Lady Eustace
There were circumstances in her position which made it impossible
that Lizzie Greystock,--or Lady Eustace, as we must now call
her,--should be left altogether to herself in the modest widow's
retreat which she had found at Brighton. It was then April, and it
was known that if all things went well with her, she would be a
mother before the summer was over. On what the Fates might ordain
in this matter immense interests were dependent. If a son should be
born he would inherit everything, subject, of course, to his mother's
settlement. If a daughter, to her would belong the great personal
wealth which Sir Florian had owned at the time of his death. Should
there be no son, John Eustace, the brother, would inherit the estates
in Yorkshire which had been the backbone of the Eustace wealth.
Should no child be born, John Eustace would inherit everything that
had not been settled upon or left to the widow. Sir Florian had made
a settlement immediately before his marriage, and a will immediately
afterwards. Of what he had done then, nothing had been altered in
those sad Italian days. The settlement had been very generous. The
whole property in Scotland was to belong to Lizzie for her life,--and
after her death was to go to a second son, if such second son there
should be. By the will money was left to her, more than would be
needed for any possible temporary emergency. When she knew how it was
all arranged,--as far as she did know it,--she was aware that she was
a rich woman. For so clever a woman she was infinitely ignorant as
to the possession and value of money and land and income,--though,
perhaps, not more ignorant than are most young girls under
twenty-one. As for the Scotch property,--she thought that it was her
own, for ever, because there could not now be a second son,--and yet
was not quite sure whether it would be her own at all if she had
no son. Concerning that sum of money left to her, she did not know
whether it was to come out of the Scotch property or be given to
her separately,--and whether it was to come annually or to come
only once. She had received, while still in Naples, a letter from
the family lawyer, giving her such details of the will as it was
necessary that she should know, and now she longed to ask questions,
to have her belongings made plain to her, and to realise her wealth.
She had brilliant prospects; and yet, through it all, there was a
sense of loneliness that nearly killed her. Would it not have been
much better if her husband had lived, and still worshipped her, and
still allowed her to read poetry to him? But she had read no poetry
to him after that affair of Messrs. Harter and Benjamin.
The reader has, or will have, but little to do with these days, and
may be hurried on through the twelve, or even twenty-four months
which followed the death of poor Sir Florian. The question of the
heirship, however, was very grave, and early in the month of May
Lady Eustace was visited by her husband's uncle, Bishop Eustace, of
Bobsborough. The bishop had been the younger brother of Sir Florian's
father,--was at this time a man about fifty, very active and very
popular,--and was one who stood high in the world, even among
bishops. He suggested to his niece-in-law that it was very expedient
that, during her coming hour of trial, she should not absent herself
from her husband's family, and at last persuaded her to take up her
residence at the palace at Bobsborough till such time as the event
should be over. Lady Eustace was taken to the palace, and in due time
a son was born. John, who was now the uncle of the heir, came down,
and, with the frankest good humour, declared that he would devote
himself to the little head of the family. He had been left as
guardian, and the management of the great family estates was to be in
his hands. Lizzie had read no poetry to him, and he had never liked
her, and the bishop did not like her, and the ladies of the bishop's
family disliked her very much, and it was thought by them that the
dean's people,--the Dean of Bobsborough was Lizzie's uncle,--were not
very fond of Lizzie since Lizzie had so raised herself in the world
as to want no assistance from them. But still they were bound to do
their duty by her as the widow of the late and the mother of the
present baronet. And they did not find much cause of complaining as
to Lizzie's conduct in these days. In that matter of the great family
diamond necklace,--which certainly should not have been taken to
Naples at all, and as to which the jeweller had told the lawyer and
the lawyer had told John Eustace that it certainly should not now be
detained among the widow's own private property,--the bishop strongly
recommended that nothing should be said at present. The mistake, if
there was a mistake, could be remedied at any time. And nothing in
those very early days was said about the great Eustace necklace,
which afterwards became so famous.
Why Lizzie should have been so generally disliked by the Eustaces, it
might be hard to explain. While she remained at the palace she was
very discreet,--and perhaps demure. It may be said they disliked her
expressed determination to cut her aunt, Lady 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 for ever, to do what she liked
with it. The sum of money left to her by her husband had by that time
been paid 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 and Mopus were of
opinion that as the diamonds had been given into her hands by her
husband without any terms as to their surrender, no one could claim
them. Of the manner in which the diamonds had been placed in her
hands, no one knew more than she chose to tell.
But when she started with her 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 on her. The countess, indeed, was very
venomous, as she well might be; but then the countess was known for
her venom. The dean and his family were still anxious that she should
be encouraged to discreet living, and, though they feared many
things, thought that they had no ground for open complaint. The
Eustace people were forbearing, and hoped the best. "D---- the
necklace!" John Eustace had said, and the bishop unfortunately had
heard him say it! "John," said the prelate, "whatever is to become
of the bauble, you might express your opinion in more sensible
language." "I beg your lordship's pardon," said John, "I only mean to
say 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 love-lock
hanging over her shoulder. The form of her head was so good that
she could dare to carry it without a chignon, or any adventitious
adjuncts from an artiste'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 that she was clever. We must add that she had in truth
studied much. She spoke French, understood Italian, and read German.
She played well on the harp, and moderately well on the piano. She
sang, at least in good taste and in tune. Of things to be learned
by reading she knew much, having really taken diligent trouble with
herself. She had learned much poetry by heart, and could apply it.
She forgot nothing, listened to everything, understood quickly, and
was desirous to show not only as a beauty but as a wit. There were
men at this time who declared that she was simply the cleverest and
the handsomest woman in England. As an independent young woman she
was perhaps one of the richest.