

E-text prepared by Anne Soulard, Charles Aldarondo,
Tiffany Vergon, John R. Bilderback,
and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team
(http://www.pgdp.net)
and revised by Joseph E. Loewenstein, M.D.



THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS

by

ANTHONY TROLLOPE

First published in serial form in the _Fortnightly Review_ from July,
1871, to February, 1873, and in book form in 1872







CONTENTS

         I. Lizzie Greystock
        II. Lady Eustace
       III. Lucy Morris
        IV. Frank Greystock
         V. The Eustace Necklace
        VI. Lady Linlithgow's Mission
       VII. Mr. Burke's Speeches
      VIII. The Conquering Hero Comes
        IX. Showing What the Miss Fawns Said, and What Mrs. Hittaway
            Thought
         X. Lizzie and Her Lover
        XI. Lord Fawn at His Office
       XII. "I Only Thought of It"
      XIII. Showing What Frank Greystock Did
       XIV. "Doan't Thou Marry for Munny"
        XV. "I'll Give You a Hundred Guinea Brooch"
       XVI. Certainly an Heirloom
      XVII. The Diamonds Are Seen in Public
     XVIII. "And I Have Nothing to Give"
       XIX. "As My Brother"
        XX. The Diamonds Become Troublesome
       XXI. "Ianthe's Soul"
      XXII. Lady Eustace Procures a Pony for the Use of Her Cousin
     XXIII. Frank Greystock's First Visit to Portray
      XXIV. Showing What Frank Greystock Thought About Marriage
       XXV. Mr. Dove's Opinion
      XXVI. Mr. Gowran Is Very Funny
     XXVII. Lucy Morris Misbehaves
    XXVIII. Mr. Dove in His Chambers
      XXIX. "I Had Better Go Away"
       XXX. Mr. Greystock's Troubles
      XXXI. Frank Greystock's Second Visit to Portray
     XXXII. Mr. and Mrs. Hittaway in Scotland
    XXXIII. "It Won't Be True"
     XXXIV. Lady Linlithgow at Home
      XXXV. Too Bad for Sympathy
     XXXVI. Lizzie's Guests
    XXXVII. Lizzie's First Day
   XXXVIII. Nappie's Grey Horse
     XXXIX. Sir Griffin Takes an Unfair Advantage
        XL. "You Are Not Angry?"
       XLI. "Likewise the Bears in Couples Agree"
      XLII. Sunday Morning
     XLIII. Life at Portray
      XLIV. A Midnight Adventure
       XLV. The Journey to London
      XLVI. Lucy Morris in Brook Street
     XLVII. Matching Priory
    XLVIII. Lizzie's Condition
      XLIX. Bunfit and Gager
         L. In Hertford Street
        LI. Confidence
       LII. Mrs. Carbuncle Goes to the Theatre
      LIII. Lizzie's Sick-Room
       LIV. "I Suppose I May Say a Word"
        LV. Quints or Semitenths
       LVI. Job's Comforters
      LVII. Humpty Dumpty
     LVIII. "The Fiddle with One String"
       LIX. Mr. Gowran Up in London
        LX. "Let It Be As Though It Had Never Been"
       LXI. Lizzie's Great Friend
      LXII. "You Know Where My Heart Is"
     LXIII. The Corsair Is Afraid
      LXIV. Lizzie's Last Scheme
       LXV. Tribute
      LXVI. The Aspirations of Mr. Emilius
     LXVII. The Eye of the Public
    LXVIII. The Major
      LXIX. "I Cannot Do It"
       LXX. Alas!
      LXXI. Lizzie Is Threatened with the Treadmill
     LXXII. Lizzie Triumphs
    LXXIII. Lizzie's Last Lover
     LXXIV. Lizzie at the Police-Court
      LXXV. Lord George Gives His Reasons
     LXXVI. Lizzie Returns to Scotland
    LXXVII. The Story of Lucy Morris Is Concluded
   LXXVIII. The Trial
     LXXIX. Once More at Portray
      LXXX. What Was Said About It All at Matching




VOLUME I

CHAPTER I

Lizzie Greystock


It was admitted by all her friends, and also by her enemies,--who
were in truth the more numerous and active body of the two,--that
Lizzie Greystock had done very well with herself. We will tell the
story of Lizzie Greystock from the beginning, but we will not dwell
over it at great length, as we might do if we loved her. She was the
only child of old Admiral Greystock, who in the latter years of his
life was much perplexed by the possession of a daughter. The admiral
was a man who liked whist, wine,--and wickedness in general we may
perhaps say, and whose ambition it was to live every day of his life
up to the end of it. People say that he succeeded, and that the
whist, wine, and wickedness were there, at the side even of his dying
bed. He had no particular fortune, and yet his daughter, when she was
little more than a child, went about everywhere with jewels on her
fingers, and red gems hanging round her neck, and yellow gems pendent
from her ears, and white gems shining in her black hair. She was
hardly nineteen when her father died and she was taken home by that
dreadful old termagant, her aunt, Lady Linlithgow. Lizzie would have
sooner gone to any other friend or relative, had there been any other
friend or relative to take her possessed of a house in town. Her
uncle, Dean Greystock, of Bobsborough, would have had her, and a more
good-natured old soul than the dean's wife did not exist,--and there
were three pleasant, good-tempered girls in the deanery, who had
made various little efforts at friendship with their cousin Lizzie;
but Lizzie had higher ideas for herself than life in the deanery at
Bobsborough. She hated Lady Linlithgow. During her father's lifetime,
when she hoped to be able to settle herself before his death, she was
not in the habit of concealing her hatred for Lady Linlithgow. Lady
Linlithgow was not indeed amiable or easily managed. But when the
admiral died, Lizzie did not hesitate for a moment in going to the
old "vulturess," as she was in the habit of calling the countess in
her occasional correspondence with the girls at Bobsborough.

The admiral died greatly in debt;--so much so that it was a marvel
how tradesmen had trusted him. There was literally nothing left
for anybody,--and Messrs. Harter and Benjamin of Old Bond Street
condescended to call at Lady Linlithgow's house in Brook Street, and
to beg that the jewels supplied during the last twelve months might
be returned. Lizzie protested that there were no jewels,--nothing
to signify, nothing worth restoring. Lady Linlithgow had seen the
diamonds, and demanded an explanation. They had been "parted with,"
by the admiral's orders,--so said Lizzie,--for the payment of other
debts. Of this Lady Linlithgow did not believe a word, but she could
not get at any exact truth. At that moment the jewels were in very
truth pawned for money which had been necessary for Lizzie's needs.
Certain things must be paid for,--one's own maid for instance; and
one must have some money in one's pocket for railway-trains and
little knick-knacks which cannot be had on credit. Lizzie when she
was nineteen knew how to do without money as well as most girls; but
there were calls which she could not withstand, debts which even she
must pay.

She did not, however, drop her acquaintance with Messrs. Harter and
Benjamin. Before her father had been dead eight months, she was
closeted with Mr. Benjamin, transacting a little business with him.
She had come to him, she told him, the moment she was of age, and
was willing to make herself responsible for the debt, signing any
bill, note, or document which the firm might demand from her, to that
effect. Of course she had nothing of her own, and never would have
anything. That Mr. Benjamin knew. As for payment of the debt by Lady
Linlithgow, who for a countess was as poor as Job, Mr. Benjamin,
she was quite sure, did not expect anything of the kind. But-- Then
Lizzie paused, and Mr. Benjamin, with the sweetest and wittiest
of smiles, suggested that perhaps Miss Greystock was going to be
married. Lizzie, with a pretty maiden blush, admitted that such a
catastrophe was probable. She had been asked in marriage by Sir
Florian Eustace. Now Mr. Benjamin knew, as all the world knew, that
Sir Florian Eustace was a very rich man indeed; a man in no degree
embarrassed, and who could pay any amount of jewellers' bills for
which claim might be made upon him. Well; what did Miss Greystock
want? Mr. Benjamin did not suppose that Miss Greystock was actuated
simply by a desire to have her old bills paid by her future husband.
Miss Greystock wanted a loan sufficient to take the jewels out of
pawn. She would then make herself responsible for the full amount
due. Mr. Benjamin said that he would make a few inquiries. "But you
won't betray me," said Lizzie, "for the match might be off." Mr.
Benjamin promised to be more than cautious.

There was not so much of falsehood as might have been expected in the
statement which Lizzie Greystock made to the jeweller. It was not
true that she was of age, and therefore no future husband would be
legally liable for any debt which she might then contract. And it was
not true that Sir Florian Eustace had asked her in marriage. Those
two little blemishes in her statement must be admitted. But it was
true that Sir Florian was at her feet, and that by a proper use of
her various charms,--the pawned jewels included,--she might bring
him to an offer. Mr. Benjamin made his inquiries, and acceded to the
proposal. He did not tell Miss Greystock that she had lied to him in
that matter of her age, though he had discovered the lie. Sir Florian
would no doubt pay the bill for his wife without any arguments as
to the legality of the claim. From such information as Mr. Benjamin
could acquire he thought that there would be a marriage, and that
the speculation was on the whole in his favour. Lizzie recovered
her jewels and Mr. Benjamin was in possession of a promissory note
purporting to have been executed by a person who was no longer a
minor. The jeweller was ultimately successful in his views,--and so
was the lady.

Lady Linlithgow saw the jewels come back, one by one, ring added
to ring on the little taper fingers, the rubies for the neck, and
the pendent yellow earrings. Though Lizzie was in mourning for her
father, still these things were allowed to be visible. The countess
was not the woman to see them without inquiry, and she inquired
vigorously. She threatened, stormed, and protested. She attempted
even a raid upon the young lady's jewel-box. But she was not
successful. Lizzie snapped and snarled and held her own,--for at that
time the match with Sir Florian was near its accomplishment, and
the countess understood too well the value of such a disposition of
her niece to risk it at the moment by any open rupture. The little
house in Brook Street,--for the house was very small and very
comfortless,--a house that had been squeezed in, as it were, between
two others without any fitting space for it,--did not contain a happy
family. One bedroom, and that the biggest, was appropriated to the
Earl of Linlithgow, the son of the countess, a young man who passed
perhaps five nights in town during the year. Other inmate there was
none besides the aunt and the niece and the four servants,--of whom
one was Lizzie's own maid. Why should such a countess have troubled
herself with the custody of such a niece? Simply because the
countess regarded it as a duty. Lady Linlithgow was worldly, stingy,
ill-tempered, selfish, and mean. Lady Linlithgow would cheat a
butcher out of a mutton-chop, or a cook out of a month's wages, if
she could do so with some slant of legal wind in her favour. She
would tell any number of lies to carry a point in what she believed
to be social success. It was said of her that she cheated at cards.
In back-biting, no venomous old woman between Bond Street and Park
Lane could beat her,--or, more wonderful still, no venomous old man
at the clubs. But nevertheless she recognised certain duties,--and
performed them, though she hated them. She went to church, not merely
that people might see her there,--as to which in truth she cared
nothing,--but because she thought it was right. And she took in
Lizzie Greystock, whom she hated almost as much as she did sermons,
because the admiral's wife had been her sister, and she recognised
a duty. But, having thus bound herself to Lizzie,--who was a
beauty,--of course it became the first object of her life to get rid
of Lizzie by a marriage. And, though she would have liked to think
that Lizzie would be tormented all her days, though she thoroughly
believed that Lizzie deserved to be tormented, she set her heart upon
a splendid match. She would at any rate be able to throw it daily in
her niece's teeth that the splendour was of her doing. Now a marriage
with Sir Florian Eustace would be very splendid, and therefore she
was unable to go into the matter of the jewels with that rigour which
in other circumstances she would certainly have displayed.

The match with Sir Florian Eustace,--for a match it came to
be,--was certainly very splendid. Sir Florian was a young man
about eight-and-twenty, very handsome, of immense wealth, quite
unencumbered, moving in the best circles, popular, so far prudent
that he never risked his fortune on the turf or in gambling-houses,
with the reputation of a gallant soldier, and a most devoted lover.
There were two facts concerning him which might, or might not, be
taken as objections. He was vicious, and--he was dying. When a
friend, intending to be kind, hinted the latter circumstance to Lady
Linlithgow, the countess blinked and winked and nodded, and then
swore that she had procured medical advice on the subject. Medical
advice declared that Sir Florian was not more likely to die than
another man,--if only he would get married; all of which statement on
her ladyship's part was a lie. When the same friend hinted the same
thing to Lizzie herself, Lizzie resolved that she would have her
revenge upon that friend. At any rate the courtship went on.

We have said that Sir Florian was vicious;--but he was not altogether
a bad man, nor was he vicious in the common sense of the word. He was
one who denied himself no pleasure, let the cost be what it might in
health, pocket, or morals. Of sin or wickedness he had probably no
distinct idea. In virtue, as an attribute of the world around him, he
had no belief. Of honour he thought very much, and had conceived a
somewhat noble idea that because much had been given to him much was
demanded of him. He was haughty, polite,--and very generous. There
was almost a nobility even about his vices. And he had a special
gallantry of which it is hard to say whether it is or is not to be
admired. They told him that he was like to die,--very like to die, if
he did not change his manner of living. Would he go to Algiers for a
period? Certainly not. He would do no such thing. If he died, there
was his brother John left to succeed him. And the fear of death never
cast a cloud over that grandly beautiful brow. They had all been
short-lived,--the Eustaces. Consumption had swept a hecatomb of
victims from the family. But still they were grand people, and never
were afraid of death.

And then Sir Florian fell in love. Discussing this matter with his
brother, who was perhaps his only intimate friend, he declared that
if the girl he loved would give herself to him, he would make what
atonement he could to her for his own early death by a princely
settlement. John Eustace, who was somewhat nearly concerned in
the matter, raised no objection to this proposal. There was ever
something grand about these Eustaces. Sir Florian was a grand
gentleman; but surely he must have been dull of intellect, slow of
discernment, blear-eyed in his ways about the town, when he took
Lizzie Greystock,--of all the women whom he could find in the
world,--to be the purest, the truest, and the noblest. It has been
said of Sir Florian that he did not believe in virtue. He freely
expressed disbelief in the virtue of women around him,--in the virtue
of women of all ranks. But he believed in his mother and sisters as
though they were heaven-born; and he was one who could believe in his
wife as though she were the queen of heaven. He did believe in Lizzie
Greystock, thinking that intellect, purity, truth, and beauty, each
perfect in its degree, were combined in her. The intellect and beauty
were there;--but, for the purity and truth--; how could it have been
that such a one as Sir Florian Eustace should have been so blind!

Sir Florian was not, indeed, a clever man; but he believed himself
to be a fool. And believing himself to be a fool, he desired, nay,
painfully longed, for some of those results of cleverness which
might, he thought, come to him, from contact with a clever woman.
Lizzie read poetry well, and she read verses to him,--sitting very
near to him, almost in the dark, with a shaded lamp throwing its
light on her book. He was astonished to find how sweet a thing was
poetry. By himself he could never read a line, but as it came from
her lips it seemed to charm him. It was a new pleasure, and one
which, though he had ridiculed it, he had so often coveted! And
then she told him of such wondrous thoughts,--such wondrous joys
in the world which would come from thinking! He was proud, I have
said, and haughty; but he was essentially modest and humble in his
self-estimation. How divine was this creature, whose voice to him was
as that of a goddess!

Then he spoke out to her, with his face a little turned from her.
Would she be his wife? But, before she answered him, let her listen
to him. They had told him that an early death must probably be his
fate. He did not himself feel that it must be so. Sometimes he was
ill,--very ill; but often he was well. If she would run the risk with
him he would endeavour to make her such recompense as might come from
his wealth. The speech he made was somewhat long, and as he made it
he hardly looked into her face.

But it was necessary to him that he should be made to know by some
signal from her how it was going with her feelings. As he spoke of
his danger, there came a gurgling little trill of wailing from her
throat, a soft, almost musical sound of woe, which seemed to add an
unaccustomed eloquence to his words. When he spoke of his own hope
the sound was somewhat changed, but it was still continued. When he
alluded to the disposition of his fortune, she was at his feet. "Not
that," she said, "not that!" He lifted her, and with his arm round
her waist he tried to tell her what it would be his duty to do
for her. She escaped from his arm and would not listen to him.
But,--but--! When he began to talk of love again, she stood with her
forehead bowed against his bosom. Of course the engagement was then a
thing accomplished.

But still the cup might slip from her lips. Her father was now dead
but ten months, and what answer could she make when the common
pressing petition for an early marriage was poured into her ear? This
was in July, and it would never do that he should be left, unmarried,
to the rigour of another winter. She looked into his face and knew
that she had cause for fear. Oh, heavens! if all these golden hopes
should fall to the ground, and she should come to be known only as
the girl who had been engaged to the late Sir Florian! But he himself
pressed the marriage on the same ground. "They tell me," he said,
"that I had better get a little south by the beginning of October.
I won't go alone. You know what I mean;--eh, Lizzie?" Of course she
married him in September.

They spent a honeymoon of six weeks at a place he had in Scotland,
and the first blow came upon him as they passed through London, back
from Scotland, on their way to Italy. Messrs. Harter and Benjamin
sent in their little bill, which amounted to something over L400, and
other little bills were sent in. Sir Florian was a man by whom such
bills would certainly be paid, but by whom they would not be paid
without his understanding much and conceiving more as to their
cause and nature. How much he really did understand she was never
quite aware;--but she did know that he detected her in a positive
falsehood. She might certainly have managed the matter better than
she did; and had she admitted everything there might probably have
been but few words about it. She did not, however, understand the
nature of the note she had signed, and thought that simply new bills
would be presented by the jewellers to her husband. She gave a false
account of the transaction, and the lie was detected. I do not
know that she cared very much. As she was utterly devoid of true
tenderness, so also was she devoid of conscience. They went abroad,
however; and by the time the winter was half over in Naples, he knew
what his wife was;--and before the end of the spring he was dead.

She had so far played her game well, and had won her stakes. What
regrets, what remorse she suffered when she knew that he was going
from her,--and then knew that he was gone, who can say? As man is
never strong enough to take unmixed delight in good, so may we
presume also that he cannot be quite so weak as to find perfect
satisfaction in evil. There must have been qualms as she looked at
his dying face, soured with the disappointment she had brought upon
him, and listened to the harsh querulous voice that was no longer
eager in the expressions of love. There must have been some pang when
she reflected that the cruel wrong which she had inflicted on him had
probably hurried him to his grave. As a widow, in the first solemnity
of her widowhood, she was wretched and would see no one. Then she
returned to England and shut herself up in a small house at Brighton.
Lady Linlithgow offered to go to her, but she begged that she might
be left to herself. For a few short months the awe arising from the
rapidity with which it had all occurred did afflict her. Twelve
months since she had hardly known the man who was to be her husband.
Now she was a widow,--a widow very richly endowed,--and she bore
beneath her bosom the fruit of her husband's love.

But, even in these early days, friends and enemies did not hesitate
to say that Lizzie Greystock had done very well with herself; for it
was known by all concerned that in the settlements made she had been
treated with unwonted generosity.




CHAPTER II

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 Port