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The Eustace Diamonds

A >> Anthony Trollope >> The Eustace Diamonds




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 eyes 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 owned 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, and 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 the
Hittaways.

She was but a little thing; and it cannot be said of her, as of Lady
Eustace, 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 mouth was somewhat
large, but full of ever-varying expression. 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 are 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 Sawab of Mygawb 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 Sawab, 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? When she smiled there was the daintiest little dimple
on her cheek. And when she laughed, that little nose, which was not as
well-shaped a nose as it might have been, would almost change its shape
and cock itself up in its mirth. 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 grey silk dress
which she had bought 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 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 no man
or woman was ever more anxious to be effective, to persuade, to obtain
belief, sympathy, and co-operation--not for any result personal to
herself, but because by obtaining these things she could be effective in
the object then before her, be 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 Greystock. 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 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.

In herself she regarded this passion of hers as a healthy man regards the
loss of a leg or an arm. It is a great nuisance, a loss that maims the
whole life, a misfortune to be much regretted. But because a 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
into her hands a cruelly long printed document respecting the Sawab, she
went to work upon it immediately. As she read it, she could not refrain
from thinking how wonderfully Frank Greystock would plead the cause 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 at which our story begins, and during six months Frank Greystock had
not been at Fawn Court. Then one day Lady Eustace came down with her
ponies, and her footman, and a new dear friend of hers, Miss Macnulty.
While Miss Macnulty was being honoured by Lady Fawn, Lizzie had retreated
to a corner with her old dear friend Lucy Morris. It was pretty to see how
so wealthy and fashionable a woman as Lady Eustace could show so much
friendship to a governess. "Have you seen Frank lately?" said Lady
Eustace, referring to her cousin the barrister.

"Not for ever so long," said Lucy with her cheeriest smile.

"He is not going to prove a false knight?" asked Lady Eustace, in her
lowest 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 as 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 here. And she hasn't interfered. That is, she
has done nothing that she ought not to have done."

"Then she has interfered," said Lady Eustace, as she got up and walked
across the room with a sweet smile to the old cat.




CHAPTER IV

FRANK GREYSTOCK


Frank Greystock the barrister was the only son of the Dean of Bobsborough.
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--and was by no means
a rich man. Unless a dean have a private fortune, or has chanced to draw
the happy lot of Durham in the lottery of deans, he can hardly be wealthy.
At Bobsborough, the dean was endowed with a large, rambling, picturesque,
uncomfortable house, and with £5,500 a year. In regard to personal
property, it may be asserted of all the Greystocks that they 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 of the world, and mixed with wealthy people. But
they never had any money. The Eustaces always had money and the Bishop of
Bobsborough 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 had been called to the bar, and had gone, and was still going,
the circuit in which lies the cathedral city of Bobsborough. Bobsborough
is not much of a town, and was honoured with the judges' 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 have been noted.
Tailors, robemakers, and booksellers gave him trust, and did believe that
they would get their money. And any persistent tradesman did get it. He
did not actually hoist the black flag of impecuniosity, 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 had
met Lucy Morris at the deanery. He was then eight-and-twenty, and had been
four years called. He was thirty when old Lady Fawn hinted to him that he
had better not pay any more visits at Fawn Court.

But things had much altered with him of late. At the time of that visit to
the deanery he had made a sudden start in 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 interests, no further notice need be
taken here than 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 he earned 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 cellars, and he had made his character for industry. In the year
after that, the Bobsborough 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. It was not thought that there was much
chance of success, and the dean was against it. But Frank liked the honour
and glory of the contest, and so did Frank's mother. Frank Greystock
stood, and at the time in which he was warned away from Fawn Court had
been nearly a year in Parliament. "Of course it does interfere with one's
business," he had said to his father; "but then it brings one business
also. A man with a seat in Parliament who shows that he means 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 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 woolsack 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 deanery 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,"
said 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, would it do for you to make
her your wife?"

Frank Greystock was silent for a moment, and then he answered his mother's
question. "I am 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 to
the future, and could get Lucy to be my wife, I should be doing a great
thing. I doubt, however, whether I have the courage." All of which made
the dean's wife uneasy.

The reader who has read so far will perhaps think that Frank Greystock 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
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 reticent. And the woman is
presumed to have kept her heart free from any load of love till 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 is often chance that settles the
question for him. He resolves to propose to a woman, or proposes without
resolving, because she is close to him. Frank Greystock ridiculed the idea
of Lady Fawn's interference in so high a matter as his love--or abstinence
from love. Nevertheless, had he 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 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 analyse 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 behaviour of which he has been guilty has resulted
simply from want of thought. He has found a certain companionship to be
agreeable to him, and he has accepted the pleasure without inquiry. Some
vague idea has floated across his brain that 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 in 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 exultation. It is a joy to think
of when he wakes, and a consolation in his little troubles. 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 Greystock
did think that he could not marry Lucy Morris without making an imprudent
plunge into deep water, and yet he felt that Lady Fawn was an ill-natured
old woman for hinting to him that he had better not, for the present,
continue his visits to Fawn Court. "Of course you understand me, Mr.
Greystock," she had said, meaning to be civil. "When Miss Morris has left
us--should she ever leave us--I should be most happy to see you." "What on
earth would take me to Fawn Court if Lucy were not there?" he said to
himself, not choosing to appreciate Lady Fawn's civility.

Frank Greystock was at this time nearly thirty years old. He was a good-
looking but not a strikingly handsome man, thin, of moderate height, with
sharp grey eyes; a face clean shorn, with the exception of a small
whisker; with wiry, strong dark hair, which was already beginning to show
a tinge of grey--the very opposite in appearance to his late friend, Sir
Florian Eustace. He was quick, ready-witted, self-reliant, and not
overscrupulous in the outward things of the world. He was desirous of
doing his duty to others, but he was specially desirous that others should
do their duty to him. He intended to get on in the world, and believed
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 in 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 and his own qualities too
well to follow his father's advice. He had chosen to be a barrister, and
now at thirty was in Parliament.

He had been asked to stand for Bobsborough 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 had any. 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 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 prerogative has been bad. The
Reform bill was very bad. Encroachment on the estates of the bishops was
bad. Emancipation of Roman Catholics was the worst of all. Abolition of
corn-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 countries in the
world the best to live in, and is 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, too,
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 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.
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 ways of the advanced Buddhist 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 since new theories of life have become so rife!

Nevertheless Frank Greystock, when he was invited to stand for Bobsborough
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 in 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
offence 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 ultra Toryism, and rebuked his mother and
sisters when they spoke of Gladstone as Apollyon, and called John Bright
the Abomination of Desolation. But it was easy for him to fancy himself a
Conservative, and as such he took his 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 the time
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 Eustace and Greystock were very intimate, as also had been Sir
Florian and Greystock. "I tell you what I wish you'd do, Greystock,"
Eustace said to him one day, as they were standing idle together in the
lobby of the House. For John Eustace was also in Parliament.

"Anything to oblige you, my friend."

"It's only a trifle," said Eustace. "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 twenty-three yet. We could trust you--with the
child and all the rest of it. As it is, she is 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 Fawn. Lord Fawn 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 Sawab."

"She'll never be Lady Fawn," said John Eustace. "And to tell the truth, I
shouldn't care to have to deal with Lord Fawn. 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 Greystock.

"Yes; but I mean in conduct, and all that. She is making herself queer;
and Camperdown, our lawyer, means to jump upon her; but it's only because
she doesn't know what 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.

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