During all this time Lucinda Roanoke was engaged to marry Sir Griffin Tewett, and the lover was an occasional visitor in Hertford Street. Mrs. Carbuncle was as anxious as ever that the marriage should be celebrated on the appointed day, and though there had been repeated quarrels, nothing had as yet taken place to make her despond. Sir Griffin would make some offensive speech. Lucinda would tell him that she had no desire ever to see him again, and then the baronet, usually under the instigation of Lord George, would make some awkward apology. Mrs. Carbuncle, whose life at this period was not a pleasant one, would behave on such occasions with great patience, and sometimes with great courage. Lizzie, who in her present emergency could not bear the idea of losing the assistance of any friend, was soft and graceful, and even gracious, to the bear. The bear himself certainly seemed to desire the marriage, though he would so often give offence which made any prospect of a marriage almost impossible. But with Sir Griffin, when the prize seemed to be lost, it again became valuable. He would talk about his passionate love to Mrs. Carbuncle and to Lizzie, and then, when things had been made straight for him, he would insult them, and neglect Lucinda. To Lucinda herself, however, he would rarely dare to say such words as he used daily to the other two ladies in the house. What could have been the man’s own idea of his future married life, how can any reader be made to understand, or any writer adequately describe? He must have known that the woman despised him, and hated him. In the very bottom of his heart he feared her. He had no idea of other pleasures from her society than what might arise to him from the pride of having married a beautiful woman. Had she shown the slightest fondness for him, the slightest fear that she might lose him, the slightest feeling that she had won a valuable prize in getting him, he would have scorned her, and jilted her without the slightest remorse. But the scorn came from her, and it beat him down. “Yes, you hate me, and would fain be rid of me; but you have said that you will be my wife, and you cannot now escape me.” Sir Griffin did not exactly speak such words as these, but he acted them. Lucinda would bear his presence, sitting apart from him, silent, imperious, but very beautiful. People said that she became more handsome from day to day, and she did so, in spite of her agony. Hers was a face which could stand such condition of the heart without fading or sinking under it. She did not weep, or lose her colour, or become thin. The pretty softness of a girl, delicate feminine weakness, or laughing eyes and pouting lips, no one expected from her. Sir Griffin, in the early days of their acquaintance, had found her to be a woman with a character for beauty, and she was now more beautiful than ever. He probably thought that he loved her; but, at any rate, he was determined that he would marry her.
He had expressed himself more than once as very angry about this affair of the jewels. He had told Mrs. Carbuncle that her inmate, Lady Eustace, was suspected by the police, and that it might be well that Lady Eustace should be — be made to go, in fact. But it did not suit Mrs. Carbuncle that Lady Eustace should be made to go; nor did it suit Lord George de Bruce Carruthers. Lord George, at Mrs. Carbuncle’s instance, had snubbed Sir Griffin more than once, and then it came to pass that he was snubbed yet again more violently than before. He was at the house in Hertford Street on the day of Mr. Bunfit’s visit, some hours after Mr. Bunfit was gone, when Lizzie was still lying on her bed up-stairs, nearly beaten by the great danger which had oppressed her. He was told of Mr. Bunfit’s visit, and then again said that he thought that the continued residence of Lady Eustace beneath that roof was a misfortune. “Would you wish us to turn her out because her necklace has been stolen?” asked Mrs. Carbuncle.
“People say very queer things,” said Sir Griffin.
“So they do, Sir Griffin,” continued Mrs. Carbuncle. “They say such queer things that I can hardly understand that they should be allowed to say them. I am told that the police absolutely suggest that Lord George stole the diamonds.”
“That’s nonsense.”
“No doubt, Sir Griffin. And so is the other nonsense. Do you mean to tell us that you believe that Lady Eustace stole her own diamonds?”
“I don’t see the use of having her here. Situated as I am, I have a right to object to it.”
“Situated as you are, Sir Griffin!” said Lucinda.
“Well, yes, of course; if we are to be married, I cannot but think a good deal of the persons you stay with.”
“You were very glad to stay yourself with Lady Eustace at Portray,” said Lucinda.
“I went there to follow you,” said Sir Griffin gallantly.
“I wish with all my heart you had stayed away,” said Lucinda. At that moment Lord George was shown into the room, and Miss Roanoke continued speaking, determined that Lord George should know how the bear was conducting himself. “Sir Griffin is saying that my aunt ought to turn Lady Eustace out of the house.”
“Not quite that,” said Sir Griffin with an attempt at laughter.
“Quite that,” said Lucinda. “I don’t suppose that he suspects poor Lady Eustace, but he thinks that my aunt’s friend should be like Caesar’s wife, above the suspicion of others.”
“If you would mind your own business, Tewett,” said Lord George, “it would be a deal better for us all. I wonder Mrs. Carbuncle does not turn you out of the room for making such a proposition here. If it were my room, I would.”
“I suppose I can say what I please to Mrs. Carbuncle? Miss Roanoke is not going to be your wife.”
“It is my belief that Miss Roanoke will be nobody’s wife, at any rate, for the present,” said that young lady; upon which Sir Griffin left the room, muttering some words which might have been, perhaps, intended for an adieu. Immediately after this Lizzie came in, moving slowly, but without a sound, like a ghost, with pale cheeks and dishevelled hair, and that weary, worn look of illness which was become customary with her. She greeted Lord George with a faint attempt at a smile, and seated herself in a corner of a sofa. She asked whether he had been told the story of the proposed search, and then bade her friend Mrs. Carbuncle describe the scene.
“If it goes on like this it will kill me,” said Lizzie.
“They are treating me in precisely the same way,” said Lord George.
“But think of your strength and of my weakness, Lord George.”
“By heavens, I don’t know,” said Lord George. “In this matter your weakness is stronger than any strength of mine. I never was so cut up in my life. It was a good joke when we talked of the suspicions of that fellow at Carlisle as we came up by the railway, but it is no joke now. I’ve had men with me, almost asking to search among my things.”
“They have quite asked me,” said Lizzie piteously.
“You; yes. But there’s some reason in that. These infernal diamonds did belong to you, or, at any rate you had them. You are the last person known to have seen them. Even if you had them still, you’d only have what you call your own.” Lizzie looked at him with all her eyes and listened to him with all her ears. “But what the mischief can I have had to do with them?”
“It’s very hard upon you,” said Mrs. Carbuncle.
“Unless I stole them,” continued Lord George.
“Which is so absurd, you know,” said Lizzie.
“That a pig-headed provincial fool should have taken me for a midnight thief, did not disturb me much. I don’t think I am very easily annoyed by what other people think of me. But these fellows, I suppose, were sent here by the head of the metropolitan police; and everybody knows that they have been sent. Because I was civil enough to you women to look after you coming up to town, and because one of you was careless enough to lose her jewels, I— I am to be talked about all over London as the man who took them!” This was not spoken with much courtesy to the ladies present. Lord George had dropped that customary chivalry of manner which, in ordinary life, makes it to be quite out of the question that a man shall be uncivil to a woman. He had escaped from conventional usage into rough, truthful speech, under stress from the extremity of the hardship to which he had been subjected. And the women understood it and appreciated it, and liked it rather than otherwise. To Lizzie it seemed fitting that a Corsair so circumstanced should be as uncivil as he pleased; and Mrs. Carbuncle had long been accustomed to her friend’s moods.
“They can’t really think it,” said Mrs. Carbuncle.
“Somebody thinks it. I am told that your particular friend, Lord Fawn”— this he said specially addressing Lizzie —“has expressed a strong opinion that I carry about the necklace always in my pocket. I trust to have the opportunity of wringing his neck some day.”
“I do so wish you would,” said Lizzie.
“I shall not lose a chance if I can get it. Before all this occurred, I should have said of myself that nothing of the kind could put me out. I don’t think there is a man in the world cares less what people say of him than I do. I am as indifferent to ordinary tittle-tattle as a rhinoceros. But, by George, when it comes to stealing ten ............