A Midnight Adventure
Something as to the jewels had been told to Lord George;--and this
was quite necessary, as Lord George intended to travel with the
ladies from Portray to London. Of course, he had heard of the
diamonds,--as who had not? He had heard too of Lord Fawn, and knew
why it was that Lord Fawn had peremptorily refused to carry out his
engagement. But, till he was told by Mrs. Carbuncle, he did not
know that the diamonds were then kept within the castle, nor did he
understand that it would be part of his duty to guard them on their
way back to London. "They are worth ever so much; ain't they?" he
said to Mrs. Carbuncle, when she first gave him the information.
"Ten thousand pounds," said Mrs. Carbuncle, almost with awe.
"I don't believe a word of it," said Lord George.
"She says that they've been valued at that, since she's had them."
Lord George owned to himself that such a necklace was worth
having,--as also, no doubt, were Portray Castle and the income
arising from the estate, even though they could be held in possession
only for a single life. Hitherto in his very chequered career he
had escaped the trammels of matrimony, and among his many modes of
life had hardly even suggested to himself the expediency of taking
a wife with a fortune, and then settling down for the future, if
submissively, still comfortably. To say that he had never looked
forward to such a marriage as a possible future arrangement would
probably be incorrect. To men such as Lord George it is too easy a
result of a career to be altogether banished from the mind. But no
attempt had ever yet been made, nor had any special lady ever been
so far honoured in his thoughts as to be connected in them with any
vague ideas which he might have formed on the subject. But now it did
occur to him that Portray Castle was a place in which he could pass
two or three months annually without ennui; and that if he were to
marry, little Lizzie Eustace would do as well as any other woman
with money whom he might chance to meet. He did not say all this to
anybody, and therefore cannot be accused of vanity. He was the last
man in the world to speak on such a subject to any one. And as our
Lizzie certainly bestowed upon him many of her smiles, much of her
poetry, and some of her confidence, it cannot be said that he was not
justified in his views. 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. The
tall London footman again brought it down, and deposited it on one of
the oak hall-chairs, as though it were a thing so heavy that he could
hardly stagger along with it. How Lizzie did hate the man as she
watched him, and regret that she had not attempted to carry it down
herself. She had been with her diamonds that morning, and had seen
them out of the box and into it. Few days passed on which she did
not handle them and gaze at them. Mrs. Carbuncle had suggested that
the box, with all her diamonds in it, might be stolen from her,--and
as she thought of this her heart almost sank within her. When she
had them once again in London she would take some steps to relieve
herself from this embarrassment of carrying about with her so great a
burthen of care. The man, with a vehement show of exertion, deposited
the box on a chair, and then groaned aloud. Lizzie knew very well
that she could lift the box by her own unaided exertions, and that
the groan was at any rate unnecessary.
"Supposing somebody were to steal that on the way," said Lord George
to her, not in his pleasantest tone.
"Do not suggest anything so horrible," said Lizzie, trying to laugh.
"I shouldn't like it at all," said Lord George.
"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.
It had been arranged that the party should sleep at Carlisle. It
consisted of Lord George, the three ladies, the tall man servant,
Lord George's own man, and the two maids. Miss Macnulty, with the
heir and the nurses, were to remain at Portray for yet a while
longer. The iron box was again put into the carriage, and was used by
Lizzie as a footstool. This might have been very well, had there been
no necessity for changing their train. At Troon the porter behaved
well, and did not struggle much as he carried it from the carriage
on to the platform. But at Kilmarnock, where they met the train
from Glasgow, the big footman interfered again, and the scene was
performed under the eyes of a crowd of people. It seemed to Lizzie
that Lord George almost encouraged the struggling, as though he were
in league with the footman to annoy her. But there was no further
change between Kilmarnock and Carlisle, and they managed to make
themselves very comfortable. Lunch had been provided;--for Mrs.
Carbuncle was a woman who cared for such things, and Lord George also
liked a glass of champagne in the middle of the day. Lizzie professed
to be perfectly indifferent on such matters; but nevertheless she
enjoyed her lunch, and allowed Lord George to press upon her a
second, and perhaps a portion of a third glass of wine. Even Lucinda
was roused up from her general state of apathy, and permitted herself
to forget Sir Griffin for a while.
During this journey to Carlisle Lizzie Eustace almost made up her
mind that Lord George was the very Corsair she had been expecting
ever since she had mastered Lord Byron's great poem. He had a way
of doing things and of saying things, of proclaiming himself to be
master, and at the same time of making himself thoroughly agreeable
to his dependants,--and especially to the one dependant whom he most
honoured at the time,--which exactly suited Lizzie's ideas of what a
man should be. And then he possessed that utter indifference to all
conventions and laws, which is the great prerogative of Corsairs. He
had no reverence for aught divine or human,--which is a great thing.
The Queen and Parliament, the bench of bishops, and even the police,
were to him just so many fungi and parasites, and noxious vapours,
and false hypocrites. Such were the names by which he ventured to
call these bugbears of the world. It was so delightful to live with a
man who himself had a title of his own, but who could speak of dukes
and marquises as being quite despicable by reason of their absurd
position. And as they became gay and free after their luncheon he
expressed almost as much contempt for honesty as for dukes, and
showed clearly that he regarded matrimony and marquises to be equally
vain and useless. "How dare you say such things in our hearing!"
exclaimed Mrs. Carbuncle.
"I assert that if men and women were really true, no vows would be
needed;--and if no vows, then no marriage vows. Do you believe such
vows are kept?"
"Yes," said Mrs. Carbuncle enthusiastically.
"I don't," said Lucinda.
"Nor I," said the Corsair. "Who can believe that a woman will always
love her husband because she swears she will? The oath is false on
the face of it."
"But women must marry," said Lizzie. The Corsair declared freely that
he did not see any such necessity.
And then, though it could hardly be said that this Corsair was a
handsome man, still he had fine Corsair's eyes, full of expression
and determination, eyes that could look love and bloodshed almost
at the same time; and then he had those manly properties,--power,
bigness, and apparent boldness,--which belong to a Corsair. To
be hurried about the world by such a man, treated sometimes with
crushing severity, and at others with the tenderest love, not to be
spoken to for one fortnight, and then to be embraced perpetually for
another, to be cast every now and then into some abyss of despair
by his rashness, and then raised to a pinnacle of human joy by his
courage,--that, thought Lizzie, would be the kind of life which would
suit her poetical temperament. But then, how would it be with her, if
the Corsair were to take to hurrying about the world without carrying
her with him;--and were to do so always at her expense! Perhaps he
might hurry about the world and take somebody else with him. Medora,
if Lizzie remembered rightly, had had no jointure or private fortune.
But yet a woman must risk something if the spirit of poetry is to
be allowed any play at all! "And now these weary diamonds again,"
said Lord George, as the carriage was stopped against the Carlisle
platform. "I suppose they must go into your bedroom, Lady Eustace?"
"I wish you'd let the man put the box in yours;--just for this
night," said Lizzie.
"No;--not if I know it," said Lord George. And then he explained.
Such property would be quite as liable to be stolen when in his
custody as it would in hers;--but if stolen while in his would entail
upon him a grievous vexation which would by no means lessen the
effect of her loss. She did not understand him, but finding that he
was quite in earnest she directed that the box should be again taken
to her own chamber. Lord George suggested that it should be entrusted
to the landlord; and for a moment or two Lizzie submitted to the
idea. But she stood for that moment thinking of it, and then decided
that the box should go to her own room. "There's no knowing what that
Mr. Camperdown mightn't do," she whispered to Lord George. The porter
and the tall footman, between them, staggered along under their load,
and the iron box was again deposited in the bedroom of the Carlisle
inn.
The evening at Carlisle was spent very pleasantly. The ladies agreed
that they would not dress,--but of course they did so with more or
less of care. Lizzie made herself to look very pretty, though the
skirt of the gown in which she came down was that which she had worn
during the journey. Pointing this out with much triumph, she accused
Mrs. Carbuncle and Lucinda of great treachery, in that they had not
adhered to any vestige of their travelling raiment. But the rancour
was not vehement, and the evening was passed pleasantly. Lord George
was infinitely petted by the three Houris around him, and Lizzie
called him a Corsair to his face. "And you are the Medora," said Mrs.
Carbuncle.
"Oh no. That is your place,--certainly," said Lizzie.
"What a pity Sir Griffin isn't here," said Mrs. Carbuncle, "that we
might call him the Giaour." Lucinda shuddered, without any attempt at
concealing her shudder. "That's all very well, Lucinda, but I think
Sir Griffin would make a very good Giaour."
"Pray don't, aunt. Let one forget it all just for a moment."
"I wonder what Sir Griffin would say if he was to hear this!" said
Lord George.
Late in the evening Lord George strolled out, and of course the
ladies discussed his character in his absence. Mrs. Carbuncle
declared that he was the soul of honour. In regard to her own feeling
for him, she averred that no woman had ever had a truer friend. Any
other sentiment was of course out of the question,--for was she not
a married woman? Had it not been for that accident, Mrs. Carbuncle
really thought that she could have given her heart to Lord George.
Lucinda declared that she always regarded him as a kind of
supplementary father. "I suppose he is a year or two older than
Sir Griffin," said Lizzie. "Lady Eustace, why should you make me
unhappy?" said Lucinda. Then Mrs. Carbuncle explained, that whereas
Sir Griffin was not yet thirty, Lord George was over forty. "All I
can say is, he doesn't look it," urged Lady Eustace enthusiastically.
"Those sort of men never do," said Mrs. Carbuncle. Lord George, when
he returned, was greeted with an allusion to angels' wings,--and
would have been a good deal spoilt among them were it in the nature
of such an article to receive injury. As soon as the clock had struck
ten the ladies all went away to their beds.
Lizzie, when she was in her own room, of course found her maid
waiting for her. It was necessarily part of the religion of such a
woman as Lizzie Eustace that she could not go to bed, or change her
clothes, or get up in the morning, without the assistance of her
own young woman. She would not like to have it thought that she
could stick a pin into her own belongings without such assistance.
Nevertheless it was often the case with her, that she was anxious to
get rid of her girl's attendance. It had been so on this morning, and
before dinner, and was so now again. She was secret in her movements,
and always had some recess in her boxes and bags and dressing
apparatuses to which she did not choose that Miss Patience Crabstick
should have access. She was careful about her letters, and very
careful about her money. And then as to that iron box in which the
diamonds were kept! Patience Crabstick had never yet seen the inside
of it. Moreover, it may be said,--either on Lizzie's behalf or to her
discredit, as the reader may be pleased to take it,--that she was
quite able to dress herself, to brush her own hair, to take off her
own clothes; and that she was not, either by nature or education, an
incapable young woman. But that honour and glory demanded it, she
would almost as lief have had no Patience Crabstick to pry into her
most private matters. All which Crabstick knew, and would often
declare her missus to be "of all missuses the most slyest and least
come-at-able." On this present night she was very soon despatched to
her own chamber. Lizzie, however, took one careful look at the iron
box before the girl was sent away.
Crabstick, on this occasion, had not far to go to seek her own couch.
Alongside of Lizzie's larger chamber there was a small room,--a
dressing-room with a bed in it, which, for this night, was devoted to
Crabstick's accommodation. Of course, she departed from attendance
on her mistress by the door which opened from the one room to the
other; but this had no sooner been closed than Crabstick descended to
complete the amusements of the evening. Lizzie, when she was alone,
bolted both the doors on the inside, and then quickly retired to
rest. Some short prayer she said, with her knees close to the iron
box. Then she put certain articles of property under her pillow,--her
watch and chain, and the rings from her fingers, and a packet which
she had drawn from her travelling-desk,--and was soon in bed,
thinking that, as she fell away to sleep, she would revolve in her
mind that question of the Corsair;--would it be good to trust herself
and all her belongings to one who might perhaps take her belongings
away, but leave herself behind? The subject was not unpleasant, and
while she was considering it, she fell asleep.
It was, perhaps, about two in the morning when a man, very efficient
at the trade which he was then following, knelt outside Lady
Eustace's door, and, with a delicately-made saw, aided, probably,
by some other equally well-finished tools, absolutely cut out that
portion of the bedroom door on which the bolt was fastened. He must
have known the spot exactly, for he did not doubt a moment as he
commenced his work; and yet there was nothing on the exterior of the
door to show where the bolt was placed. The bit was cut out without
the slightest noise, and then, when the door was opened, was placed,
just inside, upon the floor. The man then with perfectly noiseless
step entered the room, knelt again,--just where poor Lizzie had knelt
as she said her prayers,--so that he might the more easily raise the
iron box without a struggle, and left the room with it in his arms
without disturbing the lovely sleeper. He then descended the stairs,
passed into the coffee-room at the bottom of them, and handed the box
through an open window to a man who was crouching on the outside in
the dark. He then followed the box, pulled down the window, put on a
pair of boots which his friend had ready for him; and the two, after
lingering a few moments in the shade of the dark wall, retreated with
their prize round a corner. The night itself was almost pitch-dark,
and very wet. It was as nearly black with darkness as a night can
be. So far, the enterprising adventurers had been successful, and we
will now leave them in their chosen retreat, engaged on the longer
operation of forcing open the iron safe. For it had been arranged
between them that the iron safe should be opened then and there.
Though the weight to him who had taken it out of Lizzie's room had
not been oppressive, as it had oppressed the tall serving-man, it
might still have been an encumbrance to gentlemen intending to
travel by railway with as little observation as possible. They were,
however, well supplied with tools, and we will leave them at their
work.
On the next morning Lizzie was awakened earlier than she had
expected, and found, not only Patience Crabstick in her bedroom, but
also a chambermaid, and the wife of the manager of the hotel. The
story was soon told to her. Her room had been broken open, and her
treasure was gone. The party had intended to breakfast at their
leisure, and proceed to London by a train leaving Carlisle in the
middle of the day; but they were soon disturbed from their rest. Lady
Eustace had hardly time to get her slippers on her feet, and to wrap
herself in her dressing-gown, to get rid of her dishevelled nightcap,
and make herself just fit for public view, before the manager of the
hotel, and Lord George, and the tall footman, and the boots were
in her bedroom. It was too plainly manifest to them all that the
diamonds were gone. The superintendent of the Carlisle police was
there almost as soon as the others;--and following him very quickly
came the important gentleman who was the head of the constabulary of
the county.
Lizzie, when she first heard the news, was awe-struck, rather than
outwardly demonstrative of grief. "There has been a regular plot,"
said Lord George. Captain Fitzmaurice, the gallant chief, nodded his
head. "Plot enough," said the superintendent,--who did not mean to
confide his thoughts to any man, or to exempt any human being from
his suspicion. The manager of the hotel was very angry, and at first
did not restrain his anger. Did not everybody know that if articles
of value were brought into an hotel they should be handed over to the
safe-keeping of the manager? He almost seemed to think that Lizzie
had stolen her own box of diamonds. "My dear fellow," said Lord
George, "nobody is saying a word against you, or your house."
"No, my lord;--but--"
"Lady Eustace is not blaming you, and do not you blame anybody else,"
said Lord George. "Let the police do what is right."
At last the men retreated, and Lizzie was left with Patience and Mrs.
Carbuncle. But even then she did not give way to her grief, but sat
upon the bed awe-struck and mute. "Perhaps I had better get dressed,"
she said at last.
"I feared how it might be," said Mrs. Carbuncle, holding Lizzie's
hand affectionately.
"Yes;--you said so."
"The prize was so great."
"I always was a-telling my lady--" began Crabstick.
"Hold your tongue!" said Lizzie angrily. "I suppose the police will
do the best they can, Mrs. Carbuncle?"
"Oh yes;--and so will Lord George."
"I think I'll lie down again for a little while," said Lizzie. "I
feel so sick I hardly know what to do. If I were to lie down for a
little I should be better." With much difficulty she got them to
leave her. Then, before she again undressed herself, she bolted the
door that still had a bolt, and turned the lock in the other. Having
done this, she took out from under her pillow the little parcel which
had been in her desk,--and, untying it, perceived that her dear
diamond necklace was perfect, and quite safe.
The enterprising adventurers had, indeed, stolen the iron case,
but they had stolen nothing else. The reader must not suppose
that because Lizzie had preserved her jewels, she was therefore a
consenting party to the abstraction of the box. The theft had been
a genuine theft, planned with great skill, carried out with much
ingenuity, one in the perpetration of which money had been spent,--a
theft which for a while baffled the police of England, and which was
supposed to be very creditable to those who had been engaged in it.
But the box, and nothing but the box, had fallen into the hands of
the thieves.
Lizzie's silence when the abstraction of the box was made known to
her,--her silence as to the fact that the necklace was at that moment
within the grasp of her own fingers,--was not at first the effect
of deliberate fraud. She was ashamed to tell them that she brought
the box empty from Portray, having the diamonds in her own keeping
because she had feared that the box might be stolen. And then it
occurred to her, quick as thought could flash, that it might be well
that Mr. Camperdown should be made to believe that they had been
stolen. And so she kept her secret. The reflections of the next
half-hour told her how very great would now be her difficulties.
But, as she had not disclosed the truth at first, she could hardly
disclose it now.