. The
real heroine, if it be found possible to arrange her drapery for her
becomingly, and to put that part which she enacted into properly heroic
words, shall stalk in among us at some considerably later period in 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 a 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 Greystocks and the Morrises. 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 deanery. When Lady Eustace had
gone down to the bishop's palace at Bobsborough, in order that an heir to
the Eustaces might be born under an auspicious roof, Lucy Morris was with
the Greystocks. Lucy, who was a year younger than Lizzie, 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 Lizzie had earned
for herself. There was no countess-aunt to take her into her 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. Then old Lady Fawn
had heard of her virtues--Lady Fawn who had seven unmarried daughters
running down from seven-and-twenty to thirteen, and Lucy Morris had been
hired to teach English, French, German, and something of music to the two
youngest Misses Fawn.

During that visit at the deanery, when the heir of the Eustaces was being
born, Lucy was undergoing a sort of probation for the Fawn establishment.
The 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 she possessed was so marked as to be
worthy of being expressed with a capital. But her virtues were of that
extraordinary high character that there was no weakness 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 minutest investigation, learned the exact 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. You are clever
and quick, and he shall teach you."

So Lucy went to Bobsborough 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
alluded 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 metal did not ring true. And then Lizzie had an ugly habit of abusing
all her other friends behind their backs. Now Lucy did not like to hear
the Greystocks abused, and would say so. "That's all very well, you little
minx," Lizzie would say playfully, "but you know they are all asses." Lucy
by no means thought that the Greystocks were asses, and was very strongly
of 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 Bobsborough, 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?"

"You know what I mean, Frank. She is as sweet a girl as ever lived, and a
perfect lady. But with a 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."

"Then Lady Fawn is an idiot. If a girl be admirable, of course she will be
admired. Who can hinder it?"

"You know what I mean, Frank."

"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 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 got themselves transacted since Lucy's
visit to the deanery. She had become quite an old and an accustomed member
of Lady Fawn's family. The youngest Fawn girl was not yet fifteen, 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. Hittaway, had a
family of her own, having been married ten or twelve 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 upon 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 to 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 Greystock.
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 Miss 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 Greystock did not call again at
Fawn Court for many months, and it is possible that her ladyship had said
a word also to him. But Lady Eustace, 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 Eustace.
She thought that she rather liked Lady Eustace. But then Lady Fawn hated
Lady Linlithgow 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 so talk
as to make the man or woman feel that the conversation was remarkably
pleasant, and she could do the same with any child. She was an active,
mindful, bright, energetic little thing to whom no work ever came amiss.
She had catalogued the library, which had been collected by the late Lord
Fawn with peculiar reference to the Christian theology of the third and
fourth centuries. She had planned the new flower-garden, though Lady Fawn
thought that she had done that herself. She had been invaluable during
Clara Fawn's long illness. She knew every rule at croquet, and could play
piquet. 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 and very
diligent, of whom his mother and sisters 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 toward the governess would become too warm; nor was it likely
that Miss Morris should encounter danger in regard to him. It was quite an
understood thing in the family that Lord Fawn must marry money.

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