Lizzie's Last Scheme
Lizzie, when she was left alone, was very angry with the Corsair,--in
truth, more sincerely angry than she had ever been with any of her
lovers, or, perhaps, with any human being. Sincere, true, burning
wrath was not the fault to which she was most exposed. She could snap
and snarl, and hate, and say severe things; she could quarrel, and
fight, and be malicious;--but to be full of real wrath was uncommon
with her. Now she was angry. She had been civil, more than civil,
to Lord George. She had opened her house to him, and her heart. She
had told him her great secret. She had implored his protection.
She had thrown herself into his arms. And now he had rejected her.
That he should have been rough to her was only in accordance with
the poetical attributes which she had attributed to him. But his
roughness should have been streaked with tenderness. He should not
have left her roughly. In the whole interview he had not said a
loving word to her. He had given her advice,--which might be good or
bad,--but he had given it as to one whom he despised. He had spoken
to her throughout the interview exactly as he might have spoken to
Sir Griffin Tewett. She could not analyse her feelings thoroughly,
but she felt that because of what had passed between them, by reason
of his knowledge of her secret, he had robbed her of all that
observance which was due to her as a woman and a lady. She had been
roughly used before,--by people of inferior rank who had seen through
her ways. Andrew Gowran had insulted her. Patience Crabstick had
argued with her. Benjamin, the employer of thieves, had been familiar
with her. But hitherto, in what she was pleased to call her own set,
she had always been treated with that courtesy which ladies seldom
fail to receive. She understood it all. She knew how much of mere
word-service there often is in such complimentary usage. But,
nevertheless, it implies respect, and an acknowledgement of the
position of her who is so respected. Lord George had treated her as
one schoolboy treats another.
And he had not spoken to her one word of love. Love will excuse
roughness. Spoken love will palliate even spoken roughness. Had he
once called her his own Lizzie, he might have scolded her as he
pleased,--might have abused her to the top of his bent. 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; and she made up her mind that, unless she were
stopped by the police, she would go to Scotland on the day but one
following. She thought that she was sure that she would do so; but,
of course, she must be guided by events as they occurred. She wrote,
however, to Miss Macnulty saying that she would come, and she told
Mrs. Carbuncle of her proposed journey as that lady was leaving the
house for the theatre. On the following morning, however, news came
which again made her journey doubtful. There was another paragraph
in the newspaper about the robbery, acknowledging the former
paragraph to have been in some respect erroneous. The "accomplished
housebreaker" had not been arrested. A confederate of the
"accomplished housebreaker" was in the hands of the police, and the
police were on the track of the "accomplished housebreaker" himself.
Then there was a line or two alluding in a very mysterious way to the
disappearance of a certain jeweller. Taking it altogether, Lizzie
thought that there was ground for hope,--and that, at any rate, there
would be delay. She would, perhaps, put off going to Scotland for
yet a day or two. Was it not necessary that she should wait for Lord
Fawn's answer; and would it not be incumbent on her cousin Frank to
send her some account of himself after the abrupt manner in which he
had left her?
If in real truth she should be driven to tell her story to any
one,--and she began to think that she was so driven,--she would tell
it to him. She believed more in his regard for her than that of any
other human being. She thought that he would, in truth, have been
devoted to her, had he not become entangled with that wretched little
governess. And she thought that if he could see his way out of that
scrape, he would marry her even yet,--would marry her, and be good
to her, so that her dream of a poetical phase of life should not
be altogether dissolved. After all, the diamonds were her own. She
had not stolen them. When perplexed in the extreme by magistrates
and policemen, with nobody near her whom she trusted to give her
advice,--for Lizzie now of course declared to herself that she had
never for a moment trusted the Corsair,--she had fallen into an
error, and said what was not true. As she practised it before the
glass, she thought that she could tell her story in a becoming
manner, with becoming tears, to Frank Greystock. And were it not for
Lucy Morris, she thought that he would take her with all her faults
and all her burthens.
As for Lord Fawn, she knew well enough that, let him write what he
would, and renew his engagement in what most formal manner might be
possible, he would be off again when he learned the facts as to that
night at Carlisle. She had brought him to succumb, because he could
no longer justify his treatment of her by reference to the diamonds.
But when once all the world should know that she had twice perjured
herself, his justification would be complete,--and his escape
would be certain. She would use his letter simply to achieve that
revenge which she had promised herself. Her effort,--her last final
effort,--must be made to secure the hand and heart of her cousin
Frank. "Ah, 'tis his heart I want!" she said to herself.
She must settle something before she went to Scotland,--if there was
anything that could be settled. If she could only get a promise from
Frank before all her treachery had been exposed, he probably would
remain true to his promise. He would not desert her as Lord Fawn had
done. Then, after much thinking of it, she resolved upon a scheme
which, of all her schemes, was the wickedest. Whatever it might cost
her, she would create a separation between Frank Greystock and Lucy
Morris. Having determined upon this, she wrote to Lucy, asking her to
call in Hertford Street at a certain hour.
DEAR LUCY,
I particularly want to see you,--on business. Pray come to
me at twelve to-morrow. I will send the carriage for you,
and it will take you back again. Pray do this. We used to
love one another, and I am sure I love you still.
Your affectionate old friend,
LIZZIE.
As a matter of course Lucy went to her. Lizzie, before the interview,
studied the part she was to play with all possible care,--even to the
words which she was to use. The greeting was at first kindly, for
Lucy had almost forgotten the bribe that had been offered to her, and
had quite forgiven it. Lizzie Eustace never could be dear to her;
but,--so Lucy had thought during her happiness,--this former friend
of hers was the cousin of the man who was to be her husband, and was
dear to him. Of course she had forgiven the offence. "And now, dear,
I want to ask you a question," Lizzie said; "or rather, perhaps not a
question. I can do it better than that. I think that my cousin Frank
once talked of--of making you his wife." Lucy answered not a word,
but she trembled in every limb, and the colour came to her face. "Was
it not so, dear?"
"What if it was? I don't know why you should ask me any question like
that about myself."
"Is he not my cousin?"
"Yes,--he is your cousin. Why don't you ask him? You see him every
day, I suppose?"
"Nearly every day."
"Why do you send for me, then?"
"It is so hard to tell you, Lucy. I have sent to you in good faith,
and in love. I could have gone to you,--only for the old vulture, who
would not have let us had a word in peace. I do see him--constantly.
And I love him dearly."
"That is nothing to me," said Lucy. Anybody hearing them, and not
knowing them, would have said that Lucy's manner was harsh in the
extreme.
"He has told me everything." Lizzie, when she said this, paused,
looking at her victim. "He has told me things which he could
not mention to you. It was only yesterday,--the day before
yesterday,--that he was speaking to me of his debts. I offered to
place all that I have at his disposal, so as to free him, but he
would not take my money."
"Of course he would not."
"Not my money alone. Then he told me that he was engaged to you. He
had never told me before, but yet I knew it. It all came out then.
Lucy, though he is engaged to you, it is me that he loves."
"I don't believe it," said Lucy.
"You can't make me angry, Lucy, because my heart bleeds for you."
"Nonsense! trash! I don't want your heart to bleed. I don't believe
you've got a heart. You've got money; I know that."
"And he has got none. If I did not love him, why should I wish to
give him all that I have? Is not that disinterested?"
"No. You are always thinking of yourself. You couldn't be
disinterested."
"And of whom are you thinking? Are you doing the best for him,--a man
in his position, without money, ambitious, sure to succeed if want
of money does not stop him,--in wishing him to marry a girl with
nothing? Cannot I do more for him than you can?"
"I could work for him on my knees, I love him so truly!"
"Would that do him any service? He cannot marry you. Does he ever see
you? Does he write to you as though you were to be his wife? Do you
not know that it is all over?--that it must be over? It is impossible
that he should marry you. But if you will give him back his word, he
shall be my husband, and shall have all that I possess. Now, let us
see who loves him best!"
"I do!" said Lucy.
"How will you show it?"
"There is no need that I should show it. He knows it. The only one
in the world to whom I wish it to be known, knows it already well
enough. Did you send for me for this?"
"Yes;--for this."
"It is for him to tell me the tidings;--not for you. You are nothing
to me;--nothing. And what you say to me now is all for yourself,--not
for him. But it is true that he does not see me. It is true that he
does not write to me. You may tell him from me,--for I cannot write
to him myself,--that he may do whatever is best for him. But if you
tell him that I do not love him better than all the world, you will
lie to him. And if you say that he loves you better than he does me,
that also will be a lie. I know his heart."
"But Lucy--"
"I will hear no more. He can do as he pleases. If money be more to
him than love and honesty, let him marry you. I shall never trouble
him; he may be sure of that. As for you, Lizzie, I hope that we may
never meet again."
She would not get into the Eustace-Carbuncle carriage, which was
waiting for her at the door, but walked back to Bruton Street. She
did not doubt but that it was all over with her now. That Lizzie
Eustace was an inveterate liar, she knew well; but she did believe
that the liar had on this occasion been speaking truth. Lady Fawn was
not a liar, and Lady Fawn had told her the same. And, had she wanted
more evidence, did not her lover's conduct give it? "It is because I
am poor," she said to herself,--"for I know well that he loves me!"