CHAPTER LXV
Tribute
Lizzie put off her journey to Scotland from day to day, though her cousin Frank continually urged upon her the expediency of going. There were various reasons, he said, why she should go. Her child was there, and it was proper that she should be with her child. She was living at present with people whose reputation did not stand high,—and as to whom all manner of evil reports were flying about the town. It was generally thought,—so said Frank,—that that Lord George de Bruce Carruthers had assisted Mr. Benjamin in stealing the diamonds, and Frank himself did not hesitate to express his belief in the accusation. "Oh no, that cannot be," said Lizzie, trembling. But, though she rejected the supposition, she did not reject it very firmly. "And then, you know," continued Lizzie, "I never see him. I have actually only set eyes on him once since the second robbery, and then just for a minute. Of course, I used to know him,—down at Portray,—but now we are strangers." Frank went on with his objections. He declared that the manner in which Mrs. Carbuncle had got up the match between Lucinda Roanoke and Sir Griffin was shameful,—all the world was declaring that it was shameful,—that she had not a penny, that the girl was an adventurer, and that Sir Griffin was an obstinate, pig-headed, ruined idiot. It was expedient on every account that Lizzie should take herself away from that "lot." The answer that Lizzie desired to make was very simple. Let me go as your betrothed bride, and I will start to-morrow,—to Scotland or elsewhere, as you may direct. Let that little affair be settled, and I shall be quite as willing to get out of London as you can be to send me. But I am in such a peck of troubles that something must be settled. And as it seems that after all the police are still astray about the necklace, perhaps I needn't run away from them for a little while even yet. She did not say this. She did not even in so many words make the first proposition. But she did endeavour to make Frank understand that she would obey his dictation if he would earn the right to dictate. He either did not or would not understand her, and then she became angry with him,—or pretended to be angry. "Really, Frank," she said, "you are hardly fair to me."
"In what way am I unfair?"
"You come here and abuse all my friends, and tell me to go here and go there, just as though I were a child. And—and—and—"
"And what, Lizzie?"
"You know what I mean. You are one thing one day, and one another. I hope Miss Lucy Morris was quite well when you last heard from her."
"You have no right to speak to me of Lucy,—at least, not in disparagement."
"You are treating her very badly;—you know that."
"I am."