Full text of "Sir Tom"
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LIBRARY
UNIVERSITY OF
CALIFORNIA
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SIB TO
SIR TOM
BY
MRS. OLIPHAXT
AUTHOR OF i:THE WIZARD'S BON," ; HESTER,' ETC.
ilontJon
MACMILLAN AND CO.
AND NEW YORK
1893
All rights resf
First Edition (3 Vols. Crown Zvo) Sept. 1884
Second Edition (1 Vol. Crown 8vo) 1884
Reprinted {Globe 8vo) 1888, (Crown 8vo) 1893
CONTEXTS.
CHAPTER T.
PAGE
How Sir Tom became a Great Personage . . 1
CHAPTER II.
His Wife 9
CHAPTEE III.
Old Mr. Trevor's Will . . . . 20
CHAPTER IV.
Young Mr. Trevor . ..... 29
CHAPTER V.
Consultations . ... 39
CHAPTER VI.
A Shadow of Coming Events ... .48
CHAPTER VII.
A Warning 58
CHAPTER VIII.
The Shadow of Death . . . . • .67
660
vi CONTENTS.
CHAPTER IX.
PAGE
A Christmas Visit . . . . . . .77
CHAPTER X.
Lucy's Advisers . . . . . . .86
CHAPTER XL
An Innocent Conspiracy . . . . .96
CHAPTER XII.
The First Struggle . . . . . . 105
CHAPTER XIII.
An Idle Morning . . . . . . .115
CHAPTER XIV.
An Unwilling Martyr . . . . . .126
CHAPTER XV.
On Business .... ... 135
CHAPTER XVI.
An Unexpected Arrival . . . . .146
CHAPTER XVII.
Forewarned . . . . . . . .157
CONTEXTS. Vll
CHAPTER XVIII.
PAGE
The Visitor- . . . . . . .167
CHAPTER XIX.
The Opening of the Drama . . . . .179
CHAPTER XX.
An Anxious Critic . . . . • .189
CHAPTER XXI.
An Unexpected Encounter . . . . .200
CHAPTER XXII.
A Pair of Friends . . . . . .211
CHAPTER XXIII.
The Breakfast Table . . . . . .221
CHAPTER XXIV.
The Oracle speak- . . . . . .230
CHAPTER XXV
The Contessa's Boudoir . . • . . .242
CHAPTER XXVI.
The Two Strangers ...... 259
Vlll CONTENTS.
CHAPTER XXVII.
An Adventuress ...... 269
PAGE
CHAPTER XXVIII.
The Serpent and the Dove . . . . .280
CHAPTER XXIX.
The Contessa's Triumph . . . . .291
CHAPTER XXX.
Different Views . . . . . . .301
CHAPTER XXXI.
Two Friends ... .... 311
CHAPTER XXXII.
Youthful Unrest . . . . . . .321
CHAPTER XXXIII.
The Contessa prepares the Way .... 332
CHAPTER XXXIV.
In Suspense ........ 342
CHAPTER XXXV.
The Debut 354
CONTENTS. IX
CHAPTER XXXVI.
PAGE
The Evening After 366
CHAPTER XXXVII.
The Contessa's Tactics . . . . . .37 7
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
Discoveries ........ 388
CHAPTER XXXIX.
Lucy's Discovery . . . . . . .397
CHAPTER XL.
The Dowager's Explanation ..... 409
CHAPTER XLI.
Severed ......•• 417
CHAPTER XLII.
Lady Randolph winds up her Affairs . . .427
CHAPTER XLIII.
The Little House in Mayfair .... 437
CHAPTER XLIV.
The Siege of London . . . . • .448
CONTEXTS.
CHAPTER XLV.
PAOE
The Ball 458
CHAPTER XLVI.
The Ball continued . . . . .469
CHAPTER XLVIL
Next Morning ....••• 480
CHAPTER XLYIII.
The Last Blow ... .491
CHAPTER XLIX.
The Experiences of Bice . . . • .502
CHAPTER L.
The Eve of Sorrow . . . • .514
CHAPTER LI.
The Last Crisis ..••••• 522
CHAPTER LII.
The End ....•••• 538
CHAPTEE I.
HOW SIR TOM BECAME A GREAT PERSONAGE.
Sir Thomas Eaxdolph had lived a somewhat stormy
life during the earliest half of his career. He had gone
through what the French called a jeunesse orageuse ;
nothing very bad had ever been laid to his charge ; but
he had been adventurous, unsettled, a roamer about
the world even after the period at which youthful ex-
travagances cease. Nobody ever knew when or where
he might appear. He set off to the farthest parts of
the earth at a day's notice, sometimes on pretext of
sport, sometimes on no pretext at all, and re-appeared
again as unexpectedly as he had gone away. He had
run out his fortune by these and other extravagances,
and was at forty in one of the most uncomfortable
positions in which a man can find himself, with the
external appearance of large estates and an established
and important position, but in reality with scarcely any
income at all, just enough to satisfy the mortgagees, and
leave himself a pittance not much more than the wages
of a gamekeeper. If his aunt, Lady Eandolph, had not
been so good to him it was uncertain whether he could
have existed at all, and when the heiress, whom an
5 b
2 SIR TOM. [chap.
eccentric will had consigned to her charge, fell in his
way, all her friends concluded as a matter of certainty
that Sir Tom would jump at this extraordinary windfall,
this gift of a too kind Providence, which sometimes
will care for a prodigal in a way which he is quite
unworthy of, while leaving the righteous man to struggle
on unaided. But for some time it appeared as if society
for once was out in its reckoning. Sir Tom did not
pounce upon the heiress. He was a person of very
independent mind, and there were some who thought
he was happier in his untrammelled poverty, doing what
he pleased, than he ever had been as a great proprietor.
Even when it became apparent to the wise and far-
seeing that little Miss Trevor was only waiting till his
handkerchief was thrown at her to become the happiest
of women, still he did nothing. He exasperated his
kind aunt, he made all his friends indignant, and what
was more, he exposed the young heiress hourly to many
attempts on the part of the inferior class, from which
as a matter of fact she herself sprang ; and it was not
until she was driven nearly desperate by those attempts
that Sir Tom suddenly appeared upon the scene, and
moved, it was thought, more by a half-fatherly kindness
and sympathy for her, than either by love or desire of
wealth, took her to himself, and made her his wife, to
the great and grateful satisfaction of the girl herself,
whose strange upbringing and brief introduction into a
higher sphere had spoiled her for that homely country-
town existence in which every woman nattered and
every man made love to her.
Whether Lucy Trevor was in love with him was
as uncertain as whether he was in love with her. So
far as any one knew neither one nor the other had
asked themselves this question. She had, as it were,
I.] HOW SIR TOM BECAME A GREAT PERSONAGE. 3
thrown herself into his arms in sudden delight and
relief of mind when he appeared and saved her from
her suitors ; while he had received her tenderly when
she did this, out of kindness and pleasure in her genuine,
half-childish appreciation of him. There were, of course,
people who said that Lucy had been violently in love
with Sir Tom, and that he had made up his mind to
marry her money from the first moment he saw her ;
but neither of these things was true. They married
with a great deal more pleasure and ease of mind
than many people do who are very much in love.
for they had mutual faith in each other, and felt a
mutual repose and satisfaction in their union. Each
supplied something the other wanted. Lucy obtained
a secure and settled home, a protector and ever kind
and genial guardian, while Sir Tom got not only a good
and dutiful and pleasant companion, with a great deal
of sense, and good-nature and good looks, — all of which
gifts he prized highly, — but at the same time the control
of a great fortune, and money enough at once to clear
his estates and restore him to his position as a great
landowner.
There were very peculiar conditions attached to the
great fortune, but to these for the moment he paid very
little heed, considering them as fantastic follies not
worth thinking about, which were never likely to be-
come difficulties in his way. The advantage he derived
from the marriage was enormous. All at once, at a
bound, it restored him to what he had lost, to the pos-
session of his own property, which had been not more
than nominally his for so many years, and to the posi-
tion of a man of weight and importance, whose opinion
told with all his neighbours and the county generally,
as did those of few others in the district.
4 SIR TOM. [chap.
Sir Tom, the wanderer, had not been thought very
highly of in his younger days. He had been called
wild. He had been thought untrustworthy, a fellow
here to-day and gone to-morrow, who had no solidity
in him. But when the mortgages were all paid off,
and the old hall restored, and Sir Thomas Randolph
came to settle down at home, with his pretty little wife,
and an establishment quite worthy of his name, the
county discovered in a day, almost in a moment, that
he was very much improved. He had always been
clever enough, they said, for anything, and now that he
had sown his wild oats and learned how to conduct
himself, and attained an age when follies are naturally
over, there was no reason why he should not be received
with open arms. Such a man had a great many more
experiences, the county thought with a certain pride,
than other men who had sown no wild oats, and had
never gone farther afield than the recognised round of
European cities. Sir Tom had been in all the four
quarters of the globe ; he had travelled in America
long before it became fashionable to do so, and even
had been in Africa while it was as yet untrod by any
white foot but that of a missionary. And it was
whispered that in the days when he was " wild " he had
penetrated into regions nearer at hand, but more obscure
and mysterious even than Africa. All this made the
county think more of him now when he appeared staid
yet genial, in the fulness of manhood, with a crisp
brown beard and a few gray hairs about his temples
mingled with his abundant locks, and that capability of
paying his way which is dear to every well-regulated
community. But for this last particular the county
would not have been so tolerant, nay almost pleased,
with the fact that he had been " wild." They saw all
I.] HOW SIR TOM BECAME A GREAT PERSONAGE. 5
his qualities in the halo that surrounded the newly-
decorated hall, the liberated farms, the lands upon which
no creditor had now any claim. He was the most
popular man in the district when Parliament was dis-
solved, and he was elected for the county almost without
opposition, he, at whom all the sober people had shaken
their heads only a few years before. The very name
of " Sir Tom," which had been given rather contemptu-
ously to denote a somewhat careless fellow, who minded
nothing, became all at once the sign of popular amity
and kindness. And if it had been necessary to gain
votes for him by any canvassing tricks, this name of his
would have carried away all objections. " Sir Tom !"
it established a sort of affectionate relationship at once
between him and his constituency. The people felt
that they had known him all his life, and had always
called him by his Christian name.
Lady Kandolph was much excited and delighted
with her husband's success. She canvassed for him in
a modest way, making herself pleasant to the wives of
his supporters in a unique manner of her own which
was not perhaps quite dignified considering her position,
but yet was found very captivating by those good
women. She did not condescend to them as other
titled ladies do, but she took their advice about her
baby, and how he was to be managed, with a pretty
humility which made her irresistible. They all felt an
individual interest thenceforward in the heir of the
Randolphs, as if they had some personal concern in
liim ; and Lady Randolph's gentle accost, and the pretty
blush upon her cheeks, and her way of speaking to them
all, " as if they were just as good as she was," had a
wonderful effect. When she received him in the hotel
which was the headquarters of his party, as soon as
6 SIR TOM. [chap.
the result of the election was known, Sir Tom, coming
in flushed with applauses and victory, took his wife
into his arms and kissed her. " I owe this to you, as
well as so much else, Lucy," he said.
" Oh, don't say that ! when you know I don't
understand much, and never can do anything ; but I
am so glad, nobody could be more glad," said Lucy.
Little Tom had been brought in, too, in his nurse's
arms, and crowed and clapped his fat little baby
hands for his father; and when his mother took
him and stepped out upon the balcony, from which
her husband was speaking an impromptu address
to his new constituents, with the child in her arms,
not suspecting that she would be seen, the cheers
and outcries ran into an uproar of applause. " Three
cheers for my lady and the baby," the crowd shouted
at the top of its many voices; and Lucy, blush-
ing and smiling and crying with pleasure, instead
of shrinking away as everybody feared she would do,
stood up in her modest, pretty youthfulness, shy, but
full of sense and courage, and held up the child, who
stared at them all solemnly with big blue eyes, and,
after a moment's consideration, again patted his fat
little hands together, an action which put the multitude
beside itself with delight. Sir Tom's speech did not
make nearly so much impression as the baby's " patti-
cake." Every man in the crowd, not to say every
woman, and with still more reason every child, clapped
his or her hands too, and shouted and laughed and
hurrahed.
The incident of the baby's appearance before the
public, and the early success he had gained — the
earliest on record, the newspapers said — made quite a
sensation throughout the county, and made Farafield
I.] HOW SIR TOM BECAME A GREAT PERSONAGE. 7
famous for a week. It was mentioned in a leading
article in the first newspaper in the world. It ap-
peared in large headlines in the placards under such
titles as " A Baby in Politics," " The Nursery and the
Hustings" and such like. As for the little hero of
the moment, he was handed down to his anxious
nurse just as symptoms of a whimper of fear at the
alarming tumult outside began to appear about the
corners of his mouth. " For heaven's sake take him
away ; he mustn't cry, or he will spoil all," said the
chairman of Sir Tom's committee. And the young
mother, disappearing too into the room behind, sat
down in a great chair behind their backs, and cried to
relieve her feelings. Never had there been such a day.
If Sir Tom had not been the thoroughly good-humoured
man he was, it is possible that he might have objected
to the interruption thus made in his speech, which was
altogether lost in the tumult of delight which followed
his son's appearance. But as a matter of fact he was
as much delighted as any one, and proud as man could
be of his pretty little wife and his splendid boy.
He took " the little beggar," as he called him, in his
arms, and kissed the mother again, soothing and laugh-
ing at her in the tender, kindly, fatherly way which
had won Lucy.
" It is you who have got the seat," he said ; " I
vote that you go and sit in it, Lady Bandolph. You
are a born legislator, and your son is a favourite of
the public, whereas I am only an old fogey."
" Oh, Tom ! " Lucy said, lifting her simple eyes to
his with a mist of happiness in them. She was
accustomed to his nonsense. She never said anything
more than " Oh, Tom ! " and indeed it was not very
long since she had given up the title and ceased to
8 SIR TOM. [chap.
say " Oh, Sir Tom ! " which seemed somehow to come
more natural. It was what she had said when he
came suddenly to see her in the midst of her early
embarrassments and troubles ; when the cry of relief
and delight with which she turned to him, uttering in
her surprise that title of familiarity, " Oh, Sir Tom ! "
had signified first to her middle-aged hero, with the
most flattering simplicity and completeness, that he
had won the girl's pure and inexperienced heart.
There was no happier evening in their lives than
this, when, after all the commotion, threatenings of the
ecstatic crowd to take the horses from their carriage,
and other follies, they got off at last together and drove
home through roads that wound among the autumn
fields, on some of which the golden sheaves were still
standing in the sunshine. Sir Tom held Lucy's hand
in his own. He had told her a dozen times over that
he owed it all to her.
" You have made me rich, and you have made me
happy," he said, " though I am old enough to be your
father, and you are only a little girl. If there is any
good to come out of me, it will all be to your credit,
Lucy. They say in story books that a man should be
ashamed to own so much to his wife, but I am not
the least ashamed."
" Oh, Tom ! " she said, " how can you talk so
much nonsense," with a laugh, and the tears in her
eyes.
" I always did talk nonsense," he said ; " that was
why you got to like me. But this is excellent sense
and quite true. And that little beggar ; I am owing
you for him, too. There is no end to my indebted-
ness. When they put the return in the papers it
should be Sir Thomas Eandolph, etc., returned as re-
a.] HIS WIFE. 9
preservative of his wife, Lucy, a little woman worth as
much as any county in England."
" 0, Sir Tom/' Lucy cried.
" Well, so you are, my dear," he said, composedly.
" That is a mere matter of fact, you know, and there
can be no question about it at all."
For the truth was that she was so rich as to have
been called the greatest heiress in England in her
day.
CHAPTEE II.
HIS WIFE.
Young Lady Eandolph had herself been much
changed by the progress of these years. Marriage is
always the great touchstone of character at least with
women ; but in her case the change from a troubled
and premature independence, full of responsibilities
and an extremely difficult and arduous duty, to the
protection and calm of early married life, in which
everything was done for her, and all her burdens taken
from her shoulders, rather arrested than aided in the
development of her character. She had lived six
months with the Dowager Lady Eandolph after her
father's death ; but those six months had been all she
knew of the larger existence of the wealthy and great.
All she knew — and even in that short period she had
learned less than she might have been expected to learn ;
for Lucy had not been introduced into society, partly
on account of her very youthful age, and partly because
she was still in mourning, so that her acquaintance
with life on the higher line consisted merely in a know-
10 SIR TOM. [chap.
ledge of certain simple luxuries, of larger rooms and
prettier furniture, and more careful service than in her
natural condition. And by birth she belonged to the
class of small townsfolk who are nobody, and whose
gentility is more appalling than their homeliness. So
that when she came to be Sir Thomas Eandolph's wife
and a great lady, not merely the ward of an important
personage, but herself occupying that position, the change
was so wonderful that it required all Lucy's mental
resources to encounter and accustom herself to it.
Sir Tom was the kindest of middle-aged husbands.
If he did not adore his young wife with the fervour of
passion, he had a sincere affection for her, and the
warmest desire to make her happy. She had done a
great deal for him, she had changed his position un-
speakably, and he was fully determined that no lady
in England should have more observance, more honour
and luxury, and what was better, more happiness, than
the little girl who had made a man of him. There
had always been a sweet and serious simplicity about
her, an air of good sense and reasonableness, which
had attracted everybody whose opinion was worth
having to Lucy ; but she was neither beautiful nor
clever. She had been so brought up that, though she
was not badly educated, she had no accomplishments,
and not more knowledge than falls to the lot of an
ordinary schoolgirl. The farthest extent of her mild
experiences was Sloane Street and Cadogan Place : and
there were people who thought it impossible that Sir
Tom, who had been everywhere, and run through the
entire gamut of pleasures and adventures, should find
anything interesting in this bread-and-butter girl,
whom, of course, it was his duty to marry, and having
married to be kind to. But when he found himself
II.] HIS WIFE. 11
set down in an English country house with this little
piece of simplicity opposite to him, what would he do,
the sympathising spectators said ? Even his kind
aunt, who felt that she had brought about the marriage,
and who, as a matter of fact, had fully intended it
from the first, though she herself liked Lucy, had a
little terror in her soul as she asked herself the same
question. He would fill the house with company and
get over it in that way, was what the most kind and
moderate people thought. But Sir Tom laughed at all
their prognostications. He said afterwards that he had
never known before how pretty it was to know nothing,
and to have seen nothing, when these defects were con-
joined with intelligence and delightful curiosity and
never-failing interest. He declared that he had never
truly enjoyed his own adventures and experiences as he
did when he told them over to his young wife. You
may be sure there were some of them which were not
adapted for Lucy's ears : but these Sir Tom left religi-
ously away in the background. He had been a care-
less liver no doubt, like so many men, but he would
rather have cut off his right hand, as the Scripture
bids, than have soiled Lucy's white soul with an idea, or
an image, that was unworthy of her. She knew him
under all sorts of aspects, but not one that was evil.
Their solitary evenings together were to her more
delightful than any play, and to him nearly as delightful.
When the dinner was over and the cold shut out, she
would wait his appearance in the inner drawing-room,
which she had chosen for her special abode, with some
of the homely cares that had been natural to her
former condition, drawing his chair to the fire, taking
pride in making his coffee for him, and a hundred little
attentions. " Xow begin," she would say, recalling
12 SIR TOM. [chap.
with a child's eager interest and earnest recollection the
point at which he had left off. This was the greater part
of Lucy's education. She travelled with him through
very distant regions, and went through all kinds of
adventure.
And in the season they went to London, where she
made her appearance in society, not perhaps with dclat,
but with a modest composure which delighted him. She
understood then, for the first time, what it was to be
rich, and was amused and pleased — amused above all
by the position which she occupied with the utmost
simplicity. People said it would turn the little crea-
ture's head, but it never even disturbed her imagination.
She took it with a calm that was extraordinary. Thus
her education progressed, and Lucy was so fully occu-
pied with it, with learning her husband and her life
and the world, that she had no time to think of the
responsibilities which once had weighed so heavily upon
her. When now and then they occurred to her and
she made some passing reference to them, there were
so many other things to do that she forgot again — for-
got everything except to be happy and learn and see,
as she had now so many ways of doing. She forgot
herself altogether, and everything that had been hers,
not in excitement, but in the soft absorbing influence
of her new life, which drew her away into endless
novelties and occupations, such as were, indeed, duties
and necessities of her altered sphere.
If this was the case in the first three or four years
of her marriage, when she had only Sir Tom to think
of, you may suppose what it was when the baby came,
to add a hundredfold to the interests of her existence.
Everything else in life, it may be believed, dwindled
into nothing in comparison with this boy of boys — this
II.] HIS WIFE. 13
wonderful infant. There had never been one in the
world like hirn it is unnecessary to say : and everything
was so novel to her, and she felt the importance of
being little Tom's mother so deeply, that her mind was
quite carried away from all other thoughts. She grew
almost beautiful in the light of this new addition to her
happiness. And how happy she was ! The child grew
and throve. He was a splendid boy. His mother did
not sing litanies in his praise in public, for her good
sense never forsook her : but his little being seemed to
fill up her life like a new stream flowing into it, and
she expanded in life, in thought, and in understanding.
She began to see a reason for her own position, and to
believe in it, and take it seriously. She wTas a great
lady, the first in the neighbourhood, and she felt that,
as little Tom's mother, it was natural and befitting that
she should be so. She began to be sensible of ambi-
tion within herself, as well as something that felt like
pride. It was so little like ordinary pride, however,
that Lucy was sorry for everybody who had not all the
noble surroundings which she began to enjoy. She
wTould have liked that every child should have a
nursery like little Tom's, and every mother the same
prospects for her infant, and was charitable and tender
beyond measure to all the mothers and children within
reach on little Tom's account, wThich was an extrava-
gance which her husband did not grudge, but liked and
encouraged, knowing the sentiment from which it sprang.
It was with no view to popularity that the pair thus
endeavoured to diffuse happiness about them, being so
happy themselves ; but it answered the same purpose,
and their popularity was great.
AVhen the county conferred the highest honour in
its power upon Sir Tom, his immediate neighbours in
14 SIR TOM. [chap.
the villages about took the honour as their own, and
rejoiced as, even at a majority or a marriage, they
had never rejoiced before, for so kind a landlord, so
universal a friend, had never been.
The villages were model villages on the Eandolph
lands. Sir Tom and his young wife had gone into
every detail about the labourers' cottages with as much
interest as if they had themselves meant to live in one
of them. There were no such trim gardens or bright
flower-beds to be seen anywhere, and it was well for
the people that the Eector of the parish was judi-
cious, and kept Lady Eandolph's charities within
bounds. There had been no small amount of poverty
and distress among these rustics when the Squire was
poor and absent, when they lived in tumbledown old
houses, which nobody took any interest in, and where
neither decency nor comfort was considered ; but now
little industries sprang up and prospered, and the whole
landscape smiled. A wise landlord with unlimited
sway over his neighbourhood and no rivals in the field
can do so much to increase the comfort of everybody
about him ; and such a small matter can make a poor
household comfortable. Political economists, no doubt,
say it is demoralising : but when it made Lucy happy
and the poor women happy, how could Sir Tom step
in and arrest the genial bounty ? He gave the Eector
a hint to see that she did not go too far, and walked
about with his hands in his pockets and looked on.
All this amused him greatly; even the little ingratitudes
she met with, which went to Lucy's heart, made her
husband laugh. It pleased his satirical vein to see
how human nature displayed itself, and the black sheep
appeared among the white even in a model village.
But as for Lucy, though she Would sometimes cry over
II.] HIS WIFE. 15
these spots upon the general goodness, it satisfied every
wish of her heart to be able to do so much for the
cottagers. They did not, perhaps, stand so much in
awe of her as they ought to have done, but they brought
all their troubles to her with the most perfect and
undoubting confidence.
All this time, however, Lucy, following the dictates
of her own heart, and using what after all was only a
little running over of her great wealth to secure the
comfort of the people round, was neglecting what she
had once thought the great duty of her life as entirely
as if she had been the most selfish of worldly women.
Her life had been so entirely changed — swung, as one
might say, out of one orbit into another — that the bur-
dens of the former existence seemed to have been taken
from her shoulders along with its habits and external cir-
cumstances. Her husband thought of these as little as
herself; yet even he was somewhat surprised to find
that he had no trouble in weaning Lucy from the ex-
travagances of her earlier independence. He had not
expected much trouble, but still it had seemed likely
enough that she would at least propose things that his
stronger sense condemned, and would have to be con-
vinced and persuaded that they were impracticable ;
but nothing of the kind occurred, and when he thought
of it Sir Tom himself was surprised, as also were various
other people who knew what Lucy's obstinacy on the
subject before her marriage had been, and especially the
Dowager Lady Eandolph, who paid her nephew a yearly
visit, and never failed to question Mm on the subject,
" And Lucy ? " she would say. " Lucy never makes
any allusion ? She has dismissed everything from her
mind ? I really think you must be a magician, Tom.
I could not have believed it, after all the trouble she
16 SIR TOM. [chap.
gave us, and all the money she threw away. Those
Russells, you know, that she was so ridiculously liberal
to, they are as bad as ever. That sort of extravagant
giving of money is never successful. But I never
thought you would have got it out of her mind."
" Don't flatter me," he said ; " it is not I that have
got it out of her mind. It is life and all the novelties
in it — and small Tom, who is more of a magician than
I am "
" Oh, the baby ! " said the dowager, with the indif-
ference of a woman who has never had a child, and
cannot conceive why a little sprawling tadpole in long
clothes should make such a difference. " Yes, I sup-
pose that's a novelty," she said, " to be mother of a bit
of a thing like that naturally turns a girl's head. It
is inconceivable the airs they give themselves, as if
there was nothing so wonderful in creation. And so
far as I can see you are just as bad, though you ought
to know better, Tom."
" Oh, just as bad," he said, with his large laugh.
" I never had a share in anything so wonderful. If
you only could see the superiority of this bit of a thing
to all other things about him "
" Oh ! spare me," cried Lady Eandolph the elder,
holding up her hands. " Of course I don't undervalue
the importance of an heir to the property," she said in
a different tone. " I have heard enough about it to be
putty sensible of that."
This the Dowager said with a slight tone of bitter-
ness, which indeed was comprehensible enough : for she
had suffered much in her day from the fact that no
such production had been possible to her. Had it been
so, her nephew who stood by her would not (she could
scarcely help reflecting with some grudge against Pro-
II.] HIS WIFE. 17
vidence) have been the great man he now was, and no
child of his would have mattered to the family. Lady
Eandolph was a very sensible woman, and had long-
been reconciled to the state of affairs, and liked her
nephew, whom she had been the means of providing
for so nobly : and she was glad there was a baby ; still,
for the sake of her own who had never existed, she
resented the self-exaltation of father and mother over
this very common and in no way extraordinary pheno-
menon of a child.
Sir Tom laughed again with a sense of superiority,
which was in itself somewhat ludicrous ; but as nobody
is clear-sighted in their own concerns, he was quite un-
conscious of this. His laugh nettled Lady Eandolph
still more. She said, with a certain disdain in her
tone, —
u And so you think you have sailed triumphantly
over all that difficulty — thanks to your charms and the
baby's, and are going to hear nothing of it any more ? "
Sir Tom felt that he was suddenly pulled up, and
was a little resentful in return.
" I hope," he said, "that is, I do more than hope, I
feel convinced, that my wife, who has great sense, has
outgrown that nonsense, and that she has sufficient
confidence in me to leave her business matters in my
hands."
Lady Eandolph shook her head.
" Outgrown nonsense — at three and twenty ? " she
said. " Don't you think that's premature ? and, my dear
boy, take my word for it, a woman when she has the
power, likes to keep the control of her own business
just as well as a man does. I advise you not to holloa
till you are out of the wood."
" I don't expect to have any occasion to holloa ;
c
18 SIR TOM. [chap.
there is no wood for that matter ; Lucy, though perhaps
you may not think it, is one of the most reasonable of
creatures."
" She is everything that is nice and good," said the
Dowager, " but how about the will ? Lucy may be
reasonable, but that is not. And she cannot forget it
always."
" Pshaw ! The will is a piece of folly," cried Sir
Tom. He grew red at the very thought with irritation
and opposition. " I believe the old man was mad.
Nothing else could excuse such imbecility. Happily
there is no question of the will."
" But there must be, some time or other."
" I see no occasion for it," said Sir Tom coldly ; and
as his aunt was a reasonable woman, she did not push
the matter any farther. But if the truth must be told
this sensible old lady contemplated the great happiness of
these young people with a sort of interested and alarmed
spectatorship (for she wished them nothing but good),
watching and wondering when the explosion would come
which might in all probability shatter it to ruins. For
she felt thoroughly convinced in her own mind that
Lucy would not always forget the conditions by which
she held her fortune, and that all the reason and good
sense in the world would not convince her that it was
right to ignore and baulk her father's intentions, as
conveyed with great solemnity in his will. And when
the question should come to be raised, Lady Randolph
felt that it would be no trifling one. Lucy was very
simple and sweet, but when her conscience spoke even
the influence of Sir Tom would not suffice to silence it.
She was a girl who would stand to what she felt to be
right if all the world and even her husband were against
her — and the Dowager, who wished them no harm, felt
II.] HIS WIFE. 19
a little alarmed as to the issue. Sir Tom was not a
man easy to manage, and the reddening of his usually
smiling countenance at the mere suggestion of the sub-
ject was very ominous. It would be better, far better,
for Lucy if she would yield at once and say nothing
about it. But that was not what it was natural for
her to do. She would stand by her duty to her father,
just as, were it assailed, she would stand by her duty
to her husband ; but she would never be got to under-
stand that the second cancelled the first. The Dowager
Lady Eandolph watched the young household with
something of the interest with which a playgoer watches
the stage. She felt sure that the explosion would come,
and that a breath, a touch, might bring it on at any
moment ; and then what was to be the issue ? Would
Lucy yield ? would Lucy conquer ? or would the easy
temper with which everybody credited Sir Tom support
this trial ? The old lady, who knew him so well, be-
lieved that there was a certain fiery element below,
and she trembled for the peace of the household which
was so happy and triumphant, and had no fear what-
ever for itself. She thought of " the torrent's smooth-
ness ere it dash below," of the calm that precedes a
storm, and many other such images, and so frightened
did she become at the dangers she had conjured up
that she put the will hurriedly out of her thoughts, as
Sir Tom had done, and would think no more of it.
"Sufficient," she said to herself, " is the evil to the
day."
In the meantime, the married pair smiled serenely
at any doubts of their perfect union, and Lucy felt a
great satisfaction in showing her husband's aunt (who
had not thought her good enough for Sir Tom, notwith-
standing that she so warmly promoted the match) how
20 SIR TOM. [chap.
satisfied lie was with his home, and how exultant in
his heir.
In the following chapters the reader will discover
what was the cause which made the Dowager shake
her head when she got into the carriage to drive to the
railway at the termination of her visit. It was all
very pretty and very delightful, and thoroughly satis-
factory ; but still Lady Eandolph, the elder, shook her
experienced head.
CHAPTEE III.
OLD MR. TREVOR'S WILL.
Lucy Trevor, when she married Sir Thomas Eandolph,
was the heiress of so great a fortune that no one ven-
tured to state it in words or figures. She was not old
enough, indeed, to have the entire control of it in her
hands, but she had unlimited control over a portion of
it in a certain sense, not for her own advantage, but for
the aggrandisement of others. Her father, who was
eccentric and full of notions, had so settled it that a
large portion of the money should eventually return, as
he phrased it, to the people from whom it had come,
and this not in the way of public charities and institu-
tions, as is the common idea in such cases, but by
private and individual aid to struggling persons and
families. Lucy, who was then all conscience and de-
votion to the difficult yet exciting duty which her
father had left to her to do, had made a beginning of
this extraordinary work before her marriage, resisting
all the arguments that were brought to bear upon her
in.] old mb. trevor's will. 21
as to the folly of the will, and the impossibility of
carrying it out. It is likely, indeed, that the trustees
and guardians would have taken steps at once to have
old Trevor's will set aside but for the fact that Lucy
had a brother, who in that case would divide the inheri-
tance with her, but who was specially excluded by the
will, as being a son of Mr. Trevor's second wife, and
entirely unconnected with the source from which the
fortune came. It was Lucy's mother who had brought
it into the family, although she was not herself aware
of its magnitude, and did not live long enough to have
any enjoyment of it, Xeither did old Trevor himself
have any enjoyment of it, save in the making of the
will by which he laid down exactly his regulations for
its final disposal. In any case Lucy was to retain the
half, which was of itself a great sum ; but the condition
of her inheritance, and indeed the occupation of her
life, according to her father's intention, was that she
should select suitable persons to whom to distribute
the other half of her fortune. It is needless to say
that this commission had seriously occupied the
thoughts of the serious girl who, without any sense
of personal importance, found herself thus placed in
the position of an official bestower of fortune, having
it in her power to confer comfort, independence, and
even wealth ; for she was left almost entirely unre-
stricted as to her disposition of the money, and might
at her pleasure confer a very large sum upon a favour-
ite. Everybody who had ever heard of old Trevor's
will considered it the very maddest upon record, and
there were many who congratulated themselves that
Lucy's husband, if she was so lucky as to marry a man
of sense, would certainly put a stop to it — or even that
Lucy herself, when she came to years of serious judg-
22 SIR TOM. [chap.
ment, would see the folly ; for there was no stipulation
as to the time at which the distributions should be
made, these, as well as the selection of the objects of
her bounty, being left to herself. She had been very
full of this strange duty before her marriage, and had
selected several persons who, as it turned out, did but
little credit to her choice, almost forcing her will upon
the reluctant trustees, who had no power to hinder her
from carrying it out, and whose efforts at reasoning
with her had been totally unsuccessful. In these early
proceedings Sir Tom, who was intensely amused by
the oddity of the business altogether, and who had then
formed no idea of appropriating her and her money to
himself, gave her a delighted support.
He had never in his life encountered anything which
amused him so much, and his only regret was that he
had not known the absurd but high-minded old English
Quixote who, wiser in his generation than that noble
knight, left it to his heir to redress the wrongs of the
world, while he himself had the pleasure of the antici-
pation only, not perhaps unmixed with a malicious
sense of all the confusions and exhibitions of the weak-
ness of humanity it would produce. Sir Tom himself
had humour enough to appreciate the philosophy of the
old humorist, and the droll spectator position which
he had evidently chosen for himself, as though he could
somehow see and enjoy all the struggles of self-interest
raised by his will, with one of those curious self-delu-
sions which so often seem to actuate the dying. Sir
Tom, however, had thought it little more than a folly
even at the moment when it had amused him the most.
He had thought that in time Lucy would come to see
how ridiculous it was, and would tacitly, without say-
ing anything, give it up, so sensible a girl being sure
in.] OLD MR. TREVOR'S WILL. 23
in the long run to see how entirely unsuited to modern
times and habits such a disposition was. And had she
done so, there was nobody who was likely to awaken
her to a sense of her duty. Her trustees, who con-
sidered old Trevor mad, and Lucy a fool to humour
him, would certainly make no objection ; and little
Jock, the little brother to whom Lucy was everything
in the world, was still less likely to interfere. "When
it came about that Lucy herself, and her fortune, and
all her rights, were in Sir Tom's own hands, he was
naturally more and more sure that this foolish will
(after giving him a great deal of amusement, and per-
haps producing a supernatural chuckle, if such an ex-
pression of feeling is possible in the spiritual region
where old Trevor might be supposed to be) would be
henceforward like a testament in black letter, voided
by good sense and better knowledge and time, the
most certain agency of all. And his conviction had
been more than carried out in the first years of his
married life. Lucy forgot what was required of her.
She thought no more of her father's will. It glided
away into the unseen along with so many other things,
extravagances, or if not extravagances, still phantasies
of youth. She found enough in her new- life — in her
husband, her baby, and the humble community which
looked up to her and claimed everything from her — to
occupy both her mind and her hands. Life seemed to
be so full that there was no time for more.
It had been no doing of Sir Tom's that little Jock,
the brother who had been Lucy's child, her Mentor, her
counsellor and guide, had been separated from her for so
long. Jock had been sent to school with his own entire
concurrence and control. He was a little philosopher
with a mind beyond his years, and he had seemed to
24 SIR TOM. [chap.
understand, fully, without any childish objection, the
reason why he should be separated from her, and even
why it was necessary to give up the hope of visiting his
sister. The first year it was because she was absent on
her prolonged wedding tour : the next because Jock was
himself away on a long and delightful expedition with
a tutor, who had taken a special fancy to him. After-
wards the baby was expected, and all exciting visits
and visitors were given up. They had met in the
interval. Lucy had visited Jock at his school, and he
had been with them in London on several occasions.
But there had been little possibility of anything like
their old intercourse. Perhaps they could never again
be to each other what they had been when these two
young creatures, strangely separated from all about
them, had been alone in the world, having entire and
perfect confidence in each other. They both looked
back upon these bygone times with a sort of regretful
consciousness of the difference ; but Lucy was very
happy in her new life, and Jock was a perfectly natural
boy, given to no sentimentalities, not jealous, and
enjoying his existence too completely to sigh for the
time when he was a quaint old-fashioned child, and
knew no life apart from his sister.
Their intercourse then had been so pretty, so tender
and touching ; the child being at once his sister's
charge and her superior in his old-fashioned reflective-
ness, her pupil and her teacher, the little judge of
whose opinions she stood in awe, while at the same
time quite subject and submissive to her — that it was
a pity it should ever come to an end; but it is a pity, too,
when children grow up, when they grow out of all the
softness and keen impressions of youth into the harder
stuff of man and woman. To their parents it is a
in.] old mr trevor's will. 25
change which has often little to recommend it — but it
is inevitable, as we all know ; and so it was a pity that
Lucy and Jock were no longer all in all to each other ;
but the change was in their case, too, inevitable, and
accepted by both. When, however, the time came
that Jock was to arrive really on his first long visit
at the Hall, Lucy prepared for this event with a little
excitement, with a lighting up of her eyes and counte-
nance, and a pleasant warmth of anticipation in which
even little Tom was for the moment set aside. She
asked her husband a dozen times in the previous day
if he thought the boy would be altered. " I know he
must be taller and all that," Lucy said. " I do not
mean the outside of him. But do you think he will
be changed ? "
" It is to be hoped so," said Sir Tom, serenely. " He
is sixteen. I trust he is not what he was at ten. That
would be a sad business, indeed "
" Oh, Tom, you know that's not what I mean ! — of
course he has grown older ; but lie always was very
old for his age. He has become a real boy now. Per-
haps in some things he will seem younger too."
" I always said you were very reasonable," said her
husband, admiringly. "That is just what I wanted
you to be prepared for — not a wise little old man as
he was when he had the charge of your soul, Lucy."
She smiled at him, shaking her head. " What ridi-
culous things you say. But Jock was always the wise
one. He knew much better than I did. He did take
care of me whatever you may think, though he was
such a child."
" Perhaps it was as well that he did not continue
to take care of you. On the whole, though I have no
such lofty views, I am a better guide."
26 SIR TOM. [chap.
Lucy looked at him once more without replying for
a moment. Was her mind ever crossed by the idea
that there were perhaps certain particulars in which
little Jock was the best guide ? If so the blasphemy
was involuntary. She shook it off with a little move-
ment of her head, and met his glance with her usual
serene confidence. " You ought to be," she said, " Tom ;
but you liked him always. Didn't you like him ? I
always thought so ; and you will like him now ? "
" I hope so," said Sir Tom.
Then a slight gleam of anxiety came into Lucy's
eyes. This seemed the only shape in which evil could
come to her, and with one of those fore warnings of
Nature always prone to alarm, which come when we
are most happy, she looked wistfully at her husband,
saying nothing, but with an anxious question and prayer
combined in her look. He smiled at her, laying his
hand upon her head, which was one of his caressing
ways, for Lucy, not an imposing person in any parti-
cular, was short, and Sir Tom was tall.
" Does that frighten you, Lucy ? I shall like him
for your sake, if not for his own, never fear."
" That is kind," she said, " but I want you to like
him for his own sake. Indeed, I should like you if
you would, Tom," she added almost timidly, " to like
him for your own. Perhaps you think that is presum-
ing, as if he, a little boy, could be anything to you ;
but I almost think that is the only real way — if you
know what I mean."
" Now this is humbling," said Sir Tom, " that one's
wife should consider one too dull to know what she
means. You are quite right, and a complete philo-
sopher, Lucy. I will like the boy for my own sake.
I always did like him, as you say. He was the quaintest
in.] old me. treyor's will. 27
little beggar, an old man and a child in one. But it
would have been bad for him had yon kept on cultivat-
ing him in that sort of hot-house atmosphere. It was
well for Jock, whatever it might be for you, that I
arrived in time."
Lucy pondered for a little without answering ; and
then she said, " Why should it be considered so neces-
sary for a boy to be sent away from home ?"
" Why !" cried Sir Tom, in astonishment ; and then
he added, laughingly, " It shows your ignorance, Lucy,
to ask such a question. He must be sent to school,
and there is an end of it. There are some things that
are like axioms in Euclid, though you don't know very
much about that — they are made to be acted upon, not
to be discussed. A boy must go to school."
"But why?" said Lucy undaunted. "That is no
answer." She was untrammelled by any respect for
Euclid, and would have freely questioned the infalli-
bility of an axiom, with a courage such as only igno-
rance possesses. She was thinking not only of Jock,
but had an eye to distant contingencies, when there
might be question of a still more precious boy. " God,"
she said, reverentially, " must have meant surely that
the father and mother should have something to do in
bringing them up."
" In the holidays, my dear," said Sir Tom ; " that
is what we are made for. Have you never found that
out?"
Lucy never felt perfectly sure whether he was in
jest or earnest. She looked at him again to see what
he meant — which was not very easy, for Sir Tom meant
two things directly opposed to each other. He meant
what he said, and yet said what he knew was nonsense,
and laughed at himself inwardly with a keen recogni-
28 SIR TOM. [chap.
tion of this fact. Notwithstanding, he was as much
determined to act upon it as if it had been the most
certain truth, and in a way pinned his faith to it as
such.
" I suppose you are laughing," said Lucy, " and I
wish you would not, because it is so important. I am
sure we are not meant only for the holidays, and you
don't really think so, Tom ; and to take a child away
from his natural teachers, and those that love him best
in the world, to throw him among strangers ! Oh, I
cannot think that is the best way, whatever Euclid may
make you think."
At this Sir Tom laughed, as he generally did, though
never disres23ectfully, at Lucy's decisions. He said,
" That is a very just expression, my dear, though Euclid
never made us think so much as he ought to have done.
You are thinking of that little beggar. Wait till he
is out of long clothes."
" Which shows all you know about it. He was
shortcoated at the proper time, I hope," said Lucy, with
some indignation, " do you call these long clothes ? "
These were garments which showed when he sprawled,
as he always did, a great deal of little Tom's person,
and as his mother was at that time holding him by
them, while he " felt his feet," upon the carpet, the
spectacle of two little dimpled knees without any cover-
ing at all triumphantly proved her right. Sir Tom
threw himself upon the carpet to kiss those sturdy, yet
wavering little limbs, which were not quite under the
guidance of Tommy's will as yet, and taking the child
from his mother, propped it up against his own person.
'• For the present, I allow that fathers and mothers are
the best," he said.
Lucy stood and gazed at them in that ecstasy of
iv.] YOUNG MR TREVOR. 29
love and pleasure with which a young mother beholds
her husband's adoration for their child. Though she
feels it to be the highest pride and crown of their joint
existence, yet there is always in her mind a sense of
admiration and gratitude for his devotion. She looked
down upon them at her feet, with eyes running over
with happiness. It is to be feared that at such a mo-
ment Lucy forgot even Jock, the little brother who had
been as a child to her in her earlier days ; and yet
there was no want of love for Jock in her warm and
constant heart.
CHAPTEE IV.
YOUNG ME. TREVOE.
Johx Teevoe, otherwise Jock, arrived at the Hall in
a state of considerable though suppressed excitement.
It was not in his nature to show the feelings which were
most profound and strongest in his nature, even if the
religion of an English public school boy had not for-
bidden demonstration. But he had very strong feelings
underneath his calm exterior, and the approach to Lucy's
home gave him many thoughts. The sense of separa-
tion which had once affected him with a deep though
unspoken sentiment had passed away long ago into a
faint grudge, a feeling of something lost — but between
ten and sixteen one does not brood upon a grievance,
especially when one is surrounded by everything that
can make one happy ; and there was a certain innate
philosophy in the miud of Jock which enabled him to
see the justice and necessity of the separation. He it
was who in very early days had ordained his own going
30 SIR TOM. [chap.
to school with a realisation of the need of it which is
not usually given to his age — and he had understood
without any explanation and without any complaint
that Lucy must live her own life, and that their con-
stant brother and sister fellowship became impossible
when she married. The curious little solemn boy, who
had made so many shrewd guesses at the ways of life
while he was still only a child, accepted this without a
word, working it out in his own silent soul ; but never-
theless it had affected him deeply. And when the time
came at last for a real meeting, not a week's visit in
town where she was fully occupied, and he did not well
know what to do with himself — or a hurried rapid
meeting at school, where Jock's pride in introducing his
tutor to his sister was a somewhat imperfect set-off to
the loss of personal advantage to himself in thus seeing
Lucy always in the company of other people — his being
was greatly moved with diverse thoughts. Lucy was
all he had in the world to represent the homes, the
fathers and mothers and sisters and brothers of his
companions. The old time when they had been all in
all to each other had a more delicate beauty than the
ordinary glow of childhood. He thought there was
nobody like her, with that mingled adoration and
affectionate contempt which make up a boy's love for
the women belonging to him. She was not clever: but he
regarded the simplicity of her mind with pride. This
seemed to give her her crowning charm. " Any fellow
can be clever," Jock said to himself. It was part of
Lucy's superiority that she was not so. He arrived at
the railway station at Farafield with much excitement
in his mind, though his looks were quiet enough. The
place, though it was the first he had ever known, did
not attract a thought from the other and more im-
iv.] YOUXG MR. TREVOR. 31
portant meeting. It was a wet day in August, and
the coachman who had been sent for him gave him
a note to say that Lucy would have come to meet
him but for the rain. He was rather glad of the rain,
this being the case. He did not want to meet her
on a railway platform — he even regretted the long
stretches of the stubble fields as he whirled past, and
wished that the way had been longer, though he was
so anxious to see her. And when he jumped down at
the oreat door of the hall and found himself in the
embrace of his sister, the youth was thrilling with
excitement, hope, and pleasure. Lucy had changed
much less than he had. Jock, who had been the smallest
of pale-faced boys, was now long and weedy, with limbs
and fingers of portentous length. His hair was light
and limp ; his large eyes, well set in his head, had a
vague and often dreamy look. It was impossible to
call him a handsome boy. There was an entire want
of colour about him, as there had been about Lucy in
her first youth, and his gray morning clothes, like the
little gray dress she had worn as a young girl, were not
very becoming to him. They had been so long apart
that he met her very shyly, with an awkwardness that
almost looked like reluctance, and for the first hour
scarcely knew what to say to her, so full was he of the
wonder and pleasure of being by her, and the impossi-
bility of expressing this. She asked him about his
journey, and he made the usual replies, scarcely know-
ing what he said, but looking at her with a suppressed
beatitude which made Jock dull in the very intensity
of his feeling. The rain came steadily down outside,
shutting them in as with veils of falling water. Sir
Tom, in order to leave them entirely free to have their
first meeting over, had taken himself off for the day,
32 SIR TOM. [oh a p.
Lucy took her young brother into the inner drawing-room,
the centre of her own life. She made him sit down in a
luxurious chair, and stood over him gazing at the boy,
who was abashed and did not know what to say. " You
are different, Jock. It is not that you are taller and
bigger altogether, but you are different. I suppose so
am I."
" Not much," he said, looking shyly at her. " You
couldn't change."
" How so ? " she asked with a laugh. " I am such
a great deal older I ought to look wiser. Let me see
what it is. Your eyes have grown darker, I think,
and your face is longer, Jock ; and what is that ? a
little down, actually, upon your upper lip. Jock, not
a moustache ! "
Jock blushed with pleasure and embarrassment,
and put up his hand fondly to feel those few soft hairs.
" There isn't very much of it," he said.
" Oh, there is enough to swear by ; and you like
school as well as ever ? and MTutor, how is he ? Are
you as fond of him as you used to be, Jock ? "
"You don't say you're fond of him," said Jock,
"but he's just as jolly as ever, if that is what you
mean."
" That is what I mean, I suppose. You must tell
me when I say anything wrong," said Lucy. She took
his head between her hands and gave him a kiss upon
his forehead. " I am so glad to see you here at last,"
she said.
And then there was a pause. Her first little over-
flow of questions had come to an end, and she did not
exactly know what to say, while Jock sat silent, star-
ing at her with an earnest gaze. It was all so strange,
the scene and surroundings, and Lucy in the midst,
iv.] YOUNG- ME. TEEVOE. 33
who was a great lady, instead of being merely his
sister — a]l these confused the boy's faculties. He
wanted time to realise it all. But Lucy, for her part,
felt the faintest little touch of disappointment. It
seemed to her as if they ought to have had so much
to say to each other, such a rush of questions and
answers, and full - hearted confidence. Jock's heart
would be at his lips, she thought, ready to rush forth —
and her own also, with all the many things of which
she had said to herself : " I must tell that to Jock."
But as a matter of fact, many of these things had been
told by letter, and the rest would have been quite out of
place in the moment of reunion, in which indeed it
seemed inappropriate to introduce any subject other
than their pleasure in seeing each other again, and
those personal inquiries which we all so long to make
face to face when we are separated from those near to
us, yet which are so little capable of filling all the
needs of the situation when that moment comes.
Jock was indeed showing his happiness much more
by his expressive silence and shy eager gaze at her
than if he had plunged into immediate talk ; but Lucy
felt a little disappointed, and as if the meeting had not
come up to her hopes. She said, after a pause which
was almost awkward, " You would like to see baby,
Jock ? How strange that you should not know baby !
I wonder what you will think of him." She rose and
rang the bell while she was speaking in a pleasant
stir of fresh expectation. No doubt it would stir Jock
to the depths of his heart, and bring out all his latent
feeling, when he saw Lucy's boy. Little Tom was
brought in state to see " his uncle," a title of dignity
which the nurse felt indignantly disappointed to have
bestowed upon the lanky, colourless boy who got up
D
34 SIR TOM. [chap.
with great embarrassment and came forward reluc-
tantly to see the creature quite unknown and unreal-
ised, of whom Lucy spoke with so much exultation.
Jock was not jealous, but he thought it rather odd
that " a little thing like that " should excite so much
attention. It seemed to him that it was a thing all
legs and arms, sprawling in every direction, and when
it seized Lucy by the hair, pulling it about her face
with the most riotous freedom, Jock felt deeply dis-
posed to box its ears. But Lucy was delighted. " Oh,
naughty baby ! " she said, with a voice of such admira-
tion and ecstasy as the finest poetry, Jock reflected,
would never have awoke in her ; and when the thing
"loved" her, at its nurse's bidding, clasping its fat
arms round her neck, and applying a wide-open wet
mouth to her cheek, the tears were in her eyes for
very pleasure. "Baby, darling, that is your uncle;
won't you go to your uncle ? Take him, Jock. If he
is a little shy at first he will soon get used to you,"
Lucy cried. To see Jock holding back on one side,
and the baby on the other, which strenuously refused
to go to its uncle, was as good as a play.
" I'm afraid I should let it fall," said Jock, " I don't
know anything about babies."
"Then sit clown, dear, and I will put him upon
your lap," said the young mother. There never was
a more complete picture of wretchedness than poor
Jock, as he placed himself unwillingly on the sofa
with his knees put firmly together and his feet
slanting outwards to support them. " I sha'n't know
what to do with it," he said. It is to be feared that
he resented its existence altogether. It was to him
a quite unnecessary addition. Was he never to see
Lucy any more without that thing clinging to her?
iv.] YOUNG ME. TEEVOE. 35
Little Tom, for his part, was equally decided in his
sentiments. He put his little fists, which were by no
means without force, against his uncle's face, and
pushed him away, with squalls that would have exas-
perated Job : and then, instead of consoling Jock,
Lucy took the little demon to her arms and soothed
him. "Did they want it to make friends against its
will," Lucy was so ridiculous as to say, like one of the
women in Punch, petting and smoothing down that
odious little creature. Both she and the nurse seemed
to think that it was the baby who wanted consoling
for the appearance of Jock, and not Jock who had been
insulted ; for one does not like even a baby to con-
sider one as repulsive and disagreeable. The incident
was scarcely at an end when Sir Tom came in, fresh,
smiling, and damp from the farm, where he had been
inspecting the cattle and enjoying himself. Mature
age and settled life and a sense of property had con-
verted Sir Tom to the pleasure of farming. He shook
Jock heartily by the hand, and clapped him on the
back, and bade him welcome with great kindness.
Then he took " the little beggar " on his shoulder and
carried him, shrieking with delight, about the room.
It seemed • a very strange thing to Jock to see how
entirely these two full-grown people gave themselves up
to the deification of this child. It was not bringing
themselves to his level, it was looking up to him as their
superior. If he had been a king his careless favours
could not have been more keenly contended for. Jock,
who was fond of poetry and philosophy and many other
fine things, looked on at this new mystery with wonder-
ing and indignant contempt. After dinner there was
the baby again. It was allowed to stay out of bed
longer than usual in honour of its uncle, and dinner
36 SIR TOM. [chap.
was hurried over, Jock thought, in order that it might
be produced, decked out in a sash almost as broad as
its person. When it appeared rational conversation
was at an end. Sir Tom, whom Jock had always re-
spected highly, stopped the inquiries he was making,
with all the knowledge and pleasure' of an old school-
boy, into school life, comparing his own experiences
with those of the present generation — to play bo-peep
behind Lucy's shoulder with the baby. Bo-peep ! a
Member of Parliament, a fellow who had been at the
University, who had travelled, who had seen America
and gone through the Desert ! There was consternation
in the astonishment with which Jock looked on at
this unlooked-for, almost incredible, exhibition. It
was ridiculous in Lucy, but in Sir Tom !
" I suppose we were all like that one time ? " he
said, trying to be philosophical, as little Tom at last,
half smothered with kisses, was carried away.
" Like that — do you mean like baby ? You were
a little darling, dear, and I was always very, very fond
of you," said Lucy, giving him the kindest look of her
soft eyes. " But you were not a beauty, like my boy."
Sir Tom had laughed, with something of the same
sentiment very evident in his mirth, when Lucy spoke.
He put out his hand and patted his young brother-
in-law on the shoulder. " It is absurd," he said, " to
put that little beggar in the foreground when we have
somebody here who is in Sixth form at sixteen, and
is captain of his house, and has got a school prize
already. If Lucy does not appreciate all that, I do,
Jock, and the best I can wish for Tommy is that he
should have done as much at your age."
" Oh, I was not thinking of that," said Jock with a
violent blush.
iv.] YOUNG MB. TREVOR. 37
" Of course he was not/' said Lucy calmly, " for he
always had the kindest heart though he was so clever.
If you think I don't appreciate it as you say, Torn, it
is only because I knew it all the time. Do you think
I am surprised that Jock has beaten everybody ? He
was like that when he was six, before he had any
education. And he will be just as proud of baby as
we are when he knows him. He is a little strange
at first," said Lucy, beaming upon her brother ; " but
as soon as he is used to you, he will go to you just
as he does to me."
To this Jock could not reply by betraying the shiver
that went over him at the thought, but it gave great
occupation to his mind to make out how a little thine
like that could attain, as it had done, such empire over
the minds of two sensible people. He consulted MTutor
on the subject by letter, who was his great referee on
difficult subjects, and he could not help betraying his
wonder to the household as he grewmore familiar and the
days went on. "He can't do anything for you," Jock said.
" He can't talk ; he doesn't know anything about — well,
about books : I know that's more my line than yours,
Lucy — but about anything. Oh ! you needn't flare up.
"When he dabs his mouth at you all wet "
" Oh ! you little wretch, you infidel, you savage,"
Lucy cried ; " his sweet mouth ! and a dear big wet
kiss that lets you know he means it."
Jock looked at her as he had done often in the old
days, with mingled admiration and contempt. It was
like Lucy, and yet how odd it was. " I suppose, then,"
he said, " I was rather worse than that when you took
me up and were good to me. What for, I wonder ?
and you were fond of me, too, although you are fonder
of it "
38 SIR TOM. [chap.
" If you talk of It again I will never speak to you
more," Lucy said, " as if my beautiful boy was a thing
and not a person. He is not It : lie is Tom, lie is Mr.
Eandolph : that is what Williams calls him." Williams
was the butler who had been all over the world with
Sir Tom, and who was respectful of the heir, but a
little impatient and surprised, as Jock was, of the fuss
that was made about Tommy for his own small sake.
By this time, however, Jock had recovered from his
shyness — his difficulty in talking, all the little mist
that absence had made — and roamed about after Lucy,
hanging upon her, putting his arm through hers, though
he was much the taller, wherever she went. He held
her back a little now as they walked through the
park in a sort of procession, Mrs. Eichens, the nurse,
going first with the boy. " When I was a little
slobbering beast, like " he stopped himself in
time, "like the t'other kind of baby, and nobody
wanted me, you were the only one that took any
trouble."
" How do you know ? " said Lucy ; " you don't re-
member and I don't remember."
" Ah ! but I remember the time in the Terrace,
when I lay on the rug, and heard papa making his
will over my head. I was listening for you all the
time. I was thinking of nothing but your step coming
to take me out."
" Nonsense ! " said Lucy, " you were deep in your
books, and thinking of them only ; of that — gentleman
with the windmills — or Shakspeare, or some other
nonsense. Oh, I don't mean Shakspeare is nonsense.
I mean you were thinking of nothing but your books,
and nobody would believe you understood all that at
your age."
V.] CONSULTATIONS. 39
" I did not understand/1 said Jock with a blush.
" I was a little prig. Lucy, how strange it all is, like
a picture one has seen somewhere, or a scene in a play
or a dream ! Sometimes I can remember little bits of
it, just as he used to read it out to old Ford Bits of
it are all in and out of As You Like It, as if Touch-
stone had said them, or Jaques. Poor old papa ! how
particular he was about it all. Are you doing every-
thing he told you, Lucy, in the will ? "
He did not in the least mean it as an alarming
question, as he stooped over, in his awkward way
holding her arm, and looked into her face.
CHAPTER V.
CONSULTATIONS.
Lucy was much startled by her brother's demand.
It struck, however, not her conscience so much as
her recollection, bringing back that past which was
still so near, yet which seemed a world away, in which
she had made so many anxious efforts to carry out her
father's will and considered it the main object of her
life. A young wife who is happy, and upon whom
life smiles, can scarcely help looking back upon the
time when she was a girl with a sense of superiority,
an amused and affectionate contempt for herself.
" How could I be so silly ? " she will say, and laugh,
not without a passing blush. This was not exactly
Lucy's feeling ; but in three years she had, even in
her sheltered and happy position, attained a certain
acquaintance with life, and she saw difficulties which
40 SIR TOM. [chap.
in those former days had not been apparent to her.
When Jock began to recall these reminiscences it seemed
to her as if she saw once more the white commonplace
walls of her father's sitting-room rising about her, and
heard him laying down the law which she had accepted
with such calm. She had seen no difficulty then. She
had not even been surprised by the burden laid upon
her. It had appeared as natural to obey him in
matters which concerned large external interests, and
the well-being of strangers, as it was to fill him out a
cup of tea. But the interval of time, and the change of
position, had made a great difference ; and when Jock
asked, " Are you doing all he told you ? " the question
brought a sudden surging of the blood to her head,
which made a singing in her ears and a giddiness in
her brain. It seemed to place her in front of some-
thing which must interrupt all her life and put a stop
to the even flow of her existence. She caught her
breath. " Doing all he told me ! "
Jock, though lie did not mean it, though he was no
longer her self-appointed guardian and guide, became
to Lucy a monitor, recalling her as to another world.
But the effect though startling was not permanent.
They began to talk it all over, and by dint of famili-
arity the impression wore away. The impression, but
not the talk. It gave the brother and sister just what
they wanted to bring back all the habits of their old
affectionate confidential intercourse, a subject upon
which they could carry on endless discussions and
consultations, which was all their own, like one of
those innocent secrets which children delight in, and
which, with arms entwined and heads close together,
they can carry on endlessly for days together. They
ceased the discussion when Sir Tom appeared, not
v.] CONSULTATIONS. 41
with any fear of him as a disturbing influence, hut
with a tacit understanding that this subject was for
themselves alone. It involved everything ; the past
with all those scenes of their strange childhood, the
homely living, the fantastic possibilities always in the
air, the old dear tender relationship between the two
young creatures who alone belonged to each other.
Lucy almost forgot her present self as she talked, and
they moved about together, the tall boy clinging to
her arm as the little urchin had done, altogether de-
pendent, yet always with a curious leadership, sug-
gesting a thousand things that would not have occurred
to her.
Lucy had no occasion now for the advice which
Jock at eight years old had so freely given her. She
had her husband to lead and advise her. But in this
one matter Sir Tom was put tacitly out of court, and
Jock had his old place. " It does not matter at all
that you have not done anything lately," Jock said ;
" there is plenty of time — and now that I am to spend
all my holidays here, it will be far easier. It was
better not to do things so hastily as you began."
" But, Jock," said Lucy, " we must not deceive our-
selves ; it will be very hard. People who are very
nice do not like to take the money ; and those who are
willing to take it "
" Does the will say the people are to be nice ? "
asked Jock. " Then what does that matter ? The
will is all against reason, Lucy. It is wrong, you
know. Fellows who know political economy would
think we are all mad ; for it just goes against it,
straight."
" That is strange, Jock ; for papa was very economi-
cal. He never could bear waste : he used to say "
42 SIR TOM. [char
" Yes, yes ; but political economy means something
different. It is a science. It means that yon should
sell everything as dear as you can, and buy it as cheap
as you can — and never give anything away "
" That is dreadful, Jock," said Lucy. " It is all
very well to be a science, but nobody like ourselves
could be expected to act upon it — private people, you
know."
" There is something in that," Jock allowed ; " there
are always exceptions. I only want to show you that
the will being all against rule, it must be hard to carry
it out. Don't you do anything by yourself, Lucy.
When you come across any case that is promising, just
you wait till I come, and we'll talk it all over. I
don't quite understand about nice people not taking it.
Fellows I know are always pleased with presents — or
a tip, nobody refuses a tip. And that is just the same
sort of thing, you know."
"Not just the same," said Lucy, "for a tip — that
means a sovereign, doesn't it ? "
" It sometimes means — paper," said Jock, with some
solemnity. " Last time you came to see me at school
Sir Tom gave me a fiver "
" A what ? "
" Oh, a five-pound note," said Jock, with momentary
impatience ; " the other's shorter to say and less fuss.
MTutor thought he had better not ; but I didn't mind.
I don't see why anybody should mind. There's a
fellow I know — his father is a curate, and there are
no end of them, and they've no money. Fellow him-
self is on the foundation, so he doesn't cost much. Why
they shouldn't take a big tip from you, who have too
much, I'm sure I can't tell ; and I don't believe they
would mind," Jock added, after a pause.
v.] CONSULTATIONS. 43
This, which would have inspired Lucy in the days
of her dauntless maidenhood to calculate at once how
much it would take to make this family happy, gave
her a little shudder now.
" I don't feel as if I could do it," she said. " I
wish papa had found an easier way. People don't like
you afterwards when you do that for them. They are
angry — they think, why should I have all that to give
away, a little thing like me ? "
" The easiest way would be an exam.," said Jock.
" Everybody now goes in for exams. ; and if they
passed, they would think they had won the money all
right."
" Perhaps there is something in that, Jock ; but
then it is not for young men. It is for ladies, perhaps,
or old people, or "
" You might let them choose their own subjects,"
said the boy. " A lady might do a good paper about
— servants, or sewing, or that sort of thing ; or house-
keeping— that would be all right, MTutor might look
over the papers "
" Does he know about housekeeping ? "
"He knows about most things," cried Jock, "I
should like to see the thing he didn't know. He is
the best scholar we have got; and he's what you
call an all-round man besides," the boy said with
pride.
"AVhat is an all-round man?" Lucy asked, diffi-
dently. " He is tall and slight, so it cannot mean his
appearance."
" Oh, what a muff you are, Lucy ; you're awfully
nice, but you are a muff. It means a man who knows
a little of everything. MTutor is more than that, he
knows a great deal of everything; indeed, as I was
44 SIR TOM. [chap.
saying," Jock added defiantly, " I should just like to see
the tiling he didn't know."
" And yet he is so nice," said Lucy, with a gentle
air of astonishment.
MTutor was a subject which was endless with Jock,
so that the original topic here glided out of sight as the
exalted gifts of that model of all the virtues became
the theme. This conversation, however, was but one
of many. It was their meeting ground, the matter
upon which they found each other as of old, two beings
separated from the world, which wondered at and did
not understand them. What a curious office it was for
them, two favourites of fortune as they seemed, to dis-
perse and give away the foundation of their own im-
portance ! for Jock owed everything to Lucy, and Lucy,
when she had accomplished this object of her existence,
and carried out her father's will, would no doubt still
be a wealthy woman, but not in any respect the great
personage she was now. This was a view of the matter
which never crossed the minds of these two. Their
strange training had made Lucy less conscious of the
immense personal advantage which her money was to
her than any other could have done. She knew,
indeed, that there was a great difference between her
early home in Farafield and the house in London
where she had lived with Lady Eandolph, and still
more, the Hall which was her home — but she had been
not less but more courted and worshipped in her lowly
estate than in her high one, and her father's curious
philosophy had affected her mind and coloured her per-
ceptions. She had learned, indeed, to know that there
are difficulties in attempting to enact the part of Provi-
dence, and taking upon herself the task of providing
for her fellow- creatures ; but these difficulties had
v.] CONSULTATIONS. 45
nothing to do with the fact that she would herself
suffer by such a dispersion. Perhaps her imagination
was not lively enough to realise this part of the situa-
tion. Jock and she ignored it altogether. As for
Jock, the delight of giving away was strong in him,
and the position was so strange that it fascinated his
boyish imagination. To act such a part as that of
Haroun-al-Easchid in real life, and change the whole
life of whatsoever poor cobbler or fruit-seller attracted
him, was a vision of fairyland such as Jock had not
yet outgrown. But the chief thing that he impressed
on his sister was the necessity of doing nothing by
herself. " Just wait till we can talk it over," he said,
" two are always better than one : and a fellow learns
a lot at school. You wouldn't think it, perhaps, but
there's all sorts there, and you learn a lot when you
have your eyes well open. We can talk it all over
and settle if it's good enough ; but don't go and be rash,
Lucy, and do anything by yourself."
" I sha'n't, dear ; I should be too frightened," Lucy
said.
This was on one of his last days, when they were
walking together through the shrubbery. It was
September by this time, and he might have been
shooting partridges with Sir Tom, but Jock was not
so much an out-door boy as he ought to have been,
and he preferred walking with his sister, his arm thrust
through hers, his head stooping over her. It was per-
haps the last opportunity they would have of discussing
their family secrets, a matter (they thought) which
really concerned nobody else, which no one else would
care to be troubled with. Perhaps in Lucy's mind
there was a sense of unreality in the whole matter ; but
Jock was entirely in earnest, and quite convinced that
46 SIR TOM. [ohap.
in such an important business he was his sister's
natural adviser, and might be of a great deal of use.
It was towards evening when they went out, and a red
autumnal sunset was accomplishing itself in the west,
throwing a gleam as of the brilliant tints which were
yet to come, on the still green and luxuriant foliage.
The light was low, and came into Lucy's eyes, who
shaded them with her hand. And the paths had a
touch of autumnal damp, and a certain mistiness, mellow
and golden by reason of the sunshine, was rising among
the trees.
" We will not be hasty," said Jock ; " we will take
everything into consideration : and I don't think you
will find so much difficulty, Lucy, when you have me."
" I hope not, dear," Lucy said ; and she began to
talk to him about his flannels and other precautions
he was to take ; for Jock was supposed not to be very
strong. He had grown fast, and he was rather weedy
and long, without strength to support it. " We have
been so happy together," she said. " We always
were happy together, Jock. Eemember, dear, no wet
feet, and as little football as you can help, for my
sake."
" Oh, yes," he said, with a wave of his hand ; " all
right, Lucy. There is no fear about that. The first
thing to think of is poor old father's will, and what
you are going to do about it. I mean to think out
all that about the examinations, and I suppose I may
speak to MTutor "
" It is too private, don't you think, Jock ? Nobody
knows about it. It is better to keep it between you
and me."
" I can put it as a supposed case," said Jock, " and
ask what he would advise ; for you see, Lucy, you and
v.] CONSULTATIONS. 47
even I are not very experienced, and MTutor, he knows
snch a lot. It would always be a good thing to have
his advice, you know ; he "
There was no telling how long Jock might have
gone on on this subject. But just at this moment a
quick step came round the corner of a clump of wood,
and a hand was laid on the shoulder of each. " What
are you plotting about ? " asked the voice of Sir Tom
in their ears. It was a curious sign of her mental
condition which Lucy remembered with shame after-
wards, without being very well able to account for it,
that she suddenly dropped Jock's arm and turned round
upon her husband with a quick blush and access of
breathing, as if somehow — she could not tell how —
she had been found out. It had never occurred to her
before, through all those long drawn out consultations,
that she was concealing anything from Sir Tom. She
dropped Jock's arm as if it hurt her, and turned to her
husband in the twinkling of an eye.
"Jock," she said quickly, "and I — were talking
about MTutor, Tom."
" Ah ! once landed on that subject, and there is no
telling when we may come to an end," Sir Tom said,
with a laugh, " but never mind, I like you all the better
for it, my boy."
Jock gave an astonished look at Lucy, a half-defiant
one at her husband.
" That was only by the way," he said, lifting up
his shoulders with a little air of offence. He did not
condescend to any further explanation, but walked
along by their side with a lofty abstraction, looking
at them now and then from the corner of his eye.
Lucy had taken Sir Tom's arm, and was hanging upon
her tall husband, looking up in Ins face. The little
48 SIR TOM. [chap.
blush of surprise — or was it of guilt ? — with which
she had received him was still upon her cheek. She
was far more animated than usual, almost a little agi-
tated. She asked about the shooting, about the bag,
and how many brace was to Sir Tom's own gun, with
that conciliating interest which is one of the signs of a
conscious fault ; while Sir Tom, on his side bending
down to his little wife, received all her flatteries with
so complacent a smile, and such a beatific belief in her
perfect sincerity and devotion, that Jock, looking on
from his superiority of passionless youth, regarded
them both with a wondering disdain. Why did she
" make up " in that way to her husband, dropping her
brother as if she had been plotting harm ? Jock was
amazed, he could not understand it. Perhaps it was
only because he thus fell in a moment from being
the chief object of interest to the position of nobody
at all.
CHAPTEK VI.
A SHADOW OF COMING EVENTS.
Lucy's mind had sustained a certain shock when her
husband appeared. During her short married life there
had not been a cloud, or a shadow of a cloud, between
them. But then there had been no question between
them, nothing to cause any question, no difference of
opinion. Sir Tom had taken all her business naturally
into his hands. Whatever she wished she had got —
nay, before she expressed a wish it had been satis-
fied. He had talked to her about everything, and she
had listened with docile attention, but without conceal-
VI.] A SHADOW OF COMIXG EVENTS. 49
ing the fact that she neither understood nor wished to
understand ; and he had not only never chided her, but
had accepted her indifference with a smile of pleasure
as the most natural thing in the world. He had en-
couraged her in all her liberal charities, shaking his
head and declaring with a radiant face that she would
ruin herself, and that not even her fortune would stand
it. But the one matter which had given Lucy so much
trouble before her marriage, and which Jock had now
brought back to her mind, was one that had never been
mentioned between them. He had known all about
it, and her eccentric proceedings and conflict with her
guardians, backing her up, indeed, with much laughter,
and showing every symptom of amiable amusement ; but
he had never given any opinion on the subject, nor
made the slightest allusion since to this grand condition
of her father's will. In the sunny years that were
past Lucy had taken no notice of this omission. She
had not thought much on the subject herself. She had
withdrawn from it tacitly, as one is apt to do from a
matter which has been productive of pain and disap-
pointment, and had been content to ignore that portion
of her responsibilities. Even when Jock forcibly re-
vived the subject it continued without any practical
importance, and its existence was a question between
themselves to afford material for endless conversation
which had been pleasant and harmless. But when Sir
Tom's hand was laid on her shoulder, and his cheerful
voice sounded in her ear, a sudden shock was given to
Lucy's being. It flashed upon her in a moment that
this question which she had been discussing with Jock
had never been mentioned between her and her hus-
band, aud with a sudden instinctive perception she
became aware that Sir Tom would look upon it with
E
50 SIR TOM. [chap.
very different eyes from theirs. She felt that she had
been disloyal to him in having a secret subject of con-
sultation even with her brother. If he heard he would
be displeased, he would be taken by surprise, perhaps
wounded, perhaps made angry. In any wise it would
introduce a new element into their life. Lucy saw. with
a sudden sensation of fright and pain, an unknown crowd
of possibilities which might pour down upon her, were
it to be communicated to Sir Tom that his wife and
her brother were debating as to a course of action on
her part, unknown to him. All this occurred in a
moment, and it was not any lucid and real perception
of difficulties, but only a sudden alarmed compunctious
consciousness that filled her mind. She fled, as it were,
from the circumstances which made these horrors pos-
sible, hurrying back into her former attitude with a
penitential urgency. Jock, indeed, was very dear to
her, but he was no more than second, nay he was but
third, in Lady Eandolph's heart. Her husband's su-
premacy he could not touch, and though he had been
almost her child in the old days, yet he was not, nor
ever would be, her child in the same ineffable sense as
little Tom was, who was her very own, the centre of
her life. So she ran away (so to speak) from Jock
with a real panic, and clung to her husband, conciliat-
ing, nay almost wheedling him, if we may use the
word, with a curious feminine instinct, to make up to
him for the momentary wrong she had done, and which
he was not aware of. Sir Tom himself was a little
surprised by the warmth of the reception she gave him.
Her interest in his shooting was usually ver}^ mild, for
she had never been able to get over a little horror she
had, due, perhaps, to her bourgeois training, of the
slaughter of the birds. He glanced at the pair with an
VI.] A SHADOW OF COMING EVENTS. 51
unusual perception that there was something here more
than met the eye. " You have been egging her up to
some rebellion," he said ; " Jock, you villain ; you have
been hatching treason behind my back I" He said this
with one of those cordial laughs which nobody could
refrain from joining — full of good humour and fun,
and a pleased consciousness that to teach Lucy to rebel
would be beyond any one's power. At any other
moment she would have taken the accusation with
the tranquil smile which was Lucy's usual reply to her
husband's pleasantries ; but this time her laugh was a
little strained, and the warmth of her denial, " Xo,
no ! there has been no treason," gave the slightest
jar of surprise to Sir Tom. It sounded like a false
note in the air ; he did not understand what it could
mean.
Jock went away the next day. He went with a
basket of game for MTutor and many nice things for
himself, and all the attention and care which might
have been his had he been the heir instead of only the
young brother and dependent. Lucy herself drove in
with him to Farafield to see him off, and Sir Tom, who
had business in the little town and meant to drive back
with his wife, appeared on the railway platform just in
time to say good-bye. " Now, Lucy, you will not forget,"
were Jock's last words as he looked out of the window
when the train was already in motion. Lucy nodded
and smiled, and waved her hand, but she did not make
any other reply. Sir Tom said nothing until they were
driving along the stubble fields in the afternoon sun-
shine. Lucy lay back in her corner with that mingled
sense of regret and relief with which, when we are very
happy at home, we see a guest go away — a gentle sor-
row to part, a soft pleasure in being once more restored
52 SIR TOM. [chap.
to tlie more intimate circle. She had not shaken off
that impression of guiltiness, but now it was over,
and nothing further could be said on the subject for
a lonsj time to come.
" What is it, Lucy, that you are not to forget ? "
She roused herself up, and a warm flush of colour
came to her face. " Oh, nothing, Tom, a little thing
we were consulting about. It was Jock that brought
it to my mind."
" I think it must be more than just a little thing.
Mayn't I hear what this secret is ?"
" Oh, it is nothing, Tom," Lady Eandolph repeated ;
and then she sat up erect and said, " I must not deceive
you. It is not merely a small matter. Still it is just
between Jock and me. It was about — papa's will,
Tom."
" Ah ! that is a large matter. I don't quite see
how that can be between you and Jock, Lucy. Jock
has very little to do with it. I don't want to find
fault, my dear, but I think as an adviser you will find
me better than Jock."
" I know you are far better, Tom. You know more
than both of us put together."
" That would not be very difficult," he said, with a
smile.
Perhaps this calm acceptance of the fact nettled
Lucy. At least she said, with a little touch of spirit,
" And yet I know something about our kind of people
better than you will ever do, Tom."
" Lucy, this is a wonderful new tone. Perhaps you
may know better, but I am doubtful if you understand
the relation of things as well. What is it, my dear ? —
that is to say, if you like to tell me, for I am not going
to force your confidence."
VI.] A SHADOW OF COMING EVENTS. 53
" Tom — oh dear Tom ! It is not that. It is rather
that it was something to talk to Jock about. He
remembers everything. When papa was making that
will " here Lucy stopped and sighed. It had not
been doing her a good service to make her recollect
that will, which had enough in it to make her life
wretched, though that as yet nobody knew. " He
recollects it all," she said. " He used to hear it read
out. He remembers everything."
" I suppose, then," said Sir Tom, with a peculiar
smile, " there is something in particular which he
thought you were likely to forget ? "
Here Lucy sighed again. " I am afraid I had for-
gotten it. Xo, not forgotten, but — I never knew very
well what to do. Perhaps you don't remember either.
It is about giving the money away."
Sir Tom was a far more considerable person in
every way than the little girl who was his wife, and
who was not clever nor of any great account apart
from her wealth; and she was devoted to him, so that
he could have very little fear how any conflict should
end when he was on one side, if all the world were on
the other. But perhaps he had been spoiled by Lucy's
entire agreement and consent to whatever he pleased
to wish, so that his tone was a little sharp, not so
good-humoured as usual, but with almost a sneer in it
when he replied quickly, not leaving her a moment to
get her breath, " I see ; Jock having inspiration from
the fountain head, was to be your guide in that,"
She looked at him alarmed and penitent, but re-
proachful. " I would have done nothing, I could have
done nothing, oh Tom ! without you."
" It is very obliging of you, Lucy, to say so ; never-
theless, Jock thought himself entitled to remind you
54 SIR TOM. [chap,
of what you had forgotten, and to offer himself as your
adviser. Perhaps MTutor was to come in, too/' he
said, with a laugh.
Sir Tom was not immaculate in point of temper any
more than other men, hut Lucy had never suffered
from it before. She was frightened, but she did not
give way. The colour went out of her cheeks, but
there was more in her than mere insipid submission.
She looked at her husband with a certain courage,
though she was so pale, and felt so profoundly the
displeasure which she had never encountered before.
" I don't think you should speak like that, Tom.
I have done nothing wrong. I have only been talking
to my brother of — of — a thing that nobody cares
about but him and me in all the world."
" And that is "
"Doing what papa wished," Lucy said in a low
voice. A little moisture stole into her eyes. Whether
it came because of her father, or because her husband
spoke sharply to her, it perhaps would have been
difficult to say.
This made Sir Tom ashamed of his ill-humour. It
was cruel to be unkind to a creature so gentle, who
was not used to be found fault with ; and yet he felt
that for Lucy to set up an independence of any kind
was a thing to be crushed in the bud. A man may
have the most liberal principles about women, and yet
feel a natural indignation when his own wife shows
signs of desiring to act for herself; and besides, it was
not to be endured that a boy and girl conspiracy
should be hatched under his very nose to take the dis-
posal of an important sum of money out of his hands.
Such an idea was not only ridiculous in itself, but apt
to make him ridiculous, a man who ought to be strong
vi.] A SHADOW OF COMING EVENTS. 55
enough to keep the young ones in order. " My dear/'
he said, " I have no wish to speak in any way that
vexes you ; but I see no reason you can have — at least
I hope there has been nothing in my conduct to give
you any reason — to withdraw your confidence from
me and give it to Jock."
Lucy did not make him any reply. She looked at
him pathetically through the water in her eyes. If
she had spoken she would have cried, and this in an
open carriage, with a village close at hand, and people
coming and going upon the road, was not to be
thought of. By the time she had mastered herself
Sir Tom had cooled down, and he was ashamed of
having made Lucy's lips to quiver and taken away her
voice.
" That was a very nasty thing to say," he said,
" wasn't it, Lucy ? I ought to be ashamed of myself.
Still, my little woman must remember that I am too
fond of her to let her have secrets with anybody but
me.
And with this he took the hand that was nearest
to him into both of his and held it close, and throwing
a temptation in her way which she could not resist, led
her to talk' of the baby and forget everything else except
that precious little morsel of humanity. He was far
cleverer than Lucy ; he could make her do whatever
he pleased. Xo fear of any opposition, any setting
up of her own will against his. When they got home
he gave her a kiss, and then the momentary trouble
was all over. So he thought at least. Lucy was so
little and gentle and fair, that she appeared to her
husband even younger than she was ; and she was a
great deal younger than himself. He thought her a
sort of child-wife, whom a little scolding or a kiss
56 SIR TOM. [chap.
would altogether sway. The kiss had been quite
enough hitherto. Perhaps, since Jock had come upon
the scene, a few words of admonition might prove now
and then necessary, but it would be cruel to be hard upon
her, or do more than let her see what his pleasure was.
But Lucy was not what Sir Tom thought. She
could not endure that there should be any shadow
between her husband and herself, but her mind was
not satisfied with this way of settling an important
question. She took his kiss and his apology gratefully,
but if anything had been wanted to impress more
deeply upon her mind the sense of a duty before her,
of which her husband did not approve, and in doing
which she could not have his help, it would have been
this little episode altogether. Even little Tom did not
efface the impression from her mind. At dinner she
met her husband with her usual smile, and even
assented when he remarked upon the pleasantness of
finding themselves again alone together. There had
been other guests besides Jock, so that the remark did
not offend her ; but yet Lucy was not quite like herself.
She felt it vaguely, and he felt it vaguely, and neither
was entirely aware what it was.
In the morning, at breakfast, Sir Tom received a
foreign letter, which made him start a little. He
started and cried, " Hollo ! " then, opening it, and find-
ing two or three closely-scribbled sheets, gave way to a
laugh. " Here's literature ! " he said. Lucy, who had
no jealousy of his correspondents, read her own calm
little letters, and poured out the tea, with no particular
notice of her husband's interjections. It did not even
move her curiosity that the letter was in a feminine
hand, and gave forth a faint perfume. She reminded
him that his tea was getting cold, but otherwise took
VI.] A SHADOW OF COMING EVENTS. 57
no notice. One of her own letters was from the Dowager
Lady Kandolph, full of advice about the baby. " Mrs.
Eussell tells me that Katie's children are the most
lovely babies that ever were seen ; but she is very
fantastic about them ; will not let them wear shoes to
spoil their feet, and other vagaries of that kind. I
hope, my dear Lucy, that you are not fanciful about
little Tom," Lady Eandolph wrote. Lucy read this
very composedly, and smiled at the suggestion. Fanci-
ful ! Oh, no, she was not fanciful about him — she
was not even silly, Lucy thought. She was capable
of allowing that other babies might be lovely, though
why the feet of Katie's children should be of so much
importance she allowed to herself she could not see.
She was roused from these tranquil thoughts by a little
commotion on the other side of the table, where Sir Tom
had just thrown down his letter. He was laughing
and talking to himself. " Why shouldn't she come if
she likes it ? " he was saying. " Lucy, look here, since
you have set up a confidant, I shall have one too,"
and with that Sir Tom went off into an immoderate
fit of laughing. The letter scattered upon the table
all opened out, two large foreign sheets, looked endless.
Nobody had ever written so much to Lucy in all her
life. She could see it was largely underlined and full
of notes of admiration and interrogation, altogether an
out-of-the-way epistle. Was it possible that Sir Tom
was a little excited as well as amused ? He put his
roll upon a hot plate, and began to cut it with his
knife and fork in an absence of mind, which was not
usual with him, and at intervals of a minute or two
would burst out with his long " Ha, ha," again. " That
will serve you out, Lucy," he said, with a shout, " if I
set up a confidant too."
58 SIR TOM. [ohap.
CHAPTER VII.
A WARNING.
" I wonder if I shall like her," Lucy said to herself.
She had been hearing from her husband about
the Contessa di Forno-Populo, who had promised
to pay them a visit at Christmas. He had laughed
a great deal while he described this lady. "What
she will do here in a country-house in the depth
of winter, I cannot tell," he said, "but if she wants
to come why shouldn't she ? She and I are old
friends. One time and another we have seen a great
deal of each other. She will not understand me in
the character of a Benedick, but that will be all the
greater fun," he said with a laugh. Lucy looked at
him with a little surprise. She could not quite make
him out.
" If she is a friend she will not mind the country
and the winter," said Lucy ; " it will be you she will
want to see "
" That is all very well, my dear," said Sir Tom,
" but she wants something more than me. She wants
a little amusement. We must have a party to meet
her, Lucy. We have never yet had the house full fry
Christmas. Don't you think it will be better to fur-
nish the Contessa with other objects instead of letting
her loose upon your husband. You don't know what
it is you are treating so lightly."
" I — treat any one lightly that you care for, Tom !
Oh, no ; I was only thinking. I thought she would
come to see you, not a number of strange people "
" And you would not mind, Lucy ? "
vii.] A WARNING. 59
" Mind ? " Lucy lifted her innocent eyes upon him
with the greatest surprise. " To be sure it is most
nice of all when there is nobody with us/' she said —
as if that had been what he meant. Enlightenment
on this subject had not entered her mind. She did
not understand him ; nor did he understand her. He
gave her a sort of friendly hug as he passed, still with
that laugh in which there was no doubt a great
perception of something comic, yet — an enlightened
observer might have thought — a little uneasiness, a
tremor which was almost agitation too. Lucy too
had a perception of something a little out of the way
which she did not understand, but she offered to her-
self no explanation of it. She said to herself, when
he was gone, " I wonder if I shall like her ? " and she
did not make herself any reply. She had been in
society, and held her little place with a simple com-
posure which was natural to her, whoever might come
in her way. If she was indeed a little frightened of
the great ladies, that was only at the first moment
before she became used to them ; and afterwards all
had gone well — but there was something in the sug-
gestion of a foreign great lady, who perhaps might not
speak English, and who would be used to very different
" ways," which alarmed her a little ; and then it
occurred to her with some disappointment that this
would be the time of Jock's holidays, and that it
would disappoint him sadly to find her in the midst
of a crowd of visitors. She said to herself, however,
quickly, that it was not to be expected that eveiything
should always go exactly as one wished it, and that
no doubt the Countess of what was it she was
the Countess of ? — would be very nice, and everything
go well ; and so Lady Eandolph went away to her baby
60 SIR TOM. [chap.
and her household business, and put it aside for the
moment. She found other things far more important
to occupy her, however, before Christmas came.
For that winter was very severe and cold, and
there was a great deal of sickness in the neighbour-
hood. Measles and colds and feverish attacks were
prevalent in the village, and there were heartrending
" cases," in which young Lady Eandolph at the Hall
took so close an interest that her whole life was dis-
turbed by them. One of the babies, who was little
Tom's age, died. When it became evident that there
was danger in this case it is impossible to describe the
sensations with which Lucy's brain was filled. She
could not keep away from the house in which the
child was. She sent to Farafield for the best doctor
there, and everything that money could procure was
got for the suffering infant, whose belongings looked
on with wonder and even dismay, with a secret question
like that of him who was a thief and kept the bag —
to what purpose was this waste ? for they were all
persuaded that the baby was going to die.
" And the best thing for him, my lady," the grand-
mother said. "He'll be better done by where he's
agoing than he ever could have been here."
" Oh, don't say so," said Lucy. The young mother,
who was as young as herself, cried ; yet if Lucy had
been absent would have been consoled by that terrible
philosophy of poverty that it was " for the best." But
Lady Eandolph, in such a tumult of all her being as
sne had never known before, with unspeakable yearning
over the dying baby, and a panic beyond all reckoning
for her own, would not listen to any such easy con-
solation. She shut her ears to it with a gleam of
anger such as had never been seen in her gentle face
VII.] A WARNING. 61
before, and would have sat up all night with the poor
little thing in her lap if death had not ended its little
plaints and suffering. Sir Tom, in this moment of
trial, came out in all his true goodness and kindness.
He went with her himself to the cottage, and when the
vigil was over appeared again to take her home. It
was a wintry night, frosty and clear, the stars all
twinkling with that mysterious life and motion which
makes them appear to so many wistful eyes like persons
rather than worlds, and as if there was knowledge and
sympathy in those far-shining lights of heaven. Sir
Thomas was alarmed by Lucy's colourless face, and
the dumb passion of misery and awe that was about
her. He was very tender-hearted himself at sight of
the dead baby which was the same age as his lovely
boy. He clasped the trembling hand with which his
wife held his arm, and tried to comfort her. " Look
at the stars, my darling," he said, " the angels must
have carried the poor little soul that way." He was
not ashamed to let fall a tear for the little dead child.
But Lucy could neither weep nor think of the angels.
She hurried him on through the long avenue, clinging
to his arm but not leaning upon it, hastening home.
Now and then a sob escaped her, but no tears. She
flew upstairs to her own boy's nursery, and fell down
on her knees by the side of his little crib. He was
lying in rosy sleep, his little dimpled arms thrown
up over his head, a model of baby beauty. But even
that sight did not restore her. She buried her wan
face in her hands and so gasped for breath that Sir
Tom, who had followed her, took her in his arms and
carrying her to her own room laid her down on the
sofa by the fire and did all that man could to soothe
her.
62 SIR TOM. [chap.
" Lucy, Lucy ! we must thank God that all is well
with our own," he said, half terrified by the gasping
and the paleness ; and then she burst forth :
" Oh, why should it be well with him, and little
Willie gone ? Why should we be happy and the
others miserable ? my baby safe and warm in my
arms, and poor Ellen's — poor Ellen's "
This name, and the recollection of the poor young
mother, whom she had left in her desolation, made
Lucy's tears pour forth like a summer storm. She
flung her arms round her husband's neck, and called
out to him in an agony of anxiety and excitement :
" Oh, what shall we do to save him ? Oh, Tom,
pray, pray ! Little Willie was well on Saturday — and
now — How can we tell what a day may bring forth ? "
Lucy cried, wildly pushing him away from her, and
rising from the sofa.
Then she began to pace about the room as we all do
in trouble, clasping her hands in a wild and inarticu-
late appeal to heaven. Death had never come across
her path before save in the case of her father, an old
man whose course was run, and his end a thing neces-
sary and to be looked for. She could not get out of
her eyes the vision of that little solemn figure, so
motionless, so marble white. The thought would not
leave her. To see the calm Lucy pacing up and down
in this passion of terror and agony made Sir Tom
almost as miserable as herself. He tried to take her
into his arms, to draw her back to the sofa.
" My darling, you are over-excited. It has been
too much for you," he said.
" Oh, what does it matter about me ? " cried Lucy ;
" think — oh, God ! oh, God ! — if we should have that
to bear."
fii.] A WARNING. 63
" My dear love — my Lucy, you that have always
been so reasonable — the child is quite well ; come and
see him again and satisfy yourself."
"Little Willie was quite well on Saturday/' she
cried again. u Oh, I cannot bear it, I cannot bear it !
and why should it be poor Ellen and not me ? "
When a person of composed mind and quiet dis-
position is thus carried beyond all the bounds of
reason and self-restraint, it is natural that everybody
round her should be doubly alarmed. Lucy's maid
hung about the door, and the nurse, wrapped in a
shawl, stole out of little Tom's room. They thought
their mistress had the hysterics, and almost forced
their way into the room to help her. It did Sir Tom
good to send these busybodies away. But he was
more anxious himself than words could say. He drew
her arm within his, and walked up and down with
her. " You know, my darling, what the Bible says,
' that one shall be taken and another left ; and that
the wind bloweth where it listeth,' " he said, with a
pardonable mingling of texts. "We must just take
care of him, dear, and hope the best."
Here Lucy stopped, and looked him in the face
with an air of solemnity that startled him.
" I have been thinking," she said ; " God has tried
us with happiness first. That is how He always does
— and if we abuse that then there comes — the other.
We have been so happy. Oh, so happy ! " Her face,
which had been stilled by this profounder wave of
feeling, began to quiver again. " I did not think any
one could be so happy," she said.
" Well, my darling ! and you have been very thank-
ful and good "
" Oh, no, no, no," she cried. " I have forgotten my
64 SIR TOM. [chap.
trust. I have let the poor suffer, and put aside what
was laid upon me — and now, now " Lucy caught
her husband's arm with both her hands, and drew him
close to her. " Tom, God has sent his angel to warn
us," she said, in a broken voice.
" Lucy, Lucy, this is not like you. Do you think
that poor little woman has lost her baby for our sake ?
Are we of so much more importance than she is, in the
sight of God, do you think ? Come, come, that is not
like you."
Lucy gazed at him for a moment with a sudden
opening of her eyes, which were contracted with misery.
She was subdued by the words, though she only par-
tially comprehended them.
"Don't you think," he said, "that to deprive
another woman of her child in order to warn you,
would be unjust, Lucy ? Come and sit clown and
warm your poor little hands, and take back your
reason, and do not accuse God of wrong, for that is not
possible. Poor Ellen I don't doubt is composed and
submissive, while you, who have so little cause "
She gave him a wild look. " With her it is over,
it is over ! " she cried, " but with us "
Lucy had never been fanciful, but love quickens
the imagination and gives it tenfold power; and no
poet could have felt with such a breathless and
agonised realisation the difference between the accom-
plished and the possible, the past which nothing can
alter, and the pain and sickening terror with which we
anticipate what may come. Ellen had entered into
the calm of the one. She herself stood facing wildly
the unspeakable terror of the other. "Oh, Tom, I
could not bear it, I could not bear it ! " she cried.
It was almost morning before he had succeeded in
vii.] A WAENING. 65
soothing her, in making her lie down and compose her-
self. But by that time nature had begun to take the
task in hand, wrapping her in the calm of exhaustion.
Sir Tom had the kindest heart, though he had not
been without reproach in his life. He sat by her till
she had fallen into a deep and quiet sleep, and then he
stole into the nursery and cast a glance at little Tom
by the dim light of the night lamp. His heart leaped
to see the child with its fair locks all tumbled upon
the pillow, a dimpled hand laid under a dimpled cheek,
ease and comfort and well-being in every lovely curve ;
and then there came a momentary spasm across his
face, and he murmured " Poor little beggar ! " under
his breath. He was not panic-stricken like Lucy.
He was a man made robust by much experience of
the world, and a child more or less was not a thing to
affect him as it would a young mother ; but the pathos
of the contrast touched him with a keen momentary
pang. He stole away again quite subdued, and went
to bed thankfully, saying an uncustomary prayer in
the emotion that possessed him : Good God, to think
of it ; if that poor little beggar had been little Tom !
Lucy woke to the sound of her boy's little babbling
of happiness in the morning, and found him blooming
on her bed, brought there by his father, that she
mi^ht see him and how well he was, even before she
was awake. It was thus not till the first minute of
delight was over that her recollections came back to
her and she remembered the anguish of the previous
night ; and then with a softened pang, as was natural,
and warm flood of thankfulness, which carried away
harsher thoughts. But her mind was in a highly
susceptible and tender state, open to every impression.
And when she knelt down to make her morning sup-
F
66 SIR TOM. [chap.
plications, Lucy made a dedication of herself and
solemn vow. She said, like the little princess when
she first knew that she was to be made queen, " I will
be good." She put forth this promise trembling, not
with any sense that she was making a bargain with
God, as more rigid minds might suppose, but with all
the remorseful loving consciousness of a child which
feels that it has not made the return it ought for the
good things showered upon it, and confronts for the
first time the awful possibility that these tender privi-
leges might be taken away. There was a trembling
all over her, body and soul. She was shaken by the
ordeal through which she had come — the ordeal which
was not hers but another's : and with the artlessness
of the child was mingled that supreme human instinct
which struggles to disarm Fate by immediate pros-
tration and submission. She laid herself down at the
feet of the Sovereign greatness which could mar all her
happiness in a moment, with a feeling that was not
much more than half Christian. Lucy tried to remind
herself that He to whom she knelt was love as well as
power. But nature, which still " trembles like a
guilty thing surprised " in that great Presence, made
her heart beat once more with passion and sickening
terror. God knew, if no one else did, that she had
abandoned her father's trust and neglected her duty.
" Sell all thou hast and give to the poor." Lucy rose
from her knees with anxious haste, feeling as if she
must do this, come what might and whoever should
oppose ; or at least since it was not needful for her to
sell all she had, that she must hurry forth, and forestall
any further discipline by beginning at once to fulfil
the duty she had neglected. She could not yet direst
herself of the thought that the baby who was dead
viil] THE SHADOW OF DEATH. 67
was a little warning messenger to recall her to a sense
of the punishments that might be hanging over her.
A messenger to her of mercy, for what, oh ! what
would she have done if the blow had fallen upon little
Tom i
CHAPTEE VIII.
THE SHADOW OF DEATH.
After this it may perhaps be surprising to hear that
Lucy did nothing to carry out that great trust with
which she had been charged. She had felt, and did
feel at intervals, for a long time afterwards, as if God
Himself had warned her what might come upon her if
she neglected her duty. But if you will reflect how
very difficult that duty was, and how far she was from
any opportunity of being able to discharge it ! In
early days, when she was fresh from her father's teach-
ing, and deeply impressed with the instant necessity of
carrying it out, Providence itself had sent the Eussell
family, poor and helpless people, who had not the
faculty of getting on by themselves, into her way, and
Lucy had promptly, or at least as promptly as indig-
nant guardians would permit, provided for them in the
modest way which was all her ideas reached to at the
time. But around the Hall there was nobody to whom
the same summary process could be applied. The
people about were either working people, whom it is
always easy to help, or well-off people, who had no
wants which Lucy could supply. And this continued
to be so even after her fright and determination to
return to the work that had been allotted to her. Xo
68 SIR TOM. [chap.
doubt, could she have come down to the hearts and
lives of the neighbours who visited Lady Bandolph on
the externally equal footing which society pretends to
allot to all gentlefolks, she would have found several
of them who would have been glad to free her from
her money ; but then she could not see into their
hearts. She did not know what a difficult tiling it
was for Mr. Eoutledge of Newby to pay the debts of
his son when he had left college, or how hardly hit
was young Archer of Fordham in the matter of the
last joint-stock bank that stopped payment. If they
had not all been so determined to hold up their heads
with the best, and keep up appearances, Lucy might
have managed somehow to transfer to them a little of
the money which she wanted to get rid of, and of which
they stood so much in need. But this was not to be
thought of; and when she cast her eyes around her it
was with a certain despair that Lucy saw no outlet
whatever for those bounties which it had seemed to her
heaven itself was concerned about, and had warned her
not to neglect. Many an anxious thought occupied
her mind on this subject. She thought of calling her
cousin Philip Eainy, who was established and thriving
at Farafield, and whose fortune had been founded upon
her liberality, to her counsels. But if Sir Tom had
disliked the confidences between her and her brother,
what would he think of Philip Eainy as her adviser ?
Then Lucy in her perplexity turned again to the thought
of Jock. Jock had a great deal more sense in him
than anybody knew. He had been the wisest child,
respected by everybody ; and now he was almost a
man, and had learned, as he said, a great clea] at school.
She thought wistfully of the poor curate of whom Jock
had told her. Very likely that poor clergyman would
viii.] THE SHADOW OF DEATH. 69
do very well for what Lucy wanted. Surely there
could he uo "better use for money than to endow such
a man, with a whole family growing up, all the better
for it, and a son on the foundation ! And then she
remembered that Jock had entreated her to do nothing
till he came. Thus the time went on, and her passion-
ate resolution, her sense that heaven itself was calling
upon her, menacing her with judgment even, seemed to
come to nothing — not out of forgetfulness or sloth, or
want of will — but because she saw no way open before
her, and could not tell what to do. And after that
miserable night when Ellen Bailey's baby died, and
death seemed to enter in, as novel and terrible as if he
had never been known before, for the first time into
Lucy's Paradise, she had never said anything to Sir
Tom. Day after day she had meant to do it, to throw
herself upon his guidance, to appeal to him to help her ;
but day after day she had put it off, shrinking from
the possible contest of which some instinct warned her.
She knew, without knowing how, that in this he would
not stand by her. Impossible to have been kinder in
that crisis, more tender, more indulgent, even more
understanding than her husband was ; but she felt in-
stinctively the limits of his sympathy. He would not
go that length. "When she got to that point he would
change. But she could not have him change ; she
could not anticipate the idea of a cloud upon his face,
or any shadow between them. And then Lucy made
up her mind that she would wait for Jock, and that he
and she together, when there were two to talk it over,
would make out a way.
All was going on well again, the grass above little
Willie's grave was green, his mother consoled and
smiling as before, and at the Hall the idea of the
70 SIR TOM. [chap.
Christmas party had been resumed, and the invitations,
indeed, were sent off, when one morning the visitor
whom Lucy had anticipated with such dread came out
of the village, where infantile diseases always lingered,
and entered the carefully-kept nursery. Little Tom
awoke crying and fretful, hot with fever, his poor little
eyes heavy with acrid tears. His mother had not been
among the huts where poor men lie for nought, and
she saw at a glance what it was. Well ! not anything
so very dreadful — measles, which almost all children
have. There was no reason in the world why she
should be alarmed. She acknowledged as much, with
a tremor that went to her heart. There were no bad
symptoms. The baby was no more ill than it was
necessary he should be. " He was having them beauti-
ful," the nurse said, and Lucy scarcely allowed even
her husband to see the deep, harrowing dread that was
in her. By and by, however, this dread was justified ;
she had been very anxious about all the little patients
in the village that they should not catch cold, which
in the careless ignorance of their attendants, and in the
limited accommodation of the cottages, was so usual, so
likely, almost inevitable. A door would be left open,
a sudden blast of cold would come upon the little
sufferer ; how could any one help it ? Lucy had given
the poor women no peace on this subject. She had
" worrited them out o' their lives." And now, wonder
above all finding out, it was in little Tom's luxurious
nursery, where everything was arranged for his safety,
where one careful nurse succeeded another by night and
by day, and Lady Eandolph herself was never absent
for an hour, where the ventilation was anxiously
watched and regulated, and no incautious intruder ever
entered — it was there that the evil came. When the
viil] THE SHADOW OF DEATH. 71
child had shaken off his little complaint and all was
croing well, he took cold, and in a few hours more his
little lungs were labouring heavily, and the fever of
inflammation consuming his strength. Little Tom, the
heir, the only child ! A cloud fell over the house ;
from Sir Tom himself to the lowest servant, all became
partakers, unawares, of Lucy's dumb terror. It was
because the little life was so important, because so much
hung upon it, that everybody jumped to the conclusion
that the worst issue might be looked for. Humanity
has an instinctive, heathenish feeling that God will
take advantage of all the special circumstances that
aggravate a blow.
Lucy, for her part, received the stroke into her very
soul. She was outwardly more calm than when her
heart had first been roused to terror by the death of
the little child in the village. That which she had
dreaded was come, and all her powers were collected to
support her. The moment had arrived — the time of
trial — and she would not fail. Her hand was steady
and her head clear, as is the case with finer natures
when confronted with deadly danger. This simple girl
suddenly became like one of the women of tragedy,
fighting, still and strong, with a desperation beyond all
symbols — the fight with death. But Sir Tom took it
differently. A woman can nurse her child, can do
something for him ; but a man is helpless. At first he
got rid of his anxieties by putting a cheerful face upon
the matter, and denying the possibility of danger.
" The measles ! every child had the measles. If no
fuss was made the little chap," he declared, " woidd
soon be all right. It was always a mistake to exagger-
ate." But when there could no longer be any doubt
on the subject, a curious struggle took place in Sir Tom's
72 SIR TOM. [chap.
mind. That baby — die? That crowing, babbling
creature pass away into the solemnity of death ! It
had not seemed possible, and when he tried to get it
into his mind his brain whirled. Wonder for the
moment seemed to silence even the possibility of grief.
He had himself gone through labours and adventures
that would have killed a dozen men, and had never
been conscious even of alarm about himself ; and the
idea of a life quenched in its beginning by so accidental
a matter as a draught in a nursery seemed to him
something incomprehensible. When he had heard of
a child's death he had been used to say that the mother
would feel it, no doubt, poor thing ; but it was a small
event, that scarcely counted in human history to Sir
Tom. When, however, his own boy was threatened,
after the first incredulity, Sir Tom felt a pang of anger
and wretchedness which he could not understand. It
was not that the family misfortune of the loss of the
heir overwhelmed him, for it was very improbable that
poor little Tom would be his only child ; it was a more
intimate and personal sensation. A sort of terrified
rage came over him which he dared not express ; for if
indeed his child was to be taken from him, who was it
but God that would do this ? and he did not venture
to turn his rage to that quarter. And then a confusion
of miserable feelings rose within him. One night he
did not go to bed. It was impossible in the midst of
the anxiety that filled the house, he said to himself.
He spent the weary hours in going softly up and down
stairs, now listening at the door of the nursery and
waiting for his wife, who came out now and then to
bring him a bulletin, now dozing drearily in his library
downstairs. When the first gleams of the dawn stole
in at the window he went out upon the terrace in the
vin.] THE SHADOW OF DEATH. 73
misty chill morning, all damp and miserable, with the
trees standing about like ghosts. There was a dripping
thaw after a frost, and the air was raw and the pros-
pect dismal : but even that was less wretched than the
glimmer of the shaded lights, the muffled whispering
and stealthy footsteps indoors. He took a few turns
up and down the terrace, trying to reason himself out
of this misery. How was it, after all, that the little
figure of this infant should overshadow earth and
heaven to a man, a reasonable being, whose mind and
life were full of interests far more important ? Love,
yes ! but love must have some foundation. The feel-
ing which clung so strongly to a child with no power
of returning it, and no personal qualities to excite it,
must be mere instinct not much above that of the
animals. He would not say this before Lucy, but
there could be no doubt it was the truth. He shook
himself up mentally, and recalled himself to what he
attempted to represent as the true aspect of affairs.
He was a man who had obtained most things that this
world can give. He had sounded life to its depths (as
he thought), and tasted both the bitter and the sweet ;
and after having indulged in all these varied experi-
ences it had been given to him, as it is not given to
many men, to come back from all wanderings and
.secure the satisfactions of mature life, wealth, and social
importance, and the power of acting in the largest im-
perial concerns. Eound about him everything was his;
the noble woods that swept away into the mist on every
side ; the fields and farms which began to appear in
the misty paleness of the morning through the openings
in the trees. And if he had not by his side such a
companion as he had once dreamed of, the beautiful,
high-minded ideal woman of romance, yet he had got
74 SIR TOM. [chap.
one of the best of gentle souls to tread the path of life
along with him, and sympathise even when she did not
understand. For a man who had not perhaps deserved
very much, how unusual was this happiness. And
was it possible that all these things should be obscured,
cast into the shade, by so small a matter as the sickness
of a child ? What had the baby ever done to make
itself of so much importance ? Nothing. It did not
even understand the love it excited, and was incapable
of making any response. Its very life was little more
than a mechanical life. The woman who fed it was
far more to it than its father, and there was nothing
excellent or noble in the world to which it would not
prefer a glittering tinsel or a hideous doll. If the little
thing had grown up, indeed, if it had developed human
tastes and sympathies, and become a companion, an
intelligence, a creature with affections and thoughts, —
but that the whole house should thus be overwhelmed
with miserable anxiety and pain because of a being in
the embryo state of existence, who could neither respond
nor understand, what a strange thing it was ! No
doubt this instinct had been implanted in order to
preserve the germ and keep the race going ; but that
it should thus develop into an absorbing passion and
overshadow everything else in life was a proof how the
natural gets exaggerated, and, if we do not take care,
changes its character altogether, mastering us instead
of being kept in its fit place, and in check, as it ought
to be by sense and reason. From time to time, as Sir
Tom made these reflections, there would flit across his
mind, as across a mirror, something which was not
thought, which was like a picture momentarily pre-
sented before him. One of the most persistent of
these, which flashed out and in upon his senses like a
viii.] THE SHADOW OF DEATH. 75
view in a magic lantern, was of that moment in the
midst of the flurry of the election when little Tom, held
up in his mother's arms, had clapped his baby hands
for his father. This for a second would confound all
his thoughts, and give his heart a pang as if some one
had seized and pressed it with an iron grasp ; but the
next moment he would pick up the thread of his reflec-
tions again, and go on with them. That, too, was
merely mechanical, like all the little chap's existence
up to this point. Poor little chap ! here Sir Tom
stopped in his course of thought, impeded by a weight
at his heart which he could not shake off; nor could he
see the blurred and vague landscape round him — some-
thing more blinding even than the fog had got into his
eyes.
Then Sir Tom started and his heart sprang up to
his throat beating loudly. It was not anything of
much importance, it was only the opening of the win-
dow by which he himself had come out upon the
terrace. He turned round quickly, too anxious even
to ask a question. If it had been a king's messenger
bringing him news that affected the whole kingdom, he
would have turned away with an impatient "Pshaw !"
or struck the intruder out of his way. But it was his
wife, wrapped in a dressing-gown, pale with watching,
her hair pushed back upon her forehead, her eyes un-
naturally bright. "How is he?" cried Sir Tom, as if
the question was one of life or death.
Lucy told him, catching at his arm to support her-
self, that she thought there was a little improvement.
" I have been thinking so for the last hour, not daring
to think it, and yet I felt sure ; and now nurse says so
too. His breathing is easier. I have been on thorns to
come and tell you, but I would not till I was quite sure.''
76 SIR TOM. [CHAP,
"Thank God! God be praised!" said Sir Tom.
He did not pretend to be a religious man on ordinary
occasions, but at the present moment he had no time
to think, and spoke from the bottom of his heart. He
supported his little wife tenderly on one arm, and put
back the disordered hair on her forehead. " Now you
will go and take a little rest, my darling," he said.
" Not yet, not till the doctor comes. But you want
it as much as I."
" No ; I had a long sleep on the sofa. We are all
making fools of ourselves, Lucy. The poor little chap
will be all right. We are queer creatures. To think
that you and I should make ourselves so miserable
over a little thing like that, that knows nothing about
it, that has no feelings, that does not care a button for
you and me."
" Tom, what are you talking of ? Not of my boy,
surely — not my boy ! "
" Hush, my sweet. Well," said Sir Tom, with a
tremulous laugh, " what is it but a little polypus after
all ? that can do nothing but eat and sleep, and crow
perhaps — and clap its little fat hands," he said, with
the tears somehow getting into his voice, and mingling
with the laughter. " I allow that I am confusing my
metaphors."
At this moment the window opening upon the
terrace jarred again, and another figure in a dressing-
gown, dark and ghost-like, appeared beckoning to Lucy,
"My lady! my lady!"
Lucy let go her husband's arm, thrust him away
from her with passion, gave him one wild look of re-
proach, arid flew noiselessly like a spirit after the nurse
to her child. Sir Tom, with his laugh still wavering
about his mouth, half hysterically, though he was no
ix.] A CHRISTMAS VISIT. 77
weakling, tottered along the terrace to the open window,
and stood there leaning against it, scarcely breathing,
the light gone out of his eyes, his whole soul suspended,
and every part of his strong body, waiting for what
another moment might bring to pass.
CHAPTER IX.
A CHRISTMAS VISIT.
Little Tom did not die, but he became "delicate,"
— and fathers and mothers know what that means.
The entire household was possessed by one pervading
terror lest he should catch cold, and Lucy's life became
absorbed in this constant watchfulness. Naturally
the Christmas guests were put off, and it was under-
stood in respect to the Contessa di Forno-Populo, that
she was to come at Easter. Sir Tom himself thought
this a better arrangement. The Parliamentary recess
was not a long one, and the Contessa would naturally
prefer, after a short visit to her old friend, to go to
town, where she would find so many people she
knew.
" And even in the country the weather is more
tolerable in April," said Sir Tom.
* Oh, yes, yes. The doctor says if we keep clear
of the east winds that he may begin to go out again
and get up his strength," said Lucy.
" My love, I am thinking of your visitors, and you
are thinking of your baby," Sir Tom said.
" Oh, Tom, what do you suppose I could be thinking
of ? " his wife cried.
78 SIR TOM. [chap.
Sir Tom himself was very solicitous about the baby,
but to hear of nothing else worried him. He was glad
when old Lady Eandolph, who was an invariable visitor,
arrived.
" How is the baby ? " was her first question when
lie met her at the train.
" The baby would be a great deal better if there
was less fuss made about him/' he said. " You must
give Lucy a hint on that subject, aunt."
Lady Eandolph was a good woman, and it was her
conviction that she had made this match. But it is
so pleasant to feel that you have been right, that she
was half pleased, though very sorry, to think that Sir
Tom (as she had always known) was getting a little tired
of sweet simplicity. She met Lucy with an affectionate
determination to be very plain with her, and warn her
of the dangers in her path. Jock had arrived the
day before. He rose up in all the lanky length of
sixteen from the side of the fire in the little drawing-
room when the Dowager came in. It was just the
room into which one likes to come after a cold
journey at Christmas ; the fire shining brightly in the
midst of the reflectors of burnished steel and brass,
shining like gold and silver, of the most luxurious
fireplace that skill could contrive (the day of tiled
stoves was not as yet), and sending a delicious glow
on the soft mossy carpets into which the foot sank ; a
table with tea, reflecting the firelight in all the polished
surfaces of the china and silver, stood near ; and chairs
invitingly drawn towards the fire. The only drawback
was that there was no one to welcome the visitor. On
ordinary occasions Lucy was at the door, if not at the
station, to receive the kind lady whom she loved. Lady
Eandolph was somewhat surprised at the difference,
ix.] A CHRISTMAS VISIT. 79
and when she saw the lengthy boy raising himself up
from the fireside, turned round to her nephew and
asked, " Do I know this young gentleman ? There is
not light enough to see him/' with a voice in which
Jock, shy and awkward, felt all the old objection to
his presence as a burden upon Lucy, which in his
precocious toleration he had accepted as reasonable,
but did not like much the better for that. And then
she sat down somewhat sullenly at the fire. The next
minute Lucy came hastily in with many apologies :
" I did not hear the carriage, aunt. I was in the
nursery "
" And how is the child ? " Lady Eandolph said.
" Oh, he is a great deal better — don't you think he
is much better, Tom ? Only a little delicate, and that,
we hope, will pass away."
" Then, Lucy, my dear, though I don't want to
blame you, I think you should have heard the
carriage," said Aunt Eandolph. " The tea-table does
not look cheerful when the mistress of the house is
away."
" Oh, but little Tom " Lucy said, and then
stopped herself, with a vague sense that there was not
so much sympathy around her as usual. Her husband
had gone out again, and Jock stood dumb, an awkward
shadow against the mantelpiece.
" My dear, I only speak for your good," the elder
lady said. " Big Tom wants a little attention too. I
thought you were going to have quite a merry Christ-
mas and a great many people here."
" But, Aunt Eandolph, baby "
" Oh, my dear, you must think of something else
besides baby. Take my word for it, baby would be a
great deal stronger if you left him a little to himself.
80 SIR TOM. [chap.
You have your husband, you know, to think of, and
what harm would it have done baby if there had been
a little cheerful company for his father ? But you
will think I have come to scold, and I don't in the
least mean that. Give me a cup of tea, Lucy. Tom
tells me that this tall person is Jock."
" You would not have known him ? " said Lucy,
much subdued in tone.
She occupied herself with the tea, arranging the
cups and saucers with hands that trembled a little at
the unexpected and unaccustomed sensation of a repulse.
" Well, I cannot even see him. But he has cer-
tainly grown out of knowledge — I never thought he
would have been so tall ; he was quite a little pinched
creature as a child. I daresay you took too much care
of him, my dear. I remember I used to think so ; and
then when he was tossed into the world or sent to
school — it comes to much the same thing, I suppose —
he nourished and grew."
"I wonder," said Lucy, somewhat wistfully, "if
that is really so ? Certainly it is since he has been
at school that he has grown so much." Jock all this
time fidgeted about from one leg to another with un-
utterable darkness upon his brow, could any one have
seen it. There are few things so irritating, especially
at his age, as to be thus discussed over one's own head.
" My dear Lucy," said Lady Eandolph, " don't you
remember some one says — who was it, I wonder? it
sounds like one of those dreadfully clever French say-
ings that are always so much to the point — about the
advantages of a little wholesome neglect ? "
" Can neglect ever be wholesome ? Oh, I don't
think so — I can't think so — at least with children."
" It is precisely children that are meant," said the
ix.] A CHRISTMAS VISIT. 81
elder Lady Eandolph. But as she talked, sitting in
the warm light of the fire, with her cup in her hand,
feeling extremely comfortable, discoursing at her ease,
and putting sharp arrows as if they had been pins into
the heart of Lucy, Sir Tom's large footsteps became
audible coming through the great drawing-room, which
was dark. The very sound of him was cheerful as he
came in, and he brought the scent of fresh night air,
cold but delightful, with him. He passed by Lucy's
chair and said, " How is the little 'un ? " laying a kind
hand upon her head.
" Oh, better. I am sure he is better. Aunt Ean-
dolph thinks "
" I am giving Lucy a lecture," said Lady Eandolph,
" and telling her she must not shut herself up with
that child. He'll get on all the better if he is not
coddled too much."
Sir Tom made no reply, but came to the fire, and
drew a chair into the cheerful glow. " You are all in
the dark," he said, " but the fire is pleasant this cold
night. Well, now that you are thawed, what news
have you brought us out of the world ? We are two
hermits, Lucy and I. We forget what kind of language
you speak. • We have a little sort of talk of our own
which answers common needs about babies and so forth,
but we should like to hear what you are discoursing
about, just for a change."
" There is no such thing as a world just now," said
Lady Eandolph, " there are nothing but country-houses.
Society is all broken up into little bits, as you know
as well as I do. One gleans a little here and a little
there, and one carries it about like a basket of e^crs."
" Jock has a world, and it is quite entire," said Sir
Tom, with his cordial laugh. "No breaking up into
G
82 SIR TOM. [chai\
little bits there. If you want a society that knows its
own opinions, and will stick to them through thick and
thin, 1 can tell you where to find it ; and to see how it
holds together and sits square whatever happens "
Here there came a sort of falsetto growl from
Jock's corner, where he was blushing in the firelight.
" It's because you were once a fellow yourself, and know
all about it."
" So it is, Jock ; you are right, as usual," said Sir
Tom : " I was once a fellow myself, and now I'm an
old fellow, and growing duller. Turn out your basket
of eggs, Aunt Eandolph, and let us know what is going
on. Where did you come from last — the Mulberrys ?
Come ; there must have been some pretty pickings of
gossip there."
" You shall have it all in good time. I am not
going to run myself dry the first hour. I want to
know about yourselves, and when you are going to give
up this honeymooning. I expected to have met all
sorts of people here."
" Yes," said Sir Tom, and then he burst forth in
a laugh, " La Forno-Populo and a few others ; but as
little Tom is not quite up to visitors, we have put
them off till Easter/'
" La Forno-Populo ! " said Lady Eandolph, in a voice
of dismay.
"Why not?" said Sir Tom. "She wrote and
offered herself. I thought she might find it a doubtful
pleasure, but if she likes it However, you may
make yourself easy, nobody is coming," he added, with
a certain jar of impatience in his tone.
14 Well, Tom, I must say I am very glad of that,"
Lady Eandolph said gravely — and then there was a
pause. "I doubt whether Lucy would have liked
IX.] A CHRISTMAS VISIT. 83
her/' she added, after a moment. Then with another
interval, " I think, Lucy, my love, after that nice cnp
of tea, and my first sight of you, that I will go to my
own room. I like a little rest before dinner — yon
know my lazy way."
" And it's getting ridiculously dark in this room,"
Sir Tom said, kicking a footstool out of the way. This
little impatient movement was like one of those exple-
tives that seem to relieve a man's mind, and both the
ladies understood it as such, and knew that he was
angry. Lucy, as she rose from her tea-table to attend
upon her visitor, herself in a confused and painful
mood, and vexed with what had been said to her,
thought her husband was irritated by his aunt, and
felt much sympathy with him, and anxiety to conduct
Lady Eandolph to her room before it should go any
farther. But the elder lady understood it very differ-
ently. She went away, followed by Lucy through the
great drawing-room, where a solitary lamp had been
placed on a table to show the way. It had been the
Dowager's own house in her day, and she did not
require any guidance to her room. Xor did she detain
Lucy after the conventional visit to see that all was
comfortable.
" That I haven't the least doubt of," Lady Eandolph
said, " and I am at home, you know, and will ask for
anything I want ; but I must have my nap before
dinner ; and do you go and talk to your husband."
Lucy could not resist one glance into the nursery,
where little Tom, a little languid but so much better,
was sitting on his nurse's knee before the fire, amused
by those little fables about his fingers and toes which
are the earliest of all dramatic performances. The
sight of him thus content, and the sound of his laugh,
84 SIR TOM. [chap.
was sweet to her in her anxiety. She ran downstairs
again without disturbing him, closing so carefully the
double doors that shut him out from all draughts, not
without a wondering doubt as she did so, whether it
was true, perhaps, that she was " coddling " him, and
if there was such a thing as wholesome neglect. She
went quickly through the dim drawing-room to the
warm ruddy flush of firelight that shone between the
curtains from the smaller room, thinking nothing less
than to find her husband, who was fond of an hour's
repose in that kindly light before dinner. She had
got to her old place in front of the fire before she per-
ceived that Sir Tom's tall shadow was no longer there.
Lucy uttered a little exclamation of disappointment,
and then she perceived remorsefully another shadow,
not like Sir Tom's, the long weedy boyish figure of her
brother against the warm light.
" But you are here, Jock," she said, advancing to
him. Jock took hold of her arm, as he was so fond of
doing.
" I shall never have you, now she has come," Jock
said.
" Why not, dear ? You were never fond of Lady
Eandolph — you don't know how good and kind she is.
It is only when you like people that you know how
nice they are," Lucy said, all unconscious that a deeper
voice than hers had announced that truth.
" Then I shall never know, for I don't like her,"
said Jock uncompromising. " You'll have to sit and
gossip with her when you're not in the nursery, and I
shall have no time to tell you, for the holidays last
only a month."
" But you can tell me everything in a month, you
silly boy ; and if we can't have our walks, Jock (for
IX.] A CHRISTMAS VISIT. 85
it's cold), there is one place where she will never
come," said Lucy, upon which Jock turned away with
an exclamation of impatience.
His sister put her hand on his shoulder and looked
reproachfully in his face.
" You too ! You used to like it. You used to
come and toss him up and make him laugh "
" Oh, don't, Lucy ! can't you see ? So I would
again, if he were like that. How you can bear it ! "
said the boy, bursting away from her. And then Jock
returned very much ashamed and horror-stricken, and
took the hand that dropped by her side, and clumsily
patted and kissed it, and held it between his own,
looking penitently, wistfully, in her face all the while,
but not knowing what to say.
Lucy stood looking down into the glowing fire, with
her head drooping and an air of utter dejection in her
little gentle figure. " Do you think he looks so bad as
that ? " she said, in a broken voice.
" Oh, no, no ; that is not what I mean," the boy
cried. " It's — the little chap is not so jolly ; he's — a
little cross ; or else he's forgotten me. I suppose it's
that. He wouldn't look at me when I ran up. He's
so little one oughtn't to mind, but it made me
your baby, Lucy ! and the little beggar cried and
wouldn't look at me."
" Is that all ? " said Lucy. She only half believed
him, but she pretended to be deceived. She gave a
little trembling laugh, and laid her head for a moment
upon Jock's boyish breast, where his heart was beating
high with a passion of sorrow and tender love. " Some-
times," she said, leaning against him, " sometimes I
think I shall die. I can't live to see anything happen
to him : and sometimes But he is ever so much
86 SIR TOM. [chap.
better ; don't you think he looks almost himself ? "
she said, raising her head hurriedly, and interrogating
the scarcely visible face with her eyes.
" Looks ! I don't see much difference in his looks,
if he wouldn't be so cross," said Jock, lying boldly, but
with a tremor, for he was not used to it. And then
he said hurriedly, " But there's that clergyman, the
father of the fellow on the foundation. I've found out
all about him. I must tell you, Lucy. He is the
very man. There is no call to think about it or put
off any longer. What a thing it would be if he could
have it by Christmas ! I have got all the particulars
— they look as if they were just made for us," Jock
cried.
CHAPTEE X.
lucy's advisers.
Lady Eandolph found her visit dull. It is true that
there had been no guests to speak of on previous
Christmases since Sir Tom's marriage ; but the house
had been more cheerful, and Lucy had been ready to
drive, or walk, or call, or go out to the festivities around.
But now she was absorbed by the nursing, and never
liked to be an hour out of call. The Dowager put up
with it as long as she was able. She did not say any-
thing more on the subject for some cla}^s. It was not,
indeed, until she had been a week at the Hall that,
being disturbed by the appeals of Lucy as to whether
she did not think baby was looking better than when
she came, she burst forth at last. They were sitting
by themselves in the hour after dinner when ladies have
x.] lucy's advisers. 87
the drawing-room all to themselves. It is supposed
by young persons in novels to he a very dreary interval;
hut to the great majority of women it is a pleasant
moment. The two ladies sat before the pleasant fire ;
Lucy with some fleecy white wool in her lap with
which she was knitting something for her child, Lady
Eandolph with a screen interposed between her and
the fire, doing nothing, an operation which she always
performed gracefully and comfortably. It could not
be said that the gentlemen were lingering over their
wine. Jock had retired to the library, where he was
working through all the long-collected literary stores
of the Eandolph family, with an instinctive sense that
his presence in the drawing-room was not desired. Sir
Tom had business to do, or else he was tired of the
domestic calm. The ladies had been sitting for some
time in silence when Lady Eandolph suddenly broke
forth —
" You know what I said to you the first evening,
Lucy ? I have not said a word on the subject since
— of course I didn't come down here to enjoy your
hospitality and then to find fault."
" Oh, Aunt Eandolph ! don't speak of hospitality ;
it is your own house."
" My dear, it is very pretty of you to say so. I
hope I am not the sort of person to take advantage of
it. But I feel a sort of responsibility, seeing it was I
that brought you together first. Lucy, I must tell you.
You are not doing what you ought by Tom. Here he
is, a middle-aged man, you know, and one of the first
in the county. People look to him for a great many
things : he is the member : he is a great landowner :
he is (thanks to you) very well off. And here is
Christmas, and not a visitor in the house but myself.
88 SIR TOM. [chap.
Oh, there's Jock ! a schoolboy home for his holidays —
that does not count ; not a single dinner that I can
hear of "
" Yes, aunt, on the 6th," said Lucy, with humility.
" On the 6th, and it is now the 27th ! and no fuss
at all made about Christmas. My dear, you needn't
tell me it's a bore. I know it is a bore — every-
where wherever one goes ; still, everybody does it. It
is just a part of one's responsibilities. You don't go
to balls in Lent, and you stand on your heads, so to
speak, at Christmas. The country expects it of you ;
and it is always a mistake to take one's own way in
such matters. You should have had, in the first place,"
said Lady Eandolph, counting on her fingers, " your
house full ; in the second, a ball, to which everybody
should have been asked. On these occasions no one that
could possibly be imagined to be gentlefolk should be
left out. I would even stretch a point — doctors and
lawyers, and so forth, go without saying, and those
big brewers, you know, I always took in ; and some
people go as far as the ' vet./ as they call him. He
was a very objectionable person in my day, and that
was where I drew the line ; then three or four dinners
at the least."
" But, Aunt Eandolph, how could we when baby is
so poorly "
" What has baby to do with it, Lucy ? You don't
have the child down to receive your guests. With the
door of his nursery shut to keep out the noise (if you
think it necessary : I shouldn't think it would matter)
what harm would it do him ? He would never be
a bit the wiser, poor little dear. Yes, I dare say your
heart would be with him many a time when you were
elsewhere ; but you must not think of yourself."
x.] lucy's advisers. 89
" 1 did not mean to do so, aunt. I thought little
Tom was my first duty.''
•: Now, I should have thought, my dear," said the
Dowager, smiling blandly, " that it would have been big
Tom who answered to that description."
" But, Tom " Lucy paused, not knowing in
what shape to put so obvious a truth, " he is like me,"
she said. " He is far, far more anxious than he lets
you see. It is his — duty too."
u A great many other things are his duty as well ;
besides, there is so much, especially in a social point
of view, which the man never sees till his wife points
it out. That's one of the uses of a woman. She
must keep up her husband's popularity, don't you see ?
You must never let it be said : ' Oh, Sir Tom ! he is
all very well in Parliament, but he does nothing for
the county.' "
" I never thought of that," said Lucy, with dismay.
" But you must learn to think of it, my love.
Never mind, this is the first Christmas since the elec-
tion. But one dinner, and nothing else done, not so
much as a magic lantern in the village ! I do assure
you, my dearest girl, you are very much to blame."
" I am very sorry," said Lucy, with a startled look,
" but, dear aunt, little Tom "
" My dear Lucy ! I am sure you don't wish every-
body to get sick of that poor child's very name."
Lucy sprang up from her chair at this outrage ; she
could not bear any more. A flush of almost fury
came upon her face. She went up to the mantelpiece,
which was a very fine one of carved wood, and leant
her head upon it. She did not trust herself to reply.
" Now, I know what you are thinking," said Lady
Randolph blandly. " You are saying to yourself, that
90 SIR TOM. [chap.
horrid old woman, who never had a child, how can she
know? — and I don't suppose I do/' said the clever
Dowager pathetically. " All that sweetness has been
denied to me. I have never had a little creature that
was all mine. But when I was your age, Lucy, and
far older than you, I would have given anything —
almost my life — to have had a child."
Lucy melted in a moment, threw herself down upon
the hearth-rug upon her knees, and took Lady Ran-
dolph's hands in her own and kissed them.
" Oh, dear aunt, dear aunt ! " she cried, " to think
I should have gone on so about little Tom and never
remembered that you But we are all your
children," she said, in the innocence and fervour of
her heart.
" Yes, my love." Lady Eandolph freed one of hei
hands and put it up with her handkerchief to her
cheek. As a matter of fact she did not regret it now,
but felt that a woman when she is growing old is
really much more able to look after her own comforts
when she has no children ; and yet, when she re-
membered how she had been bullied on the subject,
and all the reproaches that had been addressed to
her as if it were her fault, perhaps there was some-
thing like a tear. " That is why I venture to say
many things to you that I would not otherwise. Tom,
indeed, is too old to have been my son ; but I have
felt, Lucy, as if I had a daughter in you." Then
shaking off this little bit of sentiment with a laugh,
the Dowager raised Lucy and kissed her and put her
into a chair by her own side.
" Since we are about it," she said, " there is one
other thing I should like to talk to you about. Of
course your husband knows a great deal more of the
x.] ltjcy's advisers. 91
world than you do, Lucy; but it is perhaps better
that he should not decide altogether who is to be
asked. Men have such strange notions. If people
are amusing it is all they think of. Well, now, there
is that Contessa di Forno-Populo. I would not have
her, Lucy, if I were you."
" But it was she who was the special person," said
Lucy, in amaze. "The others were to come to meet
her. She is an old friend."
" Oh, I know all about the old friendship," said
Lady Eandolph. " I think Tom should be ashamed
of himself. He knows that in other houses where the
mistress knows more about the world. Yes, yes, she
is an old friend. All the more reason, my dear, why
you should have as little to say to her as possible ;
they are never to be reckoned upon. Didn't you hear
what he called her. La Forno-Populo ? Englishmen
never talk of a lady like that if they have any great
respect for her ; but it can't be denied that this lady
has a great deal of charm. And I would just keep
her at arm's length, Lucy, if I were you."
" Dear Aunt Eandolph, why should I do that ? "
said Lucy, gravely. " If she is Tom's friend, she must
always be welcome here. I do not know her, there-
fore I can only welcome her for my husband's sake ;
but that is reason enough. You must not ask me to
do anything that is against Tom."
" Against Tom ! I think you are a little goose,
Lucy, though you are so sensible. Is it not all for his
sake that I am talking ? I want you to see more of
the world, not to shut yourself up here in the nursery
entirely on his account, If you don't understand that,
then words have no meaning."
" I do understand it, aunt," said Lucy meekly.
92 SIR TOM. [chap.
" Don't be angry ; but why should I be disagreeable to
Tom's friend ? The only thing I am afraid of is,
should she not speak English. My French is so
bad "
" Oh, your French will do very well ; and you will
take your own way, my dear," said the elder lady,
getting up. " You all do, you young people. The
opinion of others never does any good ; and as Tom
does not seem to be coming, I think I shall take my
way to bed. Good -night, Lucy. Eemember what I
said, at all events, about the magic lantern. And if
you are wise you will have as little to do as possible
with La Forno-Populo as you can — and there you
have my two pieces of advice."
Lucy was disturbed a little by her elder's counsel,
both in respect to the foreign lady, whom, however,
she simply supposed Lady Eandolph did not like —
and in regard to her own nursery tastes and avoidance
of society ; — could that be why Tom sat so much
longer in the dining-room and did not come in to talk
to his aunt ? She began to think with a little ache
in her heart, and to remember that in her great pre-
occupation with the child he had been left to spend
many evenings alone, and that he no longer complained
of this. She stood up in front of the fire and pressed
her hot forehead to the mantel-shelf. How was a
woman to know what to do ? Was not he that was
most helpless and had most need of her the one to
devote her time to ? There was not a thought in her
that was disloyal to Sir Tom. But what if he were
to form the habit of doing without her society ? This
was an idea that filled her with a vague dread. Some
one came in through the great drawing-room as she
stood thinking, and she turned round eagerly, supposing
x.] LUCY'S ADVISERS. 93
that it was her husband ; but it was only Jock, who
had been on the watch to hear Lady Eandolph go
upstairs.
" I never see you at all now, Lucy," cried Jock.
" I never have a chance but in the holidays, and now
they're half over, and we have not had one good talk.
And what about poor Air. Churchill, Lucy ? I thought
he was the very man for you. He has got about a
dozen children and no money. Somebody else pays
for Churchill, that's the fellow I told you of that's on
the foundation. I shouldn't have found out all that,
and gone and asked questions and got myself thought
an inquisitive beggar, if it hadn't been for your sake."
" Oh, Jock, I'm sure I am much obliged to you,"
said Lucy, dolefully ; " and I am so sorry for the pool
gentleman. It must be dreadful to have so many
children and not to be able to give them everything
they require."
At this speech, which was uttered with something
between impatience and despair, and which made no
promise of any help or succour, her brother regarded
her with a mixture of anger and disappointment.
" Is that all about it, Lucy ? " he said.
" Oh, no, Jock ! I am sure you are right, dear. I
know I ought to bestir myself and do something, but
only ■ How much do you think it would take to
make them comfortable ? Oh, Jock, I wish that papa had
put it all into somebody's hands, to be done like busi-
ness— somebody that had nothing else to think of 1 "
" What have you to think of, Lucy ? " said the boy,
seriously, in the superiority of his youth. " I suppose,
you know, you are just too well off. You can't under-
stand what it is to be like that. You get angry at
people for not being happy, you don't want to be
94 SIR TOM. [chap.
disturbed." lie paused remorsefully, and cast a
glance at her, melting in spite of himself, for Lucy did
not look too well off. Her soft brow was contracted
a little ; there was a faint quiver upon her lip. " If
you really want to know," Jock said, " people can live
and get along when they have about five hundred a
year. That is, as far as I can make out. If you
gave them that, they would think it awful luck."
" I wish I could give them all of it, and be done
with it ! "
" I don't see much good that would do. It would
be two rich people in place of one, and the two would
not be so grand as you. That would not have done
for father at all. He liked you to be a great heiress,
and everybody to wonder at you, and then to give
your money away like a queen. I like it too," said
Jock, throwing up his head ; " it satisfies the imagina-
tion : it is a kind of a fairy tale."
Lucy shook her head.
" He never thought how hard it would be upon me.
A woman is never so well off as a man. Oh, if it had
been you, Jock, and I only just your sister."
" Talking does not bring us any nearer a settle-
ment," said Jock, with some impatience. " When will
you do it, Lucy ? Have you got to speak to old
Rushton, or write to old Chervil, or what ? or can't
you just draw them a cheque ? I suppose about ten
thousand or so would be enough. And it is as easy to
do it at one time as another. Why not to-morrow,
Lucy ? and then you would have it off your mind."
This proposal took away Lucy's breath. She
thought with a gasp of Sir Tom and the look with
which he would regard her — the laugh, the amused
incredulity. He would not be unkind, and her right
x.] lucy's advisees. 95
to do it was quite well established and certain. But
she shrank within herself when she thought how he
would look at her, and her heart jumped into her
throat as she realised that perhaps he might not laugh
only. How could she stand before him and carry her
own way in opposition to his? Her whole being
trembled even with the idea of conflict. " Oh, Jock, it
is not just so easily managed as that/' she said falter-
ing ; " there are several things to think of. I will
have to let the trustees know, and it must all be
calculated."
" There is not much need for calculation," said
Jock, " that is just about it. Five per cent is what
you get for money. You had better send the cheque
for it, Lucy, and then let the old duffers know of it
afterwards. One would think you were afraid ! "
" Oh, no," said Lucy, with a slight shiver, " I am
not afraid." And then she added, with growing
hesitation, " I must — speak to Oh ! Is it
you, Tom ? " She made a sudden start from Jock's
side, who was standing close by her, argumentative
and eager, and whose bewildered spectatorship of her
guilty surprise and embarrassment she was conscious
of tlirough- all.
" Yes, it is I," said Sir Tom, putting his hand upon
her shoulders ; " you must have been up to some
mischief, Jock and you, or you would not look so
frightened. "What is the secret ? " he said, with his
genial laugh. But when he looked from Jock,
astonished but resentful and lowering, to Lucy, all
trembling and pale with guilt, even Sir Tom, who was
not suspicious, was startled. His little Lucy ! "What
had she been plotting that made her look so scared
at his appearance ? Or was it something that had been
96 SIR TOM. [chap.
told to her, some secret accusation against himself ?
This startled Sir Tom also a little, and it was with a
sudden gravity, not unmingled with resentment, that
he added, " Come ! I mean to know what it is."
CHAPTER XL
AN INNOCENT CONSPIRACY.
" It was only something that Jock was saying," said
Lucy, " but, Tom, I will tell you another time. I wish
you had come in before Lady Randolph went upstairs.
I think she was a little disappointed to have only me."
" Did she share Jock's secret ? " Sir Tom said with
a keen look of inquiry. It is perhaps one advantage
in the dim light which fashion delights in, that it is
less easy to scrutinise the secrets of a face.
" We are all a little put wrong when you do not
come in," said Lucy. The cunning which weakness
finds refuge in when it has to defend itself came to her
aid. " Jock is shy when you are not here. He thinks
he bores Lady Randolph ; and so we ladies are left to
our own devices."
" Jock must not be so sensitive," Sir Tom said ; but
he was not satisfied. It occurred to him suddenly
(for schoolboys are terrible gossips) that the boy might
have heard something which he had been repeating to
Lucy. Nothing could have been more unlikely, had
he thought of it, than that Jock should carry tales on
such a subject. But we do not stop to argue out
matters when our own self-regard is in question. He
looked at the two with a doubtful and suspicious eye
XI.] AN INNOCENT CONSPIRACY. 97
" He will get over it as he grows older/' said Lucy ;
but she gave her brother a look which to Sir Tom
seemed one of warning, and he was irritated by it ; he
looked from one to another and he laughed ; but not
with the genial laugh which was his best known
utterance.
" You are prodigiously on your guard/' he said. " I
suppose you have your reasons for it. Have you been
confiding the Masons' secret or something of that awful
character to her, Jock ? "
" Why shouldn't I tell him ? " cried Jock with great
impatience. " What is the use of making all those
signs ? It's nothing of the sort. It's only I've heard of
somebody that is poor — somebody she ought to know
of — the sort of thing that is meant in father's will."
" Oh ! " said Sir Tom. It was the simplest of ex-
clamations, but it meant much. He was partially relieved
that it was not gossip, but yet more gravely annoyed
than if it had been.
Lucy made haste to interpose.
" I will tell you afterwards," she said. " If I made
signs, as Jock said, it was only that I might tell it you,
Tom, myself, when there was more time."
" I am at no loss for time," said Sir Tom, placing
himself in the vacant chair. The others were both
standing, as became this accidental moment before bed-
time. And Lucy had been on thorns to get away, even
before her husband appeared. She had wanted to
escape from the discussion even with Jock. She had
wanted to steal into the nursery, and see that her boy
was asleep, to feel his little forehead with her soft hand,
and make sure there was no fever. To be betrayed
into a prolonged and agitating discussion now was very
provoking, very undesirable ; and Lucy had grown
H
98 SIR TOM. [cnAP.
rather cowardly and anxious to push away from her, as
far as she could, everything that did not belong to the
moment.
"Torn," she said, a little tremulously, " I wish you
would put it off till to-morrow. I am — rather sleepy ;
it is nearly eleven o'clock, and I always run in to see
how little Tom is going on. Besides," she added, with
a little anxiety which was quite fictitious, " it is keeping
Fletcher up "
" I am not afraid of Fletcher, Lucy."
" Oh ! but I am," she said. " I will tell you about
it to-morrow. There is nothing in the least settled,
only Jock thought "
" Settled ! " Sir Tom said, with a curious look. " No,
I hope not."
" Oh ! nothing at all settled," said Lucy. She stood
restlessly, now on one foot now on the other, eager for
flight. She did not even observe the implied authority
in this remark, at which Jock pricked up his ears with
incipient offence. " And Jock ought to be in bed —
oh, yes, Jock, you ought. I am sure you are not
allowed to sit up so late at school. Come now, there's
a good boy — and I will just run and see how baby is."
She put her hand on her brother's arm to take him
away with her, but Jock hung back, and Sir Tom in-
terposed, "Now that I have just settled myself for a
chat, you had better leave Jock with me at least, Lucy.
Eun away to your baby, that is all right. Jock- and I
will entertain each other. I respect his youth, you
see, and don't try to seduce him into a cigar — you
should be thankful to me for that."
" If I was not in sixth form," said Jock sharply,
nettled by this indignity, " I should smoke ; but it is
bad form when you are high up in school. In the
xi.] AX INNOCENT CONSPIRACY. 99
holidays I don't mind," he added, with careless grandeur,
upon which Sir Tom, mollified, laughed (as Lucy felt)
like himself.
fC Off duty, eh ? " he said, " that's a very fine senti-
ment, Jock. You may be sure it's bad form to do
anything you have promised not to do. You will say
that sounds like a copy-book. Come now, Lucy, are
not you going, little woman ? Do you want to have
your share in the moralities ? "
For tins sudden change had somehow quenched
Lucy's desire both to inspect the baby and get to bed.
But what could she do ? She looked very earnestly at
Jock as she bade him good-night, but neither could she
shake his respect for her husband by giving him any
warning, nor offend her husband by any appearance of
secret intelligence with Jock. Poor little Lucy went
away after this through the stately rooms and up the
grand staircase with a great tremor in her heart. There
could not be a life more guarded and happy than hers
had been — full of wealth, full of love, not a crumpled
rose-leaf to disturb her comfort. But as she stole
alonCT the dim corridor to the nurserv her heart was
beating full of all the terrors that make other hearts to
ache. She was afraid for the child's life, which was
the worst of all, and looked with a suppressed ye:
terrible panic into the dark future which contained she
knew not what for him. And she was afraid of her
husband, the kindest man in the world, not knowing
how he might take the discovery he had just made,
fearing to disclose her mind to him, finding herself
guilty in the mere idea of hiding anything from him.
And she was afraid of Jock, that he would irritate Sir
Tom, or be irritated by him, or that some wretched
breach or quarrel might arise between these two. Jock
100 SIR TOM. [chap,
was not an ordinary boy ; there was no telling how he
might take any reproof that might be addressed to him
— perhaps with the utmost reasonableness, perhaps
with a rapid defiance. Lady Eandolph thus, though
no harm had befallen her, had come into the usual
heritage of humanity, and was as anxious and troubled
as most of us are ; though she was so happy and well
off. She was on thorns to know what was passing in
the room she had just left.
This was all that passed. Jock, standing up against
the mantelpiece, looked down somewhat lowering upon
Sir Tom in the easy chair. He expected to be ques-
tioned, and had made up his mind, though with great
indignation at the idea that any one should find fault
with Lucy, to take the whole blame upon himself.
That Lucy should not be free to carry out her duty as
seemed to her best was to Jock intolerable. He had
put his boyish faith in her all his life. Even since
the time, a very early one, when Jock had felt himself
much cleverer than Lucy ; even when he had been
obliged to make up his mind that Lucy was not clever
at all — he had still believed in her. She had a
mission in the world which separated her from other
women. Nobody else had ever had the same thing to
do. Many people had dispensed charities and founded
hospitals, but Lucy's office in the world was of a differ-
ent description — and Jock had faith in her power to
do it. To see her wavering was trouble to him, and
the discovery he had just made of something beneath
the surface, a latent opposition in her husband which
she plainly shrank from encountering, gave the boy a
shock from which it was not easy to recover. He had
always liked Sir Tom ; but if One thing, how-
ever, was apparent, if there was any blame, anything
xi.] AN INNOCENT CONSPIRACY. 101
to find fault with, it was lie, Jock, and not Lucy, that
must bear that blame.
" So, Jock, Lucy tl links you should be in bed.
When do they put out your lights at school ? In my
time we were up to all manner of tricks. I remember
a certain dark lantern that was my joy; but that was
in old Keate's time, you know, who never trusted the
fellows. You are under a better rule now."
This took away Jock's breath, who had been prepared
for a sterner interrogation. He answered with a
sudden blush, but with the rallying of all his forces :
" I light them again sometimes. It's hard on a fellow,
don't you think, sir, when he's not sleepy and has a
lot to do ? "
" I never had much experience of that," said Sir
Tom. " We were always sleepy, and never did any-
thing in my time. It was for larking, I'm afraid,
that we wanted light. And so it is seen on me, Jock.
You will be a fellow of your college, whereas I "
" I don't think so," said Jock generously. " That
construe you gave me, don't you remember, last half ?
MTutor says it is capital. He says he couldn't have
done it so well. Of course, that is his modest way,"
the boy added, " for everybody knows there isn't such
another scholar ! but that's what he says."
Sir Tom laughed, and a slight suffusion of colour
appeared on his face. He was pleased with this un-
expected applause. At five-and-forty, after knocking
about the world for years, and " never opening a book,"
as people say, to have given a good " construe " is a
feather in one's cap. " To be second to your tutor is
all a man has to hope for," he said, with that mellow
laugh which it was so pleasant to hear. " I hope I
know my place, Jock. We had no such godlike beings
102 SIR TOM. [chap.
in my time. Old Puck, as we used to call him, was
my tutor. He had a red nose, which was the chief
feature in his character. He looked upon us all as
his natural enemies, and we paid him back with in-
terest. Did I ever tell of that time when we were
going to Ascot in a cab, four of us, and he caught
sight of the turn-out ? "
" I don't think so," said Jock, with a little hesita-
tion. He remembered every detail of this story, which
indeed Sir Tom had told him perhaps more than once ;
for in respect to such legends the best of us repeat
ourselves. Many were the thoughts in the boy's mind
as he stood against the mantelpiece and looked down
upon the man before him, going over with much relish
the tale of boyish mischief, the delight of the urchins
and the pedagogue's discomfiture. Sir Tom threw him-
self back in his chair with a peal of joyous laughter.
" Jove ! I think I can see him now with the corners
of his mouth all dropped, and his nose like a beacon,"
he cried. Jock meanwhile looked down upon him
very gravely, though he smiled in courtesy. He was
a different manner of boy from anything Sir Tom
could ever have been, and he wondered, as young
creatures will, over the little world of mystery and
knowledge which was shut up within the elder man.
What things he had done in his life — what places he
had seen ! He had lived among savages, and fought
his way, and seen death and life. Jock, only on the
threshold, gazed at him with a curious mixture of awe
and wonder and kind contempt. He would him-
self rather look down upon a fellow (he thought)
who did that sort of practical joke now. MTutor
would regard such an individual as a natural curiosity.
And yet here was this man who had seen so much, and
xi.] AN INNOCENT CONSPIRACY. 103
done so much, who ought to have profited by the long
results of time, and grown to such superiority and mental
elevation — here was he, turning back with delight to the
schoolboy's trick. It filled Jock with a great and com-
passionate wonder. But he was a very civil boy. He
was one who could not bear to hurt a fellow-creature's
feelings, even those of an old duffer whose recollections
were all of the bygone ages. So he did his best to
laugh. And Sir Tom enjoyed his own joke so much
that he did not know that it was from the lips only
that his young companion's laugh came. He got up
and patted Jock on the shoulders with the utmost
benevolence when this pastime was done.
"They don't indulge in that sort of fooling nowa-
days," he said. " So much the better — though I don't
know that it did us much harm. Xow come along, let
lis go to bed, according to my lady's orders. "We must
all, you know, do what Lucy tells us in this house."
Jock obeyed, feeling somewhat " shut up," as he
called it, in a sort of blank of confused discomfiture.
Sir Tom had the best of it, by whatever means he
attained that end. The boy had intended to offer him-
self a sacrifice, to brave anything that an angry man
could say to him for Lucy's sake, and at the same time
to die if necessary for Lucy's right to carry out her
father's will, and accomplish her mission uninterrupted
and untrammelled. When lo, Sir Tom had taken to
telling him schoolboy stories, and sent him to bed
with good-humoured kindness, without leaving him
the slightest opening either to defend Lucy or take
blame upon himself. He was half angry, and humbled
in his own esteem, but there was nothing for it but to
submit. Sir Tom for his part, did not go to bed. He
went and smoked a lonely cigar, and his face lost its
104 SIR TOM. [cHAr.
genial smile. The light of it, indeed, disappeared
altogether under a cloud, as he sat gravely over his
fire and puffed the smoke away. He had the air of
a man who had a task to do which was not congenial
to him. " Poor little soul," he said to himself. He
could not bear to vex her. There was nothing in the
world that he would have grudged to his wife. Any
luxury, any adornment that he could have procured
for her he would have jumped at. But it was his
fate to be compelled to oppose and subdue her instead.
The only thing was to do it quickly and decisively,
since done it must be. If she had been a warrior
worthy of his steel, a woman who would have defended
herself and held her own, it would have been so much
more easy ; but it was not without a compunction that
Sir Tom thought of the disproportion of their forces, of
the soft and compliant creature who had never raised
her will against his or done other than accept his sug-
gestions and respond to his guidance. He remembered
how Lucy had stuck to her colours before her marriage,
and how she had vanquished the unwilling guardians
who regarded what they thought the squandering of
her money with a consternation and fury that were
beyond bounds. He had thought it highly comic at
the time, and even now there passed a gleam of
humour over his face at the recollection. He could
not deny himself a smile when he thought it all over.
She had worsted her guardians, and thrown away her
money triumphantly, and Sir Tom had regarded the
whole as an excellent joke. But the recollection of this
did not discourage him now. He had no thought that
Lucy would stand out against him. It might vex her,
however, dear little woman. No doubt she and Jock
had been making up some fine Quixotic plans between
XIL] THE FIEST STRUGGLE. 105
them, and probably it would be a shock to her when
her husband interfered. He had got to be so fond of
his little wife, and his heart was so kind, that he could
not bear the idea of vexing Lucy. But still it would
have to be done. He rose up at last, and threw away
the end of his cigar with a look of vexation and
trouble. It was necessary, but it was a nuisance,
however. " If it were done when 'tis done, then
'twere well it were done quickly/' he said to himself;
then laughed agrain, as he took his wav upstairs, at the
O O ' W -M.
over -significance of the words. He was not going to
murder anybody; only when the moment proved favour-
able, for once and only once, seeing it was inevitable,
he had to bring under lawful authority — an easy task —
the sentle little feminine creature who was his wife.
CHAPTER XIL
THE FIEST STEUGGLE.
Lucy knew nothing of this till the next forenoon after
breakfast, and after the many morning occupations
which a lady has in her own house. She looked wist-
fully at both her brother and her husband when they
met at table, and it was a great consolation to her,
and lightening of her heart, when she perceived that
they were quite at ease with each other ; but still she
was burning with curiosity to know what had passed.
Sir Tom had not said a word. He had been just as
usual, not even looking a consciousness of the unex-
plained question between them. She was glad and
yet half sorry that all was about to blow over, and to
106 SIR TOM. [chap.
be as if it had not been. After going so far, perhaps
it would have been better that it had gone farther and
that the matter had been settled. This she said to
herself in the security of a respite, believing that it
had passed away from Sir Tom's mind. She wanted
to know, and yet she was afraid to ask, for her heart
revolted against asking questions of Jock which might
betray to him the fear of a possible quarrel. After
she had superintended little Tom's toilet, and watched
him go out for his walk (for the weather was very
mild for the time of the year), and seen Mrs. Fresh- '
water, the housekeeper, and settled about the dinner,
always with a little quiver of anxiety in her heart,
she met Jock by a happy chance, just as she was
about to join Lady Eandolph in the drawing-room.
She seized his arm with energy, and drew him within
the door of the library ; but after she had done this
with an eagerness not to be disguised, Lucy suddenly
remembered all that it was inexpedient for her to
betray to Jock. Accordingly she stopped short, as it
were, on the threshold, and instead of saying as she
had intended, " What did he say to you ? " dropped
down into the routine question, " Where are you
going — were you going out ? "
" I shall some time, T suppose. What do you grip
a fellow's arm for like that ? and then when I thought
you had something important to say to me, only asking
am I going out ? "
" Yes, dear," said Lucy, recovering herself with an
effort. " You don't take enough exercise. I wish you
would not be always among the books."
" Stuff, Lucy !" said Jock.
" I am sure Tom thinks the same. He was telling me
— now didn't he say something to you about it last night?"
xii.] THE FIRST STRUGGLE. 107
" That's all bosh," said the boy. " And if you want
to know what he said to me last night, he just said
nothing at all, but told roe old stories of school that
I've heard a hundred times. These old d fellows "
(Jock did not swear ; he was going to say duffers, that
was all) " always talk like that. One would think
they had not had much fun in their life when they are
always turning back upon school," Jock added, with
fine sarcasm.
" Oh, only stories about school !" said Lucy with
extreme relief. But the next moment she was not
quite so sure that she was comfortable about this entire
ignoring of a matter which Sir Tom had seemed to
think so grave. " What sort of stories ? " she said
dreamily, pursuing her own thoughts without much
attention to the answer.
" Oh, that old stuff about Ascot and about the old
master that stopped them. It isn't much. I know
it," said Jock, disrespectfully, " as well as I know my
a, b, c."
" It is very rude of you to say so, Jock."
" Perhaps it is rude," the boy replied, with candour ;
but he did not further explain himself, and Lucy, to
veil her mingled relief and disquietude, dismissed him
with an exhortation to go out.
" You read and read," she cried, glad to throw off a
little excitement in this manner, though she really felt
very little anxiety on the subject, " till you will be all
brains and nothing else. I wish you would use your
legs a little too." And then, with a little affectionate
push away from her, she left him in undisturbed pos-
session of his books, and the morning, which, fine as it
was, was not bright enough to tempt him away from
them.
108 SIR TOM. [chap.
Then Lucy pursued her way to the drawing-room :
but she had not gone many steps before she met her
husband, who stopped and asked her a question or two.
Had the boy gone out ? It was so fine it would do
him good, poor little beggar ; and where was her lady-
ship going ? When he heard she was going to join the
Dowager, Sir Tom smilingly took her hand and drew
it within his own. " Then come here with me for a
minute first," he said. And strange to say, Lucy had
no fear. She allowed him to have his way, thinking
it was to show her something, perhaps to ask her advice
on some small matter. He took her into a little room
he had, full of trophies of his travels, a place more dis-
tinctively his own than any other in the house. When
he had closed the door a faint little thrill of alarm
came over her. She looked up at him wondering,
inquiring. Sir Tom took her by her arms and drew
her towards him in the full light of the window.
" Come and let me look at you, Lucy," he said. " I
want to see in your eyes what it is that makes you
afraid of me."
She met his eyes with great bravery and self-com-
mand, but nothing could save her from the nervous
quiver which he felt as he held her, or from the tell-
tale ebb and flow of the blood from her face. " I — I
am not afraid of you, Tom."
" Then have you ceased to trust me, Lucy ? How
is it that you discuss the most important matters with
Jock, who is only a boy, and leave me out ? You do
not think that can be agreeable to me."
" Tom," she said ; then stopped short, her voice being
interrupted by the fluttering of her heart.
" I told you : you are afraid. What have I ever
done to make my wife afraid of me ?" he said.
Xii.] THE FIEST STRUGGLE. 109
" Oh, Tom, it is not that ! it is only that I felt —
there has never been anything said, and yon have al-
ways done all, and more than all, that I wished ; but
I have felt that you were opposed to me in one thing.
I may be wrong, perhaps," she added, looking up at
him suddenly with a catching of her breath.
Sir Tom did not say she was wrong. He was very
kind, but very grave. " In that case," he said, " Lucy,
my love, don't you think it would have been better to
speak to me about it, and ascertain what were my
objections, and why I was opposed to you — rather than
turn without a word to another instead of me ?"
" Oh !" cried Lucy, " I could not. I was a coward.
I could not bear to make sure. To stand against you,
how could I do it ? But if you will hear me out,
Tom, I never, never turned to another. Oh ! what
strange words to say. It was not another. It was
Jock, only Jock ; but I did not turn even to him. It
was he who brought it forward, and I lSTow
that we have begun to talk about it, and it cannot be
escaped," cried Lucy, with sudden nervous boldness,
freeing herself from his hold, " I will own everything
to you, Tom. Yes, I was afraid. I would not, I could
not do it, for I could feel that you were against it.
You never said anything ; is it necessary that you
should speak for me to understand you ? but I knew it
all through. And to go against you and do something
you did not like was more than I could face. I should
have gone on for years, perhaps, and never had courage
for it," she cried. She was tino'linc? all over with ex-
citement and desperate daring now.
" My darling," said Sir Tom, " it makes me happier
to think that it was not me you were afraid of, but
only of putting yourself in opposition to me ; but still,
110 SIR TOM. [chap.
Lucy, even that is not right, you know. Don't you
think that it would be better that we should talk it
over, and that I should show you my objections to this
strange scheme you have in your head, and convince
you
" Oh !" cried Lucy, stepping back a little and putting
up her hands as if in self-defence, " that was what I
was most frightened for."
" What, to be convinced ?" he laughed : but his
laugh jarred upon her in her excited state. "Well,
that is not at all uncommon ; but few people avow it
so frankly," he said.
She looked up at him with appealing eyes. " Oh,
Tom," she cried, " I fear you will not understand me
now. I am not afraid to be convinced. I am afraid
of what you will think when you know that I cannot
be convinced. Now," she said, with a certain calm of
despair, " I have said it all."
To her astonishment her husband replied by a sud-
den hug and a laugh. " Whether you are accessible
to reason or not, you are always my dear little woman,"
he said. " I like best to have it out. Do you know,
Lucy, that it is supposed your sex are all of that
mind ? You believe what you like, and the reason for
your faith does not trouble you. You must not suppose
that you are singular in that respect."
To this she listened without any response at all
either in words or look, except, perhaps, a little lifting
of her eyelids in faint surprise ; for Lucy was not con-
cerned about what was common to her sex. Nor did she
take such questions at all into consideration. There-
fore, this speech sounded to her irrelevant; and so
quick was Sir Tom's intelligence that, though he made
it as a sort of conventional necessity, he saw that it was
xii.] THE FIRST STRUGGLE. Ill
irrelevant too. It might have been all very well to
address a clever woman who could have given him back
his reply in such words. But to Lucy's straightfor-
ward, simple, limited intellect such dialectics were
altogether out of place, Her very want of capacity to
understand them made them a disrespect to her which
she had done nothing to deserve. He coloured in his
quick sense of this, and sudden perception that his
wife in the limitation of her intellect and fine perfection
of her moral nature was such an antagonist as a man
might well be alarmed to meet, more alarmed even than
she generously was to displease him.
" I beg your pardon, Lucy," he said, " I was talking
to you as if you were one of the ordinary people. All
this must be treated between you and me on a different
footing. I have a great deal more experience than
you have, and I ought to know better. You must
let me show you how it appears to me. You see I
don't pretend not to know what the point was. I
have felt for a long time that it was one that must be
cleared up between you and me. I never thought of
Jock coming in," he said with a laugh. " That is quite
a new and unlooked-for feature ; but begging his
pardon, though he is a clever fellow, we will leave
Jock out of the question. He can't be supposed to
have much knowledge of the world."
" ISTo," said Lucy, with a little suspicion. She did
not quite see what this had to do with it, nor what
course her husband was going to adopt, nor indeed at
all what was to follow.
" Your father's will was a very absurd one," he said.
At this Lucy was slightly startled, but she said
after a moment, " He did not think what hard things
he was leaving me to do."
112 SIR TOM. [char
" He did not think at all, it seems to me," said Sir
Tom ; " so far as I can see he merely amused himself
by arranging the world after his fashion, and trying
how much confusion he could make. I don't mean to
say anything unkind of him. I should like to have
known him : he must have been a character. But he
has left us a great deal of botheration. This particular
thing, you know, that you are driving yourself crazy
about is sheer absurdity, Lucy. Solomon himself could
not do it, — and who are you, a little girl without any
knowledge of the world, to see into people's hearts, and
decide whom it is safe to trust ? "
" You are putting more upon me than poor papa
did, Tom," said Lucy, a little more cheerfully. " He
never said, as we do in charities, that it was to go to
deserving people. I was never intended to see into
their hearts. So long as they required it and got the
money, that was all he wanted."
" Well, then, my dear," said Sir Tom, " if your father
in his great sense and judgment wanted nothing but
to get rid of the money, I wonder he did not tell you
to stand upon Beachy Head or Dover Cliff on a certain
day in every year and throw so much of it into the
sea — to be sure," he added with a laugh, " that would
come to very much the same thing — for you can't
annihilate money, you can only make it change hands
— and the London roughs would soon have found out
your days for this wise purpose and interrupted it
somehow. But it would have been just as sensible.
Poor little woman ! Here I am beginning to argue,
and abusing your poor father, whom, of course, you were
fond of, and never so much as offering you a chair !
There is something on every one of them, I believe.
Here, my love, here is a seat for you," he said, dis-
xil] THE FIEST STRUGGLE. 113
placing a box of curiosities and clearing a corner for
her by the fire. But Lucy resisted quietly.
" Wouldn't it do another time, Tom ? " she said with
a little anxiety, " for Aunt Eandolph is all by herself,
and she will wonder what has become of me ; and baby
will be coming back from his walk." Then she made
a little pause, and resumed again, folding her hands,
and raising her mild eyes to his face. " I am very
sorry to go against you, Tom. I think I would rather
lose all the money altogether. But there is just one
thing, and oh, do not be angry ! I must carry out
papa's will if I were to die ! "
Her husband, who had begun to enter smilingly
upon this discussion, with a certainty of having the
best of it, and who had listened to her smilingly in her
simple pleas for deferring the conversation, pleas which
he was very willing to yield to, was so utterly taken
by surprise at this sudden and most earnest state-
ment, that he could do nothing but stare at her, with a
loud alarmed exclamation, <: Lucy ! " and a look of utter
bewilderment in his face. But she stood this without
flmching, not nervous as many a woman might have
been after delivering such a blow, but quite still, clasp-
ing her hands in each other, facing him with a des-
perate quietness. Lucy was not insensible to the
tremendous nature of the utterance she had just
made.
•'■' This is surprising, indeed, Lucy," cried Sir Tom.
He grew quite pale in that sensation of being dis-
obeyed, which is one of the most disagreeable that
human nature is subject to. He scarcely knew what
to reply to a rebellion so complete and determined.
To see her attitude, the look of her soft girlish face
(for she looked still younger than her actual years), the
i
114 SIR TOM. [chap.
firm pose of her little figure, was enough to show that
it was no rash utterance, such as many a combatant
makes, to withdraw from it one hour after. Sir Tom,
in his amazement, felt his very words come back to
him ; he did not know what to say. " Do you mean
to tell me," he said, almost stammering in his conster-
nation, "that whatever I may think or advise, and
however mad this proceeding may be, you have made
up your mind to carry it out whether I will or not ? "
" Tom ! in every other thing I will do what you tell
me. I have always done what you told me. You
know a great deal better than I do, and never more
will I go against you ; but I knew papa before I knew
you. He is dead ; I cannot go to him to ask him to
let me off, to tell him you don't like it, or to say it is
more than I can do. If I could I would do that. But
he is dead : all that he can have is just that I should
be faithful to him. And it is not only that he put it
in his will, but I gave him my promise that I would
do it. How could I break my promise to one that is
dead, that trusted in me ? Oh, no, no ! It will kill
me if you are angry ; but even then, even then, I must
do what I promised to papa."
The tears had risen to her eyes as she spoke : they
filled her eyelids full, till she saw her husband only
through two blinding seas : then they fell slowly one
after another upon her dress : her face was raised to
him, her features all moving with the earnestness of her
plea. The anguish of the struggle against her heart,
and desire to please him, was such that Lucy felt what
it was to be faithful till death. As for Sir Tom, it was
impossible for such a man to remain unmoved by emo-
tion so great. But it had never occurred to him as
possible that Lucy could resist his will, or, indeed,
xiil] AN IDLE MORNING. 115
stand for a moment against his injunction ; he had
believed that he had only to say to her, " You must
not do it/' and that she would have cried, but given
way. He felt himself utterly defeated, silenced, put
out of consideration. He did nothing but stare and
gasp at her in his consternation ; and, more still, he
was betrayed. Her gentleness had deceived him and
made him a fool ; his pride was touched, he who was
supposed to have no pride. He stood silent for a time,
and then he burst out with a sort of roar of astonished
and angry dismay.
"Lucy, do you mean to tell me that you will dis-
obey me ? " he cried.
CHAPTEE XIIL
AN IDLE MORNING.
The Dowager Lady Eandolph had never found the Hall
so dull. There was nothing going on, nothing even to
look forward to : one formal dinner-party was the only
thing to represent that large and cordial hospitality
which she was glad to think had in her own time
characterised the period when the Hall was open. She
had never pretended to be fond of the county society.
In the late Sir Eobert's time she had not concealed
the fact that the less time she spent in it the better
she was pleased. But when she was there, all the
county had known it. She was a woman who loved
to live a large and liberal life. It was not so much
that she liked gaiety, or what is called pleasure, as that
she loved to have people about her, to be the dispenser
116 SIR TOM. [chap.
of enjoyment, to live a life iu which there was always
something going on. This is a temperament which
meets much censure from the world, and is stigmatised
as a love of excitement, and by many other unlovely
names ; but that is hard upon the people who are born
with it, and who are in many cases benefactors to man-
kind. Lady Randolph's desire was that there should
always be something doing — " a magic lantern at the
least," she had said. Indeed, there can be no doubt
that in managing that magic lantern she would have
given as much satisfaction to everybody, and perhaps
managed to enjoy herself as much, as if it had been the
first entertainment in Mayfair. She could not stagnate
comfortably, she said ; and as so much of an ordinary
woman's life must be stagnation more or less gracefully
veiled, it may be supposed that Lady Eandolph had
learned the useful lesson of putting up with what she
could get when what she liked was not procurable.
And it was seldom that she had been set down to so
languid a feast as the present. On former occasions a
great deal more had been going on, except the last
year, which was that of the baby's birth, on which
occasion Lucy was, of course, out of the way of enter-
tainment altogether. Lady Eandolph had, indeed,
found her visits to the Hall amusing, which was de-
lightful, seeing they were duty visits as well. She had
stayed only a day or two at that time — just long
enough to kiss the baby and talk for half an hour at a
time, on two or three distinct opportunities, to the
young mother in very subdued and caressing tones.
And she had been glad to get away again when she
had performed this duty, but yet did not grudge in the
least the sacrifice she had made for her family. The
case, however, was quite different now : there was no
xiii.] AN IDLE MORNING. 117
reason in the world why they should be quiet. The
baby was delicate ! — could there be a more absurd
reason for closing your house to your friends, putting
off your Christmas visits, entertaining not at all, ignor-
ing altogether the natural expectations of the county,
which did not elect a man to be its member in order
that he might shut himself up and superintend his
nursery ? It was ridiculous, his aunt felt ; it went to
her nerves, and made her quite uncomfortable, to see
all the resources of the house, with which she was so
well acquainted, wasted upon four people. It was
preposterous — an excellent cook, the best cook almost
she had ever come across, and only four to dine !
People have different ideas of what waste is — there
are some who consider all large expenditure, especially
in the entertainment of guests, to be subject to this
censure. But Lady Eandolph took a completely dif-
ferent view. The wickedness of having such a cook
and only a family party of four persons to dine was
that which offended her. It was scandalous, it was
wicked. If Lucy meant to live in this way let her
return to her bourgeois existence, and the small vulgar
life in Farafield. It was ridiculous living the life of a
nobody here, and in Sir Tom's case was plainly suicidal.
How was he to hold up his face at another election,
with the consciousness that he had done nothing at all
for his county, not even given them a ball, nor so much
as a magic lantern, she repeated, bursting with a repro-
bation which could scarcely find words ?
All this went through her mind with double force
wheu she found herself left alone in Lucy's morning-
room, which was a bright room opening out upon the
flower garden, getting all the morning sun, and the full
advantage of the flowers when there were any. There
118 SIR TOM. [chap.
were none, it is true, at this moment, except a few
snow-drops forcing their way through the smooth turf
under a tree which stood at the corner of a little bit of
lawn. Lady Bandolph was not very fond of flowers,
except in their proper place, which meant when em-
ployed in the decoration of rooms in the proper artistic
way, and after the most approved fashion. Thus she
liked sunflowers when they were approved by society,
and modest violets and pansies in other developments
of popular taste, but did not for her own individual
part care much which she had, so long as they looked
well in her vases, and " came well " against her draperies
and furniture. She had come down on this bright
morning with her work, as it is the proper thing for a
lady to do, but she had no more idea of being left here
calmly and undisturbed to do that work than she had
of attempting a flight into the inviting and brilliant, if
cold and frosty, skies. She sat down with it between
the fire and the sunny window, enjoying both without
being quite within the range of either. It was an idea]
picture of a lady no longer young or capable of much
out-door life, or personal emotion ; a pretty room ; a
sunny, soft winter morning, almost as warm as summer,
the sunshine pouring in, a cheerful fire in the back-
ground to make up what was lacking in respect of
warmth ; the softest of easiest chairs, yet not too low
or demoralising ; a subdued sound breaking in now and
then from a distance, which pleasantly betrayed the
existence of a household ; and in the midst of all, in a
velvet gown, which was very pretty to look at, and
very comfortable to wear, and with a lace cap on her
head that had the same characteristics, a lady of sixty,
in perfect health, rich enough for all her requirements,
without even the thought of a dentist to trouble her.
XIII.] AX IDLE MORNING. 119
She had a piece of very pretty work in her hand, the
newspapers on the table, books within reach. And
yet she was not content ! What a delightful ideal
sketch might not be made of such a moment ! How
she might have been thinking of her past, sweetly, with
a sigh, yet with a thankful thought of all the good
things that had been hers ; of those whom she had
loved, and who were gone from earth, as only awaiting
her a little farther on, and of those about her, with such
a tender commendation of them to God's blessing, and
cordial desire for their happiness, as would have reached
the height of a prayer. And she might have been
feeling a tranquil pleasure in the material things about
her : the stillness, the warmth, the dreamy quiet, even
the pretty work, and the exemption from care which
she had arrived at in the peaceful concluding chapter
of existence. This is what we all like to think of as
the condition of mind and circumstances in which age
is best met. But we are grieved to say that this was
not in the least Lady Eandolph's pose. Anything
more distasteful to her than this quiet could not be.
It was her principle and philosophy to live in the
present. She drew many experiences from the past,
and a vast knowledge of the constitutions and changes
of society ; but personally it did not amuse her to
think of it, and the future she declined to contemplate.
It had disagreeable things in it, of that there could be
no doubt ; and why go out and meet the disagreeable ?
It was time enough when it arrived. There was prob-
ably illness, and certainly dying, in it ; things which
she was brave enough to face when they came, and no
doubt would encounter in quite a collected and cour-
ageous way. But why anticipate them ? She lived
philosophically in the day as it came. After all what-
120 SIR TOM. [chap.
ever you do or think, you cannot do much more. Your
one day, your hour, is your world. Acquit yourself
fitly in that, and you will be able to encounter what-
ever occurs.
This was the conviction on which Lady Eandolph
acted. Bat her pursuit for the moment was not enter-
taining ; she very quickly tired of her work. Work
is, on the whole, tiresome when there is no particular
use in it, when it is done solely for the sake of occu-
pation, as ladies' work so often is. It wants a meaning
and a necessity to give it interest, and Lady Ran-
dolph's had neither. She worked about ten minutes,
and then she paused and wondered what could have
become of Lucy. Lucy was not a very amusing com-
panion, but she was somebody; and then Sir Tom
would come in occasionally to consult her, to give her
some little piece of information, and for a few minutes
would talk and give his relative a real pleasure. But
even Lucy did not come ; and soon Lady Eandolph
became tired of looking out of the window and then
walking to the fire, of taking up the newspaper and
throwing it down again, of doing a few stitches, then
letting the work fall on her lap ; and above all, of
thinking, as she was forced to do, from sheer want of
occupation. She listened, and nobody came. Two or
three times she thought she heard steps approaching,
but nobody came. She had thought of perhaps going
out since the morning was so fine, walking down to
the village, which was quite within her powers, and of
planning several calls which might be made in the
afternoon to take advantage of the fine day. But she
became really fretted and annoyed as the morning
crept along. Lucy was losing even her politeness, the
Dowager thought. This is what comes of what people
xni.] AN IDLE MORNING. 121
call happiness ! They get so absorbed in themselves,
there is no possibility of paying ordinary attention to
other people. At last, after completely tiring herself
out, Lady Randolph got up and put down her work
altogether, throwing it away with anger. She had not
lived so long in its sole company for years, and there
is no describing how tired she was of it. She got up
and went out into the other rooms in search of some-
thing to amuse her. Little Tom had just come in,
but she did not go to the nursery. She took care not
to expose herself to that. She was willing to allow
that she did not understand babies ; and then to see
such a pale little thing the heir of the Randolphs
worried her. He ought to have been a little Hercules :
it wounded her that he was so puny and pale. She
went through the great drawing-room, and looked at
all the additions to the furniture and decorations that
Tom and Lucy had made. They had kept a number
of the old things ; but naturally they had added a
good deal of bric-a-hrac, of old things that here were
new. Then Lady Randolph turned into the library.
She had gone up to one of the bookcases, and was
leisurely contemplating the books, with a keen eye,
too, to the- additions which had been made, when she
heard a sound near her, the unmistakable sound of
turning over the leaves of a book. Lady Randolph
turned round with a start, and there was Jock, sunk
into the depths of a large chair with a tall folio sup-
ported on the arms of it. She had not seen him when
she came in, and, indeed, many people might have
come and gone without perceiving him, buried in his
corner. Lady Randolph was thankful for anybody to
talk to, even a boy.
" Is it you ? " she said. " I might have known it
122 SIR TOM. [chap.
could be nobody but you. Do you never do anything
but read ? "
" Sometimes," said Jock, who had done nothing but
watch her since she came into the room. She save
him a sort of half smile.
" It is more reasonable now than when you were a
child," she said ; " for I hear you are doing extremely
well at school, and gaining golden opinions. That is
quite as it should be. It is the only way you can
repay Lucy for all she has done for you."
" I don't think," said Jock, looking at her over Ms
book, " that Lucy wants to be repaid."
" Probably not," said Lady Eandolph. Then she
made a pause, and looked from him to the book he
held, and then to him again. " Perhaps you don't
think," she said, " there is anything to be repaid."
They were old antagonists ; when he was a child
and Lucy had insisted on carrying him with her
wherever she went, Lady Eandolph had made no
objections, but she had not looked upon Jock with a
friendly eye. And afterwards, when he had inter-
posed with his precocious wisdom, and worsted her
now and then, she had come to have a holy dread of
him. But now things had righted themselves, and
Jock had attained an age of which nobody could be
afraid. The Dowager thought, as people are so apt to
think, that Jock was not grateful enough. He was
very fond of Lucy, but he took things as a matter of
course, seldom or never remembering that whereas
Lucy was rich, he was poor, and all his luxuries and
well-being came from her. She was glad to take an
opportunity of reminding him of it, all the more as
she was of opinion that Sir Tom did not sufficiently
impress this upon the boy, to whom she thought he
xni.] AN IDLE MORNING. 123
was unnecessarily kind. " I suppose," she resumed,
after a pause, " that you come here always in the holi-
days, and quite consider it as your home ? "
Jock still sat and looked at her across his great
folio. He made her no reply. He was not so ready
in the small interchanges of talk as he had been at
eight, and, besides, it was new to him to have the
subject introduced in this way. It is not amusing to
plant arrows of this sort in any one's flesh if they
show no sign of any wound, and accordingly Lady
Eandolph grew angry as Jock made no reply. " Is it
considered good manners," she said, " at school — when a
lady speaks to you that you should make no answer ? "
" I was thinking," Jock said. c< A fellow, whether
he is at school, or not, can't answer all that at once."
" I hope you do not mean to be impertinent. In
that case I should be obliged to speak to my nephew,"
said Lady Eandolph. She had not intended to quarrel
with Jock. It was only the vacancy of the morning,
and her desire for movement of some sort, that had
brought her to this ; and now she grew angry with
Lucy as well as with Jock, having gone so much
farther than she had intended to go. She turned
from him to the books which she had been languidly
examining, and began to take them out one after
another, inrpatiently, as if searching for something.
Jock sat and looked at her for some time, with the
same sort of deliberate observation with which he
used to regard her when he was a child, seeing (as she
had always felt) through and through her. But
presently another impulse swayed him. He got him-
self out behind his book, and suddenly appeared by
her side, startling her nerves, which were usually so
firm.
124 SIR TOM. [chap
" If you will tell me what you want," he said, " I'll
get it for you. I know where they all are. If it is
French you want, they are up there. I like going up
the ladder," he added, half to himself.
Perhaps it was this confession of childishness, per-
haps the unlooked-for civility, that touched her. She
turned round with a subdued half frightened air,
feeling that there was no telling how to take this
strange creature, and said, half apologetically, " I think
I should like a French — novel. They are not — so —
long, you know, as the English," and sat down in the
chair he rolled towards her. Jock was at the top of
the ladder in a moment. She watched him, making a
little comment in her own mind about Tom's motive
in placing books of this description in such a place —
in order to keep them out of Lucy's way, she said to
herself. Jock brought her down half a dozen to choose
from, and even the eye of Jock, who doubtless knew
nothing about them, made Lady Eandolph a little
more scrupulous than usual in choosing her book.
She was one of those women who like the piquancy
and freedom of French fiction. She would say to
persons of like tastes that the English proprieties were
tame beside the other, and she thought herself old
enough to be altogether beyond any risk of harm.
Perhaps this was why she divined Sir Tom's motive
in placing them at the top of the shelves ; divined
and approved, for though she read all that came in
her way, she would not have liked Lucy to share that
privilege. She said to Jock as he brought them to her,
" They are shorter than the English. I can't carry
three volumes about, you know ; all these are in one ;
but I should not advise you to take to this sort of
reading, Jock."
xiii.] AN IDLE MORNING. I--"'
" I don't want to," said Jock, briefly ; then he
added more gravely, " I can't construe French like you.
I suppose you just open it and go straight on ? "
" I do," said Lady Bandolph, with a smile.
She was mollified, for her French was excellent,
and she liked a little compliment, of whatever kind.
" You should give your mind to it ; it is the most
useful of all languages," she said.
" And Lucy is not great at it either," said Jock.
" That is true, and it is a pity," said Lady Bandolph,
quite restored to good-humour. " I would take her in
hand myself, but I have so many things to do. Do
you know where she is, for I have not seen her all this
morning ?"
" Xo more have I," said Jock. " I think they have
just gone off somewhere together. Lucy never minds.
She ought to pay a little attention when there are
people in the house."
" That is just what I have been thinking," Lady
Ptandolph said. " I am at home, of course, here ; it
does not matter for me, and you are her brother — but
she really ought ; I think I must speak seriously to
her."
" To whom are you going to speak seriously ? I
hope not to me, my dear aunt," said Sir Tom, coming
in. He did not look quite his usual self. He was a
little pale, and he had an air about him as of some dis-
agreeable surprise. He had the post-bag in his hand
— for there was a post twice a day — and opened it as
he spoke. Lady Piandolph, with her quick perception,
saw at once that something had happened, and jumped
at the idea of a first quarrel. It was generally the
butler Williams who opened the letter-bag; but he
was out of the way, and Sir Tom had taken the office
126 SIR TOM. [chap.
on himself. He took out the contents with a little
impatience, throwing across to her her share of the
correspondence. " Hallo," he said. " Here is a letter
for Lucy from your tutor, Jock. What have you
been doing, my young man ? "
" Oh, I know what it's about," Jock said in a tone
of satisfaction. Sir Tom turned round and looked at
him with the letter in his hand, as if he would have
liked to throw it at his head.
CHAPTEE XIV.
AN UNWILLING MARTYR.
Lucy came into the morning-room shortly after, a little
paler than usual, but with none of the agitation about
her which Lady Eandolph expected from Sir Tom's
aspect to see. Lucy was not one to bear any outward
traces of emotion. When she wept her eyes recovered
rapidly, and after half an hour were no longer red.
She had a quiet respect for other people, and a deter-
mination not to betray anything which she could not
explain, which had the effect of that " proper pride "
which is inculcated upon every woman, and yet was
something different. Lucy would have died rather than
give Lady Eandolph ground to suppose that she had
quarrelled with her husband, and as she could not
explain the matter to her, it was necessary to efface all
signs of perturbation as far as that was possible. The
elder lady was reading her letters when Lucy came in,
but she raised her eyes at once with the keenest watch-
fulness. Young Lady Eandolph was pale — but at no
xiv.] AN UNWILLING MARTYR. 127
time had she much colour. She came iu quite simply,
without any explanation or giving of reasons, and sat
down in her usual place near the window, from which
the sunshine, as it was now afternoon, was beginning
to die away. Then Lucy gave a slight start to see a
letter placed for her on the little table beside her work.
She had few correspondents at any time, and when
Jock and Lady Eandolph were both at the Hall re-
ceived scarcely any letters. She took it up and looked
at its outside with a little surprise.
" I forgot to tell you, Lucy," the Dowager said at
this point, "that there was a letter for you. Tom
placed it there. He said it was from Jock's tutor, and
I hope sincerely, my dear, it does not mean that Jock
has got into any scrape "
" A scrape," said Lucy, " why should he have got
into a scrape?" in unbounded surprise; for this was
a thing that never had happened throughout Jock's
career.
" Oh, boys are so often in trouble," Lady Eandolph
said, while Lucy opened her letter in some trepidation.
But the first words of the letter disturbed her more
than any story about Jock was likely to do. It
brought the crisis nearer, and made immediate action
almost indispensable. It ran as follows : —
" Dear Lady Eandolph — In accordance with Jock's request,
which he assured me was also yours, I have made all the in-
quiries you wished about the Churchill family. It was not very
difficult to do, as there is but one voice in respect to them. Mr.
Churchill himself is represented to me as a model of all that a
clergyman ought to be. Whatever we may think of his func-
tions, that he should have all the virtues supposed to be attached
to them is desirable in every point of view ; and he is a gentle-
man of good sense and intelligence besides, which is not always
implied even in the character of a saint. It seems that the failure
of an inheritance, which he had every reason to expect, was the
128 SIR TOM. [chap.
cause of his first disadvantage in the world ; and since then, in
consonance with that curious natural law which seems so con-
trary to justice, yet constantly consonant with fact, this evil has
been cumulative, and he has had nothing hut disappointments
ever since. He has a very small living now, and is never likely
to get a better, for he is getting old, and patrons, I am told,
scarcely venture to give a cure to a man of his age lest it should
be said they were gratifying their personal likings at the expense
of the people. This seems contrary to abstract justice in such
a case ; but it is a doctrine of our time to which we must all
bow.
" The young people, so far as I know, are all promising and
good. Young Churchill, whom Jock knows, is a boy for whom
I have the greatest regard. He is one whom Goethe would have
described as a beautiful soul. His sisters are engaged in educa-
tional work, and are, I am told, in their way equally high-minded
and interesting ; but naturally I know little of the female por-
tion of the family.
" It is extremely kind of you and Sir Thomas to repeat your
invitation. I hope, perhaps at Easter, if convenient, to be able
to take advantage of it. I hear with the greatest pleasure from
Jock how much he enjoys his renewed intercourse with his home
circle. It will do him good, for his mind is full of the ideal,
and it will be of endless advantage to him to be brought back to
the more ordinary and practical interests. There are very few
boys of whom it can be said that their intellectual aspirations
over-balance their material impulses. As usual he has not only
done his work this half entirely to my satisfaction, but has more
than repaid any services I can render him by the precious com-
panionship of a fresh and elevated spirit.
" Believe me, dear Lady Randolph,
" Most faithfully yours,
" Maximus D. Derwentwater."
A long-drawn breath, which sounded like a sigh,
burst from Lucy's breast as she closed this letter. She
had, with humility and shrinking, yet with a certain
resolution, disclosed to her husband that when the
occasion occurred she must do her duty according to
her father's will, whether it pleased him or not. She
had steeled herself to do this ; but she had prayed that
xiv.] AN UNWILLING MARTYR. 129
the occasion might be slow to come. Nobody but
Jock knew anything about these Churchills, and Jock
was going back to school, and he was young and per-
haps he might forget ! But here was another who
would not forget. She read all the recommenda-
tions of the family and their excellences with a sort of
despair. Money, it was evident, could not be better
bestowed than in this way. There seemed no opening
by which she could escape ; no way of thrusting this
act away from her. She felt a panic seize her. How
was she to disobey Tom, how to do a thing of so much
importance, contrary to his will, against his advice ?
The whole world around her, the solid walls, and the
sky that shone in through the great window, swam in
Lucy's eyes. She drew her breath hard like a hunted
creature ; there was a singing in her ears, and a dim-
ness in her sight. Lady Eandolph's voice asking with
a certain satisfaction, yet sympathy, "What is the
matter ? I hope it is not anything very bad," seemed
to come to her from a distance as from a different
world ; and when she added, after a moment, soothingly,
" You must not vex yourself about it, Lucy, if it is just
a piece of folly. Boys are constantly in that way
coming to grief : " it was with difficulty that Lucy
remembered to what she could refer. Jock ! Ah, if
it had been but a boyish folly, Sir Tom would have
been the first to forgive that ; he would have opened
his kind heart and taken the offender in, and laughed
and persuaded him out of his folly. He would have
been like a father to the boy. To feel all that, and
how good he was ; and yet determinedly to contradict
his will and go against him ! Oh, how could she do
it ? and yet what else was there to do ?
" It is not about Jock," she answered with a faintvoice.
K
130 SIR TOM. [chap.
" I beg your pardon, my dear. I was not aware
that you knew Jock's tutor well enough for general
correspondence. These gentlemen seem to make a
great deal of themselves now-a-days, but in my time,
Lucy "
" I do not know him very well, Aunt Eandolph.
He is only sending me some information. I wish I
might ask you a question," she cried suddenly, looking
into the Dowager's face with earnest eyes. This lady
had perhaps not all the qualities that make a perfect
woman, but she had always been very kind to Lucy.
She was not unkind to anybody, although there were
persons, of whom Jock was one, whom she did not
like. And in all circumstances to Lucy, even when
there was no immediate prospect that the Eandolph
family would be any the better for her, she had always
been kind.
"As many as you like, my love," she answered,
cordially.
"Yes," said Lucy; "but, dear Aunt Eandolph,
what I want is that you should let me ask, without
asking anything in return. I want to know what
you think, but I don't want to explain "
" It is a strange condition," said Lady Eandolph ;
but then she thought in her superior experience that
she was very sure to find out what this simple girl
meant without explanations. "But I am not in-
quisitive," she added, with a smile, " and I am quite
willing, dear, to tell you anything I know "
"It is this," said Lucy, leaning forward in her
great earnestness ; " do you think a woman is ever
justified in doing anything which her husband dis-
approves ? "
"Lucy ! " cried Lady Eandolph, in great dismay,
XIV.] AX UNWILLING MARTYR. 131
"when her husband is my Tom, and the thing she
wants to do is connected with Jock's tutor "
Lucy's gaze of astonishment, and her wondering re-
petition of the words, " connected with Jock's tutor ! "
brought Lady Eandolph to herself. In society, such
a suspicion being fostered by all the gossips, comes
naturally; but though she was a society-woman, and
had not much faith in holy ignorance, she paused
here, horrified by her own suggestion, and blushed at
herself.
" Xo, no," she said, " that was not what I meant ;
but perhaps I could not quite advise, Lucy, where I am
so closely concerned."
At which Lucy looked at her somewhat wistfully.
" I thought you would perhaps remember," she said,
" when you were like me, Aunt Eandolph, and perhaps
did not know so well as you know now "
This touched the elder lady's heart. " Lucy," she
said, " my dear, if you were not as innocent as I knowT
you are, you would not ask your husband's nearest
relation such a question. But I will answer you as
one woman to another, and let Tom take care of him-
self. I never was one that was very strong upon a
husband's rights. I always thought that to obey meant
something different from the common meaning of the
word. A child must obey ; but even a grown-up child's
obedience is very different from what is natural and
proper in youth ; and a full-grown woman, you know,
never could be supposed to obey like a child. ISTo wise
man, for that matter, would ever ask it or think of it."
This did not give Lucy any help. She was very
willing, for her part, to accept his light yoke without
any restriction, except in the great and momentous ex-
ception which she did not want to specify.
132 SIR TOM. [chap.
" I think," Lady Kandolph went on, " that to obey
means rather — keep in harmony with your husband,
pay attention to his opinions, don't take up an opposite
course, or thwart him, be united — instead of the
obedience of a servant, you know: still less of a
slave."
She was a great deal cleverer than Lucy, who was
not thinking of the general question at all. And this
answer did the perplexed mind little good. Lucy
followed every word with curious attention, but at the
end slowly shook her head.
" It is not that. Lady Kandolph, if there was some-
thing that was your duty before you were married,
and that is still and always your duty, a sacred promise
you had made ; and your husband said no, you must
not do it — tell me what you would have done ? The
rest is all so easy," cried Lucy, "one likes what he
likes, one prefers to please him. But this is difficult.
What would you have done ? "
Here Lady Kandolph all at once, after giving forth
the philosophical view which was so much above her
companion, found herself beyond her depth altogether,
and incapable of the fathom of that simple soul.
" I don't understand you, Lucy. Lucy, for heaven's
sake, take care what you are doing ! If it is anything
about Jock, I implore of you give way to your hus-
band. You may be sure in dealing with a boy that
he knows best."
Lucy sighed. " It is nothing about Jock," she
said ; but she did not repeat her demand. Lady Kan-
dolph gave her a lecture upon the subject of relations
which was very wide of the question ; and, with a sigh,
owning to herself that there was no light to be got
from this, Lucy listened very patiently to the irrele-
xiv.] AX UNWILLING MARTYR. 133
vant discourse. The clever dowager cut it short when
it was but half over, perceiving the same, and asked
herself not without excitement what it was possible
Lucy's difficulty could be ? If it was not Jock (and a
young brother hanging on to her, with no home but
hers, an inquisitive young intelligence, always in the
way, was a difficulty which anybody could perceive at
a glance) what was it ? But Lucy baffled altogether
this much experienced woman of the world.
And Jock watched all the day for an opportunity
to get possession of her, and assail her on the other
side of the question. She avoided him as persistently
as he sought her, and with a panic which was very
different from her usual happy confidence in him.
But the moment came when she could elude him no
longer. Lady Eandolph had gone to her own room
after her cup of tea, for that little nap before dinner
which was essential to her good looks and pleasant-
ness in the evening. Sir Tom, who was too much dis-
turbed for the usual rules of domestic life, had not
come in for that twilight talk which he usually enjoyed;
and as Lucy found herself thus plunged into the danger
she dreaded, she was hurrying after Lady Eandolph,
declaring that she heard baby cry, when Jock stepped
into her way, and detained her, if not by physical, at
least by moral force —
" Lucy," he said, " are you not going to tell me
anything ? I know you have got the letter, but you
won't look at me, or speak a word."
" Oh, Jock, how silly ! why shouldn't I look at you ?
but I have so many things to do, and baby — I am
sure I heard baby cry."
"He is no more crying than I am. I saw
him, and he was as jolly as possible. I want awfully
134 SIR TOM. [chap.
to know about the Churchills, and what MTutor
says."
" Jock, I think Mr. Derwentwater is rather grand
in his writing. It looks as if he thought a great deal
of himself."
"No, he doesn't," said Jock, hotly, "not half
enough. He's the best man we've got, and yet he
can't see it. You needn't give me any information
about MTutor," added the young gentleman, "for
naturally I know all that much better than you. But
I want to know about the Churchills. Lucy, is it all
right ? "
Lucy gave a little shiver though she was in front
of the fire. She said, reluctantly, " I think they seem
very nice people, Jock."
" 1 know they are," said Jock, exultantly. " Churchill
in college is the nicest fellow I know. He read such
a paper at the Poetical Society. It was on the Method
of Sophocles ; but of course you would not understand
that."
" No, dear," said Lucy, mildly ; and again she mur-
mured something about the baby crying, "I think
indeed, Jock, I must go."
"Just a moment," said the boy, "Now you are
satisfied couldn't we drive into Farafield to-morrow
and settle about it ? I want to go with you, you and
I together, and if old Eushton makes a row you can
just call me."
"But I can't leave Lady Eandolph, Jock," cried
Lucy, driven to her wits' end. " It would be unkind
to leave her, and a few days cannot do much harm.
When she has gone away "
" I shall be back at school. Let Sir Tom take her
out for once. He might as well drive her in his new
xv.] ON BUSINESS. .135
phaeton that he is so proud of. If it is fine she'll like
that, and we can say we have some business."
" Oh ! Jock, don't press me so ; a few days can't
make much difference."
" Lucy/' said Jock, sternly, " do you think it makes
no difference to keep a set of good people unhappy,
just to save you a little trouble ? I thought you had
more heart than that."
" Oh, let me go, Jock ; let me go — that is little
Tom, and he wants me," Lucy cried. She had no
answer to make him — the only thing she could do was
to fly.
CHAPTEE XV.
ON BUSINESS.
Ten thousand pounds ! These words have very dif-
ferent meanings to different people. Many of us can
form little idea of what those simple syllables contain.
They enclose as in a golden casket, rest, freedom
from care, bounty, kindness, an easy existence, and an
ending free of anxiety to many. To others they are
nothing more than a cipher on paper, a symbol with-
out any connection with themselves. To some it
is great fortune, to others a drop in the ocean. A
merchant will risk it any day, and think but little if
the speculation is a failure. A prodigal will throw
it away in a month, perhaps in a night. But the pro-
portion of people to whom its possession would make
all the difference between poverty and wealth far
transcends the number of those who are careless of it.
It is a pleasure to deal with such a sum of money
136 SIR TOM. [chap.
even on paper. To be concerned in giving it away,
makes even the historian, who has nothing to do with it,
feel magnificent and all-bounteous. Jock, who had as
little experience to back him as any other boy of his
age, felt a vague elation as he drove in by Lucy's side
to Farafield. To confer a great benefit is always
sweet. Perhaps if we analyse it, as is the fashion of
the day, we will find that the pleasure of giving has a
fond of gratified vanity and self-consideration in it ;
but this weakness is at least supposed to be generous,
and Jock was generous to his own consciousness, and
full of delight at what was going to be done, and
satisfaction with his own share in it. But Lucy's
sensations were very different. She went with him
with no goodwill of her own, like a culprit being
dragged to execution. Duty is not always willing,
even when we see it most clearly. Young Lady
Eandolph had a clear conviction of what she was
bound to do, but she had no wish to do it, though she
was so thoroughly convinced that it was incumbent
upon her. Could she have pushed it out of her own
recollection, banished it from her mind, she would
have gladly done so. She had succeeded for a long
time in doing this — excluding the consideration of it,
and forgetting the burden bound upon her shoulders.
But now she could forget it no longer — the thongs
which secured it seemed to cut into her flesh. Her
heart was sick with thoughts of the thing she must
do, yet revolted against doing. " Oh, papa, papa ! "
she said to herself, shaking her head at the grim,
respectable house in which her early days had been
passed, as they drove past it to Mr. Bushton's office.
Why had the old man put such a burden upon her?
Why had not he distributed his money himself and
xv.] ON BUSINESS. 137
left her poor if lie pleased, with at least no unnatural
charge upon her heart and life ?
" Why do you shake your head ? " said Jock, who
was full of the keenest observation, and lost nothing.
He had an instinctive feeling that she was by no
means so much interested in her duty as he was, and
that it was his business to keep her up to the mark.
" Don't you remember the old house ? " Lucy said,
" where we used to live when you were a child ?
"Where poor papa died — where "
" Of course I remember it. I always look at it
when I pass, and think what a little ass I used to be.
But why did you shake your head ? That's what I
want to know."
" Oh, Jock ! " Lucy cried ; and said no more.
"That throws very little light on the question,"
said Jock. " You are thinking of the difference, I
suppose. Well, there is no doubt it's a great differ-
ence. I was a little idiot in those days. I recollect
I thought the circus boy was a sort of little prince, and
that it was grand to ride along like that with all the
people staring — the grandest thing in the world "
" Poor little circus boy ! What a pretty child he
was," said Lucy. And then she sighed to relieve the
oppression on her breast, and said, "Do you ever
wonder, Jock, why people should have such different
lots ? You and I driving along here in what we once
would have thought such state, and look, these people
that are crossing the road in the mud are just as good
as we are "
Jock looked at his sister with a philosophical eye,
in which for the moment there was some contempt.
" It is as easy as a, b, c," said Jock ; " it's your money.
You might set me a much harder one. Of course, in
138 SIR TOM. [chap.
the way of horses and carriages and so forth, there is
nothing that money cannot bny."
This matter-of-fact reply silenced Lncy. She would
have asked, perhaps, why did I have all this money ?
being in a questioning frame of mind ; but she knew
that he would answer shortly because her uncle made
it, and this was not any more satisfactory. So she
only looked at him with wistful eyes that set many
much harder ones, and was silent. Jock himself was
too philosophical to be satisfied with his own reply.
" You see," he said condescendingly, " Money is the
easiest explanation. If you were to ask me why Sir
Tom should be Sir Tom, and that man sweep a crossing,
I could not tell you."
" Oh," cried Lucy, " I don't see any difficulty about
that at all, for Tom was born to it. You might as
well say why should baby be born to be the heir."
Jock did not know whether to be indignant or to
laugh at this feminine begging of the question. He
stared at her for a moment uncertain, and then went
on as if she had not spoken. " But money is always
intelligible. That's political economy. If you have
money, as a matter of course you have everything
that money can buy ; and I suppose it can buy almost
everything ? " Jock said, reflectively.
" It cannot buy a moment's happiness," cried Lucy,
" nor one of those things one wishes most for. Oh
Jock, at your age don't be deceived like that. For my
part," she cried, " I think it is just the trouble of life.
If it was not for this horrible money "
She stopped short, the tears were in her eyes,
but she would not betray to Jock how great was the
difficulty in which she found herself. She turned her
head away and was glad to wave her hand to a well-
XV.] OX BUSINESS. 139
known face that was passing, an acquaintance of old
times, who was greatly elated to find that Lady Ban-
dolph in her grandeur still remembered her. Jock
looked on upon all this with a partial comprehension,
mingled with disapproval. He did not quite under-
stand what she meant, but he disapproved of her for
meaning it all the same.
" Money can't be horrible," he said, " unless it's
badly spent : and to say you can't buy happiness with
it is nonsense. If it don't make you happy to save
people from poverty it will make them happy, so some-
body will always get the advantage. What are you
so silly about, Lucy ? I don't say money is so very
fine a thing. I only say it's intelligible. If you ask
me why a man should be a great deal better than you
or me, only because he took the trouble to be
born "
" I am not so silly, though you think me so silly,
as to ask that," said Lucy ; " that is so easy to under-
stand. Of course you can only be who you are. You
can't make yourself into another person ; I hope I
understand that."
She looked him so sweetly and seriously in the face
as she spoke, and was so completely unaware of any
flaw in her reply, that Jock, argumentative as he was,
only gasped and said nothing more. And it was in
tins pause of their conversation that they swept up
to Mr. Eushton's door. Mr. Eushton was the town-
clerk of Farafield, the most important representative
of legal knowledge in the place. He had been the
late Mr. Trevor's man of business, and had still
the greater part of Lucy's affairs in his hands.
He had known her from her childhood, and in the
disturbed chapter of her life before her marriage,
140 SIR TOM. [cuap.
his wife had taken a great deal of notice, as she
expressed it, of Lucy : and young Raymond, who had
now settled down in the office as his father's partner
(but never half such a man as his father, in the
opinion of the community), had done her the honour
of paying her his addresses. But all that had passed
from everybody's mind. Mrs. Rushton, never very
resentful, was delighted now to receive Lady Ran-
dolph's invitation, and proud of the character of an
old friend. And if Raymond occasionally showed a
little embarrassment in Lucy's presence, that was only
because he was by nature awkward in the society of
ladies, and according to his own description never
knew what to say.
" And what can I do for your ladyship this morn-
ing ? " Mr. Rushton said, rising from his chair. His
private room was very warm and comfortable, too
warm, the visitors thought, as an office always is to
people going in from the fresh air. The fire burned
with concentrated heat, and Lucy, in her furs and
suppressed agitation, felt her very brain confused. As
for Jock, he lounged in the background with his hands
in his pockets, reading the names upon the boxes that
lined the walls, and now that it had come to the crisis,
feeling truly helpless to aid his sister, and considerably
in the way.
" It is a very serious business," said Lucy, drawing
her breath hard. " It is a thing you have never liked
or approved of, Mr. Rushton, nor any one," she added,
in a faint voice.
"Dear me, that is very unfortunate," said the
lawyer, cheerfully ; " but I don't think you have ever
been much disapproved of, Lady Randolph. Come,
there is nothing you can't talk to me about — -an old
xv.] OX BUSINESS. 141
friend. I was in all your good father's secrets, and 1
never saw a better head for business. Why, this is
Jock, I believe, grown into a man almost ! I wonder
if he has any of his father's talent ? Is it about him
you want to consult me ? Why, that's perfectly
natural, now he's coming to an age to look to the
future," Mr. Eushton said.
" Oh, no ! it is not about Jock. He is only sixteen,
and, besides, it is something that is much more
difficult," said Lucy. And then she paused, and
cleared her throat, and put down her muff among Mr.
Eushton's papers, that she might have her hands free
for this tremendous piece of business. Then she said,
with a sort of desperation, looking him in the face :
" I have come to get you to — settle some money for
me in obedience to papa's will."
Mr. Eushton started as if he had been shot. " You
don't mean " he cried, " You don't mean
Come, I dare say I am making a mountain out of a
mole-hill, and that what you are thinking of is quite
innocent. If not about our young friend here, some
of your charities or improvements ? You are a most
extravagant little lady in your improvements, Lady
Eandolph. Those last cottages you know — but I don't
doubt the estate will reap the advantage, and it's an
outlay that pays ; oh, yes, I don't deny it's an outlay
that pays."
Lucy's countenance betrayed the futility of this
supposition long before he had finished speaking. He
had been standing with his back to the fire, in a
cheerful and easy way. jSTow his countenance grew
OTave. He drew his chair to the table and sat down
facing her. " If it is not that, what is it ? " he said.
" Mr. Eushton," said Lucy, and she cleared her
142 SIR TOM. [chap.
throat. She looked hack to Jock for support, hut he
had his back turned to her, and was still reading the
names on the lawyer's boxes. She turned round again
with a little sigh. " Mr. Eushton, I want to carry
out papa's will. You know all about it. It is codicil
F. I have heard of some one who is the rioht kind
of person. I want you to transfer ten thousand
pounds "
The lawyer gave a sort of shriek ; he bolted out of
his chair, pushing it so far from him that the substan-
tial mahogany shivered and tottered upon its four legs.
" Nonsense ! " he said, " Nonsense ! " increasing the
firmness of his tone until the word thundered forth in
capitals, " Nonsense ! " — you are going out of your
senses ; you don't know what you are saying. I made
sure we had done with all this folly "
When it had happened to Lucy to propose such an
operation as she now proposed, for the first time, to her
other trustee, she had been spoken to in a way which
young ladies rarely experience. That excellent man
of business had tried to put this young lady — then a
very young lady — down, and he had not succeeded.
It may be supposed that at her present age of twenty-
three, a wife, a mother, and with a modest conscious-
ness of her own place and position, she was not a less
difficult antagonist. She was still a little frightened,
and grew somewhat pale, but she looked steadfastly at
Mr. Eushton with a nervous smile.
" I think you must not speak to me so," she said.
" I am not a child, and I know my father's will and
what it meant. It is not nonsense, nor folly — it may
perhaps have been," she said with a little sigh — " not
wise."
" I beg your pardon, Lady Eandolph," Mr. Eushton
xv.] ON BUSINESS. 143
said precipitately, with a blush upon his middle-aged
countenance, for to be sure, when you think of it, to
tell a gracious young lady with a title, one of your
chief clients, that she is talking nonsense, even if you
have known her all her life, is going perhaps a little
too far. " I am sure you will understand that is what
I meant," he cried, " unwise — the very word I meant.
In the heat of the moment other words slip out, but no
offence was intended."
She made him a little bow ; she was trembling,
though she would not have him see it. " TYe are not
here," she said, " to criticise my father." Lucy was
scarcely half aware how much she had gained in com-
posure and the art of self-command. " I think he
would have been more wise and more kind to have
done himself what he thought to be his duty ; but what
does that matter ? You must not try to convince me,
please, but take the directions, which are very simple.
I have written them all down in this paper. If you
think you ought to make independent inquiries, you
have the right to do that ; but you will spare the poor
gentleman's feelings, Mr. Eushton. It is all put down here."
Mr. Eushton took the paper from her hand. He
smiled inwardly to himself, subduing his fret of impa-
tience. "You will not object to let me talk it over,"
he said, " first with Sir Tom ? "
Lucy coloured, and then she grew pale. " You will
remember," she said, " that it has nothing to do with
my husband, Mr. Eushton."
" My dear lady," said the lawyer, " I never expected
to hear you, who I have always known as the best of
wives, say of anything that it has nothing to do with
your husband. Surely that is not how ladies speak of
their lords ? "
144 SIR TOM. [chap.
Lucy heard a sound behind her which seemed to
imply to her quick ear that Jock was losing patience.
She had brought him with her, with the idea of deriving
some support from his presence ; but if Sir Tom had
nothing to do with it, clearly on much stronger grounds
neither had her brother. She turned round and cast
a hurried warning glance at him. She had herself no
words ready to reply to the lawyer's gibe. She would
neither defend herself as from a grave accusation, nor
reply in the same tone. " Mr. Eushton," she said
faltering, " I don't think we need argue, need we ? I
have put down all the particulars. You know about
it as well as I do. It is not for pleasure. If you
think it is right, you will inquire about the gentleman
— otherwise — I don't think there need be any more
to say."
" I will talk it over with Sir Tom," said Mr. Eush-
ton, feeling that he had found the only argument by
which to manage this young woman. He even chuckled
a little to himself at the thought. " Evidently," he
said to himself, " she is afraid of Sir Tom, and he knows
nothing about this. He will soon put a stop to it."
He added aloud, " My dear Lady Eandolph, this is far
too serious a matter to be dismissed so summarily.
You are young and very inexperienced. Of course I
know all about it, and so does Sir Thomas. We will
talk it over between us, and no doubt we will manage
to decide upon some course that will harmonise every-
thing."
Lucy looked at him with grave suspicion. " I don't
know," she said, " what there is to be harmonised, Mr.
Eushton. There is a thing which I have to do, and I
have shrunk from it for a long time ; but I cannot do
so any longer."
xv.] ON BUSINESS. 145
" Look here/' said Jock, " it's Lucy's affair, it's no-
body else's. Just you look at her paper and do what
she says."
" My young friend/' said the lawyer blandly, " that
is capital advice for yourself : I hope you always do
what your sister says."
" Most times I do/' said Jock ; " not that it's your
business to tell me. But you know very well you'll
have to do it. Xo one has got any right to interfere
with her. She has more sense than a dozen. She has
got the right on her side. You may do what you
please, but you know very well you can't stop her —
neither you, nor Sir Tom, nor the old lady, nor one
single living creature; and you know it," said Jock.
He confronted Mr. Eushton with lowering brows, and
with an angry sparkle in his deep-set eyes. Lucy was
half proud of and half alarmed by her champion.
" Oh hush, Jock ! " she cried. " You must not
speak ; you are only a boy. You must beg Mr. Bush-
ton's pardon for speaking to him so. But, indeed, what
he says is quite true ; it is no one's duty but mine.
My husband will not interfere with what he knows I
must do," she said, with a little chill of apprehension.
Would he indeed be so considerate for her ? It made
her heart sick to think that she was not on this point
quite certain about Sir Tom.
" In that case there will be no harm in talking it
over with him," said the lawyer briefly. " I thought
you were far too sensible not to see that was the right
way. Oh, never mind about his asking my pardon. I
forgive him without that. He has a high idea of his
sister's authority, which is quite right ; and so have I
— and so have all of us. Certainly, certainly, Master
Jock, she has the right ; and she will arrange it judi-
L
146 SIR TOM. [chap.
ciously, of that there is no fear. But first, as a couple
of business men, more experienced in the world than
you young philanthropists, I will just, the first time I
see him, talk it over with Sir Tom. My dear Lady
Randolph, no trouble at all. Is that all I can do for
you ? Then I will not detain you any longer this fine
morning," the lawyer said.
CHAPTER XVI.
AN UNEXPECTED ARRIVAL.
They drove away again with scarcely a word to each
other. It was a bright, breezy, wintry day. The roads
about Farafield were wet with recent rains, and gleamed
in the sunshine. The river was as blue as steel, and
gave forth a dazzling reflection ; the bare trees stood
up against the sky without a pretence of affording any
shadow. The cold to these two young people, warmly
dressed and prosperous, was nothing to object to — in-
deed, it was not very cold. But they both had a slight
sense of discomfiture — a feeling of having suffered in
their own opinion. Jock, who was much regarded at
school as a fellow high up, and a great friend of his
tutor, was not used to such unceremonious treatment,
and he was wroth to see that even Lucy was supposed
to require the sanction of Sir Tom for what it was
clearly her own business to do. He said nothing, how-
ever, until they had quite cleared the town, and were
skimming along the more open country roads ; then he
said suddenly —
" That old Rushton has a great deal of cheek. I
xvi.] AN UNEXPECTED ARRIVAL. 147
should have another fellow to manage my affairs, Lucy,
if I were you."
" Don't you know, Jock, that I can't ? Papa ap-
pointed him. He is my trustee ; he has always to be
consulted. Papa did not mind," said Lucy with a little
sigh. " He said it would be good for me to be contra-
dicted, and not to have my own way."
"Don't you have your own way ?" said Jock, open-
ing his eyes. " Lucy, who contradicts you ? I should
like to know who it was, and tell him my mind a bit.
I thought you did whatever you pleased. Do you
mean to say there is any truth in all that about Sir
Tom ?"
" In what about Sir Tom ? " cried Lucy, instantly
on her defence ; and then she changed her tone with a
little laugh. " Of course I do whatever I please. It
-is not good for anybody, Jock. Don't you know we
must be crossed sometimes, or we should never do any
good at all ? "
" Now I wonder which she means ? " said Jock.
" If she does have her own way or if she don't ? I
begin to think you speak something else than English,
Lucy. I know it is the thing to say that women must
do what their husbands tell them ; but do you mean
that it's true like that ? and that a fellow may order
you to do this or not to do that, with what is your own
and not his at all ? "
" I don't think I understand you, dear," said Lucy
sweetly.
" Oh ! you can't be such a stupid as that," said the
boy ; " you understand right enough. What did he
mean by talking it over with Sir Tom ? He thought
Sir Tom would put a stop to it, Lucy."
" If Mr. Ptushton forms such false ideas, dear, what
148 SIR TOM. [chap.
does it matter ? That is not of any consequence either
to yon or me."
" I wish yon would give me a plain answer/' said
Jock, impatiently. " I ask you one thing, and you say
another; you never give me any satisfaction."
She smiled upon him with a look which, clever as
Jock was, he did not understand. " Isn't that conver-
sation ? " she said.
" Conversation ! " The boy repeated the word al-
most with a shriek of disdain : " You don't know very
much about that, down here in the country, Lucy.
You should hear MTutor ; when he's got two or three
fellows from Cambridge with him, and they go at it !
That's something like talk."
" It is very nice for you, Jock, that you get on so
well with Mr. Derwentwater," said Lucy, catching with
some eagerness at this way of escape from embarrass-
ing questions. " I hope he will come and see us at
Easter, as he promised."
" He may," said Jock, with great gravity, " but the
thing is, everybody wants to have him ; and then, you
see, whenever he has an opportunity he likes to go
abroad. He says it freshens one up more than any-
thing. After working his brain all the half, as he does,
and taking the interest he does in everything, he has
got to pay attention, you know, and not to overdo it ;
he must have change, and he must have rest."
Lucy was much impressed by this, as she was by
all she heard of MTutor. She was quite satisfied that
such immense intellectual exertions as his did indeed
merit compensation. She said, "I am sure he would
get rest with us, Jock. There would be nothing to tire
him, and whatever I could do for him, dear, or Sir Tom
either, we should be glad, as he is so good to you."
xvi.] AN UNEXPECTED ARRIVAL. 149
" I don't know that he's what you call fond of the
country — I mean the English country. Of course it is
different abroad," said Jock doubtfully. Then he came
back to the original subject with a bound, scattering
all Lucy's hopes. " But we didn't begin about MTutor.
It was the other business we were talking of. Is it
true that Sir Tom "
" Jock," said Lucy seriously. Her mild eyes got a
look he had never seen in them before. It was a sort
of dilation of unshed tears, and yet they were not wet.
" If you know any time when Sir Tom was ever un-
kind or untrue, I don't know it. He has always,
always been good. I don't think he will change now.
I have always done what he told me, and I always will.
But he never told me anything. He knows a great
deal better than all of us put together. Of course, to
obey him, that is my first duty. And I always shall.
But he never asks it — he is too good. "What is his
will, is my will," she said. She fixed her eyes very
seriously on Jock, all the time she spoke, and he
followed every movement of her lips with a sort of
astonished confusion, which it is difficult to describe.
When she had ceased Jock drew a long breath, and
seemed to come to the surface again, after much tossing
in darker waters.
" I think that it must be true," he said slowly, after
a pause, " as people say — that women are very queer,
Lucy. I didn't understand one word you said."
" Didn't you, then ? " she said, with a smile of gentle
benignity ; " but what does it matter, when it will all
come right in the end ? Is that our omnibus, Jock,
that is going along with all that luggage ? How curious
that is, for nobody was coming to-day that I know of.
Don't you see it just turning in to the avenue ? ISTow
150 SIR TOM. [chap.
that is very strange indeed/' said Lucy, raising herself
very erect upon her cushions with a little quickened
and eager look. An arrival is always exciting in the
country, and an arrival which was quite unexpected,
and of which she could form no surmise as to who it
could be, stirred up all her faculties. " I wonder if
Mrs. Freshwater will know what rooms are best ? " she
said, "and if Sir Tom will be at home to receive
them ; or perhaps it may be some friends of Aunt
Eandolph's, or perhaps — I wonder very much who it
can be."
Jock's countenance covered itself quickly with a
tinge of gloom.
" Whoever it is, I know it will be disgusting," cried
the boy. " Just when we have got so much to talk
about ! and now I shall never see you any more. Lady
Eandolph was bad enough, and now here's more of them !
I should just as soon go back to school at once," he
said, with premature indignation. The servants on
the box perceived the other carriage in advance with
equal curiosity and excitement. They were still more
startled, perhaps, for a profound wonder as to what
horses had been sent out, and who was driving them,
agitated their minds. The horses, solicited by a
private token between them and their driver which
both understood, quickened their pace with a slight
dash, and the carriage swept along as if in pursuit of
the larger and heavier vehicle, which, however, had so
much the advance of them, that it had deposited its
passengers, and turned round to the servants' entrance
with the luggage, before Lady Eandolph could reach the
door. Williams the butler wore a startled look upon
his dignified countenance, as he came out on the steps
to receive his mistress.
xvi.] AN UNEXPECTED ARRIVAL. 151
" Some one has arrived," said Lucy with a little
eagerness. " We saw the omnibus."
" Yes, my lady. A telegram came for Sir Thomas
soon after your ladyship left; there was just time to
put in the horses "
" But who is it, Williams ? "
Williams had a curious apologetic air. " I heard
say, my lady, that it was some of the party that were
invited before Mr. Randolph fell ill. There had been
a mistake about the letters, and the lady has come all
the same — a lady with a foreign title, my lady "
" Oh ! " said Lucy, with English brevity. She
stood startled, in the hall, lingering a little, changing
colour, not with any of the deep emotions which
Williams from his own superior knowledge suspected,
but with shyness and excitement. " It will be the
lady from Italy, the Contessa Oh, I hope they
have attended to her properly ! Was Sir Thomas at
home when she came ? "
" Sir Thomas, my lady, went to meet them at the
station," Williams said.
" Oh, that is all right," cried Lucy, relieved. " I
am so glad she did not arrive and find nobody. And
I hope Mrs. Freshwater "
" Mrs. Freshwater put the party into the east wing,
my lady. There are two ladies besides the man and
the maid. We thought it would be the warmest for
them, as they came from the South."
" It may be the warmest, but it is not the prettiest,"
said Lucy. " The lady is a great friend of Sir Thomas',
Williams."
The man gave her a curious look.
" Yes, my lady, I was aware of that," he said.
This surprised Lucy a little, but for the moment
152 SIR TOM [chap.
she took no notice of it. t( And therefore," she went
on, " the best rooms should have been got ready. Mrs.
Freshwater ought to have known that. However,
perhaps she will change afterwards. Jock, I will just
run upstairs and see that everything is right."
As she turned towards the great staircase, so saying,
she ran almost into her husband's arms. Sir Tom
had appeared from a side door, where he had been on
the watch, and it was certain that his face bore some
traces of the new event that had happened. He was
not at his ease as usual. He laughed a little uncom-
fortable laugh, and put his hand on Lucy's shoulder as
she brushed against him. " There," he said, " that will
do ; don't be in such a hurry," arresting her in full
career.
" Oh, Tom ! " Lucy for her part looked at her
husband with the greatest relief and happiness. There
had been a cloud between them which had been more
grievous to her than anything else in the world. She
had felt hourly compelled to stand up before him and
tell him that she must do what he desired her not to
do. The consternation and pain and wrath that had
risen over his face after that painful interview had not
passed away through all the intervening time. There
had been a sort of desperation in her mind when she
went to Mr. Eushton, a feeling that she so hated the
duty which had risen like a ghost between her husband
and herself, that she must do it at all hazards and
without delay. But this cloud had now departed
from Sir Tom's countenance. There was a little
suffusion of colour upon it which was unusual to
him. Had it been anybody but Sir Tom, it would
have looked like embarrassment, shyness mingled with
a certain self-ridicule and sense of the ludicrous in the
xvi.] AX UNEXPECTED ARRIVAL. 153
position altogether. He caught his wife in his arms
and met her eyes with a certain laughing shamefaced-
ness, " Don't," he said, " be in such a hurry, Lucy.
Ces dames have gone to their rooms ; they have been
travelling all night, and they are not fit to be seen. It
is only silly little English girls like you that can bear to
be looked at at all times and seasons." And with this
he stooped over her and gave her a kiss on her fore-
head, to Lucy's delight, yet horror — before Williams,
who looked on approving, and the footman with the
traps, and Jock and all ! But what a load it took off
her breast ! He was not any longer vexed or disturbed
or angry. He was indeed conciliatory and apologetic,
but Lucy only saw that he was kind.
" Poor lady," cried Lucy, " has she been travelling
all night ? And I am so sorry she has been put into
the east wing. If I had been at home I should have
said the blue rooms, Tom, which you know are the
nicest "
" I think they are quite comfortable, my dear," said
Sir Tom, with his usual laugh, which was half-mocking
half-serious, " you may be sure they will ask for any-
thing they want. They are quite accustomed to
making themselves at home."
" Oh, I hope so, Tom," said Lucy, " but don't you
think it would be more polite, more respectful, if I
were to go and ask if they have everything? Mrs.
Freshwater is very well you know, Tom, but the mis-
tress of the house "
He gave her another little hug, and laughed again.
"No," he said, "you may be sure Madame Forno-
Populo is not going to let you see her till she has re-
paired all ravages. It was extremely indiscreet of me
to go to the station," he continued, still with that
154 SIR TOM. [chap
chuckle, leading Lucy away. " I had forgotten all
these precautions after a few years of you, Lucy. I
was received with a shriek of horror and a double
veil."
Lucy looked at him with great surprise, asking :
" Why ? wasn't she glad to see you ? " with incipient
indignation and a sense of grievance.
" Not at all," cried Sir Tom, " indeed I heard her
mutter something about English savagery. The Con-
tessa expresses herself strongly sometimes. Freshwater
and the maid, and the excellent breakfast Williams
has ordered, knowing her ways "
" Does Williams know her ways ? " asked Lucy,
wondering. There was not the faintest gleam of sus-
picion in her mind ; but she was surprised, and her
husband bit his lip for a moment, yet laughed still.
" He knows those sort of people," he said. " I was
very much about in society at one time you must
know, Lucy, though I am such a steady old fellow now.
We knew something of most countries in these days.
We were Men vu, he and I, in various places. Don't
tell Mrs. Williams, my love." He laughed almost
violently at this mild joke, and Lucy looked surprised.
But still no shadow came upon her simple counten-
ance. Lucy was like Desdemona, and did not believe
that there were such women. She thought it was
"fun," such fun as she sometimes saw in the news-
papers, and considered as vulgar as it was foolish.
Such words could not be used in respect to anything
Sir Tom said, but even in her husband it was not
good taste, Lucy thought. She smiled at the reference
to Mrs. Williams with a kind of quiet disdain, but it
never occurred to her that she too might require to be
kept in the dark.
xvi.] AX UNEXPECTED ARRIVAL. 155
" I dare say most of what you are talking is non-
sense," she said; "but if Madame Forno " —
Lucy was not very sure of the name, and hesitated —
"is really very tired, perhaps it may be kindness not
to disturb her. I hope she will go to bed, and get a
thorough rest. Did she not get your second letter,
Tom ? and what a thing it is that dear baby is so
much better, and that we can really pay a little
attention to her."
" Either she did not get my letter, or I didn't write,
I cannot say which it was, Lucy. But now we have
got her we must pay attention to her, as you say.
You will have to get up a few dinner parties, and ask
some people to stay. She will like to see the humours
of the wilderness while she is in it."
" The wilderness — but, Tom, everybody says society
is so good in the county."
" Everybody does not know the Eorno-Populo,"
cried Sir Tom ; and then he burst out into a great
laugh. " I wonder what her Grace will say to the
Contessa ; they have met before now."
" Must we ask the Duchess ? " cried Lucy, with awe
and alarm, coming a little nearer to her husband's side.
But Sir Tom did nothing but laugh. " I've seen a
few passages of arms," he said. " By Jove, you don't
know what war is till you see two at it tooth and
nail. Two — what, Lucy ? Oh, I mean fine ladies ;
they have no mercy. Her Grace will set her claws
into the fair countess. And as for the Eorno-Populo
herself "
" Dear Tom," said Lucy with gentle gravity, " Is it
nice to speak of ladies so ? If any one called me the
Randolph, I should be, oh, so "
" You," cried her husband with a hot and angry
156 SIR TOM. [chap.
colour rising to his very hair, and then he perceived
that he was betraying himself, and paused. " You see,
my love, that's different," he said. "Madame di
Forno-Populo is — an old stager: and you are very
young, and nobody ever thought of you but with —
reverence, my dear. Yes, that's the word, Lucy, though
you are only a bit of a girl."
" Tom," said Lucy with great dignity, " I have you
to take care of me, and I have never been known in
the world. But, dear, if this poor lady has no one —
and I suppose she is a widow, is she not, Tom ? "
He had been listening to her almost with emotion —
with a half-abashed look, full of fondness and admira-
tion. But at this question he drew back a little, with
a sort of stagger, and burst into a wild fit of laughter.
When he came to himself wiping his eyes, he was, there
could be no doubt, ashamed of himself. " I beg you
ten thousand pardons," he cried. " Lucy, my darling !
Yes, yes — I suppose she is a widow, as you say."
Lucy looked at him while he laughed, with pro-
found gravity, without the slightest inclination to join
in his merriment, which is a thing which has a very
uncomfortable effect. She waited till he was done,
with a mixture of wonder and disapproval in her seri-
ousness, looking at his laughter as if at some phenomenon
which she did not understand. " I have often heard
gentlemen," she said, " talk about widows as if it were a
sort of laughable name, and as if they might make their
jokes as they pleased. But I did not think you would
have done it, Tom. I should feel all the other way,"
said Lucy. " I should think I could never do enough
to make it up, if that were possible, and to make them
forget. Is it their fault that they are left desolate, that
a man should laugh ?" She turned away from her
xvii.] FOREWARNED. 157
husband with a soft superiority of innocence and true
feeling which struck him dumb.
He begged her pardon in the most abject way ; and
then he left her for a moment quietly, and had his
laugh out. But he was ashamed of himself all the
same. " I wonder what she will say when she sees the
Forno-Populo," he said to himself.
CHAPTEE XVII.
FOREWARNED.
Lucy did not see her visitors till the hour of dinner.
She had expected them to appear in the afternoon at
the mystic hour of tea, which calls an English house-
hold together, but when it was represented to her that
afternoon tea was not the same interesting institution
in Italy, her surprise ceased, and though her expecta-
tions were still more warmly excited by this delay, she
bore it with becoming patience. There was no doubt,
however, that the arrival had made a great commotion
in the house, and Lucy perceived without in the least
understanding it, a peculiarity in the looks which various
of the people around her cast upon her during the course
of the day. Her own maid was one of these people,
and Mrs. Freshwater, the housekeeper, who explained
in a semi -apologetic tone all the preparations she had
made for the comfort of the guests, was another. And
Williams, though he was always so dignified, thought
Lucy could not help feeling an eye upon her. He was
almost compassionately attentive to his young mistress.
There was a certain pathos in the way in which he
158 SIR TOM. [chap.
handed her the potatoes at lunch. He pressed a little
more claret upon her with a fatherly anxiety, and an
air that seemed to say, " It will do you good." Lucy
was conscious of all this additional attention without
realising the cause of it. But it found its culmination
in Lady Eandolph, in whom a slightly -injured and
aggrieved air towards Sir Tom was enhanced by the
extreme tenderness of her aspect to Lucy, for whom
she could not do too much. " Williams is quite right
in giving you a little more wine. You take nothing,"
she said, " and I am sure you want support. After
your long drive, too, my dear : and how cold it has
been this morning !"
" Yes, it was cold ; but we did not mind, we rather
liked it, Jock and I. Poor Madame di Eorno-Populo !
She must have felt it travelling all night."
" Bravo, Lucy, that is right ! you have tackled the
name at last, and got through with it beautifully," said
Sir Tom with a laugh.
Lucy was pleased to be praised. " I hope I shan't
forget," she said, " it is so long : and oh, Tom, I do hope
she can talk English, for you know my French."
" I should think she could talk English !" said Lady
Eandolph, with a little scorn. And what was very
extraordinary was that Williams showed a distinct but
suppressed consciousness, putting his lips tight as if to
keep in what he knew about , the matter. " And I don't
think you need be so sorry for the lady, Lucy," said the
dowager. " No doubt she didn't mean to travel by night.
It arose from some mistake or other in Tom's letter.
But she does not mind that, you may be sure, now that
she has made out her point."
"What point?" said Sir Tom, with some heat.
But Lady Eandolph made no reply, and he did not
xvn.] FOREWARNED. 159
press the question. They were both aware that it is
sometimes better to hold one's tongue. And the
curious thing to all of those well-informed persons
was that Lucy took no notice of all their hints and
innuendoes. She was in the greatest spirits, not only
interested about her unknown visitors and anxious to
secure their comfort, but in herself more gay than she
had been for some time past. In fact this arrival was
a godsend to Lucy. The cloud had disappeared entirely
from her husband's brow. Instead of making any
inquiries about her visit to Farafield, or resuming the
agitating discussion which had ended in what was
really a refusal on her part to do what he wished, he
was full of a desire to conciliate and please her. The
matter which had brought so stern a look to his face,
and occasioned her an anxiety and pain far more severe
than anything that had occurred before in her married
life, seemed to have dropped out of his mind altogether.
Instead of that opposition and disapproval, mingled
with angry suspicion, which had been in his manner
and looks, he was now on the watch to propitiate Lucy;
to show a gratitude for which she knew no reason, and
a pride in her which was still less comprehensible.
What did it all mean, the compassion on one side, the
satisfaction on the other ? But Lucy scarcely asked
herself the question. In her relief at having no new
discussion with her husband, and at his apparent for-
getfulness of all displeasure and of any question between
them, her heart rose with all the glee of a child's. It
seemed to her that she had surmounted the difficulties
of her position by an intervention which was providen-
tial. It even occurred to her innocent mind to make
reflections as to the advantage of doing what was right
in the face of all difficulties. God, she said to herself.
160 SIR TOM. [chap.
evidently was protecting her. It was known in heaven
what an effort it had cost her to do her dnty to fulfil
her father's will, and now heavenly succour was coming,
and the difficulties disappearing out of her way. Lucy
would have been ready in any case with the most
unhesitating readiness to receive and do any kindness
to her husband's friend. No idea of jealousy had
come into her unsuspicious soul. She had taken it as
a matter of course that this unknown lady should
have the best that the Hall could offer her, and that
her old alliance with Sir Tom should throw open his
doors and his wife's heart. Perhaps it was because
Lucy's warm and simple-minded attachment to her
husband had little in it of the character of passion that
it was thus entirely without any impulse of jealousy.
And what was so natural in common circumstances
became still more so in the exhilaration and rebound
of her troubled heart. Sir Tom was so kind to her in
departing from his opposition, in letting her have her
way without a word. It was certain that Lucy would
not have relinquished her duty for any opposition he
had made. But with what a bleeding heart she would
have done it, and how hateful would have been the
necessity which separated her from his good- will and
assistance ! Now she felt that terrible danger was over.
Probably he would not ask her what she had been
about. He would not give it his approval, which
would have been most sweet of all, but if he did not
interfere, if he permitted it to be done without opposi-
tion, without even demanding of his wife an account
of her action, how much that would be, and how cor-
dially, with what a genuine impulse of the heart would
she set to work to carry out his wishes — he who had
been so generous, so kind to her ! This was how it
xvii.] FOREWARNED. 161
was that her gaiety, the ease and happiness of her look,
startled them all so much. That she should have been
amiable to the new comers was comprehensible. She
was so amiable by nature, and so ignorant and unsus-
picious : but that their coming should give her plea-
sure, this was the thing that confounded the spectators :
they could not understand how any other subject should
withdraw her from what is supposed to be a wife's
master emotion — nay, they could not understand how
it was that mere instinct had not enlightened Lucy, and
pointed out to her what elements were coming together
that would be obnoxious to her peace. Even Sir Tom
felt this, with a deepened tenderness for his pure-
minded little wife, and pride in her unconsciousness.
Was there another woman in England who would have
been so entirely generous, so unaware even of the possi-
bility of evil ? He admired her for it, and wondered
— if it was a little silly (which he had a kind of un-
disclosed suspicion that it was), yet what a heavenly
silliness. There was nobody else who would have been
so magnanimous, so confident in his perfect honour and
truth.
The only other element that could have added to
Lucy's satisfaction was also present. Little Tom was
better than usual. Notwithstanding the cold he had
been able to go out, and was all the brighter for it, not
chilled and coughing as he sometimes was. His
mother had found him careering about his nursery in
wild glee, and flinging his toys about, in perfectly
boyish, almost mannish, altogether wicked, indifference
to the danger of destroying them. It was this that
brought her downstairs radiant to the luncheon table,
where Lady Randolph and Williams were so anxious
to be good to her. Lucy was much surprised by the
M
162 SIR TOM. [chap.
solicitude which she felt to be so unnecessary. She
was disposed to laugh at the care they took of her ;
feeling in her own mind, more triumphant, more happy
and fortunate, than she had ever been before.
As for Jock, he took no notice at all of the incident
of the day. He perceived with satisfaction, a point on
which for the moment he was unusually observant, that
Sir Tom showed no intention of questioning them as to
their morning's expedition or opposing Lucy. This
being the case, what was it to the boy who went or
came ? A couple of ladies were quite indifferent to him.
He did not expect anything or fear anything. His own
doings interested him much more. The conversation
about this new subject floated over his head. He did
not take the trouble to pay any attention to it. As for
Williams' significant looks or Lady Kandolph's anxieties,
Jock was totally unconscious of their existence. He
did not pay any attention. When the party was not
interesting he had plenty of other thoughts to retire
into, and the coming of new people, except in so far as
it might be a bore, did not affect him at all.
Lucy went out dutifully for a drive with Lady Ean-
dolph after luncheon. It was still very bright, though
it was cold, and after a little demur as to the propriety
of going out when it was possible her guests might be
coming downstairs, Lucy took her place beside the fur-
enveloped Dowager with her hot water footstool and
mountain of wrappings. They talked about ordinary
matters for a little, about the landscape and the im-
provements, and about little Tom, whose improvement
was the most important of all. But it was not possible
to continue long upon indifferent matters in face of the
remarkable events which had disturbed the family calm.
"I hope," said Lucy, "that Madame di Forno-
xvii.] FOREWARNED. 163
Populo " (she was very careful about all the syllables)
" may not be more active than you think, and come
down while we are away."
" Oh, there is not the least fear," said Lady Ean-
dolph, somewhat scornfully. " She was always a
candle-light beauty. She is not very fond of the eye
of day."
" She is a beauty, then ? " said Lucy. " I am very
glad. There are so few. You know I have always
been — rather — disappointed. There are many pretty
people : but to be beautiful is quite different."
" That is because you are so unsophisticated, my
dear. You don't understand that beauty in society
means a fashion, and not much more. I have seen a
quantity of beauties in my day. How they came to
be so, nobody knew ; but there they were, and we all
bowed down to them. This woman, however, was
very pretty, there was no doubt about it," said Lady
Eandolph, with reluctant candour. " I don't know
what she may be now. She was enough to turn any
man's head when she was young — or even a woman's
— who ought to have known better."
" Do you think then, Aunt Eandolph, that women
don't admire pretty people ? " It is to be feared that
Lucy asked for the sake of making conversation, which
it is sometimes necessary to do.
" I think that men and women see differently — as
they always do," said Lady Eandolph. She was rather
fond of discriminating between the ideas of the sexes,
as many ladies of a reasonable age are. " There is a
gentleman's, beauty, you know, and there is a kind of
beauty that women love. I could point out the dif-
ference to you better if the specimens were before us :
but it is a little difficult to describe. I rather think
164 SIR TOM. [chap.
we admire expression, you know. What men care for
is flesh and blood. We like people that are good —
that is to say, who have the air of being good, for the
reality doesn't by any means follow. Perhaps I am
taking too much credit to ourselves," said the old lady,
" but that is the best description I can hit upon. We
like the interesting kind — the pensive kind — which
was the fashion when I was young. Your great, fat,
golden-haired, red and white women are gentlemen's
beauties ; they don't commend themselves to us."
"And is Madame di Forno-Populo," said Lucy, in
her usual elaborate way, " of that kind ? "
" Oh ! my dear, she is just a witch," Lady Eandolph
said. " It does not matter who it is, she can bring
them to her feet if she pleases ! " Then she seemed
to think she had gone too far, and stopped herself : " I
mean when she was young ; she is young no longer,
and I dare say all that has come to an end."
" It must be sad to grow old when one is like that,"
said Lucy, with a look of sympathetic regret.
" Oh, you are a great deal too charitable, Lucy ! "
said the old lady : and then she stopped short, putting
a sudden restraint upon herself, as if it were possible
that she might have said too much ; then after a while
she resumed : " As you are in such a heavenly frame
of mind, my dear, and disposed to think so well of her,
there is just one word of advice I will give you — don't
allow yourself to get intimate with this lady. She is
quite out of your way. If she liked, she could turn
you round her little finger. But it is to be hoped she
will not like ; and, in any case, you must remember
that I have warned you. Don't let her, my dear, make
a catspaw of you."
" A catspaw of me ! " Lucy was amused by these
xvil] FOREWARNED. 165
words — not offended, as so many might have been —
perhaps because she felt herself little likely to be so
dominated ; a fact that the much older and more ex-
perienced woman by her side was quite unaware of.
" But," she said, " Tom would not have invited her,
Aunt Eandolph, if he had thought her likely to do that
— indeed, how could he have been such great friends
with her if she had not been nice as well as pretty ?
You forget there must always be that in her favour
to me."
" Oh, Tom !" cried Lady Eandolph with indignation.
"My dear Lucy," she added after a pause, with sub-
dued exasperation, " men are the most unaccountable
creatures ! Knowing him as I do, I should have
thought she was the very last person — but how can
we tell ? I dare say the idea amused him. Tom will
do anything that amuses him — or tickles his vanity.
I confess it is as you say, very, very difficult to account
for it ; but he has done it. He wants to show off a
little to her, I suppose ; or else he There is
really no telling, Lucy. It is the last thing in the
world I should have thought of ; and you may be quite
sure, my dear," she added with emphasis, :e she never
would have been invited at all if he had expected me
to be here when she came."
Lucy did not make any answer for some time. Her
face, which had kept its gaiety and radiance, grew
grave, and when they had driven back towards the
hall for about ten minutes in silence, she said quietly
— " You do not mean it, I am sure ; but do you know,
Aunt Randolph, you are trying to make me think very
badly of my husband ; and no one has ever done that
before."
" Oh, your husband is just like other people's hus-
166 SIR TOM. [chap.
bands, Lucy," cried the elder lady impatiently. Then,
however, she subdued herself, with an anxious look at
her companion. " My dear, you know how fond I am
of Tom : and I know he is fond of you ; he would not
do anything to harm you for the world. I suppose it
is because he has such a prodigious confidence in you
that he thinks it does not matter ; and I don't suppose
it does matter. The only thing is, don't be over inti-
mate with her, Lucy ; don't let her fix herself upon
you when you go to town, and talk about young Lady
Eandolph as her dearest friend. She is quite capable
of doing it. And as for Tom — well, he is just a man
when all is said."
Lucy did not ask any more questions. That she
was greatly perplexed there is no doubt, and her first
fervour of affectionate interest in Tom's friend was
slightly damped, or at least changed. But she was
more curious than ever ; and there was in her mind
the natural contradiction of youth against the warnings
addressed to her. Lucy knew very well that she her-
self was not one to be twisted round anybody's little
finger. She was not afraid of being subjugated ; and
she had a prejudice in favour of her husband which
neither Lady Eandolph nor any other witness could
impair. The drive home was more silent than the
outset. Naturally, the cold increased as the afternoon
went on, and the Dowager shrunk into her furs, and
declared that she was too much chilled to talk. " Oh
how pleasant a cup of tea will be," she said.
Lucy longed for her part to get down from the
carriage and walk home through the village, to see
all the cottage fires burning, and quicken the blood
in her veins, which is a better way than fur for keep-
ing one's self warm. When they got in, it was exciting
xviii.] THE VISITORS. 167
to think that perhaps the stranger was coming down
to tea ; though that, as has been already said, was a
hope in which Lucy was disappointed. Everything
was prepared for her reception, however — a sort of
throne had been arranged for her, a special chair near
the fire, shaded by a little screen, and with a little
table placed close to it to hold her cup of tea. The
room was all in a ruddy blaze of firelight, the atmo-
sphere delightful after the cold air outside, and all the
little party a little quiet, thinking that every sound
that was heard must be the stranger.
" She must have been very tired," Lucy said sym-
pathetically.
" I dare say," said Lady Randolph, " she thinks a
dinner dress will make a better effect."
Lucy looked towards her husband almost with in-
dignation, with eyes that asked why he did not defend
his friend. But, to be sure, Sir Tom could not judge
of their expression in the firelight, and instead of de-
fending her he only laughed. " One general under-
stands another's tactics," he said.
CHAPTEB XYIII.
THE VISITORS.
Sir Tom paid his wife a visit when she was in the
midst of her toilette for dinner. He came in, and
looked at her dress with an air of dissatisfaction. It
was a white dress, of a kind which suited Lucy very
well, and which she was in the habit of wearing for
small home parties, at which full dress was unneces-
168 SIR TOM. [chap.
sary. He looked at her from head to foot, and gave a
little pull to her skirt with a doubtful air. " It doesn't
sit, does it ? " he said ; " can't you pin it, or something,
to make it come better ? "
This, it need not be said, was a foolish piece of
ignorance on Sir Tom's part, and as Miss Fletcher,
Lucy's maid, thought, "just like a man." Fletcher
was for the moment not well-disposed towards Sir Tom.
She said — "Oh no, Sir Thomas, my lady don't hold
with pins. Some ladies may that are all for effect ;
but my lady, that is not her way."
Sir Tom felt that these words inclosed a dart as
sharp as any pin, and directed at himself ; but he took
no notice. He walked round his wife, eyeing her on
every side ; and then he gave a little pull to her hair
as he had done to her dress. " After all," he said, " it
is some time since you left school, Lucy. Why this
simplicity ? I want you to look your best to-night."
" But, dear Tom," said Lucy, " you always say that
I am not to be over-dressed."
" I don't want you to be under- dressed ; there is
plenty of time. Don't you think you might do a little
more in the way of toilette ? Put on some lace or
something ; Fletcher will know. Look here, Fletcher, I
want Lady Eandolph to look very well to-night. Don't
you think this get-up would stand improvement ? I
dare say you could do it with ribbons, or something.
We must not have her look like my grandchild, you
know."
Upon which Fletcher, somewhat mollified and mur-
muring that Sir Thomas was a gentleman that would
always have his joke, answered boldly that that was
not how she would have dressed her lady had she had
the doing of it. " But I know my place," Fletcher said,
XVIII.] THE VISITORS. 169
•• though to see my lady like this always goes against
me, Sir Thomas, and especially with foreigners in the
house that are always dressed up to the nines and don't
think of nothing else. But if Lady Eandolph would
wear her blue it could all be done in five minutes, and
look far nicer and more like the lady of the house."
This transfer was finally made, for Lucy had no
small obstinacies and was glad to please her husband.
The " blue " was of the lightest tint of shimmering silk,
and gave a little background of colour, upon which
Lucy's fairness and whiteness stood out. Sir Thomas
always took an interest in his wife's dress ; but it was
seldom he occupied himself so much about it. It
was he who went to the conservatory to get a
flower for her hair. He took her downstairs upon his
arm " as if they were out visiting," Lucy said, instead
of at home in their own house. She was amused at
all this form and ceremony, and came down to the
drawing-room with a little flush of pleasure and merri-
ment about her, quite different from the demure little
Lady Eandolph, half frightened and very serious, with
the weight on her mind of a strange language to be
spoken, who but for Sir Tom's intervention would have
been standing by the fire awaiting her visitor. The
Dowager was downstairs before her, looking grave
enough, and Jock, slim and dark, supporting a corner of
the mantelpiece, like a young Caryatides in black.
Lucy's brightness, her pretty shimmer of blue, the
flower in her hair, relieved these depressing influences.
She stood in the firelight with the ruddy irregular glare
playing on her, a pretty youthful figure ; and her hus-
band's assiduities, and the entire cessation of any
apparent consciousness on his part that any question
had ever arisen between them, made Lucy's heart light
170 SIR TOM. [chap.
in her breast. She forgot even the possibility of having
to talk French in the ease of her mind ; and before she
had time to remember her former alarm there came
gliding through the subdued light of the greater draw-
ing-room two figures. Sir Tom stepped forward to
meet the stranger, who gave him her hand as if she
saw him for the first time, and Lucy advanced with a
little tremor. Here was the Contessa — the Forno-
Populo — the foreign great lady and great beauty at
last.
She was tall — almost as tall as Sir Tom — and had
the majestic grace which only height can give. She
was clothed in dark velvet, which fell in long folds to
her feet, and her hair, which seemed very abundant,
was much dressed with puffs and curlings and frizz-
ings, which filled Lucy with wonder, but furnished a
delicate frame-work for her beautiful, clear, high feat-
ures, and the wonderful tint of her complexion — a sort
of warm ivory, which made all brighter colours look
excessive. Her eyes were large and blue, with long but
not very dark eyelashes ; her throat was like a slender
column out of a close circle of feathery lace. Lucy,
who had a great deal of natural taste, felt on the
moment a thrill of shame on account of her blue
gown, and an almost disgust of Lady Eandolph's old-
fashioned openness about the shoulders. The stranger
was one of those women whose dress always im-
presses other women with such a sense of fitness that
fashion itself looks vulgar or insipid beside her. She
gave Sir Tom her left hand in passing, and then she
turned with both extended to Lucy. " So this is the
little wife," she said. She did not pause for the
modest little word of welcome which Lucy had pre-
pared. She drew her into the light, and gazed at her
xvni.] THE VISITORS. 171
with benignant but dauntless inspection, taking in,
Lucy felt sure, every particular of her appearance —
the something too much of the blue gown, the defi-
ciency of dignity, the insignificance of the smooth fair
locks, and open if somewhat anxious countenance.
" Bel enfant" said the Contessa, " your husband and I
are such old friends that I cannot meet you as a
stranger. You must let me kiss you, and accept me
as one of yours too." The salutation that followed
made Lucy's heart jump with mingled pleasure and
distaste. She was swallowed up altogether in that
embrace. When it was over, the lady turned from
her to Sir Tom without another word. " I congratu-
late you, mon ami. Candour itself, and sweetness,
and every English quality " — upon which she pro-
ceeded to seat herself in the chair which Lucy had set
for her in the afternoon with the screen and the foot-
stool. " How thoughtful some one has been for my
comfort," she said, sinking into it, and distributing a
gracious smile all round. There was something in
the way in which she seized the central place in the
scene, and made all the others look like surroundings
which bewildered Lucy, who did nothing but gaze,
forgetting everything she meant to say, and even that
it was she who was the mistress of the house.
" You do not see my aunt, Contessa," said Sir Tom,
" and yet I think you ought to know each other."
"Your aunt," said the Contessa, looking round,
"that dear Lady Eandolph — who is now Dowager.
Chere dame ! " she added, half rising, holding out
again both hands.
Lady Eandolph the elder knew the world better
than Lucy. She remained in the background into
which the Contessa was looking with eyes which she
172 SIR TOM. [chap.
called shortsighted. " How do you do, Madame di
Forno - Populo ! " she said. " It is a long time since
we met. We have both grown older since that period.
I hope yon have recovered from your fatigue."
The Contessa sank back asrain into her chair.
" Ah, both, yes ! " she said, with an eloquent movement
of her hands. At this Sir Tom gave vent to a faint
chuckle, as if he could not contain himself any
longer.
" The passage of time is a myth," he said ; " it is a
fable ; it goes the other way. To look at you "
" Both ! " said the Contessa, with a soft, little
laugh, spreading out her beautiful hands.
Lucy \ hoped that Lady Eandolph, who had kept
behind, did not hear this last monosyllable, but she
was angry with her husband for laughing, for abandon-
ing his aunt's side, upon which she herself, astonished,
ranged herself without delay. But what was still
more surprising to Lucy, with her old-fashioned polite-
ness, was to see the second stranger who had followed
the Contessa into the room, but who had not been
introduced or noticed. She had the air of being very
young — a dependent probably, and looking for no
attention — and with a little curtsey to the company,
withdrew to the other side of the table on which the
lamp was standing. Lucy had only time to see that
there was a second figure, very slim and slight, and
that the light of the lamp seemed to reflect itself in the
soft oval of a youthful face as she passed behind it ;
but save for this noiseless movement the young lady
gave not the smallest sign of existence, nor did any one
notice her. And it was only when the summons came
to dinner, and when Lucy called forth the bashful
Jock to offer his awkward arm to Lady Eandolph,
zvill.] THE VISITORS. 173
that the unannounced and unconsidered guest came
fully into sight.
" There are no more gentlemen, and I think we
must go in together," Lucy said.
" It is a great honour for me/' said the girl. She
had a very slight foreign accent, but she was not in
the least shy. She came forward at once with the
utmost composure. Though she was a stranger and a
dependent without a name, she was a great deal more
at her ease than Lucy was, who was the mistress of
everything. Lucy for her part was considerably em-
barrassed. She looked at the girl, who smiled at her,
not without a little air of encouragement and almost
patronage in return.
" I have not heard your name," Lucy at last pre-
vailed upon herself to say, as they went through the
long drawing-room together. " It is very stupid of
me ; but I was occupied with Madame di Forno-
Populo "
" You could not hear it, for it was never mentioned,"
said the girl. " The Contessa does not think it worth
while. I am at present in the cocoon. If I am pretty
enough when I am quite grown up, then she will
tell my name "
" Pretty enough ? But what does that matter ?
one does not talk of such things," said the decorous
little matron, startled and alarmed.
" Oh, it means everything to me," said the anony-
mous. " It is doubtful what I shall be. If I am only
a little pretty I shall be sent home ; but if it should
happen to me — ah ! no such luck ! — to be beautiful,
then the Contessa will introduce me, and everybody
says I may go far — farther, indeed, than even she has
ever done. Where am I to sit ? Beside you 1 "
174 SIR TOM. [chap.
" Here, please/' said Lucy, trembling a little, and con-
founded by the ease of this new actor on the scene, who
spoke so frankly. She was dressed in a little black
frock up to her throat ; her hair in great shining bands
coiled about her head, but not an ornament of any
kind about her. A little charity girl could not have
been dressed more plainly. But she showed no con-
sciousness of this, nor, indeed, of anything that was
embarrassing. She looked round the table with a free
and fearless look. There was not about her any
appearance of timidity, even in respect to the Contessa.
She included that lady in her inspection as well as
the others, and even made a momentary pause before
she sat down, to complete her survey. Lucy, who had
on ordinary occasions a great deal of gentle composure,
and had sat with a Cabinet Minister by her side with-
out feeling afraid, was more disconcerted than it would
be easy to say by this young creature, of whom she
did not know the name. It was so small a party
that a separate little conversation with her neighbour
was scarcely practicable, but the Contessa was talking
to Sir Tom with the confidential air of one who has a
great deal to say, and Lady Eandolph on his other
side was keeping a stern silence, so that Lucy was
glad to make a little attempt at her end of the table.
" You must have had a very fatiguing journey ? "
she said. " Travelling by night, when you are not
used to it "
" But we are quite used to it," said the girl. " It
is our usual way. By land it is so much easier :
and even at sea one goes to bed, and one is at the
other side before one knows."
" Then you are a good sailor, I suppose "
" Pas mal" said the young lady. She began to
XVIII.]
THE VISITORS. 175
look at Jock, and to turn round from time to time to
the elder Lady Eandolph, who sat on the other side
of her. " They are not dumb, are they ? " she asked.
" Not once have I heard them speak. That is very
English, so like what one reads in books."
" You speak English very well, Mademoiselle," said
the Dowager suddenly.
The girl turned round and examined her with a
candid surprise. " I am so glad you do," she said
calmly : a little mot which brought the colour to Lady
Eandolph's cheeks.
" A pupil of the Contessa naturally knows a good
many languages," she said, " and would be little at a
]oss wherever she went. You have come last from
Florence, Eome, or perhaps some other capital. The
Contessa has friends everywhere — still."
This last little syllable caught the Contessa's fine
ear, though it was not directed to her. She gave the
Dowager a very gracious smile across the table. " Still,"
she repeated, " everywhere ! People are so kind. My
invitations are so many it was with difficulty I
managed to accept that of our excellent Tom. But
I had made up my mind not to disappoint him nor
Ms dear young wife. I was not prepared for the
pleasure of finding your ladyship here."
" How fortunate that you were able to manage it !
I have been complimenting Mademoiselle on her
English. She does credit to her instructors. Tell
me, is this your first visit," Lady Eandolph said,
turning to the young lady, " to England ? " Even in
tli is innocent question there was more than met the
eye. The girl, however, had begun to make a remark
to Lucy, and thus evaded it in the most easy way.
" I saw you come home soon after our arrival," she
176 SIR TOM. [chap.
said. " I was at my window. You came with
— Monsieur " She cast a glance at Jock as she
spoke, with a smile in her eyes that was not without
its effect. There was a little provocation in it, which
an older man would have known how to answer. But
Jock, in the awkwardness of his youth, blushed fiery
red, and turned away his gaze, which, indeed, had been
dwelling upon her with an absorbed but shy atten-
tion. The boy had never seen anything at all like her
before.
" My brother," said Lucy, and the young lady gave
him a beaming smile and bow which made Jock's head
turn round. He did not know how to reply to it,
whether he ought not to get up to answer her saluta-
tion ; and being so uncertain and abashed and excited,
he did nothing at all, but gazed again with an absorp-
tion which was not uncomplimentary. She gave him
from time to time a little encouraging glance.
" That was what I thought. You drive out always
at that early hour in England, and always with —
Monsieur ? " The girl laughed now, looking at him, so
that Jock longed to say something witty and clever.
Oh, why was not MTutor here ? He would have
known the sort of thing to say.
" Oh not, not always with Jock," Lucy answered,
with honest matter-of-fact. " He is still at school, and
we have him only for the holidays. Perhaps you don't
know what that means ? "
" The holidays ? yes, I know. Monsieur, no doubt,
is at one of the great schools that are nowhere but in
England, where they stay till they are men."
" We stay," said Jock, making an almost convulsive
effort, " till we are nineteen. We like to stay as long
as we can."
xvni.] THE VISITORS. 177
" How innocent," said the girl with a pretty elderly
look of superiority and patronage ; and then she burst
into a laugh, which neither Lucy nor Jock knew how
to take, and turned back again in the twinkling of an
eye to Lady Randolph, who had relapsed into silence.
"And you drive in the afternoon," she said. " I have
already made my observations. And the baby in the
middle, between. And Sir Tom always. He goes
out and he goes in, and one sees him continually. I
already know all the habits of the house."
" You were not so very tired, then, after all. Why
did you not come down stairs and join us in what we
were doing ? "
The young lady did not make any articulate reply,
but her answer was clear enough. She cast a glance
across the table to the Contessa, and laid her hand upon
her own cheek. Lucy was a little mystified by this
pantomime, but to Lady Randolph there was no diffi-
culty about it. " That is easily understood," she said,
" when one is stir le retour. But the same precautions
are not necessary with all."
A smile came upon the girl's lip. <: I am sympa-
thetic," she said. " Oh, troppo ! I feel just like those
that I am with. It is sometimes a trouble, and some-
times it is an advantage." This was to Lucy like the
utterance of an oracle, and she understood it not.
" Another time," she said kindly, " you must not
only observe us from the window, but come down and
share what we are doing. Jock will show you the
park and the grounds, and I will take you to the village.
It is quite a pretty village, and the cottages are very
nice now."
The young stranger's eyes blazed with intelligence.
She seemed to perceive everything at a glance.
x
178 SIR TOM. [chap.
" I know the village/' she said, " it is at the park
gates, and Milady takes a great deal of trouble that all
is nice in the cottages. And there is an old woman
that knows all about the family, and tells legends of it ;
and a school and a church, and many other objets-de-
fUU. I know it like that," she cried, holding out the
pretty pink palm of her hand.
" This information is preternatural," said Lady Kan-
dolph. "You are astonished, Lucy. Mademoiselle is
a sorceress. I am sure that Jock thinks so. Nothing
save an alliance with something diabolical could have
made her so well instructed, she who has never been in
England before."
" Do you ask how I know all that ? " the girl said
laughing. " Then I answer, novels. It is all Herr
Tauchnitz and his pretty books."
" And so you really never were in England before —
not even as a baby ? " Lady Eandolph said.
The girl's gaiety had attracted even the pair at the
other end of the table, who had so much to say to each
other. The Contessa and Sir Tom exchanged a look,
which Lucy remarked with a little surprise, and re-
marked in spite of herself : and the great lady inter-
fered to help her young dependent out.
" How glad I am to give her that advantage, dear
lady ! It is the crown of the petite's education. In
England she finds the most fine manners, as well as
villages full of dbjets-dc-ptitt. It is what is needful to
form her," the Contessa said.
xix.] THE OPENING OF THE DRAMA. 179
CHAPTER XIX.
THE OPENING OF THE DRAMA.
"Come and sit beside me and tell rue everything,"
said the Contessa. She had appropriated the little sofa
next the fire where Lady Eandolph generally sat in the
evening. She had taken Lucy's arm on the way from
the dining-room, and drew her with her to this corner.
Nothing could be more caressing or tender than her
manner. She seemed to be conferring the most de-
lightful of favours as she drew towards her the mistress
of the house. " You have been married — how long ?
Six years ! But it is impossible ! And you have all
the freshness of a child. And very happy ? " she said
smiling upon Lucy. She had not a fault in her pro-
nunciation, but when she uttered these two words she
gave a little roll of the " r " as if she meant to assume
a defect which she had not, and smiled with a tender
benevolence in which there was the faintest touch of
derision. Lucy did not make out what it was, but
she felt that something lay under the dazzling of that
smile. She allowed the stranger to draw her to the
sofa, and sat down by her.
" Yes, it is six years," she said.
" And ver — r — y happy ? " the Contessa repeated.
" I am sure that dear Tom is a model husband. I
have known him a very long time. Has he told you
about me ? "
" That you were an old friend," said Lucy, looking
at her. " Oh yes ! The only thing is, that we are
so much afraid you will find the country dull."
180 SIR TOM. [chap.
The Contessa replied only with an eloquent look
and a pressure of the hand. Her eyes were quite
capable of expressing their meaning without words;
and Lucy felt that she had guessed her rightly.
" We wished to have a party to meet you," Lucy
said, " but the baby fell ill — and I thought as you
had kindly come so far to see Tom, you would not
mind if you found us alone."
The lady still made no direct reply. She said
after a little pause,
" The country is very dull " still smiling upon
Lucy, and allowed a full minute to pass without
another word. Then she added, " And Milady ? — is
she always with you ? " — with a slight shrug of the
shoulders. She did not even lower her voice to
prevent Lady Eandolph from hearing, but gave Lucy's
hand a special pressure, and fixed upon her a signifi-
cant look.
"Oh! Aunt Eandolph?" cried Lucy. "Oh no;
she is only paying her usual Christmas visit."
The Contessa drew a sigh of relief, and laid her
other delicate hand upon her breast. "You take a
load off my heart," she said ; then gliding gracefully
from the subject, " And that excellent Tom ? you
met him — in society ? "
Lucy did not quite like the questioning, or those
emphatic pressures of her hand. She said quickly.
" We met at Lady Eandolph's. I was living there."
« Oh — I see," the stranger said, and she gave vent
to a little gentle laugh. " I see ! " Her meaning
was entirely unknown to Lucy ; but she felt an inde-
finable offence. She made a slight effort to withdraw
her hand; but this the Contessa would not permit.
She pressed the imprisoned fingers more closely in
xix.] THE OPENING OF THE DRAMA. 181
her own. " You do not like this questioning. Pardon !
I had forgotten English ways. It is because I hope
you will let me be your friend too."
" Oh yes/' cried Lucy, ashamed of her own hesita-
tion, yet feeling every moment more reluctant. She
subdued her rising distaste with an effort. " I hope,"
she said, sweetly, " that we shall be able to make you
feel at home, Madame di Eorno-Populo. If there is
anything you do not like, will you tell me ? Had I
been at home I should have chosen other rooms for
you."
" They are so pretty, those words, ' at home ! ' so
English," the Contessa said, with smiles that were
more and more sweet. " But it will fatigue you to
call me all that long name."
" Oh no ! " cried Lucy, wiih a vivid blush. She
did not know what to say, whether this meant a little
derision of her careful pronunciation, or what it was.
She went on, after a little pause, " But if you are not
quite comfortable the other rooms can be got ready
directly. It was the housekeeper who thought the
rooms you have would be the warmest."
The Contessa gave her another gentle pressure of
the hand. •" Everything is perfect," she said. " The
house and the wife, and all. I may call you Lucy ?
You are so fresh and young. How do you keep that
pretty bloom after six years — did you say six years ?
Ah ! the English are always those that wear best.
You are not afraid of a great deal of light — no ? but
it is trying sometimes. Shades are an advantage.
And he has not spoken to you of me, that dear Tom ?
There was a time when he talked much of me — oh,
much — constantly ! He was young then — and," she
said with a little sigli — " so was I. He was perhaps
182 SIR TOM. [chap.
not handsome, but he was distinguished. Many
Englishmen are so who have no beauty, no handsome-
ness, as you say, and English women also, though
that is more rare. And you are ver-r-y happy ? " the
Contessa asked again. She said it with a smile that
was quite dazzling, but yet had just the faintest touch
of ridicule in it, and rippled over into a little laugh.
"When we know each other better I will betray all
his little secrets to you," she said.
This was so very injudicious on the part of an
old friend, that a wiser person than Lucy would have
divined some malign meaning in it. But Lucy, though
suppressing an instinctive distrust, took no notice, not
even in her thoughts. It was not necessary for her to
divine or try to divine what people meant ; she took
what they said, simply, without requiring interpreta-
tion. " He has told me a great deal," she said. " I
think I almost know his journeys by heart." Then
Lucy carried the war into the enemy's country with-
out realising what she was doing. " You will think
it very stupid of me," she said, " but I did not hear
Mademoiselle, — the young lady's name ? "
The Contessa's eyes dwelt meditatively upon Lucy :
she patted her hand and smiled upon her, as if every
other subject was irrelevant. "And he has taken
you into society ? " she said, continuing her examina-
tion. " How delightful is that English domesticity.
You go everywhere together ? " She had no appear-
ance of having so much as heard Lucy's question.
"And you do not fear that he will find it dull in
the country ? You have the confidence of being
enough for him ? How sweet for • me to find the
happiness of my friend so assured. And now I shall
share it for a little. You will make us all happy.
xix.] THE OPENING OF THE DRAMA. 183
Dear child ! " said the lady with enthusiasm, drawing
Lucy to her and kissing her forehead. Then she
broke into a pretty laugh. " You will work for your
poor, and I, who am good for nothing — I shall take
out my tapisserie, and he will read to us while
we work. What a tableau ! " cried the Contessa.
"Domestic happiness, which one only tastes in Eng-
land. The Eden before the fall ! "
It was at this moment that the gentlemen, i.e. Sir
Tom and Jock, appeared out of the dining-room.
They had not lingered long after the ladies. Sir Tom
had been somewhat glum after they left. His look
of amusement was not so lively. He said sententi-
ously, not so much to Jock as to himself, " That
woman is bent on mischief," and got up and walked
about the room instead of taking his wine. Then he
laughed and turned to Jock, who was musing over his
orange skins. " When you get a fellow into your
house that is not much good — I suppose it must
happen sometimes — that knows too much and puts
the young ones up to tricks, what do you do with him,
most noble Captain ? Come, you find out a lot of
things for yourselves, you boys. Tell me what you do."
Jock was a little startled by this demand, but he
rose to the occasion. " It has happened," he said.
" You know, unless a fellow's been awfully bad, you
can't always keep him out."
" And what then ? " said Sir Tom. " MTutor sets
his great wits to work ? "
" I hope, sir," cried Jock, " that you don't think I
would trouble MTutor, who has enough on his hands
-without that, I made great friends with the fellow
myself. You know," said the lad, looking up with
splendid confidence, " he couldn't harm me "
184 SIR TOM (.chap.
Sir Tom looked at him with a little drawing of his
breath, such as the experienced sometimes feel as
they look at the daring of the innocent — but with a
smile, too.
" When he tried it on with me, I just kicked him,"
said Jock, calmly ; " once was enough ; he didn't do it
again ; for naturally he stood a bit in awe of me. Then
I kept him that he hadn't a moment to himself. It
was the football half, when you've not got much time
to spare all day. And in the evenings he had poenas
and things. When he got with two or three of the
others, one of us would just be loafing about, and call
out ' Hallo, what's up ? ' He never had any time to
go wrong, and then he got to find out it didn't pay."
" Philosopher ! sage ! " cried Sir Tom. " It is you
that should teach us ; but, alas, my boy, have you
never found out that even that last argument fails to
tell — and that they don't mind even if it doesn't pay ? "
He sighed as he spoke ; then laughed out, and
added, " I can at all events try the first part of your
programme. Come along and let's cry, Hallo ! what's
up ? It simplifies matters immensely, though," said
Sir Tom, with a serious face, "when you can kick the
fellow you disapprove of in that charming candid way.
Guard the privilege ; it is invaluable, Jock."
" Well," said Jock, " some fellows think it's brutal,
you know. MTutor he always says try argument
first. But I just want to know how are you to do
your duty, captain of a big house, unless it's known that
you will just kick 'em when they're beastly. When
it's known, even that does a deal of good."
" Every thing you say confirms my opinion of your
sense," said Sir Tom, taking the boy by the arm, " but
also of your advantages, Jock, my boy. We cannot
XIX.] THE OPENING OF THE DRAMA. 185
act, you see, in that straightforward manner, more's the
pity, in the world ; but I shall try the first part of
your programme, and act on your advice/5 he said, as
they walked into the room where the ladies were await-
ing them. The smaller room looked very warm and
bright after the large, dimly-lighted one through which
they had passed. The Contessa, in her tender confer-
ence with Lucy, formed a charming group in the
middle of the picture. Lady Eandolph sat by, exiled
out of her usual place, with an illustrated magazine in
her hand, and an air of quick watchfulness about her,
opposite to them. She was looking on like a spectator
at a play. In the background behind the table, on
which stood a large lamp, was the Contessa's com-
panion, with her back turned to the rest, lightly
flitting from picture to picture, examining everything.
She had been entirely careless of the action of the
piece, but she turned round at the voices of the new-
comers, as if her attention was aroused.
" You are going to take somebody's advice ? " said
the Contessa, " That is something new ; come here at
once and explain. To do so is due to your — wife ;
yes, to your wife. An Englishman tells every thought
to his wife ; is it not so ? Oh yes, mon ami, your
sweet little wife and I are the best of friends. It is
for life," she said, looking with inexpressible sentiment
in Lucy's face, and pressing her hands. Then, was it
possible ? a flash of intelligence flew from her eyes to
those of Sir Tom, and she burst into a laugh and
clapped her beautiful hands together. " He is so
ridiculous, he makes one laugh at everything," she cried.
Lucy remained very serious, with a somewhat
forced smile upon her face, between these two, looking
from one to another.
186 SIR TOM. [chap.
" Nay, if you have come the length of swearing
eternal friendship " said Sir Tom.
Jock did not know what to do with himself. He
began by stumbling over Lady Kandolph's train, which
though carefully coiled about her, was so long and so
substantial that it got in his way. In getting out of
its way he almost stumbled against the slim, straight
figure of the girl, who stood behind surveying the com-
pany. She met his awkward apology with a smile.
" It doesn't matter," she said, " I am so glad you are
come. I had nobody to talk to." Then she made a
little pause, regarding him with a bright, impartial
look, as if weighing all his qualities. "Don't you
talk ? " she said. "Do you prefer not to say any-
thing ? because I know how to behave : I will not
trouble you if it is so. In England there are some
who do not say anything ? " she added with an inquir-
ing look. Jock, who was conscious of blushing all
over from top to toe, ventured a glance at her, to which
she replied by a peal of laughter, very merry but very
subdued, in which, in spite of himself, he was obliged
to join.
" So you can laugh ! " she said ; " oh, that is well ;
for otherwise I should not know how to live. We
must laugh low, not to make any noise and distract
the old ones ; but still, one must live. Tell me, you
are the brother of Madame — Should I say Milady ?
In my novels they never do, but I do not know if the
novels are just or not."
" The servants say my lady, but no one else," said
Jock.
" How fine that is," the young lady said admiringly,
" in a moment to have it all put right. I am glad we
came to England ; we say mi-ladi and mi-lord as if
xix.] THE OPENING OF THE DRAMA. 187
that was the name of every one here ; but it is not so
in the books. You are, perhaps Sir ? like Sir Tom —
or you are-
" I am Trevor, that is all," said Jock with a blush ;
:' I am nobody in particular : that is, here " — he added
with a momentary gleam of natural importance.
" Ah ! " cried the young lady, " I understand — you
are a great person at home."
Jock had no wish to deceive, but he could not pre-
vent a smile from creeping about the corners of his
mouth. "Not a great person at all," he said, not
wishing to boast.
The young stranger, who was so curious about all
her new surroundings, formed her own conclusion. She
had been brought up in an atmosphere full of much
knowledge, but also of theories which were but partially
tenable. She interpreted Jock according to her own
ideas, which were not at all suited to his case ; but it
was impossible that she could know that.
" I am finding people out," she said to him. " You
are the only one that is young like me. Let us form an
alliance — while the old ones are working out all their
plans and fighting it out among themselves."
" Fighting it out ! I know some that are not likely
to fight," cried Jock, bewildered.
" Was not that right?" said the girl, distressed. " I
thought it was an idiotisme, as the French say. Ah !
they are always fighting. Look at them now ! The
Contessa, she is on the war-path. That is an American
word. I have a little of all languages. Madame, you
will see — ah, that is what you meant ! — does not
understand, she looks from one to another. She is
silent, but Sir Tom, he knows everything. And the
old lady, she sees it too. I have gone through so
188 SIR TOM.
[CHAP.
many dramas, I am biased. It wearies at last, but yet
it is exciting too. I ask myself what is going to be
done here ? You have heard perhaps of the Contessa
in England, Mr. "
" Trevor," said Jock.
" And you pronounce it just like this — Mis-ter ? I
want to know ; for perhaps I shall have to stay here.
There is not known very much about me. Nor do I
know myself. But if the Contessa finds for me
I am quite mad," said the girl suddenly. " I am
telling you — and of course it is a secret. The old
lady watches the Contessa to see what it is she intends.
But I do not myself know what the Contessa intends
— except in respect to me."
Jock was too shy to inquire what that was : and he
was confused with this unusual confidence. Young
ladies had not been in the habit of opening to him
their secrets ; indeed he had little experience of these
kind of creatures at all. She looked at him as she
spoke as if she wished to provoke him to inquiry —
with a gaze that was very open and withal bold, yet
innocent too. And Jock, on his side, was as entirely
innocent as if he had been a Babe in the "Wood.
"Don't you want to know what she is going to do
with me, and why she has brought me ? " the girl said,
talking so quickly that he could scarcely follow the
stream of words. " I was not invited, and I am not
introduced, and no one knows anything of me. Don't
you want to know why I am here ? "
Jock followed the movements of her lips, the little
gestures of her hands, which were almost as eloquent,
with eyes that were confused by so great a call upon
them. He could not make any reply, but only gazed
at her, entranced, as he had never been in his life
xx.] AN ANXIOUS CRITIC. 180
before, and so anxious not to lose the hurried words,
the quick flash of the small white hands against her
dark dress, that his mind had not time to make out
what she meant.
Lucy on her side sat between her husband and the
Contessa for some time, listening to their conversation.
That was more rapid, too, than she was used to, and it
was full of allusions, understood when they were half-
said by the others, which to her were all darkness.
She tried to follow them with a wistful sort of smile,
a kind of painful homage to the Contessa's soft laugh
and the ready response of Sir Tom. She tried too, to
follow, and share the brightening interest of his face,
the amusement and eagerness of his listening ; but by
and by she got chilled, she knew not how — the smile
grew frozen upon her face, her comprehension seemed
to fail altogether. She got up softly after a while
from her corner of the sofa, and neither her husband
nor her guest took any particular notice. She came
across the room to Lady Randolph, and drew a low
chair beside her, and asked her about the pictures in
the magazine which she was still holding in her hand.
CHAPTEE XX.
AN ANXIOUS CRITIC.
In a few days after the arrival of Madame di Forno-
Populo, there was almost an entire change of aspect at
the Hall. Nobody could tell how this change had
come about. It was involuntary, unconscious, yet
complete. The Contessa came quietly into the fore-
190 SIR TOM. [chap.
ground. She made no demonstration of power, and
claimed no sort of authority. She never accosted the
mistress of the house without tender words and caresses.
Her attitude towards Lucy, indeed, was that of an
admiring relation to a delightful and promising child.
She could not sufficiently praise and applaud her.
When she spoke, her visitor turned towards her with
the most tender of smiles. In whatsoever way the Con-
tessa was occupied, she never failed when she heard
Lucy's voice to turn round upon her, to bestow this
smile, to murmur a word of affectionate approval.
When they were near enough to each other, she would
take her hand and press it with affectionate emotion.
The other members of the household, except Sir Tom,
she scarcely noticed at all. The Dowager Lady Ean-
dolph exchanged with her now and then a few words
of polite defiance, but that was all. And she had not
been long at the Hall before her position there was
more commanding than that of Lady Eandolph. In-
sensibly all the customs of the house changed for her.
There was no question as to who was the centre of
conversation in the evening. Sir Tom went to the
sofa from which she had so cleverly ousted his aunt,
as soon as he came in after dinner, and leaning over her
with his arm on the mantelpiece, or drawing a chair
beside her, would laugh and talk with endless spirit
and amusement. When he talked of the people in the
neighbourhood who afforded scope for satire, she would
tap him with her fan and say, " Why do I not see
these originals ? bring them to see me," to Lucy's
wonder and often dismay. " They would not amuse
you at all," Sir Tom would reply, upon which the lady
would turn and call Lucy to her. " My little angel !
he pretends that it is he that is so clever, that he creates
xx.] AX ANXIOUS CRITIC. 191
these characters. "We do not believe him, my Lucy, do
we ? Ask them, ask them, caret, then we shall judge."
In this way the house was filled evening after
evening. A reign of boundless hospitality seemed to
have begun. The other affairs of the house slipped
aside, and to provide amusement for the Contessa
became the chief object of life. She had everybody
brought to see her, from the little magnates of Fara-
field to the Duchess herself, and the greatest people
in the county. The nursery, which had been so much,
perhaps too much, in the foreground, regulating the
whole great household according as little Tom was
better or worse, was thrust altogether into the shadow.
If neglect was wholesome, then he had that advantage.
Even his mother could do no more than run furtively
to him, as she did about a hundred times a day in the
intervals of her duties. His little mendings and fall-
ings back ceased to be the chief things in the house.
His father, indeed, would play with his child in the
mornings when he was brought to Lucy's room ; but
the burden of his remarks was to point out to her how
much better the little beggar got on when there was
less fuss made about him. And Lucy's one grievance
against her visitor, the only one which she permitted
herself to perceive, was that she never took any notice
of little Tom. She never asked for him, a thing which
was unexampled in Lucy's experience. "When he was
produced she smiled, indeed, but contemplated him at
a distance. The utmost stretch of kindness she had
ever shown was to touch his cheek with a finger
delicately when he was carried past her. Lucy made
theories in her mind about this, feeling it necessary to
account in some elaborate way for what was so
entirely out of nature. li I know what it must be —
192 SIR TOM. [chap.
she must have lost her own," she said to her husband.
Sir Tom's countenance was almost convulsed by one of
those laughs, which he now found it expedient to sup-
press, but he only replied that he had never heard of
such an event. " Ah ! it must have been before you knew
her ; but she has never got it out of her mind," Lucy
cried. That hypothesis explained everything. At this
time it is scarcely necessary to say Lucy was with her
whole soul trying to be " very fond," as she expressed
it, of the Contessa. There were some things about
her which startled young Lady Eandolph. For one
thing, she would go out shooting with Sir Tom, and
was as good a shot as any of the gentlemen. This
wounded Lucy terribly, and took her a great effort to
swallow. It went against all her traditions. With her
bourgeois education she hated sport, and even in her
husband with difficulty made up her mind to it ; but
that a woman should go forth and slay was intolerable.
There were other things besides which were a
mystery to her. Lady Eandolph's invariably defiant
attitude for one, and the curious aspect of the Duchess
when suddenly brought face to face with the stranger.
It appeared that they were old friends, which astonished
Lucy, but not so much as the great lady's bewildered
look when Madame di Forno-Populo went up to her.
It seemed for a moment as if the shock was too much
for her. She stammered and shook through all her
dignity and greatness, as she exclaimed. "You !
here ? " in two distinct outcries, gazing appalled into
the smiling; and beautiful face before her. But then
the Duchess came to, after a while. She seemed to get
over her surprise, which was more than surprise. All
these things disturbed Lucy. She did not know what
to make of them. She was uneasy at the change that
xx.] AN AXXIOUS CRITIC. 193
had been wrought upon her own household, which she
did not understand. Yet it was all perfectly simple, she-
said to herself. It was Tom's duty to devote himself
to the stranger. It was the duty of both as hosts to
procure for her such amusement as was to be found.
These were things of which Lucy convinced herself by
various half unconscious processes of argument. But
it was necessary to renew these arguments from time
to time, to keep possession of them in order to feel
their force as she wished to do. She said nothing to
her husband on the subject, with an instinctive sense
that it would be very difficult to handle. And Sir
Tom, too, avoided it. But it was impossible to pursue
the same reticence with Lady Bandolph, who now
and then insisted on opening it up. When the end of
her visit arrived she sent for Lucy into her own room,
to speak to her seriously. She said —
" My dear, I am due to-morrow at the Maltravers',
as you know. It is a visit I like to pay, they are
always so nice ; but I cannot bear the thought of going
off, Lucy, to enjoy myself and leaving you alone."
" Alone, Aunt Randolph ! " cried Lucy, " when Tom
is at home ! "
" Oh, Tom ! I have no patience with Tom," cried
the Dowager. "I think he must be mad to let that
woman come upon you so. Of course you know
very well, my dear, it is of her that I want to speak.
In the country it does not so much matter ; but you
must not let her identify herself with you, Lucy, in
town."
" In town ! " Lucy said with a little dismay ; " but,
dear Aimt Bandolph, it will be six weeks before we go
to town ; and, surely, long before that " She
paused, and blushed with a sense of the inhospitality
o
194 SIR TOM. [chap.
involved in her words, which made Lucy ashamed of
herself.
" You think so ? " said Lady Eandolph, smiling
somewhat grimly. a Well, we shall see. For my part,
I think she will find Park Lane a very desirable
situation, and if you do not take the greatest care
But why should I speak to you of taking care ? Of
course, if Tom wished it, you would take in all
Bohemia, and never say a word "
" Surely," said Lucy, looking with serene eyes in
the elder lady's face, " I do not know what you mean
by Bohemia, Aunt Eandolph ; but if you think it
possible that I should object when Tom asks his
friends "
" Oh — his friends ! I have no patience with you,
either the one or the other," said the old lady. " When
Sir Eobert was living, do you think it was he who
invited my guests ? I should think not indeed ! espe-
cially the women. If that was to be the case, marriage
would soon become an impossibility. And is it possible,
Lucy, is it possible that you, with your good sense, can
like all that petting and coaxing, and the way she talks
to you as if you were a child ? "
As a matter of fact Lucy had not been able to
school herself into liking it ; but when the objection
was stated so plainly, she coloured high with a vexa-
tion and annoyance which were very grievous and hard
to bear. It seemed to her that it would be disloyal
both to her husband and her guest if she complained,
and at the same time Lady Eandolph's shot went
straight to the mark. She did her best to smile, but
it was not a very easy task.
" You have always taught me, Aunt Eandolph," she
said with great astuteness, " that I ought not to judge
XX.] AN ANXIOUS CRITIC. 195
of the manners of strangers by my own little rules —
especially of foreigners/' she added, with a sense of her
own cleverness which half comforted her amid other
feelings not agreeable. It was seldom that Lucy felt
any sense of triumph in her own powers.
" Foreigners ? " said Lady Bandolph, with disdain.
But then she stopped short with a pause of indignation.
" That woman," she said, which was the only name she
ever gave the visitor, " has some scheme in her head
you may be sure. I do not know what it is. It would
not do her any good that I can see to increase her hold
upon Tom."
" Upon Tom !" cried Lucy. It was her turn now
to be indignant. " I don't know what you mean, Aunt
Kandolph," she said. " I cannot think that you want
to make me — uncomfortable. There are some things
I do not like in Madame di Forno-Populo. She is —
different ; but she is my husband's friend. If you mean
that they will become still greater friends seeing more
of each other, that is natural. For why should you be
friends at all unless you like each other? And that
Tom likes her must be just a proof that I am wrong.
It is my ignorance. Perhaps the wisest way would
be to say nothing more about it," young Lady Eandolph
concluded, briskly, with a sudden smile.
The Dowager looked at her as if she were some
wonder in natural history, the nature of which it was
impossible to divine. She thought she knew Lucy
very well, but yet had never understood her, it being
more difficult for a woman of the world to understand
absolute straightforwardness and simplicity than it is
even for the simple to understand the worldly. She
was silent for a moment and stared at Lucy, not know-
ing what to make of her. At last she resumed as if
196 SIR TOM. [chap.
going on without interruption. " But she has some
scheme in hand, perhaps in respect to the girl. The girl
is a very handsome creature, and might make a hit if
she were properly managed. My belief is that this has
been her scheme all through. But partly the presence
0f Tom — an old friend as you say of her own — and
partly the want of opportunity, has kept it in abeyance.
That is my idea, Lucy ; you can take it for what it is
worth. And your home will be the headquarters, the
centre from which the adventuress will carry on "
" Aunt Eandolph !" Lucy's voice was almost loud
in the pain and indignation that possessed her. She
put out her hands as if to stop the other's mouth.
" You want to make me think she is a wicked woman,"
she said. " And that Tom — Tom "
Lucy had never permitted suspicion to enter her
mind. She did not know now what it was that pene-
trated her innocent soul like an arrow. It was not
jealousy. It was the wounding suggestion of a possi-
bility which she would not and could not entertain.
" Lucy, Tom has no excuse at all," said the Dowager
solemnly. "You'll believe nothing against him, of
course, and I can't possibly wish to turn you against
him ; but I don't suppose he meant all that is likely
to come out of it. He thought it would be a joke —
and in the country what could it matter ? And then
things have never gone so far as 'that people could
refuse to receive her, you know. Oh no ! the Contessa
has her wits too much about her for that. But you
saw for yourself that the Duchess was petrified ; and I
— not that I am an authority, like her Grace. One
thing, Lucy, is quite clear, and that I must say; you
must not take upon yourself to be answerable — you so
young as you are and not accustomed to society — for
xx.] AN ANXIOUS CEITIC. 197
that woman, before the world. You must just take
your courage in both hands, and tell Tom that though
you give in to him in the country, in town you will
not have her. She means to take advantage of you,
and bring forward her girl, and make a grand coup.
That is what she means — I know that sort of person.
It is just the greatest luck in the world for them to
get hold of some one that is so unexceptionable and so
unsuspicious as you."
Lady Randolph insisted upon saying all this, not-
withstanding the interruptions of Lucy. " iSTow I wash
my hands of it," she said. " If you won't be advised,
I can do no more." It was the day after the great
dinner when the Duchess had met Madame di Forno-
Populo with so much surprise. The elder lady had
been in much excitement all the evening. She had
conversed with her Grace apart on several occasions,
and from the way in which they laid their heads to-
gether, and their gestures, it was clear enough that
their feeling was the same upon the point they dis-
cussed. All the best people in the county had been
collected together, and there could be no doubt that the
Contessa had achieved a great success. She sang as
no woman had ever been heard to sing for a hundred
miles round, and her beauty and her grace and her
diamonds had been enough to turn the heads of both
men and women. It was remarked that the Duchess,
though she received her with a gasp of astonishment,
was evidently very well acquainted with the fascinat-
ing foreign lady, and though there was a little natural
and national distrust of her at first, as a person too
remarkable, and who sang too well for the common
occasions of life, yet not to gaze at her, watch her, and
admire, was impossible. Lucy had been gratified with
198 SIR TOM. [chap.
the success of her visitor. Even though she was not
sure that she was comfortable about her presence there
at all, she was pleased with the effect she produced.
When the Contessa sang there suddenly appeared out
of the midst of the crowd a slim, straight figure in a
black gown, which instantly sat down at the piano,
played the accompaniments, and disappeared again
without a word. The spectators thronging round the
piano saw that this was a girl, as graceful and dis-
tinguished as the Contessa herself, who passed away
without a word, and disappeared when her office was
accomplished, with a smile on her face, but without
lingering for a moment or speaking to any one ; which
was a pretty bit of mystery too.
All this had happened on the night before Lady
Eandolph's summons to Lucy. It was in the air that
the party at the Hall was to break up after the great
entertainment; the Dowager was going, as she had
said, to the Maltravers' ; Jock was going back to school ;
and though no limit of Madame di Forno - Populo's
visit had been mentioned, still it was natural that she
should go when the other people did. She had been a
fortnight at the Hall. That is long for a visit at a
country house where generally people are coming and
going continually. And Lucy had begun to look for-
ward to the time when once more she would be mistress
of her own house and actions, with all visitors and
interruptions gone. She had been looking forward to
the happy old evenings, the days in which baby should
be set up again on his domestic throne. The idea that
the Contessa might not be going away, the suggestion
that she might still be there when it was time to make
the yearly migration to town, chilled the very blood in
her veins. But it was a thought that she would not
xx.] AH ANXIOUS CRITIC. 199
dwell upon. She would not betray her feeling in this
respect to any one. She returned the kiss which old
Lady Eandolph bestowed upon her at the end of their
interview, very affectionately ; for, though she did not
always agree with her, she was attached to the lady
who had been so kind to her when she was a friendless
little girl. " Thank you, Aunt Eandolph, for telling
me," she said very sweetly, though, indeed, she had
no intention of taking the Dowager's advice. Lady
Randolph went off in the afternoon of the next day,
for it was a very short journey to the Maltravers',
where she was going. All the party came out into the
hall to see her away, the Contessa herself as well
as the others. Xothing, indeed, could be more cordial
than the Contessa. She caught up a shawl and
wound it round her, elaborately defending herself
ao-ainst the cold, and came out to the steps to share in
the last farewells.
\Vhen Lady Eandolph was in the carriage with her
maid by her side, and her hot-water footstool under her
feet, and the coachman waiting his signal to drive
away, she put out her hand amid her furs to Lucy.
"JSTow remember!" Lady Eandolph said. It was al-
most as solemn as the mysterious reminder of the
dying king to the bishop. But unfortunately, what is
solemn in certain circumstances may be ludicrous in
others. The party in the Hall scarcely restrained its
merriment till the carriage- had driven away.
"What awful compact is this between you, Lucy ?"
Sir Tom said. '"Has she bound you by a vow to
assassinate me in my sleep ?"
The Contessa unwound herself out of her shawl,
and putting her arm caressingly round Lucy, led her
back to the drawing-room. " It has something to do
200 SIR TOM. [chap.
with me," she said. " Come and tell me all about it.':
Lucy had been disconcerted by Lady Eandolph's re-
minder. She was still more disconcerted now.
" It is — something Aunt Eandolph wishes me to do
in the spring, when we go to town," she said.
" Ah ! I know what that is," said the Contessa.
" They see that you are too kind to your husband's
friend. Milady would wish you to be more as she her-
self is. I understand her very well. I understand
them all, these women. They cannot endure me.
They see a meaning in everything I do. I have not a
meaning in everything I do," she added, with a pathetic
look, which went to Lucy's heart.
" No, no, indeed you are mistaken. It was not that.
I am sure you have no meaning," said Lucy, vehement
and confused.
The Contessa read her innocent distraite countenance
like a book, as she said — or at least she thought so.
She linked her own delicate arm in hers, and clasped
Lucy's hand. " One day I will tell you why all these
ladies hate me, my little angel," she said.
CHAPTEE XXI.
AN UNEXPECTED ENCOUNTER.
In the meantime something had been going on behind-
backs of which nobody took much notice. It had been
discovered long before this, in the family, that the
Contessa's young companion had a name like other
people — that is to say, a Christian name. She was
called by the Contessa, in the rare moments when she
xxi.] AN UNEXPECTED ENCOUNTER. 201
addressed her, Bice — that is to say, according to English
pronunciation, Beeshee (you would probably call it
Beetchee if you learned to speak Italian in England,
but the Contessa had the Tuscan tongue in a Boman
mouth, according to the proverb), which, as everybody
knows, is the contraction of Beatrice. She was called
Miss Beachey in the household, a name which was
received — by the servants at least — as a quite proper
and natural name ; a great deal more sensible than
Forno-Populo. Her position, however, in the little
party was a quite peculiar one. The Contessa took her
for granted in a way which silenced all inquisitive re-
searches. She gave no explanation who she was, or
what she was, or why she carried this girl about with
her. If she was related to herself, if she was a de-
pendent, nobody knew ; her manner gave no clue at all
to the mystery. It was very seldom that the two had
any conversation whatsoever in the presence of the
others. Now and then the Contessa would send the
girl upon an errand, telling her to bring something,
with an absence of directions where to find it that
suggested the most absolute confidence in her young-
companion. When the Contessa sang, Bice, as a matter
of course, produced herself at the right moment to play
her accompaniments, and got herself out of the way,
noiselessly, instantly, the moment that duty was over.
These accompaniments were played with an exquisite
skill and judgment, an exact adaptation to the necessi-
ties of the voice, which could only have been attained
by much and severe study ; but she never, save on these
occasions, was seen to look at a piano. For the greater
part of the time the girl was invisible. She appeared
in the Contessa's train, always in her closely-fitting,
perfectly plain, black frock, without an ornament, at
202 SIR TOM. [chap,
luncheon and dinner, and was present all the evening
in the drawing-room. But for the rest of the day no
one knew what hecame of this young creature, who
nevertheless was not shy, nor showed any appearance
of feeling herself out of place, or uncomfortable in her
strange position. She looked out upon them all with
frank eyes, in which it was evident there was no sort
of mist, either of timidity or ignorance, understanding
everything that was said, even allusions which puzzled
Lucy ; always intelligent and observant, though often
with a shade of that benevolent contempt which the
young with difficulty prevent themselves from feeling
towards their elders. The littleness of their jokes and
their philosophies was evidently quite apparent to this
observer, who sat secure in the superiority of sixteen
taking in everything ; for she took in everything, even
when she was not doing the elder people the honour of
attending to what they were saying, with a faculty
which belongs to that age. Opinions were divided as
to Bice's beauty. The simpler members of the party,
Lucy and Jock, admired her least ; but such a com-
petent critic as Lady Eanclolph, who understood what
was effective, had a great opinion and even respect for
her, as of one whose capabilities were very great indeed,
and who might " go far," as she had herself said. As
there was so much difference of opinion it is only right
that the reader should be able to judge, as much as is
possible, from a description. She was very slight and
rather tall, with a great deal of the Contessa's grace,
moving lightly as if she scarcely touched the ground,
but like a bird rather than a cat. There was nothing
in her of the feline grace of which we hear so much.
Her movements were all direct and rapid ; her feet
seemed to skim, not to tread, the ground with an airy
XXI.] AN UNEXPECTED ENCOUNTER. 203
poise, which even when she stood still implied move-
ment, always light, nntiring, full of energy and impulse.
Her eyes were gray — if it is possible to call by the
name of the dullest of tints those two globes of light,
now dark, now golden, now liquid with dew, and now
with flame. Her hair was dusky, of no particular
colour, with a crispness about the temples ; but her
complexion — ay, there was the rub. Bice had no com-
plexion at all. By times in the evening, in artificial
light, or when she was excited, there came a little flush
to her cheeks, which miraculously chased away the
shadows from her paleness, and made her radiant; but
in daylight there could be no doubt that she was sallow,
sometimes almost olive, though with a soft velvety
texture which is more often seen on the dark-com-
plexioned through all its gradations than on any but
the most delicate of white skins. A black baby has a
bloom upon its little dusky cheek like a purple rjeach,
and this was the quality which gave to Bice's sallow-
ness a certain charm. Her hands and arms were of the
same indefinite tint — not wrhite, whatever they might
be called. Her throat was slender and beautifully-
formed, but shared the same deficiency of colour. It
is impossible to say how much disappointed Lucy was
in the young stranger's appearance after the first even-
ing. She had thought her very pretty, and she now
thought her plain. To remember what the girl had
said of her chances if she turned out beautiful filled
her wuth a sort of pitying contempt.
But the more experienced people were not of Lucy's
opinion. They thought well, on the contrary, of Bice's
prospects. Lady Bandolph, as has been said, regarded
her with a certain respectfulness. She was not offended
by the saucy speeches which the girl might now and
204 SIR TOM. [chap.
then make. She went so far as to say even that if
introduced under other auspices than those of the
Contessa, there was no telling what such a girl might
do. " But the chances now are that she will end on
the stage," Lady Eandolph said.
This strange girl unfolded herself very little in the
family. When she spoke, she spoke with the utmost
frankness, and was afraid of nobody. But in general
she sat in the regions behind the table, with its big
lamp, and said little or nothing. The others would all
be collected about the fire, but Bice never approached
the fire. Sometimes she read, sitting motionless, till
the others forgot her presence altogether. Sometimes
she worked at long strips of Berlin -wool work, the
tapisserie to which, by moments, the Contessa would
have recourse. But she heard and saw everything, as
has been said, whether she attended or not, in the
keenness of her youthful faculties. When the Contessa
rose to sing, she was at the piano without a word ; and
when anything was wanted she gave an alert mute
obedience to the lady who was her relation or her
patroness, nobody knew which, almost without being
told what was wanted. Except in this way, however,
they seldom approached or said a word to each other
that any one saw. During the long morning, which the
Contessa spent in her room, appearing only at luncheon,
Bice too was invisible. Thus she lived the strangest
life of retirement and seclusion, such as a crushed de-
pendent would find intolerable in the midst of a family,
but without the least appearance of anything but en-
joyment, and a perfect and dauntless freedom.
Bice, however, had one confidant in the house, and
this, as is natural, was the very last person who would
have seemed probable — it was Jock. Jock, it need
xxi.] AN UNEXPECTED ENCOUNTER. 205
scarcely be said, had no tendency at all to the society
of girls. Deep as he was in MTntor's confidence, cap-
tain of his house, used to live in a little male com-
munity, and to despise (not unkindly) the rest of the
world, it is not likely that he would care much for
the antagonistic creatures who invariably interfered, he
thought, with talk and enjoyment wherever they ap-
peared. Making an exception in favour of Lucy and
an older person now and then, who had been soothing
to him when he was ill or out of sorts, Jock held that
the feminine part of the creation was a mistake, and to
be avoided in every practicable way. He had been
startled by the young stranger's advances to him on the
first evening, and her claim of fellowship on the score
that he was young like herself. But when Bice first
appeared suddenly in his way, far down in the depths
of the winterly park, the boy's impulse would have
been, had that been practicable, to turn and flee. She
was skimming along, singing to herself, leaping lightly
over fallen branches and the inequalities of the humid
way, when he first perceived her ; and Jock had a
moment's controversy with himself as to what he ought
to do. If he took to flight across the open park she
would see, him and understand the reason why — be-
sides, it would be cowardly to fly from a girl, an inferior
creature, who probably had lost her way, and would
not know how to get back again. This reflection made
him withdraw a little deeper into the covert, with the
intention of keeping her in sight lest she should wander
astray altogether, but yet keeping out of the way, that
he might exercise this secret protecting charge of his,
which Jock felt was his natural attitude even to a girl
without the embarrassment of her society. He tried
to persuade himself that she was a lower boy, of an
206 SIR TOM. [chap.
inferior kind no doubt, but yet possessing claims upon
his care ; for MTutor had a great idea of influence, and
had imprinted deeply upon the minds of his leading
pupils the importance of exercising it in the most
beneficial way for those who were under them.
Jock accordingly stayed among the brushwood watch-
ing where she went. How light she was ! her feet
scarcely made a dint upon the wet and spongy grass,
in which his own had sunk. She went over everything
like a bird. Now and then she would stop to gather a
handful of brown rustling brambles, and the stiff yellow
oak leaves, and here and there a rusty bough to which
some rays of autumn colour still hung, which at first
Jock supposed to mean botany, and was semi-respectful
of, until she took off her hat and arranged them in it,
when he was immediately contemptuous, saying to him-
self that it was just like a girl. All the same, it was
interesting to watch her as she skipped and skimmed
along with an air of enjoyment and delight in her
freedom, which it was impossible not to sympathise
with. She sang, not loudly, but almost under her
breath, for pure pleasure, it seemed, but sometimes
would break off and whistle, at which Jock was much
shocked at first, but gradually got reconciled to, it was
so clear and sweet. After a while, however, he made
an incautious step upon the brushwood, and the crash-
ing of the branches betrayed him. She stopped sud-
denly with her head to the wind like a fine hound, and
caught him with her keen eyes. Then there occurred
a little incident which had a very strange effect — an
effect he was too young to understand — upon Jock.
She stood perfectly still, with her face towards the
bushes in which he was, her head thrown high, her
nostrils a little dilated, a flush of sudden energy and
xxi.] AN UNEXPECTED ENCOUNTER. 207
courage on her face. She did not know who he was
or what he wanted watching her from behind the covert.
He might be a tramp, a violent beggar, for anything
she knew. These things are more tragic where Bice
came from, and it was likely enough that she took him
for a brigand. It was a quick sense of alarm that
sprang over her, stringing all her nerves, and bringing
the colour to her cheeks. She never flinched or at-
tempted to flee, but stood at bay, with a high valour
and proud scorn of her pursuer. Her attitude, the
flush which made her fair in a moment, the expanded
nostrils, the fulness which her panting breath of alarm
gave to her breast, made an impression upon the boy
which was ineffable and beyond words. It was his
first consciousness that there was something in the
world — not boy, or man, or sister, something which he
did not understand, which feared yet confronted him,
startled but defiant. He too paused for a moment,
gazing at her, getting up his courage. Then he came
slowly ont from under the shade of the bushes and
went towards her. There were a few yards of the open
park to traverse before lie reached her, so that he
thought it necessary to relieve her anxiety before they
met. He called out to her, " Don't be afraid, it is only
me." For a moment more that fine poise lasted, and
then she clapped her hands with a peal of laughter
that seemed to fill the entire atmosphere and ring back
from the clumps of wintry wood. " Oh," she cried, " it
is you ! " Jock did not know whether to be deeply
affronted or to laugh too.
" I thought you might have lost your way,"
he said, knitting his brows and looking as forbidding
as he knew how, by way of correcting the involuntary
sentiment that had stolen into his boyish heart.
208 SIR TOM. [chap.
" Then why did not yon come to me ? " she said,
" is not that what yon call to spy — to watch when one
does not know yon are there ? "
Jock's countenance flushed at this word. " Spy ! I
never spied upon any one. I thought perhaps you
might not be able to get back — so I would not go
away out of reach."
" I see," she cried, " you meant to be kind but not
friendly. Do I say it right ? Why will not you be
friendly ? I have so many things I want to say, and
no one, no one ! to say them to. What harm would it
do if you came out from yourself, and talked with me
a little ? You are too young to make it any — incon-
venience," the girl said. She laughed a little and
blushed a little as she said this, eyeing him all the
time with frank, open eyes. " I am sixteen ; how old
are you ? " she added, with a quick breath.
•' Sixteen past," said Jock, with a little emphasis,
to show his superiority in age as well as in other
things.
" Sixteen in a boy means no more than nine or so,"
she said, with a light disdain, " so you need not have
any fear. Oh, come and talk ! I have a hundred
and more of things to say. It is all so strange. How
would you like to plunge in a new world like the sea,
and never say what you think of it, or ask any
questions, or tell when it makes you laugh or cry ? "
" I should not mind much. I should neither laugh
nor cry. It is only girls that do," said Jock, some-
what contemptuous too.
" Well ! But then I am a girl. I cannot change
my nature to please you," she said. " Sometimes I
think I should have liked better to be a boy, for you
have not to do the things we have to do — but then
xxi.] AX UNEXPECTED ENCOUNTER 209
when I saw how awkward you were, and how clumsy,
and not good for anything " — she pointed these very
plain remarks with a laugh between each and a look
at Jock, by which she very plainly applied what she
said. He did not know at all how to take this. The
instinct of a gentleman to betray no angry feeling
towards a girl, who was at the same time a lady, con-
trasted in him with the instinct of a child, scarcely yet
aware of the distinctions of sex, to fight fairly for
itself ; but the former prevailed. And then it was
scarcely possible to resist the contagion of the laugh
which the damp air seemed to hold suspended, and
bring back in curls and wreaths of pleasant sound. So
Jock commanded himself and replied with an effort —
" We are just as good for things that we care about
as you — but not for girls' things," he added, with
another little fling of the mutual contempt which they
felt for each other. Then after a pause : " I suppose
we may as well go home, for it is getting late ; and
when it is dark you would be sure to lose your
way "
"Do you think so?" she said. "Then I will
come, for I do not like to be lost. What should you
do if we were lost ? Build me a hut to take shelter
in ? or take off your coat to keep me warm and then
go and look for the nearest village ? That is what
happens in some of the Contessa's old books — but, ah,
not in the Tauchnitz now. But it would be nonsense,
of course, for there are the red chimneys of the Hall
staring us in the face, so how could we be lost ? "
" When it is dark," said Jock, " you can't see the
red always ; and then you go rambling and wandering
about, and hit yourself against the trees, and get up to
the ankles in the wet grass and — don't like it at all."
210 SIR TOM. [chap.
He laughed himself a little, with a laugh that was
somewhat like a growl at his own abrupt conclusion, to
which Bice responded cordially.
" How nice it is to laugh," she said, " it gets the
air into your lungs and then you can breathe. It is
to breathe I want — large — a whole world full," she
cried, throwing out her arms and opening her mouth.
" Because you know the rooms are small here, and there
is so much furniture, the windows closed with curtains,
the floors all hot with carpets. Do they shut you up
as if in a box at night, with the shutters shut and all so
dark? They do me. But as soon as they are gone I
open. I like far better our rooms with big walls, and
marble that is cool, and large, large windows that you
can lie and look out at, when you wake, all painted
upon the sky."
" I should think," said Jock, with the impulse of
contradiction, " they would not be at all comfort-
able "
" Comfortable," she cried in high disdain, " does one
want to be comfortable ? One wants to live, and feel
the air, and everything that is round."
" That's what we do at school," said Jock, waking
up to a sense of the affinities as he had already done
to the diversities between them.
"Tell me about school," she cried, with a pretty
imperious air ; and Jock, who never desired any better,
obeyed.
xxil] A PAIR OF FRIENDS. 211
CHAPTER XXIL
A PAIR OF FRIENDS.
After this it came to be a very common occurrence
that Jock and Bice should meet in the afternoon. He
for one thing had lost his companionship with Lucy,
and had been straying forth forlorn not knowing what
to do with himself, taking long walks which he did not
care for, and longing for the intellectual companion-
ship of MTutor, or even of the other fellows who, if
not intellectual, at least were acquainted with the same
things, and accustomed to the same occupations as
himself. It worked in him a tremor and commotion of
a kind in which he was wholly inexperienced, when he
saw the slim figure of the girl approaching him, through
the paths* of the shrubberies, or across the glades of
the park. He said to himself once or twice, "What
a bore ; " but those words did not express his feelings.
It was not a bore, it was something very different.
He could not explain the mingled reluctance and
pleasure of his own mood, the little tumult that arose
in him when he saw her. He wanted to turn his
back and rush away, and yet he wanted to be there
waiting for her, seeing her approach step by step. He
had no notion what his own mingled sentiments meant.
But Bice to all appearance had neither the reluctance
nor the excitement. She came running to her play-
mate whenever she saw him with frank satisfaction.
" I was looking for you," she would say, " Let us go
out into the park where nobody can see us. Bun, or
some one will be coming," and then she would fly over
stock and stone, summoning him after her. There
212 SIR TOM. [chap.
were many occasions when Jock did not approve, but
he always followed her, though with internal grumb-
lings, in whicjj. he indulged consciously, making out his
own annoyance to be very great. " Why can't she let
me alone ?" he said to himself ; but when it occurred
that Bice did leave him alone, and made no appear-
ance, his sense of injury was almost bitter. On such
occasions he said cutting things within himself, and was
very satirical as to the stupidity of girls who were afraid
to wet their feet, and estimated the danger of catching
a cold as greater than any natural advantage. For
Jock had all that instinctive hostility to womankind,
which is natural to the male bosom, except perhaps at
one varying period of life. They had no place in the
economy of his existence at school, and he knew
nothing of them nor wanted to know. But Bice,
though, when he was annoyed with her, she became to
him the typical girl, the epitome of offending woman,
had at other times a very different position. It stirred
his entire being, he did not know how, when she
roamed with him about the woods talking of everything,
from a point of view which was certainly different from
Jock's. Occasionally, even, he did not understand her
any more than if she had been speaking a foreign
language. She had never any difficulty in penetrating
his meaning as he had in penetrating hers, but there
were times when she did not understand him any
more than he understood her. She was by far the
easiest in morals, the least Puritanical. It was not
easy to shock Bice, but it was not at all difficult to
shock Jock, brought up as he was in the highest senti-
ments under the wing of MTutor, who believed in
moral influence. But the fashion of the intercourse
held between these two, was very remarkable in its
xxii.] A PAIR OF FRIENDS. 213
way. They were like brother and sister, without being
brother and sister. They were strangers to each other,
yet living in the most entire intimacy, and likely to be
parted for ever to-morrow. They were of the same
age, yet the girl was, in experience of life, a world
in advance of the boy, who, notwithstanding, had the
better of her in a thousand ways. In short, they were
a paradox, such as youth, more or less, is always, and
the careless close companionship that grew up between
them was at once the most natural and the most
strange alliance. They told each other everything by
degrees, without being at all aware of the nature of
their mutual confidence ; Bice revealing to Jock the
conditions on which she was to be brought out in
England, and Jock to Bice the unusual features of his
own and his sister's position, to the unbounded astonish-
ment and scepticism of each.
" Beautiful ? " said Jock, drawing a long breath.
" But beautiful's not a thing you can go in for, like an
exam : You're born so, or you're born not so ; and
you know you're not — I mean, you know you're
Well, it isn't your fault. Are you going to be sent
away for just being — not pretty ? "
" I told you," said the girl, with a little impatience.
" Being pretty is of no consequence. I am pretty, of
course," she added regretfully. " But it is only if I
turn out beautiful that she will take the trouble. And
at sixteen, I am told, one cannot yet know."
" But — " cried Jock with a sort of consternation,
" you don't mind, do you ? I don't mean anything
unkind, you know ; I don't think it matters — and I
am sure it isn't your fault ; you are not even — good-
looking," candour compelled the boy to say, as to an
honest comrade with whom sincerity was best.
214 SIR TOM. [char
" All ! " cried Bice, with a little excitement. " Do
you think so ? Then perhaps there is more hope."
Jock was confounded by this utterance, and he
began to feel that he had been uncivil. " I don't
mean/' he said, " that you are not — I mean that it is
not of the least consequence. What does it matter ?
I am sure you are clever, which is far better. I think
you could get up anything faster than most fellows if
you were to try."
"Get up! What does that mean ? And when I tell
you that it does matter to me — oh much, — very much !"
she cried. "When you are beautiful, everything is
before you — you marry, you have whatever you wish,
you become a great lady ; only to be pretty — that does
nothing for you. Ugly, however," said the girl re-
flectively ; " if I am ugly, then there is some hope."
" I did not say that," cried Jock, shocked at the
suggestion. " I wouldn't be so uncivil. You are —
just like other people," he added encouragingly, " not
much either one way or another — like the rest of us,"
Jock said, with the intention of soothing her ruffled
feelings. At sixteen decorum is not always the first
thing we think of ; and though Bice was not an English
girl, she was very young. She threw out a vigorous
arm and pushed him from her, so that the astonished
critic, stumbling over some fallen branches, measured
his length upon the dewy sod.
" That was not I," she said demurely, as he picked
himself up in great surprise — drawing a step away,
and looking at him with wide-open eyes, to which the
little fright of seeing him fall, and the spark of malice
that took pleasure in it, had given sudden brilliancy.
Jock was so much astonished that he uttered no re-
proach, but went on by her side, after a moment,
xxn.] A PAIR OF FRIENDS. 215
pondering. He could not see how any offence could
have lurked in the encouraging and consolatory words
he had said.
But when they reached the other chapter, which
concerned his fortunes, Bice was not more understand-
ing. Her gray eyes absolutely flamed upon him when
he told her of his father's will, and the conditions upon
which Lucy's inheritance was held. " To give her money
away ! But that is impossible — it would be to prove
one's self mad," the girl said.
" Why ? You forget it's my father you're speaking
of. He was not mad, he was just," said Jock, redden-
ing. " What's mad in it ? You've got a great for-
tune— far more than you want. It all came out of
other people's pockets somehow. Oh, of course, not
in a dishonest way. That is the worst of speaking to
a girl that doesn't understand political economy and
the laws of production. Of course it must come out
of other people's pockets. If I sell anything and get
a profit (and nobody would sell anything if they didn't
get a profit), of course that comes out of your pocket.
Well, now, I've got a great deal more than I want, and
I say you shall have some of it back."
" And I say," cried Bice, making him a curtsey,
" Merci Monsieur ! Grazia Signor ! oh thank you, thank
you very much — as much as you like, sir, as much as
you like ! but all the same I think you are mad. Your
money ! all that makes you happy and great "
" Money," said Jock, loftily, " makes nobody happy.
It may make you comfortable. It gives you fine
houses, horses and carriages, and all that sort of thing.
So it will do to the other people to whom it goes ; so
it is wisdom to divide it, for the more good you can
get out of it the better. Lucy has money lying in the
216 SIR TOM. [chap.
bank — or somewhere — that she does not want, that
does her no good ; and there is some one else " (a fellow
I know, Jock added in a parenthesis), " who has not
got enough to live upon. So you see she just hands
over what she doesn't want to him, and that's better
for both. So far from being mad, it's " — Jock paused
for a word — " it's philosophy, it's wisdom, it's states-
manship. It is just the grandest way that was ever
invented for putting things straight."
Bice looked at him with a sort of incredulous
cynical gaze — as if asking whether he meant her to
believe this fiction — whether perhaps he was such a fool
as to think that she could be persuaded to believe it.
It was evident that she did not for a moment suppose
him to be serious. She laughed at last in ridicule
and scorn. " You think," she said, " I know so little.
Ah, I know a great deal more than that. What are
you without money ? You are nobody. The more
you have, so much more have you everything at your
command. Without money you are nobody. Yes,
you may be a prince or an English milord, but that is
nothing without money. Oh yes ! I have known
princes that had nothing and the people laughed at
them. And a milord who is poor — the very donkey-
boys scorn him. You can do nothing without money,35
the girl said with almost fierce derision, " and you tell
me you will give it away ! " She laughed again angrily,
as if such a brag was offensive and insulting to her own
poverty. The boy who had never in his life known
what it was to want anything that money could pro-
cure for him, treated the whole question lightly, and
undervalued its importance altogether. But the girl
who knew by experience what was involved in the
want of it, heard with a sort of wondering fury this
xxn.] A PAIR OF FRIENDS. 217
slighting treatment of what was to her the universal
panacea. Her cynicism and satirical unbelief grew
into indignation. " And you tell me it is wise to give
it away ! "
'•' Lucy has got to do it, whether it is wise or not,"
said Jock, almost overawed by this high moral dis-
approval. " T\re went to the lawyer about it the day
you came. He is settling it now. She is giving away
— well, a good many thousand pounds."
" Pounds are more than francs, eh ? " said Bice
quickly.
" More than francs ! just twenty-five times more,"
cried Jock, proud of his knowledge, " a thousand
pounds is "
" Then I don't believe you ! " cried the girl in an
outburst of passion, and she fled from him across the
park, catching up her dress and running at a pace
which even Jock with his long legs knew he could not
keep up with. He gazed with surprise, standing still
and watching her with the words arrested on his lips.
" But she can't keep it up long like that," after a
moment Jock said.
The time, however, approached when the two friends
had to part. Jock left the Hall a few days after Lady
Bandolph, and he was somehow not very glad to go.
The family life had been less cheerful lately, and
conversation languished when the domestic party were
alone together. When the Contessa was present she
kept up the ball, maintaining at least with Sir Tom
an always animated and lively strain of talk ; but at
breakfast there was not much said, and of late a little
restraint had crept even between the master and mis-
tress of the house, no one could tell how. The names
of the guests were scarcely mentioned between them.
218 SIR TOM. [char
Sir Tom was very attentive and kind to his wife, but
he was more silent than he used to be, reading his
letters and his newspapers. Lucy had been quite
satisfied when he said, though it must be allowed with
a laugh not devoid of embarrassment, that it was more
important he should master all the papers and see how
public opinion was running, now when it was so near
the opening of Parliament. But a little veil of silence
had fallen over Lucy too. It cost her an effort to speak
even to Jock of common subjects and of his going
away. She had thought him looking a little dis-
turbed, however, on the last morning, and with the
newspaper forming a sort of screen between them and
Sir Tom, Lucy made an attempt to talk to her brother
as of old.
" I shall miss you very much, Jock. We have not
had so much time together as we thought."
" We have had no time together, Lucy."
" You must not say that, dear. Don't you recollect
that drive to Farafield ? We have not had so many
walks, it is true; but then I have been — occupied."
" Is it ever finished yet, that business ? " Jock said
suddenly.
It was all Lucy could do not to give him a warning
look. " I have had some letters about it. A thing
cannot be finished in a minute like that." Instinct-
ively she spoke low to escape her husband's ear ; he
had never referred to the subject, and she avoided it
religiously. It gave her a thrill of alarm to have it
thus reintroduced. To escape it, she said, raising her
voice a little : " The Contessa's letters have not been
sent to her. You must ring the bell, Jock. There are
a great many for her." The name of the Contessa
always moved Sir Tom to a certain attention. He
xxn.] A. PAIR OF FRIENDS. 219
seemed to be on the alert for what might be said of her.
He looked round the corner of the paper with a short
laugh, and said, jocularly, with mock gravity —
" It is a great thing to keep up your correspond-
ence, Lucy. You never can know when it may prove
serviceable. If it had not been for that, she most
likely never would have come here."
Lucy smiled, though with a little restraint. " Per-
haps she is sorry now," she said, " for it must be dull."
Then she hurriedly changed the subject, afraid lest she
mio-ht seem ill-natured. " Poor Miss Bice has never
any letters," she said ; " she must have very few friends."
" Oh, she has nobody at all," said Jock, " She
hasn't got a relation. She has always lived like this,
in different places ; and never been to school, or — any-
where ; though she has been nearly round the world."
" Poor little thing ! and she is fond of children too/'
said Lucy. " I found her one day with baby on her
shoulder, a wet day when he could not get out, racing
up and down the long gallery with him crowing and
laughing. It was so pretty to see him "
" Or to see her, Lucy, most people would say," said
Sir Tom, interrupting again.
" Would they ? Oh, yes. But I thought naturally
of baby," said the young mother. Then she made a
pause and added softly, " I hope — they — are always
kind to her."
There was a little silence. Sir Tom was behind
his newspaper. He listened, but he did not say any-
thing, and Jock was not aware that he was listening.
" Oh, I don't think she minds," said Jock. " She is
rather jolly when you come to know her. I say, Lucy,
it will be awfully dull for her, you know, when "
" When what, Jock ? "
220 SIR TOM. [chap.
" When I am gone/' the boy intended to have said,
but some gleam of conscionsness came over him that
made liim pause. He did not say this, but grew a little
red in the effort to think of something else that he
could say.
" Well, I mean here," he said, " for she hasn't been
used to it. She has been in places where there was
always music playing and that sort of thing. She
never was in the country. There's plenty of books, to
be sure ; but she's not very fond of reading. Few
people, are, I think. You never open a book "
" Oh yes, Jock ! I read the books from Mudie's,"
Lucy said, with some spirit, " and I always send them
upstairs."
Jock had it on his lips to say something derogatory
of the books from Mudie's ; but he checked himself,
for he remembered to have seen MTutor with one of
those frivolous volumes, and he refrained from snubbing
Lucy. " I believe she can't read," he said. " She can
do nothing but laugh at one. And she thinks she's
pretty," he added, with a little laugh yet sense of un-
faithfulness to the trust reposed in him, which once
more covered his face with crimson.
Lucy laughed too, with hesitation and doubt. " I
cannot see it," she said, " but that is what Lady Ean-
dolph thought. It is strange that she should talk of
such things ; but people are very funny who have
been brought up abroad."
" All girls are like that," said Jock, authoritatively.
" They think so much of being pretty. But I tell her
it doesn't matter. What difference could it make ?
Nobody will suppose it was her fault. She says "
" Hallo, young man," said Sir Tom. " It is time
you went back to school, I think. What would
xxiii.] THE BKEAKFAST TABLE. 221
MTutor say to all these confidences with young ladies,
and knowledge of their ways ! "
Jock gave his brother-in-law a look, in which de-
fiant virtue struggled with a certain consciousness ; but
he scorned to make any reply.
CHAPTER XXIII.
THE BREAKFAST TABLE.
Lucy found her life much changed when Jock had
gone, and she was left alone to face the change of
circumstances which had tacitly taken place. The
Contessa said not a word of terminating her visit.
The departure of Lady Eandolph apparently suggested
nothing to her. She could scarcely have filled up the
foreground more entirely than she did before — but she
was now uneriticised, unremarked upon. There seemed
even to be no appropriation of more than her due, for
it was very natural that a person of experience and
powers of conversation like hers should take the lead-
ing place, and simple Lucy, so much younger and with
so much less acquaintance with the world, fall into the
background. And accordingly this was what happened.
Madame di Forno-Populo knew everybody. She had
a hundred mutual acquaintances to tell Sir Tom about,
aad they seemed to have an old habit of intercourse,
which by this time had been fully resumed. The
evenings were the time when this was most apparent.
Then the Contessa was at her brightest. She had
managed to introduce shades upon all the lamps, so as
to diffuse round her a softened artificial illumination
222 SIR TOM. [chap
such as is favourable to beauty that has passed its
prime : and in this ruddy gloom she sat half seen, Sir
Tom sometimes standing by her, sometimes permitted
to take the other corner of her sofa — and talked to
him, sometimes sinking her voice low as her reminis-
cences took some special vein, sometimes calling sweetly
to her pretty Lucy to listen to this or that. These
extensions of confidence, generally, were brought in to
make up for a long stretch of more private communica-
tions, and the aspect of the little domestic circle was
on such occasions curious enough. By the table, in a
low chair, with the full light of the lamp upon her, sat
Lucy, generally with some work in her hands ; she did
not read or write (exercises to which, to tell the truth,
she was not much addicted) out of politeness, lest she
should seem to be withdrawing her attention from her
guest, but sat there with her slight occupation, so as
to be open to any appeal, and ready if she were wanted
On the other side of the table, the light making a sort
of screen and division between them, sat Bice, generally
with a book before her, which, as has been said, did
not at all interfere with her power of giving a vivid
attention to what was going on around her. These
two said nothing to each other, and were often silent
for the whole evening, like pieces of still life. Bice
sat with her book upon the table, so that only the open
page and the hands that held the book were within
the brightness of the light, which on the other side
streamed down upon Lucy's fair shoulders and soft
young face, and upon the work in her hands. In the
corner was the light continuous murmur of talk ; the
half-seen figure of the Contessa, generally leaning back,
looking up to Sir Tom, who stood with his arm on the
mantelpiece with much animation, gesticulation of her
xxiii.] THE BEEAKFAST TABLE. 223
hands and subdued laughter, the most lively current of
sound, soft, intensified by little eloquent breaks, by
emphatic gestures, by sentences left incomplete, but
understood all the better for being half said. There
were many evenings in which Lucy sat there with a
little wonder, but no other active feeling in her mind.
It is needless to say that it was not pleasant to her.
She would sit and wonder wistfully whether her hus-
band had forgotten she was there, but then reminded
herself that of course it was his duty to think of the
Contessa first, and consoled herself that by and by the
stranger would go away, and all would be as it had
been. As time went on, the desire that this should
happen, and longing to have possession of her home
again, grew so strong that she could scarcely subdue it,
and it was with the greatest difficulty that she kept all
expression of it from her lips. And by and by, the
warmth of this restrained desire so absorbed Lucy that
she scarcely dared allow herself to speak lest it should
burst forth, and there seemed to herself to be con-
tinually going on in her mind a calculation of the
chances, a scrutiny of every tiling the Contessa said
which seemed to point at such a movement. But, in-
deed, the Contessa said very little upon which the most
sanguine could build. She said nothing of her arrange-
ments at all, nor spoke of what she was going to do,
and answered none of Lucy's ardent and innocent fish-
ings after information. The evenings became more and
more intolerable to Lady Eandolph as they went on.
She was glad that anybody should come, however little
she might care for their society, to break these private
conferences up.
And this was not all, nor even perhaps the worst,
of the vague evils not yet defined in her mind, and
224 SIR TOM. [chap.
which she was so very reluctant to define, which Lucy
had to go through. At breakfast, when she was alone
with her husband, matters were almost worse. Sir
Tom, it was evident, began to feel the tSte-a-tete em-
barrassing. He did not know what to say to his little
wife when they were alone. The presence of the
Dowager and Jock had freed him from any necessity
of explanation, had kept him in his usual easy way ;
but now that Lucy alone sat opposite to him, he was
more silent than his wont, and with no longer any of
the little flow of simple observations which had once
been so delightful to her. Sir Tom was more uneasy
than if she had been a stern and jealous Eleanor, a
clear-sighted critic seeing through and through him.
The contest was so unequal, and the weaker creature
so destitute of any intention or thought of resistance,
that he felt himself a coward and traitor for thus
deserting her and overclouding her home and her life.
Then he took to asking himself, Did he overcloud her ?
Was she sensible of any difference ? Did she know
enough to know that this was not how she ought to
be treated, or was she not quite contented with her
secondary place ? Such a simple creature, would she
not cry — would she not show her anger if she was
conscious of anything to be grieved or angry about ?
He took refuge in those newspapers which, he gave
out, it was so necessary he should study, to understand
the mind of the country before the opening of Parlia-
ment. And thus they would sit, Lucy dutifully filling
out the tea, taking care that he had the dish he liked
for breakfast, swallowing her own with difficulty yet
lingering over it, always thinking that perhaps Tom
might have something to say. While he, on the other
hand, kept behind his newspaper, feeling himself guilty,
xxiii.] THE BREAKFAST TABLE. 225
conscious that another sort of woman would make one
of those " scenes " which men dread, yet despising Lucy
a little in spite of himself for the very quality he most
admired in her, and wondering if she were really cap-
able of feeling at all. Sometimes little Tom would he
brought downstairs to roll about the carpet and try his
unsteady little limbs in a series of clutches at the chairs
and table ; and on these occasions the meal was got
through more easily. But little Tom was not always
well enough to come downstairs, and sometimes Lucy
thought that her husband might have something to say
to her which the baby's all-engrossing presence hin-
dered. Thus it came about that the hours in which the
Contessa was present and in the front of everything,
were really less painful than those in which the pair
were alone with the shadow of the intruder, more
powerful even than her presence holding them apart.
One of these mornings, however, Lucy's anticipa-
tions and hopes seemed about to be realised. Sir Tom
laid down his paper, looked at her frankly without any
shield, and said, as she had so often imagined him say-
ing, " I want to talk to you, Lucy." How glad she
was that little Tom was not downstairs that morning !
She looked at him across the table with a brighten-
ing countenance, and said, " Yes, Tom ?" with such
warm eagerness and sudden pleasure that her look
penetrated his very heart. It implied a great deal
more than Sir Tom intended and thought, and he was
a man of very quick intelligence. The expectation in
her eyes touched him beyond a thousand complaints.
" I had an interview yesterday, in which you were
much concerned," he said ; then made a pause, with
such a revolution going on within him as seldom hap-
pens in a mature and self-collected mind. He had
226 SIR TOM. [chap.
begun with totally different sentiments from those
which suddenly came over him at the sight of her
kindling face. When he said, " I want to talk to you,
Lucy," he had meant to speak of her interview with
Mr. Eushton, to point out to her the folly of what she
was doing, and to show her how it was that he should
be compelled to do everything that was in his power
to oppose her. He did not mean to go to the root of
the matter, as he had done before, when he was obliged
to admit to himself that he had failed — but to address
himself to the secondary view of the question, to the
small prospect there was of doing any good. But when
he caught her eager, questioning look, her eyes growing
liquid and bright with emotion, her face full of re-
strained anxiety and hope, Sir Tom's heart smote him.
What did she think he was going to say ? Not any-
thing about money, important as that subject was in
their life — but something far more important, some-
thing that touched her to the quick, a revelation upon
which her very soul hung. He was startled beyond
measure by this disclosure. He had thought she did
not feel, and that her heart un awakened had regarded
calmly, with no pain to speak of, the new state of
affairs of which he himself was guiltily conscious ; but
that eager look put an end in a moment to his delu-
sion. He paused and swerved mentally as if an angel
had suddenly stepped into his way.
" It is about — that will of your father's," he said.
Lucy, gazing at him with such hope and expectation,
suddenly sank, as it were, prostrate in the depth of a
disappointment that almost took the life out of her.
She did not indeed fall physically or faint, which
people seldom do in moments of extreme mental suffer-
ing. It was only her countenance that fell. Her
xxm.] THE BREAKFAST TABLE. 227
brightening, beaming, hopeful face grew blank in a
moment, her eyes grew utterly dim, a kind of mist
running over them : a sound — half a sob, half a sigh,
came from her breast. She put up her hand trembling
to support her head, which shook too with the quiver
that went over her. It took her at least a minute to
get over the shock of the disappointment. Then com-
manding herself painfully, but without looking at him,
which, indeed, she dared not do, she said again, " Yes,
Tom ?" with a piteous quiver of her lip.
It did not make Sir Tom any the less kind, and
full of tender impulses, that he was wounding his wife
in the profoundest sensibilities of her heart. In this
point the greater does not include the lesser. He was
cruel in the more important matter, without intending
it indeed, and from what he considered a fatality, a
painful combination of circumstances out of which he
could not escape ; but in the lesser particulars he was
as kind as ever. He could not bear to see her suffer-
ing. The quiver in her lip, the failure of the colour
in her cheeks affected him so that he could scarcely
contain himself.
" My dear love," he cried, " my little Lucy ! you
are not afraid of what I am going to say to you ? "
These words came to his lips naturally, by the
affectionate impulse of his kind nature. But when he
had said them, an impulse, which was perhaps more
crafty than loving, followed. Quick as thought he
changed his intention, his purpose altogether. He
could not resist the appeal of Lucy's face ; but he
slipped instinctively from the more serious question
that lay between them, and resolved to sacrifice the
other, which was indeed very important, yet could be
treated in an easier way and without involving any-
228 SIR TOM. [chap.
thing more painful. Sir Torn was at an age when
money has a great value, and the mere sense of posses-
sion is pleasant ; and there was a principle involved
which he had determined a few weeks ago not to re-
linquish. But the position in which he found himself
placed was one out of which some way of escape had
to be invented at once. " Lucy," he said, " you are
frightened ; you think I am going to cross you in the
matter that lies so near your heart. But you mistake
me, my dear. I think I ought to be your chief adviser
in that as in all matters. It is my duty : but I hope
you never thought that I would exercise any force
upon you to put a stop to — what you thought right."
Lucy had overcome herself, though with a painful
effort. She followed with a quivering humility what
he was saying. She acknowledged to herself that this
was, indeed, the great thing in her life, and that it was
only her childishness and foolishness which had made
her place other matters in the chief place. Most likely,
she said to herself, Tom was not aware of anything that
required explanation ; he would never think it possible
that she could be so ungracious and unkind as to
grudge his guests their place in his house. She
gathered herself up hastily to meet him when he
entered upon the great question which was far more
important, which was indeed the only question between
them. " I know," she said, " that you were always
kind, Tom. If I did not ask you first it was be-
cause "
" We need not enter upon that, my dear. I was
angry, and went too far. At the same time, Lucy, it
is a mad affair altogether. Your father himself, had
he realised the difficulty of carrying it out, would have
seen this. I only say so to let you know my opinion
xxiii.] THE BREAKFAST TABLE. 229
is unchanged. And you know your trustees are of the
same mind. But if you think this is your duty, as I
am sure you do "
It seemed to Lucy that her duty had sailed far
away from her on some sea of strange distance and
dullness where she could scarcely keep it in sight.
Her own very voice seemed strange and dull to her,
and far away, as she said almost mechanically : " I do
think it is my duty — to my father "
" I am aware that you think so, my love. As you
get older you will, perhaps, see as I do — that to carry
out the spirit of your father's will would be better
than to follow so closely the letter of it. But you are
still very young, and Jock is younger ; and, fortunately,
you can afford to indulge a freak of this sort. I shall
let Mr. Eushton know that I withdraw all opposition.
And now, give me a kiss, and let us forget that there
ever was any controversy between us — it never went
further than a controversy, did it, darling?" Sir Tom
said.
Lucy could not speak for the moment. She looked
up into his face with her eyes all liquid with tears, and
a great confusion in her soul Was this all? as he
kissed her, and smiled, leaning over her in the old kind
way, with a tenderness that was half-fatherly and in-
dulgent to her weakness, she did not seem at all sure
what it was that had moved like a ghost between him
and her ; was it in reality only this — this and no
more ? She almost thought so as she looked up into his
kind face. Only this ! How glad it would have made
her three weeks ago to have his sanction for the thing
she was so reluctant to attempt, which it was so much
her duty to do, which Jock urged with so much
pertinacity, and which her father from his grave
230 SIR TOM. [ohap,
enjoined. If it affected her but dully now, whose was
the fault ? Not Tom's, who was so generously ready
to yield to her, although he disapproved. When he
retired behind his newspaper once more with a kind
smile at her, to end the matter, Lucy sat quite still in
a curious stunned confusion trying to account for it all
to herself. There could be no doubt, she thought, that
it was she who was in the wrong. She it was who
had created the embarrassment altogether. He was not
even aware of any other cause. It had never occurred
to his greater mind that she could be so petty as to
fret under the interruption which their visitors had
made in her life. He had thought that the other
matter was the cause of her dullness and silence, and
generously had put an end to it, not by requiring any
sacrifice from her, but by making one in his own per-
son. She sat silent trying to realise all this, but
unable to get quite free from the confusion and dim-
ness that had invaded her soul.
CHAPTEE XXIV.
THE ORACLE SPEAKS.
Lucy went up to the nursery when breakfast was
over. It was her habit to go and take counsel of
little Tom when her heart was troubled or heavy.
He was now eighteen months old, an age at which
you will say the judicial faculties are small ; but a
young mother has superstitions, and there are many
dilemmas in life in which it will do a woman, though
the male critic may laugh, great good to go and con-
xxiv.] THE ORACLE SPEAKS. 231
fide it all to her baby, and hold that little bundle of
white against her heart to conquer the pain of it.
When little Tom was lively and well, when he put his
arms about her neck and dabbed his velvety mouth
against her cheek, Lucy felt that she was approved of
and her heart rose. When he was cross and cried
and pushed her away from him, as sometimes hap-
pened, she ceased to be sure of anything, and felt
dissatisfied with herself and all the world. It was
with a great longing to consult this baby oracle and
see what heaven might have to say to her through his
means, that she ran upstairs, neglecting even Mrs.
Freshwater, who advanced ceremoniously from her
own retirement with her bill of fare in her hand, as
Lucy darted past. " Wait a little and I will come to
you," she cried. What was the dinner in comparison ?
She flew up to the nursery only to find it vacant.
The morning was dingy and damp, no weather for the
delicate child to go out, and Lucy was not alarmed but
knew well enough where to find him. The long
picture gallery which ran along the front of the house
was his usual promenade on such occasions, and there
she betook herself hurriedly. There could not be
much doubt as to little Tom's whereabouts. Shrieks
of baby fun were audible whenever she came within
hearing, and the sound of a flying foot careering from
end to end of the long space, which certainly was not
the foot of Tom's nurse, whose voice could be heard
in cries of caution, " Oh, take care, Miss ! Oh, for
goodness sake — oh, what will my lady say to me if
you should trip with him ! " Lucy paused suddenly,
checked by the sound of this commotion. Once
before she had surprised a scene of the kind, and she
knew what it meant. She stopped short, and stood
232 SIR TOM. [cHAr.
still to get possession of herself. It was a circum-
stance which pulled her up sharply and changed the
current of her mind. Her first feeling was one of dis-
appointment and almost irritation. Could she not
even have the baby to herself, she murmured ? But
there was in reality so little of the petty in Lucy's
disposition that this was but a momentary sentiment.
It changed, however, the manner of her entrance.
She came in quietly, not rushing to seize her boy as
she had intended, but still with her superstition strong
in her heart, and as determined to resort to the Sortes
Tomiance as ever. The sight she saw was one to
make a picture of. Skimming along the long gallery
with that free light step which scarcely seemed to
touch the ground was Bice, a long stream of hair
flying behind her, the child seated on her shoulder,
supported by one raised arm, while the other held
aloft the end of a red scarf which she had twisted
round him. Little Tom had one hand twisted in her
hair, and with his small feet beating upon her breast,
and his little chest expanded with cries of delight,
encouraged his steed in her wild career. The dark
old pictures, some full-length Eandolphs of an elder
age, good for little but a background, threw up this
airy group with all the perfection of contrast. They
flew by as Lucy came in, so joyous, so careless, so
delightful in pose and movement, that she could not
utter the little cry of alarm that came to her lips.
Bice had never in her life looked so near that beauty
which she considered as so serious a necessity. She
was flushed with the movement, her fine light figure,
too light and slight as yet for the full perfection of
feminine form, was the very impersonation of youth.
She flew, she did not glide nor run — her elastic foot
xxiv.] THE ORACLE SPEAKS. 233
spurned the floor. She was like a runner in a Greek
game. Lucy stood breathless between admiration and
pleasure and alarm, as the animated figure turned and
came fast towards her in its airy career. Little Tom
perceived his mother as they came up. He was still
more daring than his bearer. He detached himself
suddenly from Bice's shoulder, and with a shout of
pleasure threw himself upon Lucy. The oracle had
spoken. It almost brought her to her knees indeed,
descending upon her like a little thunderbolt, catching
her round the throat and tearing off with a hurried
clutch the lace upon her dress; while the flying
steed, suddenly arrested, came to a dead stop in front
of her, panting, blushing, and disconcerted. "There
was no fear," she cried, with involuntary self-defence,
" I held him fast," Bice forgot even in the surprise
how wildly she stood with her hair floating, and the
scarf in her hand still knotted round the baby's waist.
" There was no danger, my lady. I was watching
every step ; and it do Master Tom a world of good,"
cried the nurse, coming to the rescue.
" "Why should you think I am afraid ? " said Lucy.
" Don't you know I am most grateful to you for being
so kind to him ? and it was pretty to see you. You
looked so bright and strong, and my boy so happy."
"Miss is just our salvation, my lady," said the
nurse ; " these wet days when we can't get out, I don't
know what I should do without her. Master Tom,
bless him, is always cross when he don't get no air:
but once set on Miss' shoulder he crows till it do
your heart good to hear him," the woman cried.
Bice stood with the colour still in her face, her
head thrown back a little, and her breath coming less
quickly. She laughed at this applause. " I like it,"
234 SIR TOM. [chap.
she said. " I like him ; he is my only little com-
panion. He is pleased when he sees me."
This went to Lucy's heart. " And so are we all,"
she said ; " but you will not let me see you. I am
often alone, too. If you will come and — and give me
your company "
Bice gave her a wistful look ; then shook her head.
" I know you do not wish for us here ; and why
should you ? " she said.
" My dear ! " cried Lucy in alarm, with a glance
at the woman who stood by, all ears. And now it
was that little Tom at eighteen months showed that
precocious judgment in which his mother had an
instinctive belief. He had satisfied himself with the
destruction of Lucy's lace, and with printing the im-
pression of his mouth all over her cheeks. That little
wet wide open mouth was delicious to Lucy. No
trouble had befallen her yet that could not be wiped
out by its touch. But now a new distraction was
necessary for the little hero ; and his eye caught the
red sash which still was round his waist. He trans-
ferred all his thoughts to it with an instant revolution
of idea, and holding on by it like a little sailor on a
rope, drew Bice close till he could succeed in the
arduous task, not unattended by danger, of flinging
himself from one to another. This game enchanted
Master Tom. Had he been a little older it would
have been changed into that daring faltering hop from
one eminence, say a footstool, to another, which
flutters the baby soul. He was too insecure in pos-
session of those aimless little legs to venture on any
such daring feat now ; but, with a valour more desper-
ate still, he flung himself across the gulf from Lucy's
arms to those of Bice and back again, with cries of
xxiv.] THE ORACLE SPEAKS. 235
delight. These cries, it must be allowed, were not
very articulate, but they soon became urgent, with a
demand which the little tyrant insisted upon with
increasing vehemence.
" Oh, my lady," cried the nurse, " it is as plain as
if he said it, and he is saying of it, the pet, as
pretty ! He wants you to kiss Miss, he do.
Ain't that it, my own ? ISTursey knows his little talk.
Ain't that it, my darling lamb ? "
There was a momentary pause in the strange little
group linked together by the baby's clutches. The
young mother and the girl with their heads so near
each other, looked in each other's faces. In Lucy's
there was a kind of awe, in Bice's a sort of wondering
wistfulness mingled with incipient defiance. They
were not bom to be each other's friends. They were
different in everything ; they were even on different
sides in this house — the one an intruder, belonging to
the party which was destroying the other's domestic
peace. It would be vain to say that there was not a
little reluctance in Lucy's soul as she gazed at the
younger girl, come from she knew not where, estab-
lished under her roof she knew not how. She hesitated
for one moment, then she bent forward almost with
solemnity and kissed Bice's cheek. She seemed to
communicate her own agitation to the girl who stood
straight up with her head a little back, half eager,
half defiant. When Bice felt the touch of Lucy's lips,
however, she melted in a moment. Her slight figure
swayed, she took Lucy's disengaged hand with her
own, and, stooping over it, kissed it with lips that
quivered. There was not a word said between them;
but a secret compact was thus made under little
Tom's inspiration. The little oracle clambered up
236 SIR TOM. [chap
upon his mother afterwards, and laid down his head
upon her shoulder and dropped off to sleep with that
entire confiding and abandonment of the whole little
being which is one of the deepest charms of child-
hood. Who is there with any semblance of a heart
in his, much more her, bosom, who is not touched in
the tenderest part when a child goes to sleep in his
arms ? The appeal conveyed in the act is one which
scarcely a savage could withstand. The three women
gathered round to see this common spectacle, so uni-
versal, so touching. Bice, who was almost too young
for the maternal sentiment, and who was a stern
young Stoic by nature, never shedding a tear, could
not tell how it was that her eyes moistened. But
Lucy's filled with an emotion which was sharp and
sore with alarm. " Oh, nurse, don't call my boy a
little angel!" she said, with a sentiment which a
woman will understand.
This baby scene upstairs was balanced by one of a
very different character below. Sir Tom had gone
into his own room a little disturbed and out of sorts.
Circumstances had been hard upon him, he felt. The
Contessa's letter offering her visit had been a jest to
him. He was one of those who thought the best of
the Contessa. He had seen a good deal of her one
time and another in his life, and she held the clue to
one or two matters which it would not have pleased
him, at this mature period of his existence, to have
published abroad. She was an adventuress, he knew,
and her friends were not among the best of humanity.
She had led a life which, without being positively
evil, had shut her out from the sympathies of many
good people. When a woman has to solve the pro-
blem how to obtain all the luxuries and amusements
xxiv.] THE ORACLE SPEAKS. 237
of life without money, it is to be expected that her
attempts to do so should lead her into risky places,
where the footing was far from sure. But she had
never, as Lady Eandolph acknowledged, gone so far as
that society should refuse to receive her, and Sir Tom
was always an indulgent critic. If she were coming
to England, as she gave him to understand, he saw no
reason why she should not come to the Hall. For
himself, it would be rather amusing than otherwise,
and Lucy would take no harm — even if there was
harm in the Forno-Populo (which he did not believe),
his wife was far too innocent even to suspect it. She
would not know evil if she saw it, he said to himself
proudly ; and then there was no chance that the
Contessa, who loved merriment and gaiety, could long
be content with anything so humdrum as this quiet
life in the country. Thus it will be seen that Sir
Tom had got himself innocently enough into this
imbroglio. He had meant no particular harm. He
had meant to be kind to a poor woman, who after all
needed kindness much ; and if the comic character of
the situation touched his sense of humour, and he was
not unwilling in his own person to get a little amuse-
ment out -of it, who could blame him ? This was the
worst that Sir Tom meant. To amuse himself partly
by the sight of the conventional beauty and woman
of the world in the midst of circumstances so incon-
gruous, and partly by the fluttering of the dovecotes
which the appearance of such an adventuress would
cause. He liked her conversation too, and to hear all
about the more noisy company, full of talk and
diversion in which he had wasted so much of his
youth. But there were two or three tilings which Sir
Tom did not take into his calculations. The first was
238 SIR TOM. [chap.
the sort of fascination which that talk, and all the
associations of the old world, and the charms of the
professional sorceress, would exercise upon himself
after his settling down as the head of a family and
pillar of the State. He had not thought how much
amused he would be, how the contrast even would
tickle his fancy and affect (for the moment) his life.
He laughed within himself at the transparent way in
which his old friend bade for his sympathy and society.
She was the same as ever, living upon admiration,
upon compliments whether fictitious or not, and de-
manding a show of devotion, somebody always at her
feet. She thought, no doubt, he said to himself, that
she had got him at her feet, and he laughed to himself
when he was alone at the thought. But, nevertheless,
it did amuse him to talk to the Contessa, and before
long, what with skilful reminders of the past, what
with hints and reference to a knowledge which he
would not like extended to the world, he had begun
by degrees to find himself in a confidential position
with her. " We know each other's secrets," she would
say to him with a meaning look. He was caught in
her snare. On the other hand an indefinite visit pro-
longed and endless had never come within his calcula-
tion. He did not know how to put an end to the
situation — perhaps as it was an amusement for his
evenings to see the siren spread her snares, and even
to be more or less caught in them, he did not sincerely
wish to put an end to it as yet. He was caught in
them more or less, but never so much as to be unaware
of the skill with which the snares were laid, which
would have amused him whatever had been the serious-
ness of the attendant circumstances. He did not,
however, allow that he had no desire to make an end
xxiv.] THE ORACLE SPEAKS. 239
of these circumstances, but only said to himself, with
a shrug of his shoulders, how could he do it ? He
could not send his old friend away. He could not
but be civil and attentive to her so long as she was
under his roof. It distressed him that Lucy should
feel it, as this morning's experience proved her to do,
but how could he help it ? He made that other
sacrifice to Lucy by way of reconciling her to the
inevitable, but he could do no more. When you
invite a friend to be your guest, he said to himself,
you must be more or less at the mercy of that friend.
If he (or she) stays too long, what can you do ? Sir
Tom was not the sort of man to be reduced to help-
lessness by such a difficulty. Yet this was what he
said to himself.
It vexed him, however, that Lucy should feel it so
much. He could not throw off this uneasy feeling.
He had stopped her mouth as one might stop a child's
mouth with a sugar plum ; but he could not escape
from the consciousness that Lucy felt her domain in-
vaded, and that her feeling was just. He had thrown
himself into the great chair, and was pondering not
what to do, but the impossibility of doing anything,
when Williams, his confidential man, who knew all
about the Contessa almost as well as he did, suddenly
appeared before him. Williams had been all over the
world with Sir Tom before he settled down as his
butler at the Hall. He was, therefore, not one who
could be dismissed summarily if he interfered in any
matter out of his sphere. He appeared on the other
side of Sir Tom's writing-table with a face as long as
his arm, the face with which Sir Tom was so well
acquainted — the same face with which he had a
hundred times announced the failure of supplies, the
240 SIR TOM. [chap.
delay of carriages, the general hopelessness of the situa-
tion. There was tragedy in it of the most solemn kind,
but there was a certain enjoyment too.
" What is the matter ? " said Sir Tom ; and then
he jumped to his feet. "Something is wrong with
the baby," he cried.
"No, Sir Thomas; Mr. Kandolph is pretty well,
thank you, Sir Thomas. It is about something else
that I made so bold. There is Antonio, sir, in the
servants' hall ; Madame the Countess' man."
" Oh, the Countess," cried Sir Tom, and he seated
himself again ; then said, with the confidence of a
man to the follower who has been his companion in
many straits, "You gave me a fright, Williams. I
thought that little shaver But what's the
matter with Antonio ? Can't you keep a fellow like
that in order without bothering me ? "
" Sir Thomas," said Williams, solemnly, " I am not
one as troubles my master when things are straight-
forward. But them foreigners, you never know when
you have 'em. And an idle man about an establish-
ment, that is, so to speak, under nobody, and for ever
a -kicking of his heels, and following the women
servants about, and not a blessed hand's turn to do "
— a tone of personal offence came into Williams' com-
plaint ; " there is a deal to do in this house," he added,
" and neither me nor any of the men haven't got a
moment to spare. Why, there's your hunting things,
Sir Thomas, is just a man's work. And to see that
fellow loafing, and a-hanging on about the women — I
don't wonder, Sir Thomas, that it's more than any man
can stand," said Williams, lighting up. He was a
married man himself, with a very respectable family
in the village, but he was not too old to be able to
XXIV.] THE ORACLE SPEAKS. 241
understand the feelings of John and Charles, whose
hearts were lacerated by the success of the Italian
fellow with his black eyes.
" "Well, well, don't worry me," said Sir Tom, " take
him by the collar and give him a shake. You're big
enough." Then he laughed unfeelingly, which Williams
did not expect. " Too big, eh, Will ? Not so ready
for a shindy as we used to be." This identification of
himself with his factotum was mere irony, and
Williams felt it ; for Sir Tom, if perhaps less slim
than in his young days, was still what Williams called
a " fine figger of a man ; " whereas the butler had
widened much round the waist, and was apt to puff as
he came upstairs, and no longer contemplated a shindy
as a possibility at all.
" Sir Thomas," he said, with great gravity, " if I'm
corpulent, which I don't deny, but never thought to
have it made a reproach, it's neither over-feeding nor
want of care, but constitootion, as derived from my
parents, Sir Thomas. There is nothing," he added
with a pensive superiority, " as is so gen'rally mis-
understood." Then Williams drew himself up to still
greater dignity, stimulated by Sir Tom's laugh. "If
this fellow, is to be long in the house, Sir Thomas, I
won't answer for what may happen; for he's got the
devil's own temper, like all of them, and carries a
knife like all of them."
" What do you want of me, man ? Say it out !
Am I to represent to Madame di Forno-Populo that
three great hulking fellows of you are afraid of her
slim Neapolitan ? " Sir Tom cried impatiently.
" Not afraid, Sir Thomas, of nothing, but of break-
ing the law," said Williams, quickly. Then he added
in an insinuating tone: " But I tell them, ladies don't
R
242 SIR TOM. [chap.
stop long in country visits, not at this time of the year.
And a thing can be put up with for short that any
man 'd kick at for long. Madame the Countess will
be moving on to pay her other visits, Sir Thomas, if I
might make so bold ? She is a lady as likes variety ;
leastways she was so in the old times."
Sir Thomas stared at the bold questioner, who thus
went to the heart of the matter. Then he burst into
a hearty laugh. " If you knew so much about
Madame the Countess," he cried, "my good fellow,
what need have you to come and consult me ? "
CHAPTEE XXV.
THE CONTESSA'S BOUDOIR.
The east rooms in which Madame di Forno-Populo had
been placed on her arrival at the Hall were handsome
and comfortable, though they were not the best in the
house, and they were furnished as English rooms gene-
rally are, the bed forming the principal object in each
chamber. The Contessa had looked around her in dis-
may when first ushered into the spacious room with
its huge couch, and wardrobes, and its unmistakable
destination as a sleeping-room merely : and it was only
the addition of a dressing-room of tolerable proportions
which had made her quarters so agreeable to her as
they proved. The transformation of this room from a
severe male dressing-room into the boudoir of a fanciful
and luxurious woman, was a work of art of which
neither the master nor the mistress of the house had
the faintest conception. The Contessa was never at
xxv.] THE COXTESSA'S BOUDOIR. 243
home ; so that she was — having that regard for her
own comfort which is one of the leading features in
such a life as hers — everywhere at home, carrying
about with her wherever she went the materials for
creating an individual centre (a chez soi, which is some-
thing far more intimate and personal than a home), in
which everything was arranged according to her fancy.
Had Lucy, or even had Sir Tom, who knew more about
such matters, penetrated into that sacred retirement,
they would not have recognised it for a room in their
own house. Out of one of the Contessa's boxes there
came a paraphernalia of decoration such as would turn
the head of the aesthetic furnisher of the present day.
As she had been everywhere, and had " taste," when it
was not so usual to have taste as it is now, she had
" picked up " priceless articles, in the shape of tapes-
tries, embroideries, silken tissues no longer made, deli-
cate bits of Eastern carpet, soft falling drapery of
curtains, such as artistically arranged in almost any
room, impressed upon it the Contessa's individuality,
and made something dainty and luxurious among the
meanest surroundings. The Contessa's maid, from long
practice, had become almost an artist in the arrange-
ment of these properties, without which her mistress
could not live ; and on the evening of the first day of
their arrival at the Hall, when Madame cli Forno-
Populo emerged from the darkness of the chamber in
which she had rested all day after her journey, she
stepped into a little paradise of subdued colour and
harmonious effect. Antonio and Marietta were the
authors of these wonders. They took down Mrs. Fresh-
water's curtains, which were of a solid character adapted
to the locality, and replaced them by draperies that
veiled the light tenderly and hung with studied grace.
244 SIR TOM. [chap.
They took to pieces the small bed and made a divan
covered with old brocade of the prosaic English mat-
tress. They brought the finest of the furniture out of
the bedchamber to add to the contents of this, and
covered tables with Italian work, and veiled the bare
wall with tapestry. This made such a magical change
that the maids who penetrated by chance now and then
into this little temple of the Graces could only stand
aghast and gaze with open mouths; but no profane
hand of theirs was ever permitted to touch those sacred
things. There were even pictures on the wall, evolved
out of the depths of that great coffer, which, more dear
to the Contessa even than her wardrobe, went about
with her everywhere — and precious pieces of porcelain :
Madame di Forno-Populo, it need not be said, being
quite above the mean and cheap decoration made with
fans or unmeaning scraps of colour. The maids afore-
said, who obtained perilous and breathless glimpses
from time to time of all these wonders, were at a loss to
understand why so much trouble should be taken for a
room that nobody but its inmate ever saw. The finer
intelligence of the reader will no doubt set it down as
something in the Contessa's favour that she could not
live, even when in the strictest privacy, without her
pretty things about her. To be sure it was not always
so ; in other regions, where other habits prevailed, this
shrine so artistically prepared was open to worshippers ;
but the Contessa knew better than to make any such
innovation here. She intended, indeed, nothing that
was not entirely consistent with the strictest propriety.
Her objects, no doubt, were her own interest and her
own pleasure, which are more or less the objects of most
people ; but she intended no harm. She believed that
she had a hold over Sir Tom which she could work for
xxv.] THE CONTESSA'S BOUDOIR. 245
her advantage, but she did not mean to hurt Lucy.
She thought that repose and a temporary absence from
the usual scenes of her existence would be of use to
her, and she thought also that a campaign in London
under the warrant of the highest respectability would
further her grand object. It amused her besides, per-
haps, to nutter the susceptibilities of the innocent little
ingdnue whom Sir Tom had married ; but she meant no
harm. As for seizing upon Sir Tom in the evenings,
and occupying all his attention, that was the most
natural and simple of proceedings. She did this as
another woman played bezique. Some entertainment
was a necessity, and everybody had something. There
were people who insisted upon whist — she insisted
only upon "some one to talk to." What could be
more natural ? The Contessa's " some one " had to be
a man and one who could pay with sense and spirit
the homage to which she was accustomed. It was her
only stipulation — and surely it must be an ungracious
hostess indeed who could object to that.
She had just finished her breakfast on one of those
gray mornings — seated before the fire in an easy-chair,
which was covered with a shawl of soft but bright
Indian colouring. She had her back to the light, but
it was scarcely necessary even had there been any eyes
to see her save those of Marietta, who naturally was
familiar with her aspect at all times. Marietta made
the Contessa's chocolate, as well as arranged and kept
in order the Contessa's boudoir. To such a retainer
nothing comes amiss. She would sit up till all hours,
and perform marvels of waiting, of working, service of
every kind. It never occurred to her that it " was not
her place " to do anything that her mistress required.
Antonio was her brother, which was insipid, but she
246 SIR TOM. [chap.
generally managed to indemnify herself, one way or
another, for the loss of this legitimate method of
flirtation. She had not great wages, and she had a
great deal of work, but Marietta felt her life amusing,
and did not object to it. Here in England the excite-
ment indeed flagged a little. Williams was stout and
married, and the other men had ties of the heart
with which, as has been seen, Antonio ruthlessly in-
terfered. . Marietta was not unwilling to give to Charles
the footman, who was a handsome young fellow, the
means of avenging himself, but as yet this expedient for
a little amusement had not succeeded, and there had
been a touch of peevishness in the tone with which
she asked whether it was true that the Contessa in-
tended remaining here. Madame di Forno-Populo
was a woman who disliked the bondage of question
and reply.
" You do not amuse yourself, Marietta mia ? " said
the Contessa. She spoke Italian with her servants,
and she was always caressing, fond of tender appella-
tives. " Patience ! the country even in Ed gland is
very good for the complexion, and in London there is
a great deal that is amusing. Wheel this table away
and give me the other with my writing things. The
cushion for my elbow. Thanks ! You forget nothing.
My Marietta, you will have a happy life."
" Do you think so, Signora Contessa ?" said the girl,
a little wistfully.
The Contessa smiled upon her and said " Cara ! "
with an air of tenderness that might have made any
one happy. Then she addressed herself to her cor-
respondence, while Marietta removed into the other
room not only the tray but the table with the tray
which her mistress had used. The Contessa did not
xxv.] THE COXTESSA'S BOUDOIR. 247
like to know or see anything of the processes of re-
adjustment and restoration. She glanced over her
morning's letters again with now and then a smile of
satisfaction, and addressed herself to the task of answer-
ing them with apparent pleasure. Indeed, her own
letters amused her even more than the others had
clone. When she had finished her task she took up a
silver whistle and "blew into it a long melodious note.
She made the most charming picture, leaning back in
her chair, in a white cashmere dressing-gown covered
with lace, and a little cap upon her dark locks. All
the accessories of her toilette were exquisite, as well as
the draperies about her that relieved and set off her
whiteness. Her shoes were of white plush with a
cockade of lace to correspond. Her sleeves, a little
more loose than common, showed her beautiful arms
through a mist of lace. She was not more carefully
nor more elegantly dressed when she went downstairs
in all her panoply of conquest. What a pity there
was no one to see it ! but the Contessa did not even
think of this. In other circumstances, no doubt, there
might have been spectators, but in the meantime she
pleased herself, which after all is the first object with
every well-constituted mind. She leaned back in her
chair pleased with herself and her surroundings, in a
gentle languor after her occupation, and conscious of a
yellow novel within reach should her young companion
be slow of appearing. But Bice she knew had the ears
of a savage, and would hear her summons wherever
she might be.
Bice at this moment was in a very different scene.
She was in the large gallery, which was a little chill
and dreary of a morning when all the windows were
full of a gray, indefinable mist instead of light, and the
248 SIR TOM. [chap.
ancestors were indistinguishable in their frames. She
had just been going through her usual exercise with
the baby, and had joined Lucy at the upper end of the
gallery, that sport being over, and little Tom carried off
to his mid-day sleep. There was a fire there, in the
old-fashioned chimney, and Lucy had been sitting
beside it watching the sport. Bice seated herself on a
stool at a little distance. She had a half affection half
dislike for this young woman, who was most near her
in age of any one in the house. For one thing they
were on different sides and representing different
interests ; and Bice had been trained to dislike the
ordinary housekeeping woman. They had been brought
together, indeed, in a moment of emotion by the in-
strumentality of the little delicate child, for whom
Bice had conceived a compassionate affection. But the
girl felt that they were antagonistic. She did not
expect understanding or charity, but to be judged
harshly and condemned summarily by this type of the
conventional and proper. She believed that Lucy
would be " shocked " by what she said, and horrified
by her freedom and absence of prejudice. Yet, not-
withstanding all this, there was an attraction in the
candid eyes and countenance of little Lady Randolph
which drew her in spite of herself. It was of her own
will, though with a little appearance of reluctance,
that she drew near, and soon plunged into talk — for
to tell the truth, now that Jock was gone, Bice felt
occasionally as if she must talk to the winds and trees,
and could not at the hazard of her life keep silence
any more. She could scarcely tell how it was that
she was led into confessions of all kinds and descriptions
of the details of her past life.
" We are a little alike," said Lucy. " I was not
xxv.] THE CONTESSA'S BOUDOIR. 249
much older than you are when my father died, and
afterwards we had no real home : to be sure, I had
always Jock. Even when papa was living it was not
very homelike, not what I should choose for a girl. I
felt how different it was when I went to Lady Ban-
dolph, who thought of everything "
Bice did not say anything for some time, and then
she laughed. " The Contessa does not think of every-
thing," she said.
Lucy looked at her with a question in her eyes.
She wanted to ask if the Contessa was kind. But
there was a certain domestic treachery involved in
asking such a question.
" People are different," she said, with a certain
soothing tone. " "We are not made alike, you know ;
one person is good in one way and one in another."
This abstract deliverance was not at all in Lucy's way.
She returned to the particular point before them with
relief. " England," she said, " must seem strange to
you after your own country. I suppose it is much
colder and less bright ? "
" I have no country," said Bice ; " everywhere is my
country. "We have a house in Borne, but we travel ;
we go from one place to another — to all the places
that are what you call for pleasure. We go in the
season. Sometimes it is for the waters, sometimes
for the sports or the games — always fcsta wherever
we go."
" And you like that ? To be sure, you are so very
young ; otherwise I should think it was rather tire-
some," Lucy said.
" Xo, it is not rather tiresome," said Bice, with a
roll of her " r," " it is horrible ! "When we came here
I did not know why it was, but I rejoiced myself that
250 SIR TOM. [chap.
there was no band playing. I thought at first it was
merely jour de reldche : but when morning after morn-
ing came and no band, that was heavenly," she said,
drawing a long breath.
" A band playing ! " Lucy's laugh at the absurdity
of the idea rang out with all the gaiety of a child. It
amused her beyond measure, and Bice, always encour-
aged by approbation, went on.
" I expected it every morning. The house is so
large. I thought the season, perhaps, was just begin-
ning, and the people not arrived yet. Sometimes we
go like that too soon. The rooms are cheaper. You
can make your own arrangement."
Lucy looked at her very compassionately. " That
is why you pass the mornings in your own room," she
said, " were you never then in a country house
before ? "
" I do not know what is a country house. We
have been in a great castle where there was the chase
every day. No, that is not what la chasse means in
England — to shoot I would say. And then in the
evening the theatre, tableaux, or music. But to be
quiet all day and all night too, that is what I have
never seen. We have never known it. It is con-
fusing. It makes you feel as if all went on without
any division ; all one day, all one night."
Bice laughed, but Lucy looked somewhat grave.
" This is our natural life in England," she said ; " we
like to be quiet ; though I have not thought we were
very quiet, we have had people almost every night."
To this Bice made no reply. But at Lucy's next
question she stared, not understanding what it meant.
" You go everywhere with the Contessa," she said ;
" are you out ?"
xxv.] THE CONTESSA'S BOUDOIIJ. 251
" Out ! " Bice's eyes opened wide. She shook her
head. " What is out ? " she said.
" It is when a girl begins to go to parties — when
she comes out of her home, out of the schoolroom, from
being just a little girl "
" Ah, I know ! From the Convent," said Bice ;
" but I never was there."
" And have you always gone to parties — all your
life ? " asked Lucy, with wondering eyes.
Bice looked at her, wondering too. " We do not
go to parties. What is a party ? " she said. " We go
to the rooms — oh yes, and to the great receptions
sometimes, and at hotels. Parties ? I don't know
what that means. Of course, I go with the Contessa
to the rooms, and to the tables d'hote. I give her my
arm ever since I was tall enough. I carry her fan
and her little things. When she sings I am always
ready to play. They call me the shadow of the Con-
tessa, for I always wear a black frock, and I never talk
except when some one talks to me. It is most amusing
how the English look at me. They say, Miss ?
and then stop that I may tell them my name."
" And don't you ? " said Lucy. " Do you know,
though it is so strange to say it, I don't even know
your name."
Bice laughed, but she made no attempt to supply
the omission. " The Contessa thinks it is more
piquant," she said. "But nothing is decided about
me, till it is known how I turn out. If I am beauti-
ful the Contessa will marry me well, and all will be
right."
" And is that what you — wish ? " said Lucy, in a
tone of horror.
" Monsieur, your brother," said Bice, with a laugh,
252 SIR TOM. [chap.
"says I am not pretty, even. He says it does not
matter. How ignorant men are, and stupid ! And
then suddenly they are old, old, and sour. I do not
know which is the worst. I do not like men."
" And yet you think of being married, which it is
not nice to speak of," said Lucy, with disapproval.
" Not — nice ? Why is that ? Must not girls be
married ? and if so, why not think of it ? " said Bice,
gravely. There was not the ghost of a blush upon
her cheek. " If you might live without being married
that would understand itself ; but otherwise "
" Indeed," cried Lucy, " you can, indeed you can !
In England, at least. To marry for a living, that is
terrible."
" Ah ! " cried Bice, with interest, drawing her chair
nearer, " tell me how that is to be done."
There was the seriousness of a practical interest in
the girl's manner. The question was very vital to her.
There was no other way of existence possible so far as
she knew; but if there was it was well worth taking
into consideration.
Lucy felt the question embarrassing when it was
put to her in this very decisive way. " Oh," she cried
with an Englishwoman's usual monosyllabic appeal for
help to heaven and earth : " there are now a great
number of ways. There are so many things that girls
can do ; there are things open to them that never
used to be — they can even be doctors when they are
clever. There are many ways in which they can
maintain themselves."
"By trades ?" cried Bice, "by work?" She laughed.
" We hear of that sometimes, and the doctors ; every-
body laughs ; the men make jokes, and say they will
have one when they are ill. If that is all, I do not
xxv.] THE CONTESSA' S BOUDOIR. 253
think there is anything in it. I should not like to
work even if I were a man, but a woman ! that
gets no money, that is mal mo. If that is all ! Work,"
she said, with a little oracular air, " takes up all your
time, and the money that one can earn is so small.
A girl avoids saying much to men who are like this.
She knows how little they can have to offer her ; and
to work herself, why, it is impossible. What time
would you have for anything ? " cried the girl, with an
impatient sense of the fatuity of the suggestion. Lucy
was so much startled by this view of the subject that
she made no reply.
" There is no question of working," said Bice with
decision, " neither for women, neither for men. That
is not in our world. But if I am only pretty, no more,"
she added, " what will become of me ? It is not
known. I shall follow the Contessa as before. I will
be useful to her, and afterwards I prefer not to
think of that. In the meantime I am young. I do
not wish for anything. It is all amusing. I become
weary of the band playing, that is true ; but then some-
times it plays not badly, and there is something always
to laugh at. Afterwards, if I marry, then I can do as
I like," the. girl said.
Lucy gave her another look of surprised awe, for it
was really with that feeling that she regarded this
strange little philosopher. But she did not feel her-
self able to pursue the subject with so enlightened a
person. She said : " How very well you speak English.
You have scarcely any accent, and the Contessa has
none at all. I was afraid she would speak only
French, and my French is so bad."
" I have always spoken English all my life. When
the Contessa is angry she says I am English all over ;
254 SIR TOM. [chap.
and she — she is of no country — she is of all countries ;
we are what you call vagabonds," the girl cried, with a
laugh. She said it so calmly, without the smallest
shadow of shame or embarrassment, that Lucy could
only gaze at her and could not find a word to say.
Was it true ? It was evident that Bice at least believed
so, and was not at all afraid to say it. This conversa-
tion took place, as has been said, in the picture gallery,
where Lady Eandolph and her young visitor had first
found a ground of amity. The rainy weather had con-
tinued, and this place had gradually become the scene
of a great deal of intercourse between the young
mistress of the house and her guest. They scarcely
spoke to each other in the evening. But in the morn-
ing after the game of romps with little Tom, by which
Bice indemnified herself for the absence of other society,
Lucy would join the party, and after the child had
been carried off for his mid-day sleep, the others left
behind would have many a talk. To Lucy the revela-
tions thus made were more wonderful than any romance
— so wonderful that she did not half take in the strange
life to which they gave a clue, nor realise how perfectly
right was Bice's description of herself and her patroness
They were vagabonds, as she said ; and like other
vagabonds, they got a great deal of pleasure out of
their life. But to Lucy it seemed the most terrible that
mind could conceive. Without any home, without any
retirement or quietness, with a noisy band always play-
ing, and a series of migrations from one place to another
— no work, no duties, nothing to represent home occu-
pations but a piece of tapisserie. She put her hand
very tenderly upon Bice's shoulder. There had been
prejudices in her mind against this girl — but they all
melted away in a womanly pity. " Oh," she said,
xxv.] THE CONTESSA'S BOUDOIR. 255
" Cannot I help you in any way ? Cannot Sir Tom — "
But here she paused. " I am afraid/' she said, " that
all we could think of would be an occupation for you ;
something to do, which would be far, far better, surely,
than this wandering life."
Bice looked at her for a moment with a doubtful
air. " I don't know what you mean by occupation,"
she said.
And this, to Lucy's discomfiture, she found to be
true. Bice had no idea of occupation. Young Lady
Bandolph, who was herself not much instructed, made
a conscientious effort at least to persuade the strange
girl to read and improve her' mind. But she flew off
on all such occasions with a laugh that was half
mocking and half merry. " To what good ? " she said,
with that simplicity of cynicism which is a quality of
extreme youth. " If I turn out beautiful, if I can
marry whom I will, I will then get all I want without
any trouble."
" But if not ? " said Lucy, too careful of the other's
feelings to express what her own opinions were on this
subject.
" If not it will be still less good," said Bice, " for I
shall never then do anything or be of any importance
at all ; and why should I tr-rouble ? " she said, with
that rattle of the r's which was about the only sign
that English was not her native speech. This was
very distressing to Lucy, who wished the girl well, and
altogether Lady Bandolph was anxious to interfere on
Bice's behalf, and put her on a more comprehensible
footing.
" It will be very strange when you go among other
people in London," she said. "Madame di Eorno-
Populo does not know England. People will want to
256 SIR TOM. [chap.
know who you are. And if you were to be married,
since you will talk of that," Lucy added with a blush,
" your name and who you are will have to be known.
I will ask Sir Tom to talk to the Contessa — or," she
said with reluctance, " I will speak to her if you think
she will listen to me."
" I am called," said Bice, making a sweeping curtsey,
and waving her hand as she darted suddenly away,
leaving Lucy in much doubt and perplexity. Was
she really called ? Lucy heard nothing but a faint
sound in the distance, as of a low whistle. Was this
a signal between the strange pair who were not mother
and daughter, nor mistress and servant, and yet were
so linked together. It seemed to Lucy, with all her
honest English prejudices, that to train so young a girl
(and a girl so fond of children, and, therefore, a good
girl at bottom, whatever her little faults might be) to
such a wandering life, and to put her up as it were to
auction for whoever would bid highest, was too terrible
to be thought of. Better a thousand times to be a
governess, or a sempstress, or any honest occupation
by which she could earn her own bread. But then to
Bice any such expedient was out of the question. Her
incredulous look of wonder and mirth came back to
Lucy with a sensation of dumb astonishment. She had
no right feelings, no sense of the advantages of inde-
pendence, no horror of being sold in marriage. Lady
Bandolph did not know what to think of a creature so
utterly beyond all rules known to her. She was in
such a condition of mind, unsettled, unhinged, feeling
all her old landmarks breaking up, that a new interest
was of great importance to her. It withdrew her
thoughts from the Contessa, and the irksomeness of her
sway, when she thought of Bice and what could be
xxv.] THE COXTESSA'S BOUDOIR. 257
done for her. The strange thing was that the girl
wanted nothing done for her. She was happy enough
so far as could be seen. In her close confinement and
subjection she was so fearless and free that she might
have been thought the mistress of the situation. It
was incomprehensible altogether. To state the circum-
stances from one side was to represent a victim of
oppression. A poor girl stealing into a strange house
and room in the shadow of her patroness ; unnamed,
unnoticed, made no more account of than the chair
upon which she sat, held in a bondage which was
almost slavery, and intended to be disposed of when
the moment came without a reference to her own will
and affections. Lucy felt her blood boil when she
thought of all this, and determined that she would
leave no expedient untried to free this white slave, this
unfortunate thrall. But the other side was one which
could not pass without consideration. The girl was
careless and fearless and free, without an appearance
of bondage about her. She scoffed at the thought of
escaping, of somehow earning a personal independence
— such was not for persons in her world, she said.
She was not horrified by her own probable fate. She
was not unhappy, but amused and interested in her
life, and taking everything gaily, both the present quiet
and the tumult of the many " seasons " in watering-
places and other resorts of gaiety through which, young
as she was, she had already gone. She had looked at
Lucy with a smile, which was half cynical, and altogether
decisive, when the anxious young matron had pointed
out to her the way of escaping from such a sale and
bargain. She did not want to escape. It seemed to
her right and natural. She walked as lightly as a bird
with this yoke upon her shoulders. Lucy had never
met anything of this kind before, and it called forth a
s
258 SIR TOM. [chap
sort of panic in her mind. She did not know how to
deal with it ; but neither would she give it up. She
had something else to think upon, when the Contessa,
lying back on her sofa, almost going to sleep before Sir
Tom entered, roused herself on the moment to occupy
and amuse him all the evening. Instead of thinking
of that and making herself unhappy, Lucy looked the
other way at Bice reading a novel rapidly at the other
side of the table, with all her young savage faculties
about her to see and hear everything. How to get
her delivered from her fate ! To make her feel that
deliverance was necessary, to save her before she
should be sacrificed, and take her out of her present
slavery. It was very strange that it never occurred to
Lucy to free the girl by making her one of the re-
cipients of the money she had to give away. She was
very faithful to the letter of her father's will, and he
had excluded foreigners. But even that was not the
reason. The reason was that it did not occur to her.
She thought of every way of relieving the too-contented
thrall before her except that way. And in the mean-
time the time wore on, and everything fell into a
routine, and not a word was said of the Contessa's
plans. It was evident, for the time being at least,
that she meant to make no change, but was fully
minded, notwithstanding the dullness of the country,
to remain where she was.
xxvi.] THE TWO STRANGERS. 259
CHAPTER XXVI.
THE TWO STRANGERS.
The Contessa did not turn her head or change her
position when Bice entered. She said, " You have not
been out ? " in a tone which was half question and half
reproof.
" It rained, and there is nothing to breathe but the
damp and fog."
" What does it matter ? it is very good for the com-
plexion, this damp ; it softens the skin, it clears your
colour. I see the improvement every day."
" Do you think so ?" said Bice, going up to the long
mirror which had been established in a sort of niche
against the wall, and draped as everything was draped,
with graceful hangings. She went up to it and put
her face close, looking with some anxiety at the image
which she found there. " I do not see it," she said.
"You are too sanguine. I am no better than I was.
I have been racing in the long gallery with the child ;
that makes one's blood flow."
" You do well," said the Contessa, nodding her head.
" I cannot take any notice of the child ; it is too much
for me. They are odious at that age."
" Ah ! they are delightful," said Bice. " They are
so good to play with, they ask no questions, and are
always pleased. I put him on my shoulder and we fly.
I wish that I might have a gymnastique, trapeze, what-
you-call it, in that long gallery ; it would be heaven."
The Contessa uttered an easy exclamation meaning
nothing, which translated into English would have been
a terrible oath. " Do not do it, in the name of
they will be shocked, oh, beyond everything."
260 SIR TOM. [chap.
Bice, still standing close to the glass, examining
critically her cheek which she pinched, answered with
a laugh. " She is shocked already. When I say that
you will marry me well, if I turn out as I ought, she
is full of horror. She says it is not necessary in Eng-
land that a young girl should marry, that there are
other ways."
The Contessa started to her feet. "Giove!" she
cried, " Baccho ! that insipidity, that puritan. And I
who have kept you from every soil. She speak of
other ways. Oh, it is too much ! "
Bice turned from the glass to address a look of sur-
prise to her patroness. " Eeassure yourself, Madama,"
she said. " What Milady said was this, that I might
work if I willed, and escape from marrying — that to
marry was not everything. It appears that in England
one may make one's living as if (she says) one were a
man."
" As if one were a man ! "
"That is what Milady said," Bice answered de-
murely. " I think she would help me to work, to get
something to do. But she did not tell me what it
would be ; perhaps to teach children ; perhaps to work
with the needle. I know that is how it happens in
the Tauchnitz. You do not read them, and, therefore,
do not know ; but I am instructed in all these things.
The girl who is poor like me is always beautiful ; but
she never thinks of it as we do. She becomes a
governess, or perhaps an artiste ; or even she will make
dresses, or at the worst tapisserie."
"And this she says to you — to you!" cried the
Contessa, with flaming eyes.
" Oh, restrain yourself, Madama ! It does not
matter at all. She makes the great marriage just the
same. It is not Milady who says this, it is in the
xxvi.] THE TWO STRANGERS. 261
Tauchnitz. It is the English way. Supposing," said
Bice, " that I remain as I am ? Something will have
to be done with me. Put me, then, as a governess in
a great family where there is a son who is a great
nobleman, or very rich ; and you shall see it will so
happen, though I never should be beautiful at all."
" My child," said the Contessa, " all this is foolish-
ness. You will not remain as you are. I see a little
difference every day. In a little time you will be
dazzling ; you will be ready to produce. A governess !
It is more likely that you will be a duchess ; and then
you will laugh at everybody — except me," said Madame
di Forno-Populo, tapping her breast with her delicate
fingers, " except me."
Bice looked at her with a searching, inquiring look.
" I want to ask something," she said. " If I should be
beautiful, you were so before me — oh, niore, more ! —
you we are very lovely, Madama."
The Contessa smiled — who would not smile at such
a speech ? made with all the sincerity and simplicity
possible — simplicity scarcely affected by the instinct
which made Bice aware before she said it, that to use
the past tense would spoil all. The Contessa smiled.
"Well," she said, "and then?"
" They married you," said Bice with a curious tone
between philosophical remark and interrogation.
" Ah ! " the Contessa said. She leaned back in her chair
making herself very comfortable, and shook her head.
" I understand. You think then it has been a — failure
in my case ? Yes, they married me — that is to say there
was no they at all. I married myself, which makes a
great difference. Ah, yes, I follow your reasoning very
well. This woman you say was beautiful, was all that
I hope to be, and married ; and what has come of it ?
It is quite true. I speak to you as I speak to no one.
262 SIR TOM. [chap.
Bice mia. The fact was we deceived each other. The
Conte expected to make his fortune by me, and I by
him. I was English, you perceive, though no one now
remembers this. Poor Forno-Populo 1 He was very
handsome ; people were pleased to say we were a mag-
nificent pair — but we had not the sous : and though we
were fond of each other, he proceeded in one direction
to repair his fortunes, and I — on another to — enfin to
do as best I could. But no such accident shall happen in
your case. It is not only your interest I have in hand ;
it is my own. I want a home for my declining years."
She said this with a smile at the absurdity of the
expression in her case, but Bice at sixteen naturally
took the words au pied de la lettre, and did not see
any absurdity in them. To her forty was very much
the same as seventy. She nodded her head very seri-
ously in answer to this, and turning round to the glass
surveyed herself once more, but not with that com-
placency which is supposed to be excited in the femi-
nine bosom by the spectacle. She was far too serious
for vanity — the gaze she cast upon her own youthful
countenance was severely critical, and she ended by a
shrug of her shoulders, as she turned away. " The
only thing is," she said, " that perhaps the young brother
is right, and at present I am not even pretty at all."
The Contessa had a great deal to think of during
this somewhat dull interval. The days flowed on so
regular, and with so little in them, that it was scarcely
possible to take note of the time at all. Lucy was
always scrupulously polite and sometimes had little
movements of anxious civility, as if to make up for
impulses that were less kind. And Sir Tom, though
he enjoyed the evenings as much as ever, and felt this
manner of passing the heavy hours to retain a great
attraction, was at other times a little constrained, and
xxvi.] THE TWO STRANGERS. 263
made furtive attempts to find out what the Contessa's
intentions were for the future, which betrayed to a
woman who had always her wits about her, a certain
strain of the old bonds, and uneasiness in the indefinite
length of her visit. She had many reasons, however,
for determining to ignore this uneasiness, and to move
on upon the steady tenor of her way as if unconscious
of any reason for change, opposing a smiling insensi-
bility to all suggestions as to the approaching removal
of the household to London. It seemed to the Con-
tessa that the association of her cUbutante with so
innocent and wealthy a person as Lady Eandolph
would do away with all the prejudices which her own
dubious antecedents might have provoked ; while the
very dubiousness of those antecedents had procured her
friends in high quarters and acquaintances everywhere,
so that both God and Mammon were, so to speak, en-
listed in her favour, and Bice would have all the
advantage, without any of the disadvantage, of her
patroness' position, such as it was. This was so im-
portant that she was quite fortified against any pricks
of offence, or intrusive consciousness that she was less
welcome than might have been desired. And in the
end of January, when the entire household at the Hall
had begun to be anxious to make sure of her departure,
an event occurred winch strengthened all her resolutions
in this respect, and made her more and more deter-
mined, whatever might be the result, to cling to her
present associations and shelter.
This was the arrival of a visitor, very unexpected
and unthought of, who came in one afternoon after the
daily drive, often a somewhat dull performance, which
Lucy, when there was nothing more amusing to do,
dutifully took with her visitor. Madame di Forno-
Populo was reclining in the easiest of chairs after the
264 SIR TOM. [chap.
fatigue of this expedition. There had been a fresh
wind, and notwithstanding a number of veils, her deli-
cate complexion had been caught by the keen touch of
the breeze. Her cheeks burned, she declared, as she
held up a screen to shield her from the glow of the
fire. The waning afternoon light from the tall window
behind threw her beautiful face into shadow, but she
was undeniably the most important person in the tran-
quil domestic scene, occupying the central position, so
that it was not wonderful that the new comer suddenly
ushered in, who was somewhat timid and confused, and
advanced with the hesitating step of a stranger, should
without any doubt have addressed himself to her as the
mistress of the house. Lucy, little and young, who
was moving about the room, with her light step and in
the simple dress of a girl, appeared to Mr. Churchill,
who had many daughters of his own, to be (no doubt)
the eldest, the mother's companion. He came in with
a slightly embarrassed air and manner. He was a
man beyond middle age, gray haired, stooping, with
the deprecating look of one who had been obliged in
many ways to propitiate fate in the shape of superiors,
officials, creditors, all sorts of alien forces. He came
up with his hesitating step to the Contessa's chair.
" Madam," he said, with a voice which had a tremor
in it, " my name will partly tell you the confused feel-
ings that I don't know how to express. I am come in
a kind of bewilderment, scarcely able to believe that
what I have heard is true "
The Contessa gazed at him calmly from the depths
of her chair. The figure before her, thin, gray haired,
submissive, with the long clerical coat and deprecating
air, did not promise very much, but she had no objec-
tion to hear what he had to say in the absolute dearth
of subjects of interest. Lucy, to whom his name
xxvi.] THE TWO STE ANGERS. 265
seemed vaguely familiar, without recalling any distinct
idea, and who was a little startled by his immediate
identification of the Contessa, came forward a little and
put a chair for him, then withdrew again, supposing
his business to be with her guest.
" I will not sit down," Mr. Churchill said, faltering
a little, " till I have said what — I have no words to
say. If what I am told is actually true, and your
ladyship means to confer upon me a gift so — so mag-
nificent— oh ! pardon me — I cannot help thinking still
that there must be some extraordinary mistake."
" Oh ! " Lucy began, hurriedly making a step for-
ward again ; but the Contessa, to her surprise, accepted
the address with great calm.
"Be seated, sir," Madame di Forno-Populo said,
with a dignity which Lucy was far from being able to
emulate. "And pray do not hesitate to say anything
which occurs to you. I am already interested "
She waved her hand to him with a sort of regal grace,
without moving in any other way. She had the air of
a princess not deeply concerned indeed, but benevo-
lently willing to listen. It was evident that this recep-
tion of him confused the stranger more and more. He
became more deeply embarrassed in sight of the perfect
composure with which he was contemplated, and cleared
his throat nervously three or four times.
" I think," he said, " that there must be some mis-
take. It was, indeed, impossible that it should be true ;
but as I heard it from two quarters at once — and it
was said to be something in the nature of a trust
But," he added, looking with a nervous intentness at
the unresponsive face which he could with difficulty
see, " it must be, since your ladyship does not recognise
my name, a — mistake. I felt it was so from the
beginning. A lady of whom I know nothing ! — to
266 SIR TOM. [chap.
bestow what is really a fortune — upon a man with no
claim "
He gave a little nervous laugh as he went on — the
disappointment, after such a dazzling giddy hope, took
away every vestige of colour from his face. " I will sit
down for a moment, if you please," he said suddenly.
" I — am a little tired with the walk — you will excuse
me, Lady Eandolph "
" Oh, sir," cried Lucy, coming forward, " forgive me
that I did not understand at once. It is no mistake
at all. Oh, I am afraid you are very much fatigued, and
I ought to have known at once when I heard your name."
He put out his hand in his deprecating way as she
came close to the chair into which he had dropped.
" It is nothing — nothing — my dear young lady : in a
moment," he said.
" My Lucy," said the Contessa, " this is one of your
secret bounties. I am quite interested. But do not
interrupt ; let us hear it out."
" It is something which is entirely between Mr.
Churchill and me," cried Lucy. " Indeed, it would not
interest you at all. But, pray, don't think it is a mis-
take," she said, earnestly turning to him. " It is quite
right — it is a trust — there is nothing that need distress
you. I am obliged to do it, and you need not mind.
Indeed, you must not mind. I will tell you all about
it afterwards."
" My dear young lady ! " the clergyman said. He
was relieved, but he was perplexed ; he turned still
towards the stately lady in the chair — " If it is really
so, which I scarcely can allow myself to believe, how
can I express my obligation ? It seems more than any
man ought to take ; it is like a fairy tale. I have not
ventured to mention it to my children, in case
Thanks are nothing," he cried, with excitement ; " thanks
XXVI.] THE TWO STRANGERS. 267
are for a trifle, a little e very-day sendee ; but this is a
fortune ; it is something beyond belief. I have been a
poor man all my life, struggling to do my best for my
children ; and now, what I have never been able to do
with all my exertions, you — put me in a position to do
in a moment. What am I to say to you ? Words
can't reach such a case. It is simply unspeakable —
incredible ; and why out of all the world you should
have chosen me "
He had to stop, his emotion getting the better of
him. Bice had come into the room while this strange
scene was going on, and she stood in the shadow, un-
seen by the speaker, listening too.
" Pray compose yourself," said the Contessa, in her
most gracious voice. "Your expressions are full of
feeling. To have a fortune given to one must be very
delightful; it is an experience that does not often
happen. Probably a little tea, as I hear tea is coming,
will restore Mr. Pardon me, they are a little
difficult to catch those, your English names."
The Contessa produced a curious idiom now and
then like a work of art. It was almost the only sign
of any uncertainty in her English ; and while the poor
clergyman, not quite understanding in his own emotion
what she was saying, made an effort to gulp it down
and bring himself to the level of ordinary life, the little
stir of the brmging-in of tea suddenly converted every-
thing into commonplace. He sat in a confusion that
made all dull to him while this little stir went on.
Then he rose up and said, faltering : " If your ladyship
will permit me, I will go out into the air a little. I
have got a sort of singing in my ears. I am — not
very strong ; I shall come back presently if you will
allow me, and try to make my acknowledgments — in a
less confused way."
268 SIR TOM. [chap.
Lucy followed him out of the room ; he was not
confused with her. " My dear young lady," he said,
w my head is going round and round. Perhaps you will
explain it all to me." He looked at her with a help-
less, appealing air. Lucy had the appearance of a girl
of his own. He was not afraid to ask her anything.
But the great lady, his benefactress, who spoke so
regally and responded so little to his emotion, alarmed
him. Lucy, too, on her side, felt as if she had been a
girl of his own. She put her arm within his, and led
him to the library, where all was quiet, and where she
felt by instinct — though she was not bookish — that the
very backs of the books would console him and make
him feel himself at home.
" It is very easy to explain," she said. " It is all
through my brother Jock and your son, who is at school
with him. And it is I who am Lady Eandolph," she
said, smiling, supporting him with her arm through his.
The shock would have been almost too much for poor
Mr. Churchill if she had not been so like a child of
his own.
The moment this pair had left the room the Contessa
raised herself eagerly from the chair. She looked round
to Bice in the background with an imperative question.
" What does this all mean ? " she said, in a voice as
different from the languor of her former address as
night from day. " Who is it that gives away fortunes,
that makes a poor man rich ? Did you know all that ?
Is it that chit of a girl, that piece of simplicity — that
— Giove ! You have been her friend ; you know her
secrets. What does it mean ? "
" She has no secrets," said Bice, coming slowly for-
ward. " She is not like us, she is like the day."
" Fool ! " the Contessa said, stamping her foot —
" don't you see there must be something in it. I am
xxvii.] AX ADVENTURESS. 269
thinking of you, though you are so ungrateful. One
knows she is rich, all the money is hers ; but I thought
it had gone to Sir Tom. I thought it was he who could
— ... Happily, I have always kept her in hand ; and
you, you have become her friend "
" Madama," said Bice, with ironical politeness, " since
it happens that Milady is gone, shall I pour out for you
your cup of tea ? "
" Oh, tea ! do I care for tea ? when there are possi-
bilities— possibilities ! " said the Contessa. She got up
from her chair and began to pace about the room, a
grand figure in the gathering twilight. As for Bice,
some demon of perversity possessed her. She began
to move about the tea-table, making the china ring, and
pouring out the tea as she had said, betook herself to
the eating of cake with a relish which was certainly
much intensified by the preoccupation of her patroness.
She remembered well enough, very well, what Jock
had told her, and her own incredulity ; but she would
have died rather than give a sign of this — and there
was a tacit defiance in the way in which she munched
her cake under the Contessa's excited eyes, but this
was only a momentary perversity.
CHAPTER XXVII.
AX ADVEXTURESS.
" Whex he told me first, I was angry like you, I would
not believe it. Money ! that is a thing to keep, I said,
not to give away."
" To give away ! " Few things in all her life, at
least in all her later life, had so moved the Contessa.
She was walking about the pretty room in an excite-
270 SIR TOM. [chap.
ment which was like agitation, now sitting down in one
place, now in another, turning over without knowing it
the things on the table, arranging a drapery here and
there instinctively. To how few people in the world
would it be a matter of indifference that money, so to
speak, was going begging, and might fall into their
hands as well as another's ! The best of us on this
argument would prick up our ears. Nobody cared less
for money in itself than Madame di Forno-Populo.
She liked not to spend it only, but to squander — to
make it fly on all hands. To be utterly extravagant
one must be poor, and the money hunger which belongs
to poverty is almost, one might say, a disinterested
quality, so little is it concerned with the possession of
the thing coveted. " Oh," she said, " this is too wonder-
ful ! and you are sure you have not been deceived by
the language? You know English so well — are you
sure that you were not deceived ?"
Bice did not deign any reply to this question. She
gave her head a slight toss of scorn. The suggestion
that she could be mistaken was unworthy of an answer,
and indeed was not put in seriousness, nor did the
Contessa wait for a reply. " "What then," the Contessa
went on, " is the position of Sir Tom ? Has he no
control ? Does he permit this ? To have it taken
away from himself and his family, thrown into the sea,
parted with — Oh, it is too much ! But how can it be
done ? I was aware that settlements were very trouble-
some, but I had not thought it possible — Bice ! Bice !
this is very exciting, it makes one's heart beat ! And
you are her friend."
" I am her — friend ? " Bice turned one ear to her
patroness with a startled look of interrogation.
" Oh ! " cried the Contessa once more ; by which ex-
clamation, naturally occurring when she was excited,
xxvil] AN ADVENTURESS. 271
she proved that she was of English race. " What diffi-
culty is there in my meaning ? You have English
enough for that. What ! do you feel no impatience
when you hear of money running away ? — going into
a different channel — to strangers — to people that have
nothing to do with it — that have no right to it — any-
body— a clergyman, a "
Her feelings were too much for her. She threw
herself into a chair, out of breath.
" He looked a very good man," said Bice, with that
absolute calm which is so exasperating to an excited
woman, " and what does it matter, if it has to be given
away, who gets it ? I should give it to the beggars.
I should fling it for them, as you do the bajocchi when
you are out driving."
" You are a fool ! you are a fool ! " cried the Con-
tessa, " or rather you are a child, and don't understand
anything. Eling it to the beggars ? Yes, if it was in
shillings or even sovereigns. You don't understand
what money is."
" That is true, Madama, for I never had any," cried
the girl, with a laugh. She was perfectly unmoved —
the desire of money was not in her as yet, though she
was far more enlightened as to its 'uses than most per-
sons of her age. It amused her to see the excitement
of her companion ; and she knew very well what the
Contessa meant, though she would not betray any con-
sciousness of it. (< If I marry," she said, " then perhaps
I shall know."
" Bice ! you are not a fool — you are very sharp,
though you choose not to see. Why should not you
have this as well as another? — oh, much better than
another ! I can't stand by and see it all float into alien
channels, while you — it would not be doing my duty
while you Oh, don't look at me with that blank
272 SIR TOM. [chap.
face, as if it did not move you in the least ! Would it
be nothing to have it in your power to dress as you
like, to do as you like, to go into the world, to have a
handsome house, to enjoy life ? "
" But, yes ! " said Bice, " is it necessary to ask ?"
She was still as calm as if the question they were dis-
cussing had been of the very smallest importance.
" But we are not good poor people that will spend the
money comme il faut. If we had it we should throw
it away. Me also — I would throw it away. It would
be for nothing good ; why should it be given to us ?
Oh no, Madama. The good old clergyman had many
children. He will not waste the money — which we
should. What do you care for money, but to spend it
fast, fast ; and I too -"
" You are a child," said the Contessa. " No, per-
haps I am not what people call good, though I am poor
enough — but you are a child. If it was given to you
it would be invested ; you would have power over the
income only. You could not throw it away, nor could
I, which, perhaps, is what you are thinking of. You
are just the person she wants, so far as I can see. She
objects to my plan of putting you out in the world ;
she says it would be* better if you were to work ; but
this is the best of all. Let her provide for you, and
then it will not need that you should either marry or
work. This is, beyond all description, the best way.
And you are her friend. Tell me, was it before or after
the boy informed you of this that you advised yourself
to become her friend ?"
" Contessa ! " cried Bice, with a shock of angry
feeling which brought the blood to her face. She was
not sensitive in many matters which would have stung
an English girl ; but this suggestion, which was so un-
deserved, moved her to passion. She turned away
xxvii.] AH ABVEXTUEESS. 273
with an almost tragic scorn, and seizing the tapisserie,
which was part of the Contessa's raise en scene, flung a
long strip of the many -coloured embroidery over her
arm, and began to work with a sort of savage energy.
The Contessa watched her movements with a sudden
pause in her own excitement. She stopped short in
the eagerness of her own thoughts, and looked with keen
curiosity at the young creature upon whom she had
built so many expectations. She was not an ungener-
ous or mercenary woman, though she had many faults,
and as she gazed a certain compunction awoke within
her, mingled with amusement. She was sorry for the
unworthy suggestion she had made, but the sight of the
girl in her indignation was like a scene in a play to
this woman of the world. Her youthful dignity and
wrath, her silent scorn, the manner in which she flung
her needle through the canvas, working out her rage,
were full of entertainment to the Contessa. She was
not irritated by the girl's resentment ; it even took off
her thoughts from the primary matter to watch this
exhibition of feeling. She gave vent to a little laugh
as she noted how the needle flew.
" Cara ! I was nasty when I said that. I did not
mean it. I suffered myself to talk as one talks in the
world. You are not of the world — it is not applicable
to you."
" Yes, Madama, I am of the world;"' cried Bice.
" What have I known else ? But I did not mean to
become Milady's friend, as you say. It was by acci-
dent. I was in the gallery only to amuse myself, and
she came — it was not intention. I think that Milady
is "
Here Bice stopped, looked up from the sudden
fervour of her working, threw back her head, and said
nothing more.
274 SIR TOM. [chap.
" That Milady is — what ? " the Contessa cried.
A laugh so joyous, so childish, that no one could
have refused to be sympathetic, burst from Bice's lips.
She gave her patroness a look of merriment and deri-
sion, in which there was something tender and sweet.
" Milady is — sorry for me," she said.
This speech had a strange effect upon the Contessa.
She coloured, and the tears seemed to flood in a mo-
ment to her eyes. " Poor child ! " she said — " poor
child ! She has reason. But that amuses you, Bice
mia," she said, in a voice full of the softest caressing,
looking at her through those sudden tears. The Con-
tessa was an adventuress, and she had brought up this
girl after her own traditions ; but it was clear as they
looked at each other that they loved each other. There
was perfect confidence between them. Bice looked
with fearless laughing eyes, and a sense of the absurdity
of the fact that some one was sorry for her, into the
face of her friend.
" She thinks I would be happier if I worked. To
give lessons to little children and be their slave would
be better, she thinks. To know nothing and see
nothing, but live far away from the world and be in-
dependent, and take no trouble about my looks, or, if
I please — that is Milady's way of thinking," Bice
said.
The Contessa's face softened more and more as she
looked at the girl. There even dropped a tear from
her full eyes. She shook her head. " I am not sure,"
she said, " dear child, that I am not of Milady's
opinion. There are ways in which it is better. Some-
times I think I was most happy when I was like that
— without money, without experience, with no wishes."
"No wishes, Madam a ! Did you not wish to go
out into the beautiful bright world, to see people, to
xxvil.] AN ADVENTURESS. 275
hear music, to talk, to please ? It is impossible.
Money, that is different , and experience that is different:
but to wish, every one must do that."
" Bice, you have a great deal of experience for so
young a girl. You have seen so much. I ought to
have brought you up otherwise, perhaps, but how could
I ? You have always shared with me, and what I had
I gave you. And you know besides how little satis-
faction there is in it — how sick one becomes of a
crowd of faces that are nothing to you, and of music
that goes on just the same whatever you are feeling —
and this to please, as you call it ! Whom do I
please ? Persons who do not care at all for me except
that I amuse them sometimes — who like me to sing ;
who like to look at me ; who find themselves less dull
when I am there. That is all. And that will be all
for you, unless you marry well, my Bice, which it is
the object of my life to make you do."
" I hope I shall marry well," said the girl, com-
posedly. " It would be very pleasant to find one's self
above all shifts, Madama. Still that is not everything;
and I would much rather have led the life I have led,
and enjoyed myself and seen so much, than to have
been the little governess of the English family — the
little girl who is always so quiet, who walks out with
the children, and will not accept the eldest son even
when he makes love to her. I should have laughed
at the eldest son. I know what they are like — they
are so stupid ; they have not a word to say ; that would
have amused me ; but in the Tauchnitz books it is all
honour and wretchedness. I am glad I know the
world, and have seen all kinds of people, and wish for
everything that is pleasant, instead of being so good
and having no wishes as you say."
The Contessa laughed, having got rid of all her
276 SIR TOM. [chap.
incipient tears. " There is more life in it," she said.
" Yon see now what it is — this life in England ; one
day is like another, one does the same things. The
newspaper comes in the morning, then luncheon, then
to go out, then tea, dinner ; there is no change. When
we talk in the evening, and I remind Sir Tom of the
past when I lived in Florence, and he was with me
every day," — the Contessa once more uttered that
easy exclamation which would sound so profane in
English. " Quelle vie ! " she cried, " how much we got
out of every day. There were no silences ! They
came in one after another with some new thing, some-
thing to see and to do. We separated to dress, to
make ourselves beautiful for the evening, and then till
the morning light came in through the curtains, never
a pause or a weariness. Yes ! sometimes one had a
terrible pang. There would be a toilette, which was
ravishing, which was far superior to mine — for I never
had money to dress as I wished — or some one else
would have a success, and attract all eyes. But what
did that matter ? " the Contessa cried, lighting up more
and more. " One did not really grudge what lasted
only for a time; for one knew next day one would
have one's turn. " Ah ! " she said, with a sigh, " I
knew what it was to be a queen, Bice, in those days."
"And so you do still, Madama," said the girl,
soothingly.
Madama di Forno-Populo shook her head. " It is
no longer the same," she said. "You have known
only the worst side, my poverina. It is no longer one's
own palace, one's own people, and the best of the
strangers, the finest company. You saw the Duchess
at Milady's party the other day. To see me made her
lose her breath. She could not refuse to speak to me
■ — to salute me — but it was with a consternation !
xxyii.] AN ADVENTURESS. 277
But, Bice, that lady was only too happy to be invited
to the Palazzo Populino. To make one of our ex-
peditions was her pride. I believe in my soul," cried
the Contessa, " that when she looks back she remembers
those days as the most bright of her life."
Bice's clear shining eyes rested upon her patroness
with a light in them which was keen with indignation
and wonder. She cried, "And why the change — and
why the change, Madama ? " with a high indignant
tone, such as youth assumes in presence of ingratitude
and meanness. Bice knew much that a young girl
does not usually know ; but the reason why her best
friend should be thus slighted was not one of these
tilings.
The Contessa shrank a little from her gaze. She
rose up again and went to the window and looked out
upon the wintry landscape, and standing there with
her face averted, shrugged her shoulders a little and
made answer in a tone of levity very different from
the sincerer sound of her previous communications.
" It is poverty, my child, poverty, always the easiest ex-
planation ! I was never rich, but then there had been no
crash, no downfall. I was in my own palace. I had
the means of entertaining. I was somebody. Ah !
very different ; it was not then at the baths, in the
watering-places, that the Contessa di Forno - Populo
was known. It is this, my Bice, that makes me say
that sometimes I am of Milady's opinion ; that to have
no wishes, to know nothing, to desire nothing — that is
best. When I knew the Duchess first I could be of
service to her. Now that I meet her again it is she
only that can be of service to me."
" But " Bice began and stopped short. She
was, as has been said, a girl of many experiences.
When a very young creature is thus prematurely in-
278 SIR TOM. [ohap.
troduced to a knowledge of human nature she ap-
proaches the subject with an impartiality scarcely
possible at an older age. She had seen much. She
had been acquainted with those vicissitudes that occur
in the lives of the seekers of pleasure almost since
ever she was born. She had been acquainted with
persons of the most gay and cheerful appearance, who
had enjoyed themselves highly, and called all their
acquaintances round them to feast, and who had then
suddenly collapsed and after an interval of tears and
wailings had disappeared from the scene of their down-
fall. But Bice had not learnt the commonplace lesson
so deeply impressed upon the world from the Athenian
Timon downwards, that a downfall of this kind instantly
cuts all ties. She was aware, on the contrary, that a
great deal of kindness, sympathy, and attempts to aid
were always called forth on such occasions ; that the
women used to form a sort of rampart around the
ruined with tears and outcries, and that the men had
anxious meetings and consultations and were constantly
going to see some one or other upon the affairs of the
downfallen. Bice had not seen in her experience that
poverty was an argument for desertion. She was so
worldly wise that she did not press her question as a
simple girl might have down. She stopped short with
an air of bewilderment and pain, which the Contessa,
as her head was turned, did not see. She gave up the
inquiry ; but there arose in her mind a suspicion, a
question, such as had not ever had admission there
before.
" Ah ! " cried the Contessa, suddenly turning round,
clasping her hands, " it was different indeed when my
house was open to all these English, and they came as
they pleased. But now I do not know, if I am turned
out of this house, this dull house in which I have
xxvii.] AX ADVENTURESS. 279
taken refuge, where I shall go. I don't know where
to go : "
" Maclama ! " Bice sprang to her feet too, and
clasped her hands.
" It is true — it is quite true. "We have spent
everything. I have not the means to go even to a
third-rate place. As for Cannes it is impossible. I
told you so before we came here. Eome is impossible
— the apartment is let, and without that I could not
live at all. Everything is gone. Here one may
manage to exist a little while, for the house is good,
and Sir Tom is rather amusing. But how to get to
London unless they will take us I know not, and
London is the place to produce you, Bice. It is for
that I have been working. But Milady does not like
me ; she is jealous of me, and if she can she will send
us away. Is it wonderful, then, that I am glad you
are her friend ? I am very glad of it, and I should
wish you to let her know that to no one could she
give her money more fitly. You see," said the Con-
tessa, with a smile, resuming her seat and her easy
tone, " I have come back to the point we started from.
It is seldom one does that so naturally. If it is true
(which seems so impossible) that there is money to
crive awav, no one has a better right to it than you."
Bice went away from this interview with a mind
more disturbed than it had ever been in her life before.
Xaturally, the novel circumstances which surrounded
her awakened deeper questions as her mind developed,
and she began to find herself a distinct personage.
They set her wondering. Madame di Forno-Populo
had been of a tenderness unparalleled to this girl, and
had sheltered her existence ever since she could re-
member. It had not occurred to her mind as yet to
ask what the relations were between them, or why she
280 SIR TOM. [chap.
had been the object of so much affection and thought.
She had accepted this with all the composure of a
child ever since she was a child. And the prospect of
achieving a marriage should she turn out beautiful,
and thus being in a position to return some of the
kindness shown her, seemed to Bice the most natural
thing in the world. But the change of atmosphere
had done something, and Lucy's company, and the
growth, perhaps, of her own young spirit. She went
away troubled. There seemed to be more in the
world and its philosophy than Bice's simple rules could
explain.
CHAPTEE XXVIII.
THE SERPENT AND THE DOVE.
On the very next day after this conversation took
place a marked change occurred in the manner of the
Contessa. She had been always caressing to Lucy,
calling her by pretty names, and using a hundred
tender expressions as if to a child ; but had never
pretended to talk to her otherwise than in a conde-
scending way. On this occasion, however, she exerted
herself to a most unusual extent during their drive to
captivate and charm Lady Bandolph ; and as Lucy was
very simple and accessible to everything that seemed
kindness, and the Contessa very clever and with full
command of her powers, it is not wonderful that her
success was easy. She led her to talk of Mr. Churchill,
who had been kept to dinner on the previous night,
and to whom Sir Tom had been very polite, and Lucy
anxiously kind, doing all that was possible to put the
good man at his ease, though with but indifferent sue-
xxviii.] THE SEKPENT AXD THE DOVE. 281
cess. For the thought of such an obligation was too
great to be easily borne, and the agitation of his mind
was scarcely settled, even by the commonplaces of the
dinner, and the devotion which young Lady Eandolph
showed him. Perhaps the grave politeness of Sir Tom,
which was not very encouraging, and the curiosity of
the great lady, whom he had mistaken for his bene-
factress, counterbalanced Mr. Churchill's satisfaction,
for he did not regain his confidence, and it was
evidently with great relief of mind that he got up from
his seat when the carriage was announced to take him
away. The Contessa had given her attention to all he
said and did, with a most lively and even anxious
interest, and it was from this that she had mastered
so many details which Bice had reluctantly confirmed
by her report of the information she had derived from
Jock. It was not long before Madame di Forno-
Populo managed to extract everything from Lucy.
Lady Eandolph was not used to defend herself against
such inquiries, nor was there any reason why she
should do so. She was glad indeed when she saw
how sweetly her companion looked, and how kind were
her tones, to talk over her own difficult position with
another woman, one who was interested, and who did
not express her disapproval and horror as most people
did. The Contessa, on the contrary, took a great deal
of interest. She was astonished, indeed, but she did
not represent to Lucy that what she had to do was
impossible or even vicious, as most people seemed to
suppose. She listened with the gravest attention ;
and she gave a soothing sense of sympathy to Lucy's
troubled soul. She was so little prepared for sympathy
from such a quarter that the unexpectedness of it made
it more soothing still.
" This is a great charge to be laid upon you," the
282 SIR TOM. [chap.
Contessa said, with the most kind look. " Upon you
so young and with so little experience. Your father
must have been a man of very original mind, my Lucy.
I have heard of a great many schemes of benevolence,
but never one like this."
" No ?" said Lucy, anxiously watching the Contessa's
eye, for it was so strange to her to have sympathy on
this point, that she felt a sort of longing for it, and
that this new critic, who treated the whole matter with
more moderation and reasonableness than usual, should
approve.
" Generally one endows hospitals or builds churches ;
in my country there is a way which is a little like
yours ; it is to give marriage portions — that is very
good I am told. It is done by finding out who is the
most worthy. And it is said also that not the most
worthy is always taken. Don't you remember there is
a Eosiere in Barbe Bleue ? Oh, I believe you have
never heard of Barbe Bleue."
" I know the story," said Lucy, with a smile, " of
the many wives, and the key, and sister Anne — sister
Anne."
" Ah ! that is not precisely what I mean ; but it does
not matter. So it is this which makes you so grave,
my pretty Lucy. I do not wonder. What a charge
for you ! To encounter all the prejudices of the world
which will think you mad. I know it. And now
your husband — the excellent Tom — he," said the Con-
tessa, laying a caressing and significant touch upon
Lucy's arm, " does not approve ? "
" Oh, Madame di Forno-Populo, that is the worst of
it," cried Lucy, whose heart was opened, and who had
taken no precaution against assault on this side ; " but
how do you know ? for I thought that nobody knew."
The Contessa this time took Lucy's hand between
XXVIIT.] THE SERPENT AND THE DOYE. 283
hers, and pressed it tenderly, looking at her all the time
with a look full of meaning. " Dear child," she said,
" I have heen a great deal in the world. I see much
that other people do not see. And I know his face,
and yours, my little angel. It is much for you to carry
upon those young shoulders. And all for the sake of
goodness and charity."
" I do not know," said Lucy, " that it is right to say
that; for, had it been left to me, perhaps I should
never have thought of it. I should have been content
with doing just what I could for the poor. Xo one,"
said Lucy, with a sigh, " objects to that, When people
are quite poor it is natural to give them what they
want ; but the others "
" Ah, the others," said the Contessa. " Dear child,
the others are the most to be pitied. It is a greater
thing, and far more difficult to give to this good clergy-
man enough to make his children happy, than it is to
supply what is wanted in a cottage. Ah yes, your
father was wise, he was a person of character. The
poor are always cared for. There are none of us, even
when we are ourselves poor, who do not hold out a
hand to them. There is a society in my Florence
which is like you. It is- for the Poveri Vergognosi.
You don't understand Italian ? That means those who
are ashamed to beg. These are they," said the Con-
fcessa impressively, "who are to be the most pitied.
They must starve and never cry out ; they must conceal
their misery and smile ; they must put always a fair
front to the world, and seem to want nothing, while
they want everything. Oh ! " The Contessa ended
with a sigh, which said more than words. She pressed
Lucy's hand, and turned her face away. Her feelings
were too much for her, and on the delicate cheek, which
Lucy could see, there was the trace of a tear. After
284 SIR TOM. [chap.
a moment she looked round again, and said, with a little
quiver in her voice : " T respect your father, my Lucy.
It was a noble thought, and it is original. No one I
have ever heard of had such an intention before."
Lucy, at this unlooked-for applause, brightened
with pleasure; but at the same time was so moved
that she could only look up into her companion's face
and return the pressure of her hand. When she re-
covered a little she said : " You have known people like
that ? "
" Known them ? In my country," said the Con-
tessa (who was not an Italian at all), "they are as
plentiful as in England — blackberries. People with
noble names, with noble old houses, with children who
must never learn anything, never be anything, because
there is no money. Know them ! dear child, who can
know better ? If I were to tell you my history ! I
have for my own part known — what I could not trouble
your gentle spirit to hear."
" But, Madame di Forno-Populo, oh ! if you think
me worthy of your confidence, tell me ! " cried Lucy.
" Indeed, I am not so insensible as you may think. I
have known more than you suppose. You look as if
no harm could ever have touched you," Lucy cried,
with a look of genuine admiration. The Contessa had
found the right way into her heart.
The Contessa smiled with mournful meaning and
shook her head. " A great deal of harm has touched
me," she said ; " I am the very person to meet with
harm in the world. A solitary woman without any one
to take care of me, and also a ver}7 silly one, with
many foolish tastes and inclinations. Not prudent, not
careful, my Lucy, and with very little money; what
could be more forlorn ? You see," she said, with a
smile " I do not put all this blame upon Providence,
xxviil] THE SERPENT AXD THE DOTE. 285
but a great deal on myself. But to put rue out of the
question "
Lucy put a hand upon the Contessa's arm. She
was much moved by this revelation.
" Oh ! don't do that," she said ; " it is you I want
to hear of."
Madame di Forno-Populo had an object in every
word she was saying, and knew exactly how much she
meant to tell and how much to conceal. It was indeed
a purely artificial appeal that she was making to her
companion's feelings; and yet, when she looked upon
the simple sympathy and generous interest in Lucy's
face, her heart was touched.
" How good you are," she said ; " how generous !
though I have come to you against your will, and am
staying — when I am not wanted."
" Oh ! do not say so," cried Lucy with eagerness ;
"do not think so — indeed, it was not against my will.
I was glad, as glad as I could be, to receive my hus-
band's friend."
" Few women are so," said the Contessa gravely.
" I knew it when I came. Lew, very few, care for
their husband's friend — especially when she is a
woman — : — "
Lucy fixed her eyes upon her with earnest atten-
tion. Her look was not suspicious, yet there was in-
vestigation in it.
" I do not think I am like that," she said simply.
" No, you are not like that," said the Contessa. " You
are the soul of candour and sweetness ; but I have
vexed you. Ah, my Lucy, I have vexed you. I know
it — innocently, my love — but still I have done it.
That is one of the curses of poverty. Now look," she
said, after a momentary pause, " how truth brings
truth ! I did not intend to say this when I began"
286 SIR TOM. [chap.
(and this was perfectly true), " but now I must open my
heart to you. I came without caring much what you
would think, meaning no harm — Oh, trust me, mean-
ing no harm ! but since I have come all the advantages
of being here have appeared to me so strongly that
I have set my heart upon remaining, though I knew it
was disagreeable to you."
" Indeed : " cried Lucy, divided between sincerity
and kindness : " if it was ever so for a moment, it was
only because I did not understand."
" My sweetest child ! this I tell you is one of the
curses of poverty. I knew it was disagreeable to you ;
but because of the great advantage of being in your
house, not only for me, but for Bice, for whom I have
sworn to do my best — Lucy, pardon me — I could not
make up my mind to go away. Listen ! I said to my-
self, I am poor, I cannot give her all the advantages ;
and they are rich ; it is nothing to them — I will stay,
I will continue, though they do not want me, not for
my sake, for the sake of Bice. They will not be sorry
afterwards to have made the fortune of Bice. Listen,
dear one ; hear me out. I had the intention of forcing
myself upon you — oh no ! the words are not too strong
— in London, always for Bice's sake, for she has no
one but me ; and if her career is stopped I am
not a woman," said the Contessa, with dignity, " who
am used to find myself cle trojp. I have been in my
life courted, I may say it, rather than disagreeable ;
yet this I was willing to bear — and impose myself
upon you for Bice's sake "
Lucy listened to this moving address with many
differing emotions. It gave her a pang to think that
her hopes of having her house to herself were thus
permanently threatened. But at the same time her
heart swelled, and all her generous feelings were stirred.
xxviii.] THE SERPENT AND THE DOVE. 287
Was she indeed so poor a creature as to grudge to two
lonely women the shelter and advantage of her wealth
and position ? If she did this, what did it matter if
she gave money away ? This would indeed be keeping
to the letter of her father's will, and abjuring its mean-
ing. She could not resist the pathos, the dignity, the
sweetness of the Contessa's appeal, which was not for
herself but for Bice, for the girl who was so good to
baby, and whom that little oracle had bound her to
with links of gratitude and tenderness. " Oh," Lucy
said to herself, "if I should ever have to appeal to
any one for kindness to him !" And Bice was the
Contessa's child — the child of her heart, at least —
the voluntary charge which she had taken upon her,
and to which she was devoting herself. Was it
possible that only because she wanted to have her
husband to herself in the evenings, and objected to
any interruption of their privacy, a woman should be
made to suffer who was a good woman, and to whom
Lucy could be of use ? jSTo, no, she cried within her-
self, the tears coming to her eyes ; and yet there was
a very real pang behind.
" But reassure yourself, dear child," said the Con-
tessa, " for now that I see what you are doing for
others, I cannot be so selfish. No ; I cannot do it
any longer. In England you do not love society ; you
love your home unbroken ; you do not like strangers.
No, my Lucy, I will learn a lesson from your goodness.
I too will sacrifice — oh, if it was only myself and not
Bice ! "
" Contessa," said Lucy with an effort, looking up
with a smile through some tears, " I am not like that.
It never was that you were — disagreeable. How could
you be disagreeable ? And Bice is — oh, so kind, so
good to my boy. You must never think of it more.
288 SIR TOM. [chap.
The town house is not so large as the Hall, but we
shall find room in it. Oh, I am not so heartless, not
so stupid, as you think ! Do you suppose I would let
you go away after you have been so kind as to open
your heart to me, and let me know that we are
really of use ? Oh, no, no ! And I am sure," she
added, faltering slightly, " that Tom — will think the
same."
" It is not Tom — excellent, clier Tom ! that shall be
consulted," cried the Contessa. " Lucy, my little angel !
if it is really so that you will give my Bice the advan-
tage of your protection for her dibut But that
is to be an angel indeed, superior to all our little, petty,
miserable Is it possible, then," cried the Con-
tessa, " that there is some one so good, so noble in this
low world ? "
This gratitude confused Lucy more than all the
rest. She did her best to deprecate and subdue ; but
in her heart she felt that it was a great sacrifice she
was making. " Indeed, it is nothing," she said faintly.
" I am fond of her, and she has been so good to baby ;
and if we can be of any use — but oh, Madame di
Forno-Populo," Lady Bandolph cried, taking courage.
" Her ddbut ? do you really mean what she says that
she must marry "
" That I mean to marry her," said the Contessa,
" that is how we express it," with a very concise end-
ing to her transports of gratitude. " Sweet Lucy,"
she continued, " it is the usage of our country. The
parents, or those who stand in their place, think it
their duty. We marry our children as you clothe
them in England. You do not wait till your little
boy can choose. You find him what is necessary.
Just so do we. We choose so much better than an
inexperienced girl can choose. If she has an aversion,
xxtiii.] THE SERPENT AXD THE DOVE. 289
if she says I cannot suffer him, we do not press it
upon her. Many guardians will pay no attention, but
me," said the Contessa, putting forth a little foreign
accent, which she displayed very rarely — " I have lived
among the English, and I am influenced by their ways.
Neither do I think it right," she added, with an air of
candour, " to offer an old person, or one who is hideous,
or even very disagreeable. But, yes, she must marry
well. What else is there that a girl of family can do ? "
Lucy was about to answer with enthusiasm that
there were many things she could do ; but stopped
short, arrested by these last words. "A girl of family,''
— that, no doubt, made a difference. She paused, and
looked somewhat wistfully in her companion's face.
" "We think," she said, " in England that anything is
better than a marriage without "
The Contessa put up her hand to stay the words.
• Without love I know what you are going to
say; but, my angel, that is a word which Bice has
never heard spoken. She knows it not. She has not
the habit of thinking it necessary — she is a good girl,
and she has no sentiment. Besides, why should we
go so fast? If she produces the effect I hope
Why should not some one present himself whom she
could also love ? Oh yes ! fall in love with, as you
say in English — such an innocent phrase ! Let us
hope that, when the proper person comes who satisfies
my requirements, Bice — to whom not a word shall be
said — will fall in love with him comme il faut!"
Lucy did not make any reply. She was troubled
by the light laugh with which the Contessa concluded,
and with the slight change of tone which was percep-
tible. But she was still too much moved by her own
emotion to have got beyond its spell, and she had com-
mitted herself beyond recall. While the Contessa talked
o
290 SIR TOM. [chap.
on with — was it a little, little change ? — a faint differ-
ence, a levity that had not been in her voice before ?
Lucy's thoughts went back upon what she had done
with a little tremor. Not this time as to what Tom
might say, but with a deeper wonder and pang as to
what might come of it ; was she going voluntarily
into new danger, such as she had no clue to, and could
not understand ? After a little while she asked almost
timidly —
" But if Bice should not see any one "
" You mean if no one suitable should present him-
self ? " The Contessa suddenly grew very grave. She
put her hands together with a gesture of entreaty. " My
sweet one, let us not think of that. When she is dressed
as I shall dress her, and brought out — as you will
enable me to bring her out. My Lucy, we do not
know what is in her. She will shine, she will charm.
Even now, if she is excited, there are moments in
which she is beautiful. If she fails altogether
Ah, my love, as I tell you, there is where the curse of
poverty comes in. Had she even a moderate fortune,
poor child ; but alas, orphan, with no one but me "
" Is she an orphan ? " said Lucy, feeling ashamed of
the momentary failure of her interest, " and without
relations — except "
" Eelations ? " said the Contessa ; there was some-
thing peculiar in her tone which attracted Lucy's atten-
tion, and came back to her mind in other days. " Ah,
my Lucy, there are many things in this life which you
have never thought of. She has relations who think
nothing of her, who would be angry, be grieved, if they
knew that she existed. Yes, it is terrible to think of,
but it is true. She is, on one side, of English parent-
age. But pardon me, my sweetest, I did not mean to
tell you all this : only, my Lucy, you will one time be
xxix. 1 THE CONTESSA'S TRIUMPH. 291
glad to think that you have been kind to Bice. It
will be a pleasure to you. Now let us think of it no
more. Marry ; yes, she must marry. She has not even
so much as your poor clergyman ; she has nothing, not
a penny. So I must marry her, there is nothing more
to be said."
CHAPTEE XXIX.
THE CONTESSA'S TRIUMPH.
And it was with very mingled sensations that Sir Tom
heard from Lucy (for it was from her lips he heard it)
the intimation that Madame di Forno-Populo was goin<*
to be so good as to remain at the Hall till they moved
to London, and then to accompany them to Park Lane.
Sir Tom was taken entirely by surprise. He was not
a man who had much difficulty in commanding him-
self, or showing such an aspect as he pleased to the
general world ; but on this occasion he was so much
surprised that his very jaw dropped with wonder and
astonishment. It was at luncheon that the intimation
was made, in the Contessa's presence, so that he did
not venture to let loose any expression of his feelings.
He gave a cry, only half uttered, of astonishment, re-
strained by politeness, turning his eyes, which grew
twice their size in the bewilderment of the moment,
from Lucy to the Contessa and back again. Then he
burst into a breathless laugh — a twinkle of humour
lighted in those eyes which were big with wonder, and
he turned a look of amused admiration towards the
Contessa. How had she done it ? There was no
fathoming the cleverness of women, he said to himself,
292 SIR TOM. [chap.
and for the rest of the day he kept bursting forth into
little peals of laughter all by himself. How had she
managed to do it ? It was a task which he himself
would not have ventured to undertake. He would not,
he said to himself, have had the slightest idea how to
bring forward such a proposition. On the contrary,
had not his sense that Lucy had much to forgive in
respect to this invasion of her home and privacy in-
duced him to make a great sacrifice, to withdraw his
opposition to those proceedings of hers of which he so
much disapproved ? And yet in an afternoon, in one
interview, the Contessa had got the upper hand ! Her
cleverness was extraordinary. It tickled him so that
he could not take time to think how very little satisfied
he was with the result. He, too, had fallen under her
enchantments in the country, in the stillness, if not
dulness, of those long evenings, and he had been very
willing to be good to her for the sake of old times, to
make her as comfortable as possible, to give her time
to settle her plans for her London campaign. But that
she should begin that campaign under his own roof,
and that Lucy, his innocent and simple wife, should be
visible to the world as the friend and ally of a lady
whose name was too well known to society, was by no
means satisfactory to Sir Tom. When his first astonish-
ment and amazement was over, he began to look grave ;
but what was he to do ? He had so much respect for
Lucy that when the idea occurred to him of warning
her that the Contessa's antecedents were not of a com-
fortable kind, and that her generosity was mistaken, he
rejected it again with a sort of panic, and did not dare,
experienced and courageous as he was, to acknowledge
to his little wife that he had ventured to bring to her
house a woman of whom it could be said that she was
xxix.] THE CONTESSA'S TKIUMPH. 293
not above suspicion. Sir Torn had dared a great many
perils in his life, but he did not venture to face this.
He recoiled from before it, as he would not have done
from any lion in the way. He could not even suggest
to her any reticence in her communications, any reserve
in showing herself at the Contessa's side, or in inviting
other people to meet her. If all his happiness de-
pended upon it, he felt that he could not disturb Lucy's
mind by any such warning. Confess to her that he
had brought to her a woman with whom scandal had
been busy, that he had introduced to her as his friend,
and recommended to honour and kindness, one whose
name had been in all men's mouths ! Sir Tom ran
away morally from this suggestion as if he had been
the veriest coward ; he could not breathe a word of it
in Lucy's ear. How could he explain to her that mix-
ture of amazement at the woman's boldness, and humor-
ous sense of the incongruity of her appearance in the
absolute quiet of an English home, without company,
which, combined with ancient kindness and careless
good humour, had made him sanction her first appear-
ance ? Still less, how could he explain the mingling
of more subtle sensations, the recollections of a past
which Sir Tom could not himself much approve of, yet
which was full of interest still, and the formation of an
intercourse which renewed that past, and brought a
little tingling of agreeable excitement into life when it
had fallen to too low an ebb to be agreeable in itself?
He would not say a word of all this to Lucy. Her
purity, her simplicity, even her want of imagination
and experience, her incapacity to understand that de-
batable land between vice and virtue in which so many
men find little harm, and which so many women regard
with interest and curiosity, closed his mouth. And
294 SIR TOM. [chap.
then he comforted himself with the reflection that, as
Ms aunt herself had admitted, the Contessa had never
brought herself openly within the ban. Men might
laugh when the name of La Forno-Populo was intro-
duced, and women draw themselves up with indigna-
tion, or stare with astonishment not unmingled with
consternation as the Duchess had done ; but they could
not refuse to recognise her, nor could any one assert
that there was sufficient reason to exclude her from
society. Not even when she was younger, and sur-
rounded by worshippers, could this be said. And now
when she was less But here Sir Tom paused to
ask himself, was she less attractive than of old ? When
he came to consider the question he was obliged to
allow that he did not think so ; and if she really meant
to bring out that girl Did she mean to bring
out that girl ? Could she make up her mind to exhibit
beside her own waning (if they were waning) charms
the first flush of this young beauty ? Sir Tom, who
thought he knew women (at least of the kind of La
Forno-Populo), shook his head and felt it very doubtful
whether the Contessa was sincere, or if she could indeed
make up her mind to take a secondary place. He
thought with a rueful anticipation of the sort of people
who would flock to Park Lane to renew their acquaint-
ance with La Forno-Populo. "By Jove! but shall
they though ? Not if I know it," said Sir Tom firmly
to himself.
Williams, the butler, was still more profoundly dis-
composed. He had opened his mind to Mrs. Fresh-
water on various occasions when his feelings were too
many for him. Naturally, Williams gave the Contessa
the benefit of no doubt as to her reputation. He was
entirely convinced, as is the fashion of his class, that
xxix.] THE CONTESSA'S TRIUMPH. 295
all that could have been said of her was true, and that
she was as unfit for the society of the respectable as
any wretched creature could be. " That foreign madam"
was what he called her, in the privacy of the house-
keeper's room, with many opprobrious epithets. Mrs.
Freshwater, who was, perhaps, more good-natured than
was advantageous to the housekeeper and manager of a
large establishment, was melted whenever she saw her,
by the Contessa's gracious looks and ways, but Williams
was immovable. " If you'd seen what I've seen," he
said, shaking his head. The women, for Lucy's maid
Fletcher sometimes shared these revelations, were deeply
excited by this — longing, yet fearing to ask what it was
that Williams had seen. " And when I think of my
lady, that is as innocent as the babe unborn," he said,
" mixed up in all that You'll see such racketing
as never was thought of," cried Williams. " I know
just how things will go. Night turned into day, car-
riages driving up at all hours, suppers going on after
the play all the night through, masks and dominoes
arriving; — no — to be sure, this is England. There
will be no xeglionis, at least — which in England, ladies,
would be masked balls — with Madam the Countess and
her gentlemen — and even ladies too, a sort of ladies —
in all sorts of dresses."
" O-oh S " the women cried.
They were partially shocked, as they were intended
to be, but partially their curiosity was excited, and a
feeling that they would like to see all these gaieties
and fine dresses moved their minds. The primitive
intelligence always feel certain that " racketing " and
orgies that go on all night, must be at least guiltily de-
lightful, exciting, and amusing, if nothing else. They
were not of those who " held with " such dissipation ;
296 SIR TOM. [chap
still for once in a way to see it, the responsibility not
being theirs, would be something. They held their
breath, but it wTas not altogether in horror ; there was
in it a mixture of anticipation too.
" And I know what will come of it," said Williams.
" What has come afore : the money will have to come
out o' some one's pocket ; and master never knew how
to keep his to himself, never, as long as I've known
him. To be sure, he hadn't got a great deal in the old
days. But I know what'll happen ; he'll just have to
pay up now — he's that soft," said Williams ; " a man
that can't say no to a woman. Not that I care for the
money. I'd a deal sooner he gave her an allowance, or
set her up in some other place, or just give her a good
round sum — as he could afford to do — and get shut of
her. That is what I should advise. Just a round sum
and get shut of her."
" I've always heard," said Miss Fletcher, " as the
money was my lady's, and not from the Eandolph side
at all."
" What's hers is his," said Williams ; " what's my
lady's is her husband's ; and a good bargain too — on
her side."
" I declare," cried Fletcher energetically, stung with
that sense of wrong to her own side which gives heat
to party feeling — " I declare if any man took my
money to keep up his — his — his old sweetheart, I'd
murder him. I'd take his life, that's what I should
do."
" Poor dear," said Mrs. Freshwater, wiping her eyes
with her apron. " Poor dear ! She'll never murder
no one, my lady. Bless her innocent face. I only
hope as she'll never find it out."
" Sooner than she don't find it out I'll tell her my-
xxix.] THE CONTESSA'S TRIUMPH. 297
self," cried Williams. " Kow I don't understand you
women. You'd let my lady be deceived and made
game of, rather than tell her."
"Made game of!" cried Fletcher, with a shriek of
indignation. " I should like to see who dared to do
that,"
" Oh, they'll dare do it, soon enough, and take their
fun out of her — it's just what them foreigners are fond
of," said Williams, who knew them and all their tricks
clown to the ground, as he said. Still, however, not-
withstanding his evil reports, good Mrs. Freshwater,
who was as good-natured as she was fat, could scarcely
make up her mind to believe all that of the Contessa.
" She do look so sweet, and talk so pretty, not as if she
was foreign at all," the housekeeper said.
That evening, however, the Contessa herself took
occasion to explain to Sir Tom what her intentions
were. She had thought the subject all over while she
dressed for dinner, with a certain elation in her success,
yet keen clear -mindedness which never deserted her.
And then, to be sure, her object had not been entirely
the simple one of getting an invitation to Park Lane.
She had intended something more than this. And she
was not sure of success in that second and still more
important point. She meant that Lady Eandolph
should endow Bice largely, liberally. She intended to
bring every sort of motive to bear — even some that
verged upon tragedy — to procure this. She had no
compunction or faltering on the subject, for it was not
for herself, she said within herself, that she was schem-
ing, and she did not mean to be foiled. In considering
the best means to attain this great and final object, she
decided that it would be well to go softly, not to insist
too much upon the advantages she had secured, or to
298 SIR TOM. [chap.
give Lucy too much cause to regret her yielding. The
Contessa had the soul of a strategist, the imagination
of a great general. She did not ignore the feelings of
the subject of her experiment. She even put herself
in Lucy's place, and asked herself how she could bear
this or that. She would not oppose or overwhelm the
probable benefactress to whom she, or at least Bice,
might afterwards owe so much. When Sir Tom ap-
proached her chair in the evening when he came in
after dinner, as he always did, she made room for him
on the sofa beside her. " I am going to make you my
confidant," she said in her most charming way, with
that air of smiling graciousness which made Sir Tom
laugh, yet fascinated him in spite of himself. He knew
that she put on the same air for whomsoever she chose
to charm ; but it had a power which he could not
resist all the same. " But perhaps you don't care to
be taken into my confidence," she added, smiling, too,
as if willing to admit all he could allege as to her
syren graces. She had a delightful air of being in the
joke which entirely deceived Sir Tom.
" On the contrary," he said. " But as we have just
heard your plans from my wife "
The Contessa kissed her hand to Lucy, who occu-
pied her usual place at the table.
" I wonder," she said, " if you understand, being
only a man, what there is in that child ; for she is but
a child. You and I, we are Methuselahs in com-
parison."
" Not quite so much as that," he said, with a laugh.
" Methuselahs," she said reflectively. " Older, if
that is possible ; knowing everything, while she knows
nothing. She is our good angel. It is what you
would not have dared to offer, you who know me —
Xxix.] THE CONTESSA* S TKIUMPH. 299
yes, I believe it — and like me. Oh no, I do not go
beyond that English word, never ! You like the Eorno-
Populo. I know how yon men speak. You think that
there is amusement to be got from her, and you will
do me the honour to say, no harm. That is, no
permanent harm. But you would not offer to be-
friend me, no, not the best of you. But she who by
nature is against such women as I am — Sweet Lucy !
Yes it is you I am talking of," the Contessa said, who
was skilful to break any lengthened speeches like this
by all manner of interruptions, so that it should never
tire the person to whom it was addressed. " She, who
is not amused by me, who does not like me, whose
prejudices are all against me, she it is who offers me
her little hand to help me. It is a lovely little hand,
though she is not a beauty "
" My wife is very well," said Sir Tom, with a certain
hauteur and abruptness, such as in all their lengthened
conversations he had never shown before.
The Contessa gave him a look in which there was
much of that feminine contempt at which men laugh
as one of the pretences of women. " I am going to be
good to her as she is to me," she said. " The Carnival
will be short this year, and in England you have no
Carnival. I will find myself a little house for the
season. I will not too much impose upon that angel.
There, now, is something good for you to relieve your
mind. I can read you, mon ami, like a book. You
are fond of me — oh yes ! — but not too long ; not too
much. I can read you like a book."
" Too long, too much, are not in my vocabulary,"
said Sir Tom ; " have they a meaning ? not certainly
that has any connection with a certain charming Con-
tessina. If that lady has a fault, which I doubt, it is
300 SIR TOM. Ichap.
that she gives too little of her gracious countenance to
her friends."
" She does not come down to breakfast," said the
Contessa, with her soft laugh, which in itself was a
work of art. " She is not so foolish as to put herself
in competition with the lilies and the roses, the Eng-
lish flowers. Poverina ! she keeps herself for the after-
noon which is charitable, and the light of the lamps
which is nattering. But she remembers other days —
alas ! in which she was not afraid of the sun himself,
not even of the mid-day, nor of the dawn when it comes
in above the lamps. There was a certain bal costumS
in Florence, a year when many English came to the
Populino palace. But why do I talk of that ? You
will not remember "
There was something apparently in the recollection
that touched Sir Tom. His eye softened. An unac-
customed colour came to his middle-aged cheek. " I !
not remember? I remember every hour, every moment,"
he said, and then their voices sank lower, and a mur-
mur of reminiscences, one filling up another, ensued
between the pair. Their tone softened, there were
broken phrases, exclamations, a rapid interchange which
was far too indistinct to be audible. Lucy sat by her
table and worked, and was vaguely conscious of it all.
She had said to herself that she would take no heed
any more, that the poor Contessa was too open-hearted,
too generous to harm her, that they were but two old
friends talking of the past. And so it was ; but there
was a something forlorn in sitting by at a distance, out
of it all, and knowing that it was to go on and last,
alas ! by her own doing, who could tell how many even-
ings, how many long hours to come !
xxx.] DIFFERENT VIEWS. 301
CHAPTEE XXX.
DIFFERENT VIEWS.
The time after this seemed to fly in the great quiet,
all the entertainments of the Christmas season being
over, and the houses in the neighbourhood gradually
emptying of guests. The only visitors at the Hall were
the clergyman, the doctor, an odd man now and then
whom Sir Tom would invite in the character of a
" native," for the Contessa's amusement ; and Mr.
Eushton, who came from Farafield two or three times
on business, at first with a very keen curiosity, to know
how it was that Lucy had subdued her husband and
got him to relinquish his objection to her alienation of
her money. This had puzzled the lawyer very greatly.
There had been no uncertainty about Sir Tom's opinion
when the subject was mooted to him first. He had
looked upon it with very proper sentiments. It had
seemed to him ridiculous, incredible, that Lucy should
set up her will against his, or take her own way, when
she knew how he regarded the matter. He had told
the lawyer that he had little doubt of being able to
bring her to hear reason. And then he had written
to say that he withdrew his objection ! Mr. Eushton
felt that there must be some reason here more than
met the eye. He made a pretence of business that
he might discover what it was, and he had done so
triumphantly, as he thought. Sir Tom, as everybody
knew, had been " a rover " in his youth, and the world
was charitable enough to conclude that in that youth
there must be many things which he would not care
to expose to the eye of day. When Mr. Eushton
302 SIR TOM. [chap.
beheld at luncheon the Contessa, followed by the young
and slim figure of Bice, it seemed to him that every-
thing was solved. And Lady Bandolph, he thought,
did not look with very favourable eyes upon the
younger lady. What doubt that Sir Tom had bought
the assent of his wife to the presence of the guests by
giving up on his side some of his reasonable rights ?
" Did you ever hear of an Italian lady that Sir Tom
was thick with before he married ? " he asked his wife
when he came home.
" How can you ask me such a question," said that
virtuous woman, " when you know as well as I do that
there were half-a-dozen ? "
" Did you ever hear the name of Forno-Populo ? "
he asked.
Mrs. Eushton paused and did her best to look as if
she was trying to recollect. As a matter of fact all
Italian names sounded alike to her, as English names
do to foreign ears. But after a moment she said
boldly : " Of course I have heard it. That was the
lady from Naples, or Venice, or some of those places,
that ran away with him. You heard all about it at
the time as well as I."
And upon this Mr. Bushton smote upon his thigh,
and made a mighty exclamation. " By George ! " he
said, " he's got her there, under his wife's very nose ;
and that's why he has given in about the money."
Nothing could have been more clearly reasoned out —
there could be no doubt upon that subject. And the
presence of Bice decided the question. Bice must be
— they said, to be sure ! Dates and everything
answered to this view of the question. There could be
no doubt as to who Bice was. They were very re-
spectable, good people themselves, and had never given
xxx.] DIFFERENT VIEWS. 303
any scandal to the world ; but they never hesitated for
a moment or thought there was anything unnatural in
attributing the most shameful scandal and domestic
treachery to Sir Tom. In fact it would be difficult to
say that they thought much less of him in consequence.
It was Lucy, rather, upon whom their censure fell.
She ought to have known better. She ought never to
have allowed it. To pretend to such simplicity was
sickening, Mrs. Eushton thought.
It was early in February when they all went to
London — a time when society is in a sort of promissory
state, full of hopes of dazzling delights to come, but for
the present not dazzling, parliamentary, residential, a
society made up of people who live in London, who
are not merely gay birds of fashion, basking in the
sunshine of the seasons. There was only a week or
two of what the Contessa called Carnival, which indeed
was not Carnival at all, but a sober time in which
dinner parties began, and the men began to gather at
the clubs. The Contessa did not object to this period
of quiet. She acquainted Lucy with all she meant to
do in the meantime, to the great confusion of that in-
genious spirit. " Bice must be dressed," the Contessa
said, " which of itself requires no little time and
thought. Unhappily M. Worth is not in London.
Even with M. Worth I exert my own faculties. He
is excellent, but he has not the intuitions which come
when one is very much interested in an object. Sweet
Lucy ! you have not thought upon that matter. Your
dress is as your dressmaker sends it to you. Yes; but, my
angel, Bice has her career before her. It is different."
" Oh, Madame di Forno-Populo," said Lucy, " do
you still think in that way — must it still be exhibiting
her, marrying her ? "
304 SIR TOM. [chap
" Marriage is honourable," said the Contessa. "It is
what all girls are thinking of ; but me, I think it better
that their parents should take it in hand instead of
the young ladies. There is something in Bice that
is difficult, oh, very difficult. If one chooses well for
her, one will be richly repaid ; but if, on the contrary,
one leaves it to the conventional, the ordinary — My
sweetest ! your pretty white dresses, your blues are
delightful for you ; but Bice is different, quite differ-
ent. And then she has no fortune. She must be
piquant. She must be striking. She must please.
In England you take no trouble for that. It is not
comme il faut here ; but it is in our country. Each of
us we like the ways of our country best."
" I have often wondered," said Lucy, " to hear you
speak such perfect English, and Bice too. It is, I
suppose, because you are so musical and have such
good ears "
" Darling ! " said the Contessa sweetly. She said
this or a similar word when nothing else occurred to
her. She had her room full of lovely stuffs, brought
by obsequious shopmen, to whom Lady Bandolph's
name was sufficient warrant for any extravagance the
Contessa might think of. But she said to herself that
she was not at all extravagant ; for Bice's wardrobe
was her stock-in-trade, and if she did not take the
opportunity of securing it while in her power, the
Contessa thought she would be false to Bice's interests.
The girl still wore nothing but her black frock. She
went out in the park early in the morning when
nobody was there, and sometimes had riding lessons at
an unearthly hour, so that nobody should see her.
The Contessa was very anxious on this point. When
Lucy would have taken Bice out driving, when she
xxx.] DIFFERENT VIEWS. 305
would have taken her to the theatre, her patroness in-
stantly interfered. " All that will come in its time,"
she said. " Xot now. She must not appear now.
I cannot have her seen. Becollect, my Lucy, she has
no fortune. She must depend upon herself for every-
thing." This doctrine, at which Lucy stood aghast,
was maintained in the most matter-of-fact way by the
neophyte herself. " If I were seen," she said, " now,
I should be quite stale when I appear. I must
appear before I go anywhere. Oh yes, I love the
theatre. I should like to go with you driving. But
I should forestall myself. Some persons do and they
are never successful. First of all, before anything, I
must appear."
" Oh my child," Lucy cried, " I cannot bear to hear
of all this. You should not calculate so at your age.
And when you appear, as you call it, what then, Bice?
Xobody will take any particular notice, perhaps, and
you will be so disappointed you will not know what to
do. Hundreds of girls appear every season and nobody
minds."
Bice took no notice of these subduing and moderat-
ing previsions. She smiled and repeated what the
Contessa said. " I must do the best for myself, for I
have no fortune."
Xo fortune ! and to think that Lucy, with her mind
directed to other matters, never once realised that this
was a state of affairs which she could put an end to in
a moment. It never occurred to her — perhaps, as she
certainly was matter of fact, the recollection that
there was a sort of stipulation in the will against
foreigners turned her thoughts into another channel.
It was, however, during this time of preparation
and quiet that the household in Park Lane one day
x
306 SIR TOM. [chap.
received a visit from Jock, accompanied by no less a
person than MTutor, the leader of intellectual life
and light of the world to the boy. They came to
luncheon by appointment, and after visiting some
museum on which Jock's mind was set, came to remain
to dinner and go to the theatre. MTutor had a con-
descending appreciation of the stage. He thought it
was an educational influence, not perhaps of any great
utility to the youths under such care as his own, but
of no small importance to the less fortunate members
of society ; and he liked to encourage the efforts of con-
scientious actors who looked upon their own calling in
this light. It was rather for this purpose than with
the idea of amusement that he patronised the play,
and Jock, as in duty bound, though there was in him
a certain boyish excitement as to the pleasure itself,
did his best to regard the performance in the same
exalted light. MTutor was a young man of about
thirty, slim and tall. He was a man who had taken
honours at college, though his admirers said not such
high honours as he might have taken ; " For MTutor,"
said Jock, " never would go in for pot-hunting, you
know. What he always wanted was to cultivate his
own mind, not to get prizes." It was with heartfelt
admiration that this feature in his character was dwelt
upon by his disciples. Not a doubt that he could
have got whatever he liked to go in for, had he not
been so fastidious and high-minded. He was fellow of
his college as it was, had got a poetry prize which, per-
haps, was not the Newdigate ; and smiled indulgently
at those who were more warm in the arena of com-
petition than himself. On other occasions when
" men " came to luncheon, the Contessa, though quite
ready to be amused by them in her own person, sternly
xxx. "J DIFFERENT VIEWS. 307
forbade tlie appearance of Bice, the effect of whose
future was not, she was determined, to be spoilt by
any such preliminary peeps ; but the Contessa's vigil-
ance slackened when the visitors were of no greater im-
portance than this. She was insensible to the great-
ness of MTutor. It did not seem to matter that he
should be there sitting grave and dignified by Lucy's
side, and talking somewhat over Lucy's head, any more
than it mattered that Mr. Eushton should be there, or
any other person of an inferior level. It was not upon
such men that Bice's appearance was to tell. She
took no precautions against such persons. Jock
himself at sixteen was not more utterly out of the
question. And the Contessa herself, as it happened,
was much amused by MTutor ; his great ideas of
everything, the exalted ideal that showed in all he did
or said, gave great pleasure to this woman of the world.
And when they came to the question of the educational
influence of the stage, and the conscientious character
of the actors' work, she could not conceal her satis-
faction. " I will go with you, too," she said, " this
evening." ""We shall all go," said Sir Tom, "even Bice.
There is a big box, and behind the curtain nobody will
see her." To this the Contessa demurred, but, after a
little while, being in a yielding humour, gave way.
" It is for the play alone," she said in an undertone,
raising her finger in admonition, " You will remember,
my child, for the play alone."
" We are all going for the play alone," said Sir
Tom, cheerfully. " Here is Lucy, who is a baby for a
play. She likes melodrama best, disguises and trap-"
doors and long-lost sons, and all the rest of it."
" It is a taste that is very general," said MTutor,
indulgently ; " but I am sure Lady Randolph appre-
308 SIR TOM. [chap.
ciates the efforts of a conscientious interpreter — one
who calls all the resources of art to his aid "
" I don't care for the play alone," said Bice to Jock
in an undertone. " I want to see the people. They are
always the most amusing. I have seen nobody yet in
London. And though I must not be seen, I may look,
that will do no harm. Then there will be the people
who come into the box."
" The people who come into the box ! but you know
us all," said Jock, astonished, " before we go "
" You all ? " said Bice, with some disdain. " It is
easy to see you ; that is not what I mean ; this will
be the first time I put my foot into the world. The
actors, that is nothing. Is it the custom in England
to look much at the play ? No, you go to see your
friends."
MTutor was on the other side of this strange
girl in her black frock. He took it upon him to reply.
He said : " That is the case in some countries, but not
here. In England the play is actually thought of.
English actors are not so good as the French, nor even
the Italian. And the Germans are much better trained.
Nevertheless, we do what perhaps no other nation does.
We give them our attention. It is this which makes
the position of the actors more important, more in-
teresting in England."
" Stop a little, stop a little ! " cried Sir Tom ; " don't
let me interrupt you, Derwent water, if you are instruct-
ing the young ones ; but don't forget the Comklie Fran-
yaise and the aristocracy of art."
" I do not forget it," said Mr. Derwentwater ; " in
that point of view we are far behind France ; still I up-
hold that nowhere else do people go to the theatre for
the sake of the play as we do ; and it is this," he said,
xxx.] DIFFERENT VIEWS. 309
turning to Bice, " that makes it possible that the theatre
may be an influence and a power."
Bice lifted her eyes upon this man with a wonder-
ing gaze of contempt. She gave him a full look which
abashed him, though he was so much more important,
so much more intellectual, than she. Then, without
deigning to take any notice, she turned to Jock at her
other side. " If that is all I do not care for going,"
she said. I have seen many plays — oh, many ! I
like quite as well to read at home. It is not for that
I wish to go ; but to see the world. The world, that
is far more interesting. It is like a novel, but living.
You look at the people and you read what they are
thinking. You see their stories going on. That is
what amuses me ; — but a play on the stage, what is
it ? People dressed in clothes that do not belong to
them, trying to make themselves look like somebody else
— but they never do. One says — that is not I, but
the people that know — Bravo, Got ! Bravo Begnier !
It does not matter what parts they are acting. You
do not care for the part. Then why go and look at
it ? " said Bice with straightforward philosophy.
All this she poured forth upon Jock in a low clear
voice, as if there was no one else near. Jock, for his
part, was carried away by the flood.
" I don't know about Got and Begnier. But what
we are going to see is Shakespeare," he said, with a
little awe, " that is not just like a common play."
Mr. Derwentwater had been astonished by Bice's
indifference to his own instructive remarks. It was
this perhaps more than her beauty which had called his
attention to her, and he had listened as well as he could
to the low rapid stream of her conversation, not with-
out wonder that she should have chosen Jock as the
310 SIR TOM. [chap.
recipient of her confidence. What she said, though
he heard it but imperfectly, interested him still more.
He wanted to make her out — it was a new kind of
study. While Lucy, by his side, went on tranquilly
with some soft talk about the theatre, of which she
knew very little, he thought, he made her a civil response,
but gave all his attention to what was going on at the
other side ; and there was suddenly a lull of the general
commotion, in which he heard distinctly Bice's next
words.
" Wliat is Shakespeare ? " she said ; then went on
with her own reflections. " What I want to see is the
world. I have never yet gone into the world ; but I
must know it, for it is there I have to live. If one
could live in Shakespeare," cried the girl, " it would be
easy ; but I have not been brought up for that ; and I
want to see the world — just a little corner — because
that is what concerns me, not a play. If it is only
for the play, I think I shall not go."
" You had much better come," said Jock ; " after
all it is fun, and some of the fellows will be good.
The world is not to be seen at the theatre that I know
of," continued the boy. " Eows of people sitting one
behind another, most of them as stupid as possible —
you don't call that the world? But come — I wish
you would come. It is a change — it stirs you up."
" I don't want to be stirred up. I am all living,"
cried Bice. There seemed to breathe out from her a
sort of visible atmosphere of energy and impatient life.
Looking across this thrill in the air, which somehow
was like the vibration of heat in the atmosphere,
Jock's eyes encountered those of his tutor, turned very
curiously, and not without bewilderment, to the same
point as his own. It gave the boy a curious sensation
xxxi.] TWO FRIENDS. 311
which he could not define. He had wished to exhibit
to Mr. Derwentwater this strange phenomenon in the
shape of a girl, with a sense that there was something
very unusual in her, something hi which he himself
had a certain proprietorship. But when MTutor's
eyes encountered Jock's with an astonished glance of
discovery in them, which seemed to say that he had
found out Bice for himself without the interposition of
the original discoverer, Jock felt a thrill of displeasure,
and almost pain, which he could not explain to him-
self. What did it mean ? It seemed to bring with it
a certain defiance of, and opposition to, this king of
men.
CHAPTEE XXXI.
TWO FRIENDS.
" Who was that young lady ? " Mr. Derwentwater said.
" I did not catch the name."
" What young lady ? " To suppose for a moment
that Jock did not know who was meant would be
ridiculous, of course ; but, for some reason which he
did not explain even to himself, this was the reply he
made.
" My dear Jock, there was but one," said MTutor,
with much friendliness. "At your age you do not
take much notice of the other sex, and that is very well
and right ; but still it would be wrong to imagine that
there is not something interesting in girls occasionally.
I did not make her out. She was quite a study to me
at the theatre. I am afraid the greater part of the
performance, and all the most meritorious portion of it,
312 SIR TOM. [chap.
was thrown away upon her ; but still there were gleams
of interest. She is not without intelligence, that is
clear."
" You mean Bice," said Jock, with a certain dogged
air which Mr. Derwentwater had seldom seen in him
before, and did not understand. He spoke as if he
intended to say as little as was practicable, and as if he
resented being made to speak at all.
" Bice — ah ! like Dante's Bice," said MTutor.
" That makes her more interesting still. Though it is
not perhaps under that aspect that one represents to
oneself the Bice of Dante — ben son, ben son, Beatrice.
No, not exactly under that aspect. Dante's Bice must
have be'en more grand, more imposing, in her dress of
crimson or dazzling white."
Jock made no response. It was usual for him to
regard MTutor devoutly when he talked in this way,
and to feel that no man on earth talked so well. Jock
in his omnivorous reading knew perhaps Dante better
than his instructor, but he had come to the age when
the mind, confused in all its first awakening of emo-
tions, cannot talk of what affects it most. The time
had been at which he had discussed everything he read
with whosoever would listen, and instructed the world
in a child's straightforward way. At that period he
had often improved Lucy's mind on the subject of
Dante, telling her all the details of that wonderful
pilgrimage through earth and heaven, to her great in-
terest and wonder, as something that had happened the
other day. Lucy had not in those days been quite
able to understand how it was that the gentleman of
Florence should have met everybody he knew in the
unseen, but she had taken it all in respectfully, as was
her wont. Jock, however, had passed beyond this
xxxi.] TWO FRIENDS. 313
stage, and no longer told Lucy, or any one, stories from
his reading ; and other sensations had begun to stir in
him which he could not put into words. In this way
it was a constant admiration to him to hear MTutor,
who could always, he thought, say the right thing and
never was at a loss. But this evening he was dis-
satisfied. They were returning from the theatre by a
late train, and nothing but Jock's reputation and high
character as a boy of boys, high up in everything intel-
lectual, and without reproach in any way, besides the
devoted friendship which subsisted between himself
and his tutor, could have justified Mr. Derwentwater in
permitting him in the middle of the half to go to
London to the theatre, and return by the twelve o'clock
train. This privilege came to him from the favour of
his tutor, and yet for the first time his tutor did not
seem the superhuman being he had always previously
appeared to Jock. But Mr. Derwentwater was quite
unsuspicious of this.
" There is something very much out of the way in
the young lady altogether," he said. " That little black
dress, fitting her like a glove, and no ornament or finery
of any description. It is not so with girls in general.
It was very striking — tell me "
" I didn't think," cried Jock, " that you paid any
attention to what women wore."
Mr. Derwentwater yielded to a gentle smile. " Tell
me," he said, as if he had not been interrupted, " who
this young lady may be. Is she a daughter of the
Italian lady, a handsome woman, too, in her way, who
was with your people ? " The railway carriage in which
they were coursing through the blackness of the night
was but dimly lighted, and it was not easy to see from
one corner to another the expression of Jock's face.
314 SIR TOM. [chap.
" I don't know," said Jock, in a voice that sounded
gruff, " I can't tell who she is — I never asked. It did
not seem any business of mine."
" Old fellow," said MTutor, " don't cultivate those
bearish ways. Some men do, but it's not good form.
I don't like to see it in you."
This silenced Jock, and made his face flame in the
darkness. He did not know what excuse to make.
He added reluctantly: " Of course I know that she came
with the Contessa ; but who she is I don't know, and
I don't think Lucy knows. She is just — there."
" Well, my boy," said Mr. Derwentwater, " if there
is any mystery, all right ; I don't want to be prying ;"
but, as was natural, this only increased his curiosity.
After an interval, he broke forth again. "A little
mystery," he said, " suits them ; a woman ought to be
mysterious, with her long robes falling round her, and
her mystery of long hair, and all the natural veils and
mists that are about her. It is more poetic and in
keeping that they should only have a lovely suggestive
name, what we call a Christian name, instead of a com-
monplace patronymic, Miss So-and-so ! Yes ; I recognise
your Bice as by far the most suitable symbol."
It is impossible to say what an amount of unex-
pressed and inexpressible irritation arose in the mind
of Jock with every word. " Your Bice ! " The words
excited him almost beyond his power of control. The
mere fact of having somehow got into opposition to
MTutor was in itself an irritation almost more than he
could bear. How it was he could not explain to him-
self; but only felt that from the moment when they
had got into their carriage together, Mr. Derwentwater,
hitherto his god, had become almost odious to him.
The evening altogether had been exciting, but uncom-
xxxi.] TWO FRIENDS. 315
fortable. They had all gone to the theatre, where Jock
had been prepared to look on not so much at a fine
piece of acting as at a conscientious study, the labori-
ousness of which was one of its chief qualities. Neither
the Contessa nor Bice had been much impressed by
that fine view of the performance. Madame di Forno-
Populo, indeed, had swept the audience with her opera-
glass, and paid very little attention to the stage. She
had yawned at the most important moments. When
the curtain fell she had woke up, looking with interest
for visitors, as it appeared, though very few visitors had
come. Bice was put into the corner under shelter of
the Contessa, and thence had taken furtive peeps,
though without any opera-glass, with her own keen,
intelligent young eyes, at the people sitting near, whom
Jock had declared not to be in any sense of the word
the world. Bice too looked up, when the box door
opened, with great interest. She kept well in the shade,
but it was evident that she was anxious to see whoso-
ever might come. And very few people came ; one or
two men who came to pay their respects to Lucy, one
or two who appeared with faces of excitement and sur-
prise to ask if it was indeed Madame di Forno-Populo
whom they had seen ? At these Bice from out her
corner gazed with large eyes ; they were not persons of
an interesting kind. One of them was a Lord Some-
body, who was red-faced and had an air which some-
how did not suit the place in which Lucy was, and
towards whom Sir Tom, though he knew him, main-
tained an aspect of seriousness not at all usual to his
cordial countenance. Bice, it was evident, was struck
with a contemptuous amaze at the appearance of these
visitors. There was a quick interchange of glances
between her and the Contessa with shrugs of the
316 SIR TOM. [chap
slioulders and ranch play of fans. Bice's raised eye-
brows and cnrled lips perhaps meant — "Are those yonr
famous friends? Is this all?" Whereas the Contessa
answered deprecatingly, with a sort of " wait a little"
look. Jock, who generally was pleased to stroll about
the lobbies in a sort of mannish way in the intervals
between the acts, sat still in his place to watch all this
with a wondering sense that here was something going
on in which there was a still closer interest, and to
notice everything almost without knowing that he noted
it, following in this respect, as in most others, the lead
of his tutor, who likewise addressed himself to the
supervision of everything that went on, discoursing in
the meantime to Lucy about the actors' " interpretation"
of the part, and how far he, Mr. Derwentwater, agreed
with their view. To Lucy, indeed, the action of the
play was everything, and the intervals between tedious.
She laughed and cried, and followed every movement,
and looked round, hushing the others when they whis-
pered, almost with indignation. Lucy was far younger,
Jock decided, than Bice or even himself. He, too, had
learned already — how had he learned it? — that the
play going on upon the stage was less interesting than
that which was being performed outside. Even Jock
had found this out, though he could not have told how.
Shakespeare, indeed, was far greater, nobler; but the
excitement of a living story, the progress of events of
which nobody could tell what would come next, had
an interest transcending even the poetry. That was
what people said, Jock was aware, in novels and other
productions ; but until to-night he never believed it
was true.
And then there was the journey from town, with
all the curious sensation of parting at the theatre doors,
xxxi.] TWO FRIENDS. 317
and returning from that shining; world of gaslight, and
ladies' dresses, into the dimness of the railway, the
tedious though not very long journey, the plunging of
the carriage through the blackness of the night ; and
along with these the questions of Mr. Derwentwater,
so unlike him, so uncalled-for, as Jock could not help
thinking. "What had he to do with Bice ? What had
any one to do with her ? So far as she belonged to
any one, it was to himself, Jock ; her first friend, her
companion in her walks, he to whom she had spoken
so freely, and who had told her his opinion with such
simplicity. "When Jock remembered that he had told
her she was not pretty his cheeks burned. There had
stolen into his mind, he could not tell how, a very
different feeling now — not perhaps a different opinion.
When he reflected it did not seem to him even now
that pretty was the word to use — but the impression
of Bice which was in his mind was something that
made the boy thrill. He did not understand it, nor
could he tell what it was. But it made him quiver
with resentment when there was any question about
her — an vt Inner like this cold-blooded investigation
which Mr. Derwentwater had attempted to make. It
troubled Jock all the more that it should be MTutor
who made it. When our god, our model of excellence,
comes down from his high state to anything that is
petty, or less than perfect, how sore is the pang with
which we acknowledge it. u To be wroth with those
we love doth work like madness in the brain." Jock
had both these pangs together. He was angry because
MTutor had been interfering with matters in which
he had no concern, and he was pained because
MTutor had condescended to ask questions and invite
gossip, like the smaller beings well enough known in
318 SIR TOM. [chap.
the boy-world as in every other, who make gossip the
chief object of their existence. Could there be any-
thing in the idol of his youth akin to these ? He felt
sore and disappointed, without knowing why, with a
dim consciousness that there were many other people
whom Mr. Derwentwater might have inquired about
without awakening any such feelings in him. When
the train stopped, and they got out, it was strange to
walk down the silent, midnight streets by MTutor's
side, without the old sensation of pleasure with which
the boy felt himself made into the man's companion.
He was awakened out of his maze of dark and painful
feelings by the voice of Derwentwater calling upon
him to admire the effect of the moonlight upon the
river as they crossed the bridge. For long after that
scene remained in Jock's mind against a background of
mysterious shadows and perplexity. The moon rode
in the midst of a wide clearing of blue between two
broken banks of clouds. She was almost full, and
approaching her setting. She shone full upon the
river, sweeping from side to side in one flood of silver,
broken only by a few strange little blacknesses, the
few boats, like houseless stragglers out by night and
without shelter, which lay here and there by a wharf
or at the water's edge. The scene was wonderfully
still and solemn, not a motion to be seen either on
street or stream. " How is it, do you think," said Mr.
Derwentwater, " that we think so little of the sun
when it is he that lights up a scene like this, and so
much of the moon ? "
Jock was taken by surprise by this question, which
was of a kind which his tutor was fond of putting,
and which brought back their old relations instan-
taneously. Jock seemed to himself to wake up out of
xxxi.] TWO FEIENDS. 319
a strange inarticulate dream of displeasure and em-
barrassment, and to feel himself with sudden remorse,
a traitor to his friend. He said, faltering : " I don't
know ; it is always you that finds out the analogies. I
don't think that my mind is poetical at all."
"You do yourself injustice, Jock," said Derwent-
water, his arm within that of his pupil in their old
familiar way. And then he said : " The moon is the
feminine influence which charms us by showing herself
clearly as the source of the light she sheds. The sun
we rarely think of at all, but only of what he gives us
— the light and the heat that are our life. Her," he
pointed to the sky, " we could dispense with, save for
the beauty of her."
" I wish," said Jock, " I could think of anything so
fine. But do you think we could do without women
like that ? " said the inquiring young spirit, ready to
follow with his bosom bare whithersoever this refined
philosophy might lead.
" You and I will," said the instructor. " There are
grosser and there are tamer spirits to whom it might
be different. I would not wrong you by supposing
that you, my boy, could ever be tempted in the gross
way ; and I don't think you are of the butterfly
dancing kind."
" I should rather think not ! " said Jock, with a
short laugh.
" Then, except as a beautiful object, setting herself
forth in conscious brightness, like that emblem of
woman yonder," said MTutor with a wave of his
hand, admiring, familiar, but somewhat contemptuous,
towards the moon, "what do we want with that
feminine influence ? Our lives are set to higher uses,
and occupied with other aims."
320 SIR TOM. [chap.
Jock was perfectly satisfied with this profession of
faith. He went along the street with his tutor's arm
in Iris, and a vague elation as of something settled and
concluded upon in his mind. Their footsteps rang
upon the pavement with a manly tramp as they paced
away from the light on the bridge into the shadow
of the old houses with their red roofs. They had
gone some way before, being above all things loyal,
Jock thought it right to put in a proviso. " ISTot
intellectually, perhaps," he said, " but I can't forget
how much I owe to my sister. I should have been a
most forlorn little wretch when I was a child, and I
shouldn't be much now, but for Lucy standing by me.
It's not well to forget that, is it, sir ? though Lucy is
not at all clever," he added in an undertone.
" You are a loyal soul," said MTutor, with a
pressure of his arm, " but Woman does not mean our
mothers and sisters." Here he permitted himself a
little laugh. " It shows me how much inferior is my
position to that of your youth, my dear boy," he said,
" when you give me such an answer. Believe me it is
far finer than anything you suppose me to be able to
say."
Jock did not know how to respond to this speech.
It half angered, half pleased him, but on the whole
he was more ashamed of the supposed youthfulness
than satisfied with the approbation. No one, however
young, likes the imputation of innocence ; and Jock had
feelings rising within him of which he scarcely knew
the meaning, but which made him still more sensible
of the injustice of this view. He was too proud, how-
ever, to explain himself even if he had been able to do
so, and the little way that remained was trodden in
silence. The boy, however, could not help a curious
xxxii.] YOUTHFUL UNREST. 321
sensation of superiority as he went to his room through
the sleeping-house, feeling the stillness of the slumber
into which he stole, treading very quietly that he might
not disturb any one. He stopped for a moment with
a candle in his hand and looked down the long passage
with its line of closed doors on each side, holding his
breath with a half smile of sympathy, respect for the
hush of sleep, yet keen superiority of life and emotion
over all the unconscious household. His own brain
and heart seemed tingling with the activity and tumult
of life in them. It seemed to him impossible to sleep,
to still the commotion in his mind, and bring himself
into harmony with that hushed atmosphere and childish
calm.
CHAPTEE XXXII.
YOUTHFUL UNREST.
Easter was very early that year, about as early as
Easter can be, and there was in Jock's mind a disturb-
ing consciousness of the holidays, and the manner in
which he was likely to spend them, which no doubt
interfered to a certain extent with Ins work. He
ought to have been first in the competition for a certain
school prize, and he was not. It was carried off to the
disappointment of Jock's house, and, indeed, of the
greater part of the school, by a King's scholar, which
was the fate of most of the prizes. Mr. Derwentwater
was deeply cast down by this disappointment. He
expressed himself on the subject indeed with all the
fine feeling for which he was distinguished. " The
loss of a distinction," he said, " is not in itself a matter
Y
322 SIR TOM. [chap.
to disturb us ; but I own I should be sorry to think
that you were failing at all in that intellectual energy
which has already placed you so often at the head of
the lists — that, my dear fellow, I should unfeignedly
regret ; but not a mere prize, which is nothing."
This was a very handsome way of speaking of it ; but
that MTutor was disappointed there could be no
doubt. To Jock himself it gave a keen momentary
pang to see his own name only third in that beadroll
of honour ; but so it was. The holidays had all that
to answer for ; the holidays, or rather what they were
to bring. When he thought of the Hall and the com-
pany there, Jock felt a certain high tide in his veins,
an awakening of interest and anticipation which he did
not understand. He did not say to himself that he
was going to be happy. He only looked forward with
an eager heart, with a sense of something to come,
which was different from the routine of ordinary life.
MTutor after many hindrances and hesitations was
at last going to accept the invitation of Sir Tom, and
accompany his pupil. This Jock had looked forward
to as the greatest of pleasures. But somehow he did
not feel so happy about it now. He did not seem to
himself to want Mr. Derwentwater. In some ways,
indeed, he had become impatient of Mr. Derwentwater.
Since that visit to the theatre, involuntarily without
any cause for it, there had commenced to be moments
in which MTutor was tedious. This sacrilege was
unconscious, and never yet had been put into words;
but still the feeling was there ; and the beginning of
any such revolution in the soul must be accompanied
with many uneasinesses. Jock was on the stroke, so
to speak, of seventeen. He was old for his age, yet
he had been almost childish too in his devotion to his
xxxil] YOUTHFUL UNKEST. 323
books, and the subjects of his school life. The last
year had introduced many new thoughts to his mind
by restoring him to the partial society of his sister and
her house ; but into these new subjects he had carried
the devotion of his studious habits and the enthusiasm
of his discipleship, transferring himself bodily with all
his traditions into the new atmosphere. But a change
somehow had begun in him, he could not tell how.
He was stirred beyond the lines of his former being —
sentiments, confusions of spirit quite new to him,
were vaguely fermenting, he could not tell how ; and
school work, and prizes, and all the emulations of
sixth form had somehow tamed and paled. The
colour seemed to have gone out of them. And the
library of MTutor, that paradise of thought, that
home of conversation, where so many fine things used
to be said — that too had palled upon the boy's uneasy
soul. He felt as if he should prefer to leave every-
thing behind him, — books and compositions and talk,
and even MTutor himself. Such a state of mind
is sure to occur some time or other in a boy's ex-
periences ; but in this case it was too early, and Mr.
Derwentwater, who was very deeply devoted to his
pupils, was much exercised on the subject. He had
lost Jock's confidence, he thought. How had he lost
Ins confidence ? was it that some other less wholesome
influence was coming in ? Thus there were feelings
of discomfort between them, hesitations as to what to
say, instinctive avoidance of some subjects, concealed
allusions to others. It might even be said that in a
very refined and superior way, such as was alone
possible to such a man, Mr. Derwentwater occasionally
talked at Jock. He talked of the pain and grief of
seeing a young heart closed to you which once had
324 SIR TOM. [cnAP.
been open, and of the poignant disappointment which
arises in an elder spirit when its spiritual child — its
disciple — gets beyond its leading. Jock, occupied
with his own thoughts, only partially understood.
It was in this state of mind that they set out to-
gether, amid all the bustle of breaking up, to pay their
promised visit. Jock, who up to this moment had
hated London, and looked with alarm upon society, had
eagerly accepted his tutor's proposal that after the ten
days which they were to spend at the Hall they should
go to Normandy together for the rest of the holidays,
which was an arrangement very pleasant in anticipa-
tion. But by this time neither of the two was at all
anxious to carry it out. Mr. Derwentwater had begun
to talk of the expediency of giving a little attention
to one's own country. " We are just as foolish as the
ignorant masses," he said, " though we think ourselves
so wise. Why not Devonshire instead of Normandy ?
it is finer in natural scenery. Why not London
instead of Paris ? there is no spell in mere going, as
the ignorant say ' abroad.' " When you come to think
of it, in just the same proportion as one is superior to
the common round of gaping British tourists, by going
on a walking tour in Normandy, one is superior to the
walkers in Normandy by choosing Devonshire.
These remarks were preliminary to the intention of
giving up the plan altogether, and by the time they
set out it was tacitly understood that this was to be
the case. It was to be given up — not for Devonshire.
The pair of friends had become two — they were to do
each what was good in his own eyes. Jock would
remain " at home," whether that home meant the Hall
or Park Lane, and Mr. Derwentwater, after his week's
visit, should go on — where seemed to him good.
xxxii.] YOUTHFUL UNREST. 325
There was a considerable party gathered in the
inner drawing-room when Jock and his companion
presented themselves there. The scene was very differ-
ent from that to which Jock had been accustomed,
when the tea-table was a sort of fireside adjunct to the
warmth and brightness centred there. Now the win-
dows were full of a clear yellow sky, shining a little
shrilly after rain, and promising in its too-clear and
watery brightness more rain to come ; and many people
were about, some standing up against the light, some
lounging in the comfortable chairs, some talking to-
gether in groups, some hanging about Lucy and her
tea service. Lucy said, " Oh, is it you, Jock ?" and
kissed him, with a look of pleasure ; but she had not
run out to meet him as of old. Lucy, indeed, was
changed, perhaps more evidently changed than any
member of the family. She was far more self-possessed
than she had ever been before. She did not now turn
to her husband with that pretty look, half-smiling, half-
wistful, to know how she had got through her domestic
duties. There was a slight air of hurry and em-
barrassment about her eyes. The season had not
begun, and she could not have been overdone by her
social duties ; but something had aged and changed
her. Some old acquaintances came forward and shook
hands with Jock ; and Sir Tom, when he saw who it
was, detached himself from the person he was talking
to, and came forward and gave him a sufficiently cordial
welcome. The person with whom he was talking was
the Contessa. She was in her old place in the room,
the comfortable sofa which she had taken from Lady
Randolph, and where Sir Tom, leaning upon the mantel-
piece, as an Englishman loves to do, could talk to her in
the easiest of attitudes. Jock, though he was not dis-
326 SIR TOM. [chap.
cerning, thought that Sir Tom looked aged and changed
too. The people in general had a tired afternoon sort
of look about them. They were not like people exult-
ing to get out of town, and out of darkness and winter
weather to the fresh air and April skies. Perhaps,
however, this effect was produced by the fact that look-
ing for one special person in the assembly Jock had
not found her. He had never cared who was there
before. Except Lucy, the whole world was much the
same to him. To talk to her now and then, but by
preference alone, when he could have her to himself
and nobody else was by, and then to escape to the
library, had been the height of Ms desire. Now he no
longer thought of the library, or even, save in a second-
ary way, of Lucy. He looked about for some one else.
There was the Contessa, sure enough, with one man on
the sofa by her side and another seated in front of her,
and Sir Tom against the mantelpiece lounging and talk-
ing. She was enchanting them all with her rapid talk,
with the pretty, swift movements of her hands, her
expressive looks and ways. But there was no shadow
of Bice about the room. Jock looked at once behind
the table, where she had been always visible when the
Contessa was present. But Bice was not there. There
was not a trace of her among the people whom Jock
neither knew nor cared to know. But everything went
on cheerfully, notwithstanding this omission, which
nobody but Jock seemed to remark. Ladies chattered
softly as they sipped their tea, men standing over them
telling anecdotes of this person and that, with runs of
soft laughter here and there. Lucy at the tea-table
was the only one who was at all isolated. She was
bending over her cups and saucers, supplying now one
and now another, listening to a chance remark here and
xxxii.] YOUTHFUL UNREST. 327
there, giving an abstracted smile to the person who
might chance to be next to her. What was she thinking
of ? Not of Jock, who had only got a smile a little
more animated than the others. Mr. Derwentwater
did not know anybody in this company. He stood on
the outskirts of it, with that look of mingled conciliation
and defiance which is natural to a man who feels him-
self overlooked. He was more disappointed even than
Jock, for he had anticipated a great deal of attention,
and not to find himself nobody in a fashionable crowd.
Things did not mend even at dinner. Then the
people were more easily identified in their evening
clothes, exposing themselves steadily to all observers
on either side of the table ; but they did not seem
more interesting. There were two or three political
men, friends of Sir Tom, and some of a very different
type who were attached to the Contessa — indeed, the
party consisted chiefly of men, with a few ladies thrown
in. The ladies were not much more attractive. One of
them, a Lady Anastasia something, was one of the most
inveterate of gossip collectors, a lady who not only pro-
vided piquant tales for home consumption, but served
them up to the general public afterwards in a news-
paper—the only representatives of ordinary womankind
being a mother and two daughters, who had no par-
ticular qualities, and who duly occupied a certain
amount of space, without giving anything in return.
But Bice was not visible. She who had been so little
noticed, yet so far from insignificant, where was she ?
Could it be that the Contessa had left her behind, or
that Lucy had objected to her, or that she was ill, or
that — Jock did not know what to think. The com-
pany was a strange one. Those sedate, political friends
of Sir Tom found themselves with a little dismay in
328 SIR TOM. [chap.
the society of the lady who wrote for what she called
the Press, and the gentlemen from the clnbs. One of
the guests was the young Marquis Montjoie, who had
quite lately come into his title and the world. He
had been at school with Jock a few years before, and
he recognised Mr. Derwentwater with a curious mixture
of awe and contempt. " Hallo !" he had cried when
he perceived him first, and he had whispered something
to the Contessa which made her laugh also. All this
Jock remarked vaguely in his uneasiness and disap-
pointment. What was the good of coming home, he
said to himself, if What was the use of having
so looked forward to the holidays and lost that prize,
and disappointed everybody, if There rose such
a ferment in Jock's veins as had never been there be-
fore. When the ladies left the room after dinner it
was he that opened the door for them, and as Lucy
looked up with a smile into her brother's face she met
from him a scowl which took away her breath. Why did
he scowl at Lucy ? and why think that in all his life he
had never seen so dull a company before ? Their good
things after dinner were odious to Ins ears ; and to
think that even MTutor should be able to laugh
at such miserable jokes and take an interest in such
small talk! That fellow Montjoie, above all, was
intolerable to Jock. He had been quite low down in
the school when he left, a being of no account, a crea-
ture called by opprobrious names, and not worthy to tie
the shoes of a member of Sixth Form. But when he
rattled loudly on about nothing at all, even Sir Tom
did not refuse to listen. What was Montjoie doing
here ? When the gentlemen streamed into the draw-
ing-room, a procession of black coats, Jock, who came
last, could not help being aware that he was scowling
xxxii.] YOUTHFUL UNREST. 329
at everybody. He met the eyes of one of those in-
offensive little girls in bine, and made her jump, look-
ing at her as if he would eat her. And all the evening
through he kept prowling about with his hands in his
pockets, now looking at the books in the shelves, now
frowning at Lucy, who could not think what was the
matter with her brother. Was Jock ill ? "What had
happened to him ? The young ladies in blue sang an
innocent little duet, and Jock stared at the Contessa,
wondering if she was going to sing, and if the door
would open and the slim figure in the black frock come
in as by a signal and place herself at the piano. But
the Contessa only laughed behind her fan, and made a
little pretence at applause when the music ceased,
having talked all through it, she and the gentle-
men about her, of whom Montjoie was one and the
loudest. No, she was not going to sing. "When the
door opened it was only to admit the servants with
their trays and the tea which nobody wanted. "What
was the use of looking forward to the holidays if
Mr. Derwentwater, perhaps, had similar thoughts. He
came up to Jock behind the backs of the other people,
and put an uneasy question to him.
" I thought you said that Madame di Forno-Populo
sang ?
" She used to," said Jock laconically.
"The music here does not seem of a high class,"
said MTutor. " I hope she will sing. Italians, though
their music is sensuous, generally know something
about the art."
To this Jock made no reply, but hunched his
shoulders a little higher, and dug his hands down
deeper into his pockets.
" By the way, is the — young lady who was with
330 SIR TOM. [chap.
Madame di Forno-Populo here no longer?" said
MTutor in a sort of accidental manner, as if that had
for the first time occurred to him. He raised his eyes
to Jock's face, which was foolish, and they both red-
dened in spite of themselves ; Mr. Derwentwater with
sudden confusion, and Jock with angry dismay.
" Not that I know of," said the boy. " I haven't
heard anything." Then he went on hurriedly : " No
more than I know what Montjoie's doing here. What's
he been asked here for I wonder ? He can't amuse
anybody much." These words, however, were con-
tradicted practically as soon as they were said by a
peal of laughter which rose from the Contessa's little
corner, all caused as it was evident by some pleasantry
of Montjoie's.
" It seems that he does, though," said Mr. Derwent-
water ; and then he added with a smile, " We are
novices in society, you and I. We do best in our own
class ; not to know that Montjoie will be in the very
front of society, the admired of all admirers at least for a
season or two ! Isn't he a favourite of fortune, the best
parti, a golden youth in every sense of the word "
" Why, he was a scug !" cried Jock, with illimitable
disdain. This mysterious and terrible monosyllable
was applied at school to a youth hopelessly low down
and destitute of any personal advantages to counter-
balance his inferiority. Jock launched it at the Mar-
quis, evidently now in a very different situation, as if
it had been a stone.
"Hush!" said MTutor blandly. "You will meet
a great many such in society, and they will think them-
selves quite as good as you."
Then the mother of the young ladies in blue ap-
proached and disturbed this tete-a-tete.
xxxii.] YOUTHFUL UNREST. 331
" I think you were talking of Lord Montjoie," she
said. " I hear he is so clever ; there are some comic
songs he sings, which, I am told, are quite irresistible.
Mr. Trevor, don't you think you could induce him to
sino- one ? — as you were at school with him, and are a
sort of son of the house ?"
At this Jock glowered with eyes that were alarm-
ing to see under the deep cover of his eyebrows, and
MTutor laughed out. " We had not so exalted an opinion
of Montjoie," he said; and then, with a politic diversion
of which he was proud, " Would not your daughters
favour us again ? A comic song in the present state
of our feelings would be more than we could bear."
" What a clever fellow he is after all !" said Jock to
himself admiringly, " how he can manage people and
say the right thing at the right moment ! I dare say
Lucy will tell me if I ask her," he said, quite irrele-
vantly, as the lady, well pleased to hear her daughters
appreciated, sailed away. There was something in the
complete sympathy of Mr. Derwentwater's mind, even
though it irritated, which touched him. He put the
question point blank to Lucy when he found an oppor-
tunity of speaking to her. "I say, Lucy, where is
Bice ? You have got all the old fogeys about the
place, and she is not here," the boy said.
"Is that why you are glooming upon everybody
so? " said the unfeeling Lucy. "You cannot call your
friend Lord Montjoie an old fogey, Jock. He says you
were such friends at school."
"I — friends!" cried Jock with disdain. "Why,
he was nothing but a scug."
Thus Lucy, too, avoided the question ; but it was
not because she had any real reluctance to speak of
Bice, though this was what Jock could not know.
332 SIR TOM. [chap.
CHAPTEE XXXIII.
THE CONTESSA PREPARES THE WAY.
" I never sing," said the Contessa, with that serene
smile with which she was in the habit of accompany-
ing a statement which her hearers knew to be quite
untrue. " Oh never ! It is one of my possibilities
which are over — one of the things which you re-
member of me in — other days "
" So far back as March," said Sir Tom ; " but we all
recognise that in a lady's calendar that may mean a
century."
" Put it in the plural, mon ami — centuries, that is
more correct," said the Contessa, with her dazzling
smile.
" And might one ask why this sudden acceleration
of time ? " asked one of the gentlemen who were always
in attendance, belonging, so to speak, to the Contessa's
side of the party. She opened out her lovely hands
and gave a little shrug to her shoulders, and elevation
of her eyebrows.
" It is easy to tell : but whether I shall tell you is
another question "
" Oh, do, do, Countess," cried young Montjoie, who
was somewhat rough in his attentions, and treated the
lady with less ceremony than a less noble youth would
have ventured upon. " Come, don't keep us all in
suspense. I must hear you, don't you know ; all the
other fellows have heard you. So, please, get over
the preliminaries, and let's come to the music. I'm
awfully fond of music, especially singing. I'm a dab
at that myself "
xxxiii.] THE CONTESSA PREPARES THE WAY. 333
The Contessa let her eyes dwell upon this illustrious
young man. " Why," she said, " have I been pre-
vented from making acquaintance with the art in which
my Lord Montjoie is — a dab "
At this there was a laugh, in which the good-
natured young nobleman did not refuse to join. " I
say, you know ! it's too bad to make fun of me like
this," he cried ; " but I'll tell you what, Countess, I'll
make a bargain with you. I'll sing you three of mine
if you'll sing me one of yours."
The Contessa smiled with that gracious response
which so often answered instead of words. The other
ladies had withdrawn, except Lucy, who waited some-
what uneasily till her guest was ready. Though Madame
di Forno-Populo had never lost the ascendency which
she had acquired over Lady Eandolph by throwing
herself upon her understanding and sympathy, there
were still many things which Lucy could not acquiesce
in without uneasiness, in the Contessa's ways. The
group of men about her chair, when all the other
ladies took their candles and made their way upstairs,
wounded Lucy's instinctive sense of what was befitting.
She waited, punctilious in her feeling of duty, though
the Contessa had not hesitated to make her understand
that the precaution was quite unnecessary — and though
even Sir Tom had said something of a similar signifi-
cation. " She is old enough to take care of herself.
She doesn't want a chaperon," Sir Tom had said ; but
nevertheless Lucy would take up a book and sit down
at the table and wait: which was the more troublesome
that it was precisely at this moment that the Contessa
was most amusing and enjoyed herself most. Sir
Tom's parliamentary friends had disappeared to the
smoking-room when the ladies left the room. It was
334 SIR TOM. [chap.
the other kind of visitors, the gentlemen who had
known the Contessa in former days, and were old
friends likewise of Sir Tom, who gathered round her
now — they and young Lord Montjoie, who was rather
out of place in the party, but who admired the Con-
tessa greatly, and thought her better fun than any one
he knew.
The Contessa gave the young man one of those
speaking smiles which were more eloquent than words.
And then she said : " If I were to tell you why, you
would not believe me. I am going to retire from the
world."
At this there was a little tumult of outcry and
laughter. " The world cannot spare you, Contessa."
"We can't permit any such sacrifice." And, " Eetire !
Till to-morrow ? " her courtiers said.
" Not till to-morrow. I do more than retire. I
abdicate," said the Contessa, waving her beautiful hands
as if in farewell.
" This sounds very mysterious ; for an abdication is
different from a withdrawal ; it suggests a successor."
"Which is an impossibility," another said.
The Contessa distributed her smiles with gracious
impartiality to all, but she kept a little watch upon
young Montjoie, who was eager amid the ring of her
worshippers. " Nevertheless, it is more than a suc-
cessor," she said, playing with them, with a strange
pleasure. To be thus surrounded, flattered more openly
than men ever venture to natter a woman whom they
respect, addressed with exaggerated admiration, con-
templated with bold and unwavering eyes, had come
by many descents to be delightful to the Contessa. It
reminded her of her old triumphs — of the days when
men of a different sort brought homage perhaps not
xxxiii.] THE COXTESSA PREPARES THE WAY. 335
much more real but far more delicate, to her feet. A
long career of baths and watering-places, of Baden and
Homburg, and every other conceivable resort of tem-
porary gaiety and fashion, had brought her to this. Sir
Tom, who was not taking much share in the conver-
sation, stood with his arm on the mantelpiece, and
watched her and her little court with compassionate
eyes. He had laughed often before ; but he did not
laugh now. Perhaps the fact that he was himself no
longer her first object helped to change the aspect of
affairs. He had consented to invite these men as old
acquaintances ; but it was intolerable to him to see this
scene going on in the room in which his wife was ;
and the Contessa's radiant satisfaction seemed almost
horrible to him in Lucy's presence. Lucy was seated
at some distance from the group, her face turned away,
her head bent, to all appearance very intent upon the
book she was reading. He looked at her with a sort of
reverential impatience. She was not capable of under-
standing the degradation which her own pure and
simple presence made apparent. He could not endure
her to be there sanctioning the indecorum ; — and yet
the tenacity with which she held her place, and did
what she thought her duty to her guest, filled him
with a wondering pride. No other scene, perhaps, he
thought, in all England, could have presented a con-
trast so curious.
" The Contessa speaks in riddles," said one of the
circle. " We want an (Edipus."
" Oh, come, Countess," said young Montjoie, "don't
hang us up like this. We are all of us on pins and
needles, don't you know ? It all began about you
singing. Why don't you sing ? All the fellows say
it's as good as Grisi. I never heard Grisi, but I know
336 SIR TOM. [chap.
every note Patti's got in her voice ; and I want to
compare, don't yon know ? "
The Contessa contemplated the yonng man with a
sort of indulgent smile like a mother who withholds a toy.
" When are yon going away ? " she said. " You
will soon go back to your dear London, to your clubs
and all your delights."
" Oh, come, Countess," repeated Montjoie, " that
isn't kind. You talk as if you wanted to get rid of a
fellow. I'm due at the Duke's on Friday, don't you
know ? "
" Then it shall be on Thursday," said the Contessa,
with a laugh.
" What shall be on Thursday?"
The others all came round her with eager ques-
tions.
" I am going on Wednesday," said one. " What is
this that is going to happen ? "
" And why am I to be excluded ? "
" And I ? If there is to be anything new, tell us
what it is."
" Inquisitors ! and they say that curiosity belongs
to women," said the Contessa. " Messieurs, if I were
to tell you what it was, it would be no longer new."
" Well, but hang it all," cried young Montjoie, who
was excited and had forgotten his manners, " do tell
us what it is. Don't you see we don't even know what
kind of thing you mean ? If it's music "
Madame di Forno-Populo laughed once more. She
loved to mystify and raise expectations. " It is not
music," she said. " It is my reason for withdrawing.
When you see that, you will understand. You will all
say the Contessa is wise. She has foreseen exactly
the right moment to retire."
xxxiil] THE CONTESSA PREPAKES THE WAY. 337
And with this she rose from the sofa with a sudden
movement which took her attendants by surprise.
She was not given to shaking hands. She withdrew
quickly from Montjoie's effort to seize her delicate
fingers, which she waved to the company in general.
" My Lucy/' she said, " I have kept you waiting ! to
this extent does one forget one's self in your delightful
house. But, my angel, you should not permit me to
do it, You should hold up your finger, and I would
obey."
" Bravo," said Montjoie's voice behind their backs
in a murmur of delight. " Oh, by Jove, isn't that good ?
Fancy, a woman like her, and that simple "
One of the elder men gave Montjoie something like
a kick, inappropriate as the scene was for such a de-
monstration. " You little think what you are
saying," he cried.
But Sir Tom was opening the door for the ladies,
and did not hear. Lucy was tired and pale. She
looked like a child beside the stately Contessa. She
had taken no notice of Madame di Forno-Populo's pro-
fession of submission. In her heart she was lonmn^
to run to the nursery, to see her boy asleep, and make
sure that all was well ; and she was not only tired with
her vigil, but uneasy, disapproving. She divined what
the Contessa meant, though not even Sir Tom had
made it out. Perhaps it was feminine instinct that
instructed her on this point. Perhaps the strong re-
pugnance she had, and sense of opposition to what was
about to be done, quickened her powers of divination.
She who had never suspected anybody in all her life
fathomed the Contessa's intentions at a glance. " That
boy ! " she said to herself as she followed up the great
staircase. Lucy divined the Contessa, and the Con-
z
338 SIR TOM. [chap.
tessa divined that she had divined her. She turned
round when they reached the top of the stairs and
paused for a moment looking at Lady Randolph's face,
lit up with the light of her candle. " My sweetest/'
said the Contessa, " you do not approve. It breaks
my heart to see it. But what can I do ! This is
my way, it is not yours ; but to me it is the only
way."
Lucy could do nothing but shake her head as she
turned the way of the nursery where her boy was
sleeping. The contrast gave her a pang. Bice, too,
was no doubt sleeping the deep and dreamless sleep
of youth behind one of those closed doors ; poor Bice !
secluded there to increase the effect of her eventual
appearance, and about whom her protectress was drap-
ing all those veils of mystery in order to tempt the
fancy of a commonplace youth not much more than a
schoolboy ! And yet the Contessa loved her charge,
and persuaded herself that she was acting for Bice's good.
Poor Bice, who was so good to little Tom ! Was there
nothing to be done to save her ?
" What's going to happen on Thursday ? " the men
of the Contessa's train asked of Sir Tom, as they
followed him to the smoking-room, where Mr. Der-
wentwater, in a velvet coat, was already seated smok-
ing a mild cigarette, and conversing with one of the
parliamentary gentlemen. Jock hung about in the
background, turning over the books (for there were
books everywhere in this well-provided house) rather
with the intention of making it quite evident that he
went to bed when he liked, and could stay up as late
as any one, than from any hankering after that cigar
which a Sixth Form fellow, so conscientious as Jock
was, might not trifle with. " Oh, here are those two
xxxiii.] TIIE CONTBSSA PREPARES THE WAY. 339
duffers ; those saps, don't you know," Montjoie said,
with a grimace, as he perceived them on entering the
room ; in which remark he was perhaps justified by
the epithets which these two superior persons applied
to him. The two parties did not amalgamate in the
smoking-room any more than in other places. The
new comers surrounded Sir Tom in a noisy little crowd,
demanding of him an explanation of the Contessa's
meaning. This, however, was subdued presently by a
somewhat startling little incident. The gentlemen
were discussing the Contessa with the greatest freedom.
" It's rather astounding to meet her in a good house,
just like any one else," one man forgot himself suffi-
ciently to say, but he came to his recollection very
quickly on meeting Sir Tom's eyes. " I beg your
pardon, Randolph, of course that's not what I mean.
I mean after all those years." " Then I hope you will
remember to say exactly what you mean," said Sir
Tom, " on other occasions. It will simplify matters."
This momentary incident, though it was quiet
enough, and expressed in tones rather less than more
loud than the ordinary conversation, made a sensation
in the room, and produced first an involuntary stillness,
and then an eager access of talk. It had the effect,
however, of making everybody aware that the Con-
tessa intended to make, on Thursday, some revelation
or other, an intimation which moved Jock and his
tutor as much or even more than it moved the others.
Mr. Derwentwater even made advances to Montjoie,
whom he had steadily ignored, in order to ascertain
what it was. " Something's coming off, that's all we
can tell," that young patrician said. " She is going to
retire, so she says, from the world, don't you know ?
That's like a tradesman shutting up shop when he's
340 SIR TOM. [chap.
made his fortune, or a prima donna going off the stage.
It ain't so easy to make out, is it, how the Forno-
Populo can retire from the world ? She can't be going
to take poison, like the great Sarah, and give us a
grand dying seance in Lady Kandolph's drawing-room.
That would be going a bit too far, don't you know ? "
"It is going a bit too far to imagine such a thing,"
Derwentwater said.
" Oh, come, you know, it isn't school-time," cried
Montjoie, with a laugh. And though Mr. Derwent-
water was as much superior to the little lordling as
could be conceived, he retired disconcerted from this
passage of arms. To be reminded that you are a
pedagogue is difficult to bear, especially an unsuccessful
pedagogue, attempting to exert authority which exists
no longer. MTutor prided himself on being a man
of the world, but he retired a little with an involuntary
sense of offence from this easy setting down. He rose
shortly after and took Jock by the arm and led him
away. " You are not smoking, which I am glad to see
— and shows your sense," he said. " Come out and
have a breath of air before we go upstairs. Can you
imagine anything more detestable than that little pre-
cocious rou£, that washed-out little man-about-town,"
he added with some energy, as they stepped out of the
open windows of the library, left open in case the fine
night should have seduced the gentlemen on to the
terrace to smoke their cigars. It was a lovely spring
night, soft and balmy, with a sensation of growth in
the air, the sky very clear, with airy white clouds all
lit up by the moon. The quiet and freshness gave to
those who stepped into it a curious sensation of
superiority to the men whom they left in the warm
brightly -lit room, with its heavy atmosphere and
xxxm.] THE CONTESSA PKEPAEES THE WAY. 341
artificial delights. It felt like a moral atmosphere in
contrast with the air all laden with human emanations,
smoke, and the careless talk of men. These two were
perhaps somewhat inclined to feel a superiority in any
circumstances. They did so doubly in these.
" He was always a little cad," said Jock.
" To hear a lady's name from his mouth is revolt-
ing," said Derwentwater. " \Ye are all too careless in
that respect. I admire Madame di Forno-Populo for
keeping her — is it her daughter or niece ? — out of
the way while that little animal is here."
" Oh, Bice would soon make him know his place,"
said Jock ; " she is not just like one of the girls that
are civil, you know. She is not afraid of telling you
what she thinks of you. I know exactly how she'd
look at Montjoie." Jock permitted himself an abrupt
laugh in the pleasure of feeling that he knew her ways
far better than any one. " She would soon set him
down — the little beast ! — in his right place."
As they walked up and down the terrace their steps
and voices were very audible in the stillness of the
night ; and the windows were lighted in the east wing,
showing that the inhabitants were still up there and
about. While Jock spoke, one of these windows
opened quite suddenly, and for a single moment a
figure like a shadow appeared in it. The light move-
ment, sudden as a bird's on the wing, would have
betrayed her (she felt) to Jock, even if she had not
spoken. But she waved her hand and called out
" Good-night " in a voice full of lauditer. " Don't talk
secrets, for we can hear you," she said. " Good-night!"
And so vanished again, with a little echo of laughter
from within. The young men were both excited and
disconcerted by this interruption. It gave them a
342 SIR TOM. [OHAP.
sensation of shame for the moment as if they had been
caught in a discussion of a forbidden subject ; and then
a tingling ran through their veins. Even MTutor
for the moment found no fine speech in which to
express his sense of this sudden momentary tantalising
appearance of the mystic woman standing half visible
out of the background of the unknown. He did think
some very fine things on the subject after a time, with
a side glance of philosophical reflection that her light
laugh of mockery as she momentarily revealed herself,
was an outcome of this sceptical century, and that in a
previous age her utterance would have been a song or
a sigh. But at the moment even Mr. Derwentwater
was subjugated by the thrill of sensation and feeling,
and found nothing to say.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
IN SUSPENSE.
It was thus that Bice was engaged while Lucy imagined
her asleep in her innocence, unaware of the net that
was being spread for her unsuspecting feet. Bice was
neither asleep nor unsuspecting. She was innocent in
a way inconceivable to the ordinary home-keeping
imagination, knowing no evil in the devices to which
she was a party ; but she was not innocent in the con-
ventional sense. That any high feminine ideal should
be affected by the design of the Contessa or by her
own participation in it had not occurred to the girl.
She had been accustomed to smile at the high virtue
of those ladies in the novels who would not receive the
xxxiv.] IN SUSPENSE. 343
addresses of the eldest son of their patroness, and who
preferred a humble village and the delights of self-
sacrifice to all the grandeurs of an ambitious marriage.
That might be well enough in a novel, Bice thought,
but it was not so in life. In her own case there was no
question about it. The other way it was which seemed
to her the virtuous way. Had it been proposed to her
to throw herself away upon a poor man whom she
might be supposed to love, and so prove herself incap-
able of being of any use to the Contessa, and make all
her previous training and teaching of no effect, Bice's
moral indignation would have been as elevated as that
of any English heroine at the idea of marrying for
interest instead of love. The possibility did not occur
to her at all ; but it would have been rejected with
disdain had it attempted to force its way across the
threshold of her mind. She loved nobody — except the
Contessa ; which was a great defence and preservation
to her thoughts. She accepted the suggestion that
Montjoie should be the means of raising her to that
position she was made for, with composure and without
an objection. It was not arranged upon secretly, with-
out her knowledge, but with her full concurrence.
" He is not very much to look at. I wish he had been
more handsome," the Contessa said ; but Bice's indiffer-
ence on this point was sublime. " What can it
matter?" she said loftily. She was not even very
deeply interested in his disposition or mental qualities.
Everything else being so suitable, it would have been
cowardly to shrink from any minor disadvantage. She
silenced the Contessa in the attempt to make the best
of him. " All these things are so secondary," the girl
said. Her devotion to the career chosen for her was
above all weakly arguments of this kind. She looked
344 SIR TOM. [chap.
upon them even with a certain scorn. And though
there was in her mind some excitement as to her appear-
ance " in the world," as she phrased it, and her skill
" to please," which was as yet untried, it was, notwith-
standing with the composure of a nature quite unaware
of any higher questions involved, that she took her part
in all the preparations. Her knowledge of the very
doubtful world in which she had lived had been of a
philosophical character. She was quite impartial.
She had no prejudices. Those of whom she approved
were those who had carried out their intentions, what-
ever they might be, as she should do by marrying an
English Milord with a good title and much money.
She meant, indeed, to spend his money, but legitimately.
She meant to become a great lady by his means, but
not to do him any harm. Bice had an almost savage
purity of heart, and the thought that any of the stains
she knew of should touch her was incredible, impossible;
neither was it in her to be unkind, or unjust, or envious,
or ungenerous. Nothing of all this was involved in
the purely business operation in which she was engaged.
According to her code no professions of attachment or
pretence of feeling were necessary. She had indeed
no theories in her mind about being a good wife ; but
she would not be a bad one. She would keep her part
of the compact ; there should be nothing to complain
of, nothing to object to. She would do her best to
amuse the man she had to live with and make his life
agreeable to him, which is a thing not always taken
into consideration in marriage -contracts much more
ideal in character. He should not be allowed to be
dull, that was one thing certain. Eegarding the matter
in this reasonable point of view, Bice prepared for the
great event of Thursday with just excitement enough
xxxiv.] IN SUSPENSE. 345
to make it amusing. It might be that she should fail.
Few succeed at the very first effort without difficulty,
she said to herself; but if she failed there would be
nothing tragical in the failure, and the season was all
before her. It could scarcely be hoped that she would
brine? down her antagonist the first time she set lance
in rest.
She was carefully kept out of sight during the in-
tervening days ; no one saw her ; no one had any
acquaintance with the fact of her existence. The pre-
cautions taken were such that Bice was never even
encountered on the staircase, never seen to flit in or out of
a room, and indeed did not exist at all for the party in
the house. Notwithstanding these precautions she had
the needful exercise to keep her in health and good
looks, and still romped with the baby and held con-
versations with the sympathetic Lucy, who did not
know what to say to express her feeling of anxious
disapproval and desire to succour, without, at the same
time, injuring in Bice's mind her nearest friend and
protectress. She might, indeed, have spared herself
the trouble of any such anxiety, for Bice neither felt
injured by the Contessa's scheme nor degraded by her
precautions. It amused the girl highly to be made a
secret of, to run all the risks of discovery and baffle
the curious. The fun of it was delightful to her.
Sometimes she would amuse herself by hanging till
the last practicable moment in the gallery at the top
of the staircase, on the balcony at the window, or at
the door of the Contessa's room which was commanded
by various other doors ; but always vanished within
in time to avoid all inquisitive eyes, with the laughter
and delight of a child at the danger escaped, and the
fun of the situation. In these cases the Contessa
346 SIK TOM. [chap.
would sometimes take fright, but never, so light was
the temper of this scheming woman, this deep plotter
and conspirator, refused to join in the laughter when
the flight was made and safety secured. They were
like a couple of children with a mystification in hand,
notwithstanding that they were planning an invasion
so serious of all the proprieties, and meant to make so
disreputable and revolting a bargain. But this was
not in their ideas. Bice went out very early in the
morning before any one was astir, to take needful exer-
cise in the park, and gather early primroses and the
catkins that hung upon the trees. On one of these
occasions she met Mr. Derwentwater, of whom she
was not afraid ; and at another time, when skirting
the shrubberies at a somewhat later hour to keep clear
of any stragglers, Jock. Mr. Derwentwater talked to
her in a tone which amused the girl. He spoke of
Proserpina gathering flowers, herself a and then
altered and grew confused under her eye.
" Herself a What ? " said Bice. " Have you
forgotten what you were going to say ? "
" I have not forgotten — herself a fairer flower. One
does not forget such lovely words as these," he said,
injured by the question. " But when one comes face
to face with the impersonation of the poet's idea "
" It was poetry, then ? " said Bice. " I know very
little of that. It is not in Tauchnitz, perhaps ? All
I know of English is from the Tauchnitz. I read,
chiefly, novels. You do not approve of that ? But,
yes, I like them ; because it is life."
" Is it life ? " said Derwentwater, who was some-
what contemptuous of fiction.
" At least it is England," said Bice. " The girls who
will not make a good marriage because of some one
xxxiv.] IN SUSPENSE. 347
else, or because it is their parents who arrange it.
That is how Lady Eandolph speaks. She says that
nothing is right but to fall — how do yon call it ? — in
love ? — It is not comme il faut even to talk of that."
Derwentwater blushed like a girl. He was more
inexperienced in many ways than Bice. " And do you
regard it in another point of view ?" he said.
Bice laughed out with frank disdain. "Certainly,
I regard it different — oh, quite different. That is not
what happens in life."
" And do you consider life is chiefly occupied with
getting married ? " he continued, feeling, along with a
good deal of quite unnecessary excitement, a great-
desire to know what was her way of looking at this
great subject. Visions had been flashing recently
through his mind, which pointed a little this way too.
"Altogether," said Bice, with great gravity, "how
can you begin to live till you have settled that ? Till
then you do not know what is going to happen to you.
When you get up in the morning you know not what
may come before the night ; when you walk out you
know not who may be the next person you meet ;
perhaps your husband. But then you marry, and that
is all settled ; henceforward nothing can happen ! "
said Bice, throwing out her hands. " Then, after all is
settled, you can begin to live."
" This is very interesting," said Derwentwater, " I
am so glad to get at a real and individual view. But
this, perhaps, only applies to — ladies ? It is, perhaps,
not the same with men?"
Bice gave him a careless, half-contemptuous glance.
"I have never known anything," she said, " about men."
There are many girls, much more innocent in out-
ward matters than Bice, who would have said these
348 SIR TOM. [chap.
words with an intention agaqante — the intention of
leading to a great deal more badinage. But Bice
spoke with a calm, almost scornful, composure. She
had no desire to agacer. She looked him in the face
as tranquilly as if he had been an old woman. And
so far as she was concerned he might have been an old
woman ; for he had virtually no existence in his capa-
city of young man. Had she possessed any clue to the
thoughts that had taken rise in his mind, the new reve-
lation which she had conveyed to him, Bice's amaze-
ment would have been without bounds. But instinct
indicated to her that the interview should proceed no
further. She waved her hand to him as she came to
a cross road which led into the woods. " I am going
this way," she cried, darting off round the corner of a
great tree. He stood and looked after her bewildered,
as her light figure skimmed along into the depths of
the shadows. " Then, after all is settled, you can
begin to live," he repeated to himself. Was it true ?
He had got up the morning on which he saw her first
without any thought that everything might be changed
for him that day. And now it was quite true that
there lay before him an interval which must be some-
how filled up before he could begin to live., How was
it to be filled up ? Would she have anything to do
with the settling which must precede his recommence-
ment of existence ? He went on with his mind alto-
gether absorbed in these thoughts, and with a thrill
and tingling through all his veins. And that was the
only time he encountered Bice, for whom in fact,
though he had not hitherto allowed it even to himself,
he had come to the Hall — till the great night.
Jock encountered her the next day not so early, at
the hour indeed when the great people were at break-
xxxiv.] IX SUSPENSE. 349
fast. He had been one of the first to come downstairs,
and he had not lingered at table as persons do who
have letters to read, and the newspapers, and all that
is going on to talk about. He met her coming from
the park. She put out her hand when she saw him
as if to keep him off.
" If you wish to speak to me," she said, " you must
turn back and walk with me. I do not want any one
to see me, and they will soon be coming out from
breakfast."
" Why don't you want any one to see you ? " Jock
said.
Bice had learned the secret of the Contessa's smile ;
but this which she cast upon Jock had something
mocking in it, and ended in a laugh. " Oh, don't you
know ? " she said, " it is so silly to be a boy ! "
" You are no older than I am," cried Jock, aggrieved ;
" and why don't you come down to dinner as you used
to do ? I always liked you to come. It is quite dif-
ferent when you are not there. If I had known I should
not have come home at all this Easter," Jock cried.
" Oh ! " cried Bice, " that means that you like me,
then ? — and so does Milady. If I should go away
altogether "
" You are not going away altogether ? Why should
you ? There is no other place you could be so well as
here. The Contessa never says a word, but laughs at
a fellow, which is scarcely civil; and she has those
men about her that are — not ; but you why
should you go away ? " cried - Jock with angry vehe-
mence. He looked at her with eyes lowering fiercely
under his eyebrows ; yet in his heart he was not angry
but wretched, as if something were rending him. Jock
did not understand how he felt.
350 SIR TOM. [chap.
" Oh, now, you look at me as if you would eat me/'
said Bice, "as if I were the little girl iu the red hood
aud you the wolf But it is silly, for how should
I stay here wheu Milady is goiug away ? We are all
going to London — and then ! it will soon be decided,
I suppose," said Bice, herself feeling a little sad for the
first time at the idea, " what is going to be done with
me."
" What is going to be done with you ? " cried Jock
hoarsely, for he was angry and grieved, and full of
impatient indignation, though he scarcely knew why.
Bice turned upon him with that lingering smile
which was like the Contessa's. But, unlike the Con-
tessa's, it ended as usual in a laugh. She kissed her
hand to him, and darted round the corner of the
shrubbery just as some one appeared from breakfast.
"Good-bye," she said, "do not be angry," and so
vanished like lightning. This was one of the cases
which made her heart beat with fun and exhilaration,
when she was, as she told the Contessa, nearly caught.
She got into the shelter of the east rooms, panting with
the run she had made, her complexion brilliant, her
eyes shining. " I thought I should certainly be seen
this time," she said.
The Contessa looked at the girl with admiring
eyes. " I could almost have wished you had," she
said. " You are superb like that." They talked with-
out a shade of embarrassment on this subject, upon
which English mothers and children would blush and
hesitate.
This was the day, the great day of the revelation
which the Contessa had promised. There had been a
great deal of discussion and speculation about it in the
company. No one, even Sir Tom, knew what it was.
xxxiv.] IN SUSPENSE. 351
Lucy, though she was not clever, had her wits sharpened
in this respect, and she had divined ; but no one else
had any conception of what was coming. Two of the
elder men had gone, very sorry to miss the great event,
whatever it was. And young Montjoie had talked of
nothing else since the promise had been made. The
conversation in the drawing-room late in the afternoon
chiefly turned on this subject, and the lady visitors
too heard of it, and were not less curious. She who
had the two daughters addressed herself to Lucy for
information. She said : " I hear some novelty is
expected to-night, Lady Eandolph, something the Con-
tessa has arranged. She is very clever, is she not ?
and sings delightfully, I know. There is so much
more talent of that kind among foreigners than there
is among us. Is it tableaux ? The girls are so longing
to know."
" Oh, yes, we want so much to know," said the
young ladies in blue.
" I don't think it is tableaux," Lucy said ; " but I
have not been told what it is."
This the ladies did not believe, but they asked no
further questions. " It is clear that she does not wish
us to know ; so, girls, you must say nothing," was the
conclusion of the mother.
They said a great deal, notwithstanding this warn-
ing. The house altogether was excited on the subject,
and even Mr. Derwentwater took part in the specula-
tions. He looked upon the Contessa as one of those
inscrutable women of the stage, the Sirens who beguile
everybody. She had some design upon Montjoie, he
felt, and it was only the youth's impertinence which
prevented Mr. Derwentwater from interfering. He
watched with the natural instinct of his profession and
352 SIR TOM. [chap.
a strong impulse to write to the lad's parents and have
him taken away. But Montjoie had no parents. He
had attained his majority, and was supposed by the
law capable of taking care of himself. What did that
woman mean to do with the boy ? She had some
designs upon him. But there was nobody to whom
Mr. Derwentwater could confide his suspicions, or
whom he could ask what the Contessa meant. MTutor
had not on the whole a pleasant visit. He was
disappointed in that which had been his chief object
— his favourite pupil was detached from him, he knew
not how — and this other boy, whom, though he did not
love him, he could not help feeling a sort of responsi-
bility for, was in danger from a designing woman, a
woman out of a French play, L'Aventurttre, some-
thing of that sort. Mr. Derwentwater felt that he
could not drag himself away, the attractions were so
strong. He wanted to see the ddnoiiement ; still more
he wanted to see Bice. No drama in the world had so
powerful an interest. But though it was so impossible
to go away, it was not pleasant to stay. Jock did not
want him. Lucy, though she was always sweet and
friendly, had a look of haste and over-occupation ; her
eyes wandered when she talked to him ; her mind was
occupied with other things. Most of the men of the
party were more than indifferent ; were disagreeable to
him. He thought they were a danger for Jock. And
Bice never was visible ; that moment on the balcony
— those few minutes in the park — the half dozen
words which had been so "suggestive," he thought,
which had woke so many echoes in his mind — these
were all he had had of her. Had she intended them
to awaken echoes ? He asked himself this question a
thousand times. Had she willingly cast this seed of
xxxiv.] IN SUSPENSE. 353
thought into his mind to germinate — to produce —
what result ? If it was so, then, indeed, all the little
annoyances of his stay would be a cheap price to pay.
It did not occur to this judicious person, whose influ-
ence over his pupils was so great, and who had studied
so deeply the mind of youth, that a girl of sixteen was
but little likely to be consciously suggestive — to sow,
with any intention in her mind, seeds of meaning to
develop in his. To do him justice, he was as uncon-
scious of the limits of sixteen in Bice's case as we all
are in the case of Juliet. She was of no age. She was
the ideal woman capable of comprehensions and inten-
tions as far above anything possible to the genus boy
as heaven was above earth. It would have been a
profanation, a sacrilege too dreadful to be thought of,
to compare that ethereal creature with the other things
of her age with which he was so familiar. Of her age !
Her age was the age of romance, of love, of poetry, of
all ineffable things.
" I say, Countess," said Montjoie, " I hope you're
not forgetting. This is the night, don't you know.
And here we are all ready for dinner and nothing has
happened. When is it coming ? You are so awfully
mysterious ; it ain't fair upon a fellow."
" Is every one in the room ? " said the Contessa, with
an indulgent smile at the young man's eagerness.
They all looked round, for everybody was curious.
And all were there — the lady who wrote for the Press,
and the lady with the two daughters, the girls in blue ;
and Sir Tom's parliamentary friends standing up
against the mantelpiece, and Mr. Derwentwater by
himself, more curious than any one, keeping one eye
on Montjoie, as if he would have liked to send him to
the pupil -room to do a pcena ; and Jock indifferent,
2 A
354 SIR TOM. [chap.
with his back to the door. All the rest were expectant
except Jock, who took no notice. The Contessa's
special friends were about her chair, rubbing their
hands, and ready to back the Forno-Populo for a new
sensation. The Contessa looked round, her eye dwelling
for a moment upon Lucy, who looked a little fluttered
and uncomfortable, and upon Sir Tom, who evidently
knew nothing, and was looking on with a smile.
" Now you shall see," she said, " why I abdicate,"
and made a sign, clapping softly her beautiful hands.
There was a momentary pause. Montjoie, who was
standing out in the clear space in the centre of the
room, turned round at the Contessa's call. He turned
towards the open door, which was less lighted than the
inner room. It was he who saw first what was coming.
" Oh, by Jove ! " the young Marquis said,
CHAPTEE XXXV.
THE D^BUT.
The door was open. The long drawing-room afforded
a sort of processional path for the new-comer. Her
dress was not white like that of the ordinary debu-
tante. It had a yellow golden glow of colour, warm
yet soft. She walked not with the confused air of a
novice perceiving herself observed, but with a slow and
serene gait like a young queen. She was not alarmed
by the consciousness that everybody was looking at
her. Not to have been looked at would have been
more likely to embarrass Bice. Her beautiful throat
and shoulders were uncovered, her hair dressed more
xxxv.] THE DtfBUT. 355
elaborately than that of English girls in general. Eng-
lish girls — the two innocents in blue, who were nice
girls enough, and stood with their mouths and eyes
open in speechless wonder and admiration — seemed of
an entirely different species from this dazzling creature.
She made a momentary pause on the threshold, while
all the beholders held their breath. Montjoie, for
one, was struck dumb. His commonplace counte-
nance changed altogether. He looked at her with
his face growing longer, his jaw dropping. It was
more than a sensation, it was such a climax of excite-
ment and surprise as does not happen above once or
twice in a lifetime. The whole company were moved
by similar feelings, all except the Contessa, lying back
in her chair, and Lucy, who stood rather troubled,
moving from one foot to another, clasping and unclasp-
ing her hands. Jock, roused by the murmur, turned
round with a start, and eyed her too with looks of wild
astonishment. She stood for a moment looking at
them all — with a smile which was half mischievous,
half appealing — on the threshold, as Bice felt it, not
only of Lady Eandolph's drawing-room, but of the
world.
Sir Tom had started at the sight of her as much
as any one. He had not been in the secret. He
cried out, " By Jove ! " like Montjoie. But he had
those instincts which are, perhaps, rather old-fashioned,
of protection and service to women. He belonged to
the school which thinks a girl should not walk across
a room without some man's arm to sustain her, or open
a door for herself. He started forward with a little
sense of being to blame, and offered her his arm.
" Why didn't you send for me to bring you in if you
were late ? " he cried, with a tone in which there was
356 SIR TOM. [chap.
some tremor and vexation. The effectiveness of her
appearance was terrible to Sir Tom. She looked up
at him with a look of pleasure and kindness, and said,
" I was not late," with a smile. She looked taller,
more developed in a single day. But for that little
pucker of vexation on Sir Tom's forehead they would
have looked like a father and daughter, the father
proudly bringing his young princess into the circle of
her adorers. Bice swept him towards Lucy, and made
a low obeisance to Lady Eandolph, and took her hand
and kissed it. " I must come to you first," she said.
" Well ? " said the Contessa, turning round to her
retainers with a quick movement. They were all
gazing at the debutante so intently that they had no
eyes for her. One of them at length replied, with
something like solemnity : " Oh, I understand what you
mean, Contessa ; anybody but you would have to abdi-
cate." " But not you," said another, who had some
kindness in his heart. The Contessa rose up with an
air of triumph. " I do not want to be compelled," she
said, " I told you. I give up. I will take your arm
Mr. St. John, as a private person, having relinquished
my claims, and leave milord to the new regime"
This was how it came about, in the slight scuffle
caused by the sudden change of programme, that Bice,
in all her splendour, found herself going in to the
dining-room on Lord Montjoie's arm. Notwithstand-
ing that he had been struck dumb by her beauty,
little Montjoie was by no means happy when this
wonderful good fortune fell upon him. He would have
preferred to gaze at her from the other side of the table :
on the whole, he would have been a great deal more at
his ease with the Contessa. He would have asked her
a hundred questions about this wonderful beauty ; but
xxxv.] THE DEBUT. 357
the beauty herself rather frightened the young man.
Presently, however, he regained his courage, and as lack
of boldness was not his weak point, soon began to lose
the sense of awe which had been so strong upon him.
She smiled ; she was as ready to talk as he was, as the
overwhelming impression she had made upon him began
to be modified by familiarity. " I suppose," he said,
when he had reached this point, " that you arrived to-
day ? " And then, after a pause, " You speak Eng-
lish ? " he added, in a hesitating tone. She received
this question with so merry a laugh that he was quite
encouraged.
" Always," she said, " since I was a child. Was
that why you were afraid of me ? "
" Afraid ? " he said ; and then he looked at her
almost with a recurrence of his first fright, till her
laugh reassured him. "Yes, I was frightened," Lord
Montjoie said ; " you looked so — so — don't you know ?
I was struck all of a heap. I suppose you came to-
day ? We were all on the outlook from something
the Contessa said. You must be clever to get in with-
out anybody seeing you."
" I was far more clever than that," said Bice ; " you
don't know how clever I am."
" I dare say," said Lord Montjoie, admiringly, " be-
cause you don't want it. That's always the way."
" I am so clever that I have been here all the
time," said Bice, with another laugh so joyous, — " so
jolly," Montjoie said, that his terrors died away. But
his surprise took another development at this extra-
ordinary information.
" By Jove ! " he cried, " you don't mean that, Miss
— Mademoiselle — I am so awfully stupid I never heard
— that is to say I ain't at all clever at foreign names."
358 SIR TOM. [chap.
" Oh, never mind," cried Bice ; " neither am I. But
yours is delightful ; it is so easy, Milord. Ought I to
say Milord ?"
" Oh," cried Montjoie, a little confused. " No ; I
don't think so — people don't as a rule."
" Lord Montjoie, that is right ? I like always to
know "
" So do I," said Montjoie ; " it's always best to ask,
ain't it, and then there can be no mistakes ? But you
don't mean to say that ? You here yesterday and all
the time ? I shouldn't think you could have been
hid. Not the kind of person, don't you know."
" I can't tell about being the kind of person. It
has been fun," said Bice ; " sometimes I have seen you
all coming, and waited till there was just time to fly.
I like leaving it till the last moment, and then there
is the excitement, don't you know."
" By Jove, what fun ! " said Montjoie. He was not
clever enough, few people are, to perceive that she had
mimicked himself in tone and expression. " And I
might have caught you any day," he cried. " What a
muff I have been."
" If I had allowed myself to be caught I should
have been a greater — what do you call it ? You wear
beautiful things to do your smoking in, Lord Mont-
joie ; what is it ? Velvet ? And why don't you wear
them to dinner ? — you would look so much more hand-
some. I am very fond myself of beautiful clothes."
" Oh, by Jove ! " cried Montjoie again, with some-
thing like a blush. " You've seen me in those things !
I only wear them when I think nobody sees. They're
something from the East," he added, with a tone of
careless complacency ; for, as a matter of fact, he
piqued himself very much upon this smoking-suit
xxxv.] THE DtiBUT. 359
which had not, at the Hall, received the applause it
deserved.
" You go and smoke like that among other men ?
Yes, I perceive," said Bice, " you are just like women,
there is no difference. We put on our pretty things
for other ladies, because you cannot understand them ;
and you do the same."
" Oh, come now, Miss Forno-Populo ! you don't
mean to tell me that you got yourself up like that for
the sake of the ladies ? " cried the young man.
" For whom, then?" said Bice, throwing up her head ;
but afterwards, with the instinct of a young actress, she
remembered her role, which it was fun to carry out thor-
oughly. She laughed. " You are the most clever," she
said. " I see you are one that women cannot deceive."
Montjoie laughed, too, with gratified vanity and
superior knowledge. " You are about right there," he
said. " I am not to be taken in, don't you know. It's
no good trying it on with me. I see through ladies'
little pretences. If there were no men you would
not care what guys you were ; and no more do we."
Bice made no reply. She turned upon him that
dazzling smile of which she had learned the secret
from the Contessa, which was unfathomable to the
observer but quite simple to the simple-minded ; and
then she said : " Do you amuse yourself very much in
the evening ? I used to hear the voices and think
how pleasant it would have been to be there."
" Xot so pleasant as you think," said the young
man. " The only fun was the Contessa's, don't you
know. She's a fine woman for her age, but she's
Goodness ! I forgot. She's your "
" She is passde" said the girl calmly. " You make
me afraid, Lord Montjoie. How much of a critic you
360 SIR TOM. [chap.
are, and see through women, through and through."
At this the noble Marquis laughed with true enjoy-
ment of his own gifts.
" But you ain't offended ? " he said. " There was no
harm meant. Even a lady can't, don't you know, be
always the same age."
" Don't you think so ? " said Bice. " Oh, I think
you are wrong. The Contessa is of no age. She is the
age she pleases — she has all the secrets. I see nobody
more beautiful."
" That may be," said Montjoie ; " but you can't see
everybody, don't you know. She's very handsome
and all that — and when the real thing isn't there — but
when it is, don't you know "
" English is very perplexing," said Bice, shaking her
head, but with a smile in her eyes which somewhat
belied her air of simplicity. " What may that be —
the real thing ? Shall I find it in the dictionary ? "
she asked ; and then their eyes met and there was
another burst of laughter, somewhat boisterous on his
part, but on hers with a ring of lightheartedness which
quenched the malice. She was so young that she had
a pleasure in playing her role, and did not feel any
immorality involved.
While this conversation was going on, which was
much observed and commented on by all the company,
Jock from one end of the table and Mr. Derwentwater
from the other, looked on with an eager observation
and breathless desire to make out what was being said
which gave an expression of anxiety to the features of
MTutor, and one of almost ferocity to the lowering
countenance of Jock. Both of these gentlemen were
eagerly questioned by the ladies next them as to who
this young lady might be.
xxxv.] THE D^BUT. 361
" Terribly theatrical, don't you think, to come into
a room like that ? " said the mother of the girls in blue.
" If my Minnie or Edith had been asked to do it they
would have died of shame."
" I do not deny/' said Mr. Derwentwater, " the
advantage of conventional restraints. I like the little
airs of seclusion, of retirement, that surround young
ladies. But the -" he paused a little for a name,
and then with that acquaintance with foreign ways on
which Mr. Derwentwater prided himself, added, " the
Sisfnorina was at home."
o
" The Signorina ! Is that what you call her — just
like a person that is going on the stage. She will be
the — niece, I suppose ? "
Jock's next neighbour was the lady who was engaged
in literature. She said to Jock : " I must get you to
tell me her name. She is lovely. . She will make a
great sensation. I must make a few notes of her dress
after dinner — would you call that yellow or white ?
Whoever dressed her knew what they were about.
Mademoiselle, I imagine, one ought to call her. I
know that's French, and she's Italian, but still
The new beauty ! that's what she will be called. I am
so glad to be the first to see her ; but I must get you
to tell me her name."
Among the gentlemen there was no other subject
of conversation, and but one opinion. A little hum of
curiosity ran round the table. It was far more exciting
than tableaux, which was what some of the guests had
expected to be arranged by the Contessa. Tableaux !
nothing could have been equal to the effect of that
dramatic entry and sudden revelation. " As for Mont-
joie, all was up with him, but the Contessa knew what
she was about. She was not going to throw away her
362 SIR TOM. [chap.
effects," they said. "There could be no doubt for
whose benefit it all was." The Contessa graciously
baffled with her charming smile all the questions that
were poured upon her. She received the compliments
addressed to her with gracious bows, but she gave no
reply to any one. As she swept out of the room after
dinner she tapped Montjoie lightly on the arm with her
fan. " I will sing for you to-night," she said.
In the drawing-room the elements were a little hetero-
geneous without the gentlemen. The two girls in blue
gazed at this wonderful new competitor with a curiosity
which was almost alarm. They would have liked to
make acquaintance, to draw her into their little party of
youth outside the phalanx of the elders. But Bice took
no more note of them than if they had been cabbages.
She was in great excitement, all smiles and glory.
" Do I please you like this ? " she said, going up to
Lucy, spreading out all her finery with the delight of a
child. Lucy shrank a little. She had a troubled
anxious look, which did not look like pleasure ; but
Lady Anastasia, who wrote for the newspapers, walked
round and round the debutante and took notes fraukly.
" Of course I shall describe her dress. I never saw
anything so lovely," the lady said. Bice, in the glow
of her golden yellow, and of her smiles and delight,
with the noble correspondent of the newspapers ex-
amining her, found the acutest interest in the position.
The Contessa from her sofa smiled upon the scene,
looking on with the air of a gratified exhibitor whose
show had succeeded beyond her hopes. Lady Eandolph,
with an air of anxiety in her fair and simple counte-
nance, stood behiud, looking at Bice with protecting
yet disturbed and troubled looks. The mother and
daughters at the other side looked on, she all solid and
XXXV.] THE D^BUT. 363
speechless with disapproval, they in a flutter of interest
and wonder and gentle envy and offence. ' More than
a tableau ; it was like an act out of a play. And when
the gentlemen came in what a sudden quickening of
the interest ! Bice rose to the action like a heroine
when the great scene has come, and the others all
gathered round with a spectatorship that was almost
breathless. The worst feature of the whole to those
who were interested in Bice was her own evident
enjoyment. She talked, she distributed her smiles
right and left, she mimicked yet flattered Montjoie
with a dazzling youthful assurance which confounded
Mr. Derwentwater, and made Jock furious, and brought
looks of pain not only to the face of Lucy but also to
that of Sir Tom, who was less easily shocked. She
was like a young actress in her first triumph, filling
her role with a sort of enthusiasm, enjoying it with all
her heart. And when the Contessa rose to sing, Bice
followed her to the piano with an air as different as
possible from the swift, noiseless self-effacement of her
performance on previous occasions. She looked round
upon the company with a sort of malicious triumph, a
laugh on her lips as of some delightful mystification,
some surprise of which she was in the secret. " Come
and listen," she said to Jock, lightly touching him on
the shoulder as she passed him. The Contessa's sing-
ing was already known. It was considered by some
with a certain contempt, by others with admiration, as
almost as good as professional. But when instead of
one of her usual performances there arose in splendid
fulness the harmony of two voices, that of Bice sud-
denly breaking forth in all the freshness of youth, un-
expected, unprepared for, the climax of wonder and
enthusiasm was reached. Lady Anastasia, after the
364 SIR TOM. [chap.
first start and thrill of wonder, rushed to the usual
writing-table and dashed off a hurried note, which she
fastened to her fan in her excitement. " Everybody
must know of this ! " she cried. One of the young-
ladies in the background wept with admiration, crying,
" Mamma, she is heavenly," while even the virtuous
mother was moved. " They must intend her for the
stage," that lady said, wondering, withdrawing from her
role of disapproval. As for the gentlemen, those of them
who were not speechless with enthusiasm were almost
noisy in their excitement. Montjoie pressed into the
first rank, almost touching Bice's dress, which she drew
away between two bars, turning half round with a
slight shake of her head and a smile in her eyes, even
while the loveliest notes were flowing forth from her
melodious throat. The listeners could hear the noble
lord's " by Jove," in the midst of the music, and even
detect the slight quaver of laughter which followed in
Bice's wonderful voice.
The commotion of applause, enthusiasm, and wonder
afterwards was indescribable. The gentlemen crowded
round the singers — even the parliamentary gentlemen
had lost their self-control, while the young lady who
had wept forgot her timidity to make an eager approach
to the debutante.
" It was heavenly: it was a rapture: oh, sing again ! "
cried Miss Edith, which was much prettier than Lord
Montjoie's broken exclamations, " Oh, by Jove ! don't
you know," to which Bice was listening with delighted
mockery.
Bice had been trained to pay very little attention
to the opinions of other girls, but she gave the young-
lady in blue a friendly look, and launched over her
shoulder an appeal to Jock. "Didn't you like it,
xxxv.] THE DEBUT. 365
you ? " she cried, with a slight clap together of her hands
to call his attention.
Jock glared at her over Miss Edith's shoulder. " 1
don't understand music," he said, in his most surly
voice. These were the distinct utterances which en-
chanted Bice amid the murmurs of more ordinary
applause. She was delighted with them. She clapped
her hands, once more with a delight which was con-
tagious. " Ah, I know now, this is what it is to have
succes" she cried.
•• Now," said the Contessa, " it is the turn of Lord
Montioie, who is a dab — that is the word — at singincr
and who promised me three for one."
At this there rose a hubbub of laughter, in the
midst of which, though with many protestations and
remonstrances, " don't you know," that young nobleman
was driven to the fulfilment of his promise. In the
midst of this commotion, a sign as swift as lightnino\
but, unlike lightning, imperceptible, a lifting of the eye-
brows, a movement of a finger, was given and noted.
In such a musical assembly the performance of a young
marquis, with nobody knows how many thousands a
year and entirely his own master, is rarely without
interest. Mr. Derwentwater turned his back with
marked indifference, and Jock with a sort of snort
went away altogether. But of the others, the majority,
though some with laughter and some with sneers, were
civil, and listened to the performance. Jock marched
off with a disdain beyond expression ; but he had
scarcely issued forth into the hall before he heard a
rustle behind him, and, looking back, to his amazement
saw Bice in all the glory of her golden robes.
" Hush ! " she cried, smothering a laugh, and
with a quick gesture of repression, " don't say any-
366 SIR TOM. [chap.
thing. It must not be discovered that I have run
away ! "
" Why have you run away ? I thought you thought
no end of that little scug," cried savage Jock.
Bice turned upon him that smile that said every-
thing and nothing, and then flew like a bird upstairs.
CHAPTEE XXXVI.
THE EVENING AFTER.
The outcry that rose when, after Montjoie's comic
song, a performance of the broadest and silliest descrip-
tion, was over, it was discovered that Bice had disap-
peared, and especially the blank look of the performer
himself when turning round from the piano he sur-
veyed the company in vain for her, gratified the
Contessa beyond measure. She smiled radiantly upon
the assembly in answer to all their indignant questions.
" It has been for once an indulgence," she said ; " but
little girls must keep early hours." Montjoie was
wounded and disappointed beyond measure that it
should have been at the moment of his performance
that she was spirited away. His reproaches were
vehement, and there was something of the pettishness
of a boy in their indignant tones. " I shouldn't have
sung a note if I'd thought what was going on," he
cried. " Contessa, I would not have believed you
could have been so mean — and I singing only to
please you."
"But think how you have pleased me — and all
these ladies ! " cried the Contessa. " Does not that
xxxvi.] THE EVENING AFTER. 367
recompense you ? " Montjoie guessed that she was
laughing at hiin, but he did not, in fact, see anything
to laugh about. It was natural enough that the other
ladies should be pleased ; still he did not care whether
they were pleased or not, and he did care much that
the object of his admiration had not waited to hear him.
The Contessa found the greatest amusement in his
boyish sulk and resentment, and the rest of the evening
was passed in baffling the questions with which, now
that Bice was gone, her friends overpowered her. She
gave the smallest possible dole of reply to their interro-
gations, but smiled upon the questioners with sunshiny
smiles. " You must come and see me in town," she
said to Montjoie. It was the only satisfaction she
would give him. And she perceived at a much earlier
hour tli an usual that Lucy was waiting for her to go
to bed. She gave a little cry of distress when this
seemed to flash upon her.
" Sweet Lucy ! it is for me you wait 1 " she cried.
" How could I keep you so late, my dear one ? "
Alontjoie was the foremost of those who attended
her to the door, and got her candle for her, that indis-
pensable but unnecessary formula.
" Of course I shall look you up in town ; but we'll
talk of that to-morrow. I don't go till three — to-
morrow," the young fellow said.
The Contessa gave him her hand with a smile, but
without a word, in that inimitable way she had, leaving
Montjoie a prey to such uncertainty as poisoned his
night's rest. He was not humble-minded, and he knew
that he was a prize which no lady he had met with as
yet had disregarded ; but for the first time his bosom
was torn by disquietude. Of course he must see her
to-morrow. Should he see her to-morrow ? The Con-
368 SIR TOM. [chap.
tessa's smile, so radiant, so inexplainable, tormented
him with a thousand doubts.
Lucy had looked on at all this with an uneasiness
indescribable. She felt like an accomplice, watching
this course of intrigue, of which she indeed disapproved
entirely, but could not clear herself from a certain
guilty knowledge of. That it should all be going on
under her roof was terrible to her, though it was not
for Montjoie but for Bice that her anxieties were
awakened. She followed the Contessa upstairs, bearing
her candle as if they formed part of a procession, with
a countenance absolutely opposed in expression to the
smiles of Madame di Forno-Populo. When they reached
the Contessa's door, Lucy, by a sudden impulse, followed
her in. It was not the first time that she had been
allowed to cross the threshold of that little enchanted
world which had filled her with wonder on her first
entrance, but which by this time she regarded with
composure, no longer bewildered to find it in her own
house. Bice sprang up from a sofa on which she was
lying on their entrance. She had taken off her beauti-
ful dress, and her hair was streaming over her shoulders,
her countenance radiant with delight. She threw her-
self upon the Contessa, without perceiving the presence
of Lady Randolph.
" But it is enchanting ; it is ravishing. I have
never been so happy," she cried.
" My child," said the Contessa, " here is our dear
lady who is of a different opinion."
"Of what opinion?" Bice cried. She was startled
by the sudden appearance, when she had no thought of
such an apparition, of Lucy's face so grave and uneasy.
It gave a contradiction which was painful to the girl's
excitement and delight.
xxxvi.] THE EVENING AFTER. 369
u Indeed, I did not mean to find fault," said Lucy.
" I was only sorry " and here she paused, feeling
herself incapable of expressing her real meaning, and
convicted of interference and unnecessary severity by
the girl's astonished eyes.
" My dear one," said the Contessa, " it is only that
we look from two different points of view. You will
not object to little Bice that she finds society intoxi-
cating when she first goes into it. The child has made
what you call a sensation. She has had her little
success. That is nothing to object to. An English girl
is perhaps more reticent. She is brought up to believe
that she does not care for succds. But Bice is other-
wise. She has been trained for that, and to please
makes her happy."
" To please — whom ?" cried Lady Bandolph. " Oh,
don't think I am finding fault. We are brought up to
please our parents and people who — care for us — in
England."
Here Bice and the Contessa mutually looked at each
other, and the girl laughed, putting her hands together.
" She is pleased most of all," she cried ; " she is all my
parents. I please her first of all."'
" What you say is sweet," said the Contessa, smiling
upon Lucy ; " and she is right too. She pleases me
most of all. To see her have her little triumph, look-
ing really her very best, and her dress so successful, is
to me a delight. I am nearly as much excited as the
child herself ! "
Lucy looked from one to another, and felt that it
was impossible for her to say what she wished to say.
The girl's pleasure seemed so innocent, and that of her
protectress and guardian so generous, so tender. All
that had offended Lucy's instincts, the dramatic effort
2b
370 SIR TOM. [chap.
of the Contessa, the careful preparation of all the effects,
the singling out of young Montjoie as the object, all
seemed to melt away in the girlish delight of Bice, and
the sympathetic triumph of her guardian. She did not
know what to say to them. It was she who was the
culprit, putting thoughts of harm which had not found
any entrance there into the girl's mind. She flushed
with shame and an uneasy sense that the tables were
thus turned upon her ; and yet how could she depart
without some warning ? It was not only her own
troubled uncomfortable feeling ; but had she not read
the same, still more serious and decided, in her hus-
band's eyes ?
" I don't know what to say," said Lucy. " But Sir
Tom thinks so too. He will tell you better, he knows
better. Lord Montjoie is — I do not know why he was
asked. I did not wish it. He is — dear Madame di
Forno-Populo, you have seen so much more than I —
he is vulgar — a little. And Bice is so young ; she
may be deceived."
For a moment a cloud, more dark than had ever
been seen there before, overshadowed the Contessa's
face. But Bice burst forth into a peal of laughter,
clapping her hands. " Is that vulgar ? " the girl cried.
" I am glad. Now I know how he is different. It is
what you call fun, don't you know ? " she cried with
sudden mimicry, at which Lucy herself could not re-
fuse to laugh.
" I waited outside to hear a little of the song. It
was so wonderful that I could not laugh ; and to utter
all that before you, Madama, after he had heard you
— oh, what courage ! what braveness ! " cried Bice. " I
did not think any one could be so brave ! "
"You mean so simple, dear child," said the Con-
xxxvi.] THE EVENING AFTER. 371
tessa, whose brow had cleared ; " that is really what is
so wonderful in these English men. They are so
simple, they never see how it is different. It is brave
if you please, but still more simple-minded. Little
Montjoie is so. He knows no better ; not to me only,
but even to you, Bice, with that voice of yours, so pure,
so fresh, he listens, then performs as you heard. It is
wonderful, as you say. But you have not told me, Lucy,
my sweetest, what you think of the little one's voice."
" I think," said Lucy, with that disapproval which
she could not altogether restrain, " that it is very
wonderful, when it is so fine, that we never heard it
before "
" Ah, Bice," cried the Contessa, " our dear lady is
determined that she will not be pleased to-night. We
had prepared a little surprise, and it is a failure. She
will not understand that we love to please. She will
have us to be superior, as if we were English."
" Indeed, indeed," cried Lucy, full of compunction,
" I know you are always kind. And I know your
ways are different — but " with a sort of regretful
reflectiveness, shaking her head.
"All England is in that but," said the Contessa.
" It is what has always been said to me. In our
country we love to arrange these little effects, to have
surprises, impromptus, events that are unexpected.
Bice, go, my child, go to bed, after this excitement you
must rest. You did well, and pleased me at least. My
sweet Lucy," she said, when the girl with instant
obedience had disappeared into the next room, " I
know how you see it all from your point of view. But
we are not as you, rich, secure. We must make while
we can our coup. To succeed by one coup, that is my
desire. And vou will not interfere ? "
372 SIR TOM. [chap.
" Oh, Contessa," cried Lucy, " will you not spare
the child ? It is like selling her. She is too good for
such a man. He is scarcely a man ; he is a boy. I
am ashamed to think that you should care to please
him, or any one like him. Oh, let it come natu-
rally ! Do not plan like this, and scheme and take
trouble for "
" For an establishment that will make her at once
safe and sure ; that will give her so many of the things
that people care for — beautiful houses, a good name,
money I have schemed, as you say, for little
things much of my life," said the Contessa, shaking her
head with a mournful smile ; " I have told you my his-
tory : for very, very little things— for a box at the opera,
for a carriage, things which are nothing, sweetest Lucy.
You have plenty; such things are nothing to you. You
cannot understand it. But that is me, my dear one.
I have not a higher mind like you; and shall I
not scheme," cried the Contessa, with sudden energy,
" for the child, to make her safe that she may never
require scheming ? Ah, my Lucy ! I have the heart of
a mother to her, and you know what a mother will do."
Lucy was silent, partly touched, partly resisting.
If it ever could be right to do evil that good might
come, perhaps this motive might justify it. And then
came the question how much, in the Contessa's code,
was evil, of these proceedings ? She was silenced, if
not satisfied. There is a certain casuistry involved
in the most Christian charity : " thinketh no evil,"
sometimes even implies an effort to think that there is
no harm in evil according to the intention in it. Lucy's
intellect was confused, though not that unobtrusive
faculty of judgment in her which was infallible, yet
could be kept dumb.
xxxvi.] THE EVENING AETEE. 373
" My love," said the Contessa, suddenly kissing her
as a sort of dismissal, " think that yon are rich and we
poor. If Bice had a provision, if she had even as
much as you give away to your poor friends and never
think of again, how different would all things be for
her ! But she has nothing ; and therefore I prepare
my little tableaux, and study all the effects I can
think of, and produce her as in a theatre, and shut her
up to agacer the audience, and keep her silent and
make her sing, all for effect ; yes, all for effect. But
what can I do ? She has not a penny, not a penny,
not even like your poor friends."
The sudden energy with which this was said was
indescribable. The Contessa's countenance, usually
so ivory-pale, shone with a sort of reflection as if of
light within, her eyes blazed, her smile gave place to
a seriousness which was almost indignation. She
looked like a heroine maintaining her right to do all
that human strength could do for the forlorn and
oppressed ; and there was, in fact, a certain abandon
of feeling in her which made her half unconsciously
open the door, and do what was tantamount to turning
her visitor out, though her visitor was mistress of the
house. Her feelings had, indeed, for the moment, got
the better of the Contessa. She had worked herself
up to the point of indignation, that Lucy who could,
if she would, deliver Bice from all the snares of
poverty, had not done so, and was not, so far as ap-
peared, intending to do so. To find fault with the
devices of the poor, and yet not to help them — is
not that one of the things least easily supportable of
all the spurns of patient merit ? The Contessa was
doing what she could, all she could in her own fashion,
strenuously, anxiously. But Lucy was doing nothing,
374 SIR TOM. [chap.
though she could have doue it so easily : and yet she
found fault and criticised. Madame di Forno-Populo
was swept by a great flood of instinctive resentment.
She put her hostess to the door in the strength of it,
tenderly with a kiss but not less hotly, and with full
meaning. Such impulses had stood her instead of
virtue on other occasions ; she felt a certain virtue as
of superior generosity and self-sacrifice in her proceed-
ings now.
As for Lucy, still much confused and scarcely re-
cognising the full meaning of the Contessa's warmth,
she made her way to her own room in a haze of dis-
turbed and uneasy feeling. Somehow — she could not
tell how — she felt herself in the wrong. What was it
she had done ? What was it she had left undone ?
To further the scheme by which young Montjoie was
to be caught and trapped and made the means of
fortune and endowment to Bice was not possible. In
such cases it is usually of the possible victim, the man
against whom such plots are formed, that the bystander
thinks ; but Lucy thought of young Montjoie only with
an instinctive dislike, which would have been con-
tempt in a less calm and tolerant mind. That Bice,
with all her gifts, a creature so full of life and sweet-
ness and strength, should be handed over to this trifling
commonplace lad, was in itself terrible to think of.
Lucy did not think of the girl's beauty, or of that
newly-developed gift of song which had taken her by
surprise, but only and simply of herself, the warm-
hearted and smiling girl, the creature full of fun and
frolic whom she had learned to be fond of, first, for
the sake of little Tom, and then for her own. Little
Tom's friend, his playmate, who had found him out
in his infant weakness and made his life so much
xxxvi.] THE EVENING AFTEE. 375
brighter ! And then Lucy asked herself what the
Contessa could mean, what it was that made her own
interference a sort of impertinence, why her protests
had been received with so little of the usual caressing
deference ? Thoughts go fast, and Lucy had not yet
reached the door of her own room, when it flashed
upon her what it was. She put down her candle on a
table in the corridor, and stood still to realise it. This
gallery at the head of the great staircase was dimly
lighted, and the hall below threw up a glimmer, re-
flected in the oaken balusters and doors of the closed
rooms, and dying away in the half-lit gloom above.
There were sounds below far off that betrayed the
assembly still undispersed in the smoking-room, and
some fainter still, above, of the ladies who had retired
to their rooms, but were still discussing the strange
events of the evening. In the centre of this partial
darkness stood Lucy, with her candle, the only visible
representative of all the hidden life around, suddenly
pausing, asking herself —
Was this what it meant ? Undoubtedly, this was
what it meant. She had the power, and she had
not used it. With a word she could make all their
schemes unnecessary, and relieve the burden on the
soul of the woman who had the heart of a mother for
Bice. Tears sprang up into Lucy's eyes unawares as
this recollection suddenly seized her. The Contessa
was not perfect — there were many things in her which
Lady Eandolph could with difficulty excuse to herself :
but she had the heart of a mother for Bice. Oh, yes,
it was true, quite true. The heart of a mother ! and
how was it possible that another mother could look on
at this and not sympathise ; and how was it that the
idea had never occurred to her before — that she had
376 SIR TOM. [chap.
never thought how changed in a moment might be
Bice's position, if only Here she picked up
her candle again, and went away hastily to her room.
She said to herself that she was keeping Fletcher up,
and that this was nnkind. But, as a matter of fact,
she was not thinking about Fletcher. There had
sprung up in her soul a fear which was twofold and
contradictory. If one of those alarms was justified,
then the other would be fallacious ; and yet the exist-
ence of the one doubled the force of the other. One
of these elements of fear — the contradiction, the new
terror — was wholly unthought of, and had never
troubled her peace before. She thought — and this
was her old burden, the anxiety which had already
restrained her action and made her forego what she had
never failed to feel as her duty, the carrying out of her
father's will — of her husband's objection, of his opposi-
tion, of the terrible interview she had once had with
him, when she had refused to acquiesce in his com-
mand. And then, with a sort of stealthy horror, she
thought of his departure from that opposition, and
asked herself, would he, for Bice's sake, consent to
that which he had so much objected to in other cases ?
This it was that made her shrink from herself and
her own thoughts, and hurry into her room for the
solace of Fletcher's companionship, and to put off as
long as she could the discussion of the question. Would
Sir Tom agree to everything ? Would he make no
objections — for Bice's sake ?
xxxvii.] THE CONTESSA' S TACTICS. 377
CHAPTEE XXXVII.
THE CONTESSA'S TACTICS.
That morning the whole party came down to break-
fast expectant, for, notwithstanding the Contessa's
habit of not appearing, it was supposed that the young
lady whom most people supposed to have arrived very
recently must be present at the morning meal. Young
Montjoie, who was generally very late, appeared among
the first ; and there was a look of curiosity and anxiety
in his face as he turned towards the door every time it
was opened, which betrayed his motive. But this
expectation was not destined to be repaid. Bice did
not appear at breakfast. She did not even come down-
stairs, though the Contessa did, for luncheon. When
Madame di Forno-Populo came in to this meal there
was a general elevation of all heads and eager look
towards her, to which she replied with her usual smile
but no explanation of any kind ; nor would she make
any reply, even to direct questions. She did nothing
but smile when Montjoie demanded to know if Miss
Forno-Populo was not coming downstairs, if she had
gone away, if she were ill, if she would appear before
three o'clock — with which questions he assailed her in
downright fashion. When the Contessa did not smile
she put on a look of injured sweetness. u What ! "
she said, " Am I then so little thought of ? You have
no more pleasure, ficklest of young men, in seeing me ? "
" Oh, I assure you, Countess," he cried, " that's all
right, don't you know ; but a fellow may ask. And
then it was your own doing to make us so excited."
"Yes, a fellow may ask," said the Contessa, smiling ;
378 SIR TOM. [chap.
but this was all the response she would give, nothing
that could really throw the least light upon the subject
of his curiosity. The other men of her following
looked on with undisguised admiration at this skilled
and accomplished woman. To see how she held in
hand the youth whom they all considered as her victim
was beautiful they thought ; and bets even were going
amongst them as to the certainty that she would land
her big fish. Sir Tom, at the head of the table, did
not regard the matter so lightly. There was a curve
of annoyance in his forehead. He did not understand
what game she was playing. It was, without doubt,
a game of some sort, and its object was transparent
enough ; and Sir Tom could not easily forgive the
dramatic efforts of the previous night, or endure the
thought that his house was the scene of tactics so
little creditable. He was vexed with the Contessa,
with Bice, even with Lucy, who, he could not keep
from saying to himself, should have found some means
of baulking such an intention. He was somewhat
mollified by the absence of Bice now, which seemed to
him, perhaps, a tribute to his own evident disapproval ;
but still he was uneasy. It was not a fit thing to
take place in his house. He saw far more clearly
than he had done before that a stop should have been
put ere now to the Contessa's operations, and in the
light of last night's proceedings perceived his own
errors in judgment — those errors which he had, indeed,
been sensible of, yet condoned in himself with that
wonderful charity which we show towards our own
mistakes and follies. He ought not to have asked her
to the Hall ; he ought not to have permitted himself
to be flattered and amused by her society, or to
have encouraged her to remain, or to have been so
xxxvti.] THE CONTESSA' S TACTICS. 379
weak as to ask the people she wished, which was
the crowning error of all. He had invited Montjoie,
a trifling boy in whom he felt little or no interest, to
please her, without any definite idea as to what she
meant, but only with an amused sense that she had
designs on the lad which Montjoie was quite knowing
enouoh to deliver himself from. But the turn things
had taken displeased Sir Tom. It was too barefaced,
he said to himself. He, too, felt like his more inno-
cent wife, as if he were an accomplice in a social
crime.
"I've been swindled, don't you know," Montjoie said ;
" I've been taken a mean advantage of. Xone of these
other beggars are going away like me. They will get
all the good of the music to-night, and I shall be far
away. I could cry to think of it, I could, don't you
know ; but you don't care a bit, Countess."
The Contessa, as usual, smiled. "Enfant!" she
said.
" I am not an infant. I am just the same age as
everybody, old enough to look after myself, don't you
know, and pay for myself, and all that sort of thing.
Besides, I haven't got any parents and guardians. Is
that why you take such a base advantage of me ? "
cried the young man.
i( It is, perhaps, why " The Contessa was not
much in the way of answering questions ; and when
she had said this she broke off with a laugh. Was
she going to say that this was why she had taken any
trouble about him, with a frankness which it is some-
times part of the astutest policy to employ.
" Why what ? why what ? Oh, come, you must
tell me now," the young man said.
" \Yhy one takes so much interest in you," said the
380 SIR TOM. [chap.
Contessa sweetly. " You shall come and see me, cher
petit Marquis, in my little house that is to be, in May-
fair; for you have found me, n'est ce pas, a little
house in Mayfair ? " she said, turning to another of
her train.
" Hung with rose-coloured curtains and pink glass
in the windows, according to your orders, Contessa,"
said the gentleman appealed to.
" How good it is to have a friend ! but those cur-
tains will be terrible," said the Contessa, with a shiver,
" if it were not that I carry with me a few little things
in a great box."
" Oh, my dear Contessa, how many things you
must have picked up ! " cried Lady Anastasia. " That
peep into your boudoir made me sick with envy ; those
Eastern embroideries, those Persian rugs ! They have
furnished me with a lovely paragraph for my paper,
and it is such a delightful original idea to carry about
one's pet furniture like one's dresses. It will become
quite the fashion when it is known. And how I shall
long to see that little house in Mayfair ! "
The Contessa smiled upon Lady Anastasia as she
smiled upon the male friends that surrounded her.
Her paper and her paragraphs were not to be despised,
and those little mysterious intimations about the new
beauty which it delighted her to make. Madame di
Forno-Populo turned to Montjoie afterwards with a
little wave of the hand. " You are going ? " she said ;
" how sad for us ! we shall have no song to make us
gay to-night. But come and you shall sing to us in
Mayfair."
" Countess, you are only laughing at me. But I
shall come, don't you know," said Montjoie, " whether
you mean it or not."
xxxvii.] THE CONTESSA' 3 TACTICS. 381
The company, who were so much interested in this
conversation, did not observe the preoccupied looks of
the master and mistress of the house, although to some
of the gentlemen the gravity of Sir Tom was apparent
enough. And not much wonder that he should be
crave. Even the men who were most easy in their
own code looked with a certain severity and astonish-
ment upon him who had opened his door to the
adventuress -Contessa, of whom they all judged the
worst, without even the charitable acknowledgment
which her enemy the Dowager had made, that there
was nothing in her past history bad enough to procure
her absolute expulsion from society. The men who
crowded round her when she appeared, who flattered
and paid their court to her, and even took a little
credit to themselves as intimates of the siren, were
one and all of opinion that to bring her into his house
was discreditable to Sir Tom. They were even a little
less respectful to Lucy for not knowing or finding out
the quality of her guest. If Tom Eandolph was
beginning to find out that he had been a fool it was won-
derful he had not made the discovery sooner. For
he had been a fool, and no mistake ! To bring that
woman to England, to keep her in his house, to asso-
ciate her in men's minds with his wife — the worst of
his present guests found it most difficult to forgive
him. But they were all the more interested in the
situation from the fact that Sir Tom was beginning to
feel the effects of his folly. He said very little during
that meal. He took no notice of the badinage going
on between the Contessa and her train. "When he
spoke at all it was to that virtuous mother at his
other hand, who was not at all amusing, and talked of
nothing but Edith and Minnie, and her successful
382 SIR TOM. [chap.
treatment of them through all the nursery troubles of
their life.
Lucy, at the other end of the table, was scarcely
more expansive. She had been relieved by the
absence of Bice, which, in her innocence, she believed
to be a concession to her own anxiety, feeling a certain
gratitude to the Contessa for thus foregoing the chance
of another interview with Montjoie. It could never
have occurred to Lucy to suppose that this was policy
on the Contessa's part, and that her refusal to satisfy
Montjoie was in reality planned to strengthen her hold
on him, and to increase the curiosity she pretended to
baffle. Lucy had no such artificial idea in her mind.
She accepted the girl's withdrawal as a tribute to her
own powers of persuasion, and a proof that though the
Contessa had been led astray by her foreign notions,
she was yet ready to perceive and adopt the more
excellent way. This touched Lucy's heart and made
her feel that she was herself bound to reciprocate the
generosity. They had done it without knowing any-
thing about the intention in her mind, and it should
be hers to carry out that intention liberally, generously,
not like an unwilling giver. She cast many a glance
at her husband while this was going through her mind.
Would he object as before ? or would he, because it
was the Contessa who was to be benefited, make no
objection? Lucy did not know which of the two it
would be most painful to her to bear. She had read
carefully the paragraph in her father's will about
foreigners, and had found there was no distinct objection
to foreigners, only a preference the other way. She
knew indeed, but would not permit herself to think,
that these were not persons who would have com-
mended themselves to Mr. Trevor as objects of his
xxxvii.] THE COXTESSA's TACTICS. 383
bounty. Mr. Churchill, with his large family, was
very different. But to endow two frivolous and ex-
pensive women with a portion of his fortune was a
thine to which he never would have consented. With
a certain shiver she recognised this ; and then she
made a rush past the objection and turned her back
upon it. It was quite a common form of beneficence
in old times to provide a dower for a girl that she
might marry. What could there be wrong in provid-
ing a poor girl with something to live upon that she
might not be forced into a mercenary marriage ?
While all the talk was going on at the other end of
the table she was turning this over in her mind — the
manner of it, the amount of it, all the details. She
did not hear the talk, it was immaterial to her, she
cared not for it. Xow and then she gave an anxious
look at Sir Tom at the other end. He was serious.
He did not laugh as usual. What was he thinking of ?
Would his objections be forgotten because it was the
Contessa or would he oppose her and struggle against
her ? Her heart beat at the thought of the conflict
which might be before her ; or perhaps if there was
no conflict, if he were too willing, might not that be
the worst of all !
Thus the background against which the Contessa
wove her web of smiles and humorous schemes was
both dark and serious. There were many shadows
behind that frivolous central light. Herself the chief
actor, the plotter, she to whom only it could be a
matter of personal advantage, was perhaps the least
serious of all the agents in it. The others thought of
possibilities dark enough, of perhaps the destruction of
family peace in this house which had been so hospit-
able to her, which had received her when no other
384 SIR TOM. [char
house would ; and some, of the success of a plan
which did not deserve to succeed, and some of the
danger of a youth to whom at present all the world
was bright. All these things seemed to be in-
volved in the present crisis. What more likely than
that Lucy, at last enlightened, should turn upon her
husband, who no doubt had forced this uncongenial
companion upon her, should turn from Sir Tom alto-
gether, and put her trust in him no longer ! And
the men who most admired the Contessa were those
who looked with the greatest horror upon a marriage
made by her, and called young Montjoie poor little
beggar and poor devil, wondering much whether he
ought not to be " spoken to." The men were not
sorry for Bice, nor thought of her at all in the matter,
save to conclude her a true pupil of the guardian
whom most of them believed to be her mother. But
in this point where the others were wanting Lucy
came in, whose simple heart bled for the girl
about to be sacrificed to a man whom she could
not love. Thus tragical surmises floated in the air
about Madame di Forno-Populo, that arch plotter
whose heart was throbbing indeed with her success,
and the hope of successes to come, but who had no
tragical alarms in her breast. She was perfectly easy
in her mind about Sir Tom and Lucy. Even if a
matrimonial quarrel should be the result, what was
that to an experienced woman of the world, who knew
that such things are only for the minute ? and neither
Bice nor Montjoie caused her any alarm. Bice was
perfectly pleased with the little Marquis. He amused
her. She had not the slightest objection to him ; and
as for Montjoie, he was perfectly well able to take care
of himself. So that while everybody else was more or
xxxvil] THE CONTESSA'S TACTICS. 385
less anxious, the Contessa in the centre of all her webs
was perfectly tranquil. She was not aware that she
wished harm to any man, or woman either. Her
light heart and easy conscience carried her quite
triumphantly through all.
When Montjoie had gone away, carrying in his
pocket-book the address of the little house in Mayfair,
and when the party had dispersed to walk or ride or
drive, as each thought fit, Lucy, who was doing neither,
met her husband coming out of his den. Sir Tom was
full of a remorseful sense that he had wronged Lucy.
He took her by both hands, and drew her into his room.
It was a loncj time since he had met her with the same
effusion. " You are looking very serious," he said, " you
are vexed, and I don't wonder ; but I see land, Lucy.
It will be over directly — only a week more "
" I thought you were looking serious, Tom," she said.
" So I was, my love. All that business last night
was more than I could stand. You may think me
callous enough, but I could not stand that."
" Tom!" said Lucy, faltering. It seemed an oppor-
tunity she could not let slip — but how she trembled
between her two terrors ! " There is something that I
want to say to you."
"Say whatever you like, Lucy," he cried; "but for
God's sake don't tremble, my little woman, when you
speak to me. I've done nothing to deserve that."
" I am not trembling," said Lucy, with the most
innocent and transparent of falsehoods. " But oh,
Tom, I am so sorry, so unhappy."
" For what ? " he said. He did not know what
accusation she might be going to bring against him ;
and how could he defend himself? Whatever she
might say he was sure to be half guilty ; and if she
2 c
386 SIR TOM. [chap,
thought him wholly guilty, how could he prevent it ?
A hot colour came up upon his middle-aged face. To
have to blush when you are past the age of blushing is
a more terrible necessity than the young can conceive.
" Oh, Tom ! " cried Lucy again, " for Bice ! Can
we stand by and let her be sacrificed ? She is not
much more than a child ; and she is always so good to
little Tom."
" For Bice ! " he cried. In the relief of his mind he
was ready to have done anything for Bice. He laughed
with a somewhat nervous tremulous outburst. " Why,
what is the matter with her ? " he said. " She did her
part last night with assurance enough. She is young
indeed, but she ought to have known better than that."
" She is very young, and it is the way she has been
brought up — how should she know any better ? But,
Tom, if she had any fortune she would not be com-
pelled to marry. How can we stand by and see her
sacrificed to that odious young man ? "
" What odious young man ? " said Sir Tom, aston-
ished, and then with another burst of his old laughter
such as had not been heard for weeks, he cried out :
" Montjoie ! Why, Lucy, are you crazy ? Half the
girls in England are in competition for him. Sacri-
ficed to ! She will be in the greatest luck if she
ever has such a chance."
Lucy gave him a reproachful look.
" How can you say so ? A little vulgar boy — a
creature not worthy to "
" My dear, you are prejudiced. You are taking
Jock's view. That worthy's opinion of a fellow who
never rose above Lower Fourth is to be received with
reservation. A fellow may be a scug, and yet not a
bad fellow — that is what Jock has yet to learn."
xxxvil] THE CONTESSA'S TACTICS. 387
" Oh, Tom, I cannot langh," said Lucy. " What
can she do, the Contessa says ? She must marry the
first that offers, and in the meantime she attracts
notice like that. It is dreadful to think of it. I think
that some one — that we — I — ought to interfere."
" My innocent Lucy," said Sir Tom, " how can you
interfere ? You know nothing about the tactics of
such people. I am very penitent for my share in the
matter. I ought not to have brought so much upon you.'
" Oh, Tom," cried Lucy again, drawing closer to him,
eager to anticipate with her pardon any blame to which
he might be liable. And then she added, returning to her
own subject: "She is of English parentage — on one side."
Why this fact, so simply stated, should have
startled her husband so much, Lucy could not imagine.
He almost gasped as he met her eyes, as if he had re-
ceived or feared a sudden blow, and underneath the
brownness of his complexion grew suddenly pale, all
the ruddy colour forsaking his face. " Of English
parentage !" he said, faltering, " do you mean ? — what
do you mean ? "Why — do you tell this to me ? "
Lucy was surprised, but saw no significance in his
agitation. And her mind was full of her own purpose.
" Because of the will which is against foreigners," she
said simply. "But in that case she would not be a
foreigner, Tom. I think a great deal of this. I want
to do it. Oh, don't oppose me ! It makes it so much
harder when you go against me."
He gazed at her with a sort of awe. He did not
seem able to speak. What she had said, though she
was unconscious of any special meaning in it, seemed
to have acted upon him like a spell. There was some-
thing tragic in his look which frightened Lucy. She
came closer still and put her hand upon his arm.
388 SIR TOM. [chap.
" Oil, it is not to trouble you, Tom ; it is not that
I want to go against you ! But give me your consent
this once. Baby is so fond of her, and she is so
good to him. I want to give something to Bice. Let
me make a provision for her ? " she said, pleading.
"Do not take all the pleasure out of it and oppose
me. Oh, dear Tom, give me your free consent I "
Lucy cried.
He kept gazing at her with that look of awe.
" Oppose you ! " he said. What was the shock he had
received which made him so unlike himself? His
very lips quivered as he spoke. " God forgive me ;
what have I been doing ? " he cried. " Lucy, I think
I will never oppose you more."
CHAPTEE XXXVIIL
DISCOVERIES.
This interview had an agitating and painful effect
upon Lucy, though she could not tell why. It was
not what she expected or feared — neither in one
sense nor the other. He had neither distressed her by
opposing her proceedings, nor accepted her beneficence
towards the Contessa with levity and satisfaction, both
of which dangers she had been prepared for. Instead,
however, of agitating her by the reception he gave to
her proposal, it was he who was agitated by something
which in entire unconsciousness she had said. But
what that could be Lucy could not divine. She had
said nothing that could affect him personally so far as
she knew. She went over every word of the conver-
xxxviii.] DISCOVERIES. 389
sation without being able to discover what could have
had this effect. But she could find nothing, there
was no clue anywhere that her unconscious mind
could discover. She concluded finally with much
compunction that it was the implied reproach that he
had taken away all pleasure in what she did by oppos •
ing her, that had so disturbed her husband. He was
so kind. He had not been able to bear even the
possibility that his opposition had been a source of
pain. " I think I will never oppose you any more."
In an answering burst of generosity Lucy said to her-
self that she did not desire this ; that she preferred
that he should find fault and object when he dis-
approved, not consent to everything. But the reflection
of the disturbance she had seen in her husband's coun-
tenance was in her mind all day ; she could not shake
it off; and he was so grave that every look she cast
at him strengthened the impression. He did not ap-
proach the circle in which the Contessa sat all the
evening, but stood apart, silent, taking little notice of
anybody until Mr. Derwentwater secured his ear, when
Sir Tom, instead of his usual genial laugh at MTutor's
solemnities, discharged little caustic criticisms which
astonished his companion. Mr. Derwentwater was
going away next day, and he, too, was preoccupied.
After that conversation with Sir Tom, he betook him-
self to Lucy, who was very silent too, and doing little
for the entertainment of her guests. He made her
sundry pretty speeches, such as are appropriate from a
departing guest.
" Jock has made up his mind to stay behind," he
said. " I am sorry, but I am not surprised. I shall
lose a most agreeable travelling companion ; but, per-
haps, home influences are best for the young."
390 SIR TOM. [chap.
" I don't know why Jock has changed his mind,
Mr. Derwentwater. He wanted very rnnch to go."
" He would say that here's metal more attractive/'
said the tutor with an offended smile ; and then he
paused, and, clearing his throat, asked in a still more
evident tone of offence — " Does not your young friend
the Signorina appear again? I thought from her
appearance last night that she was making her dtbut"
" Yes, it was like it," said Lucy. " The Contessa
is not like one of us," she added after a moment.
" She has her own ways — and, perhaps, I don't know
— that may be the Italian fashion."
"Not at all," Mr. Derwentwater said promptly.
He was an authority upon national usages. " But I
am afraid it was very transparent what the Contessa
meant," he said, after a pause.
To this Lucy made no reply, and the tutor, who
was sensitive, especially as to bad taste, reddened at
his inappropriate observation. He went on hastily ;
"The Signorina — or should I say Mademoiselle di
Forno-Populo ? — has a great deal of charm.. I do not
know if she is so beautiful as her mother "
" Oh, not her mother," cried Lucy quickly, with a
smile at the mistake.
" Is she not her mother ? The young lady's face
indeed is different. It is of a higher order — it is full
of thought. It is noble in repose. She does not
seem made for these scenes of festivity, if you will
pardon me, Lady Eandolph, but for the higher retire-
ments "
" Oh, she is very fond of seeing people," said Lucy.
" You must not suppose she is too serious for her age.
She enjoyed herself last night."
"There is no age," said Mr. Derwentwater, "at which
Xxxviil] DISCOVERIES. 391
one can be too serious — and especially in youth, when
all the world is before one, when one cannot tell what
effect a careless step may have one way or another.
It is just that sweet gravity that charms me. I think
she was quite out of her element, excuse me for say-
ing so, Lady Eandolph, last night."
" Do you think so ? Oh, I am afraid not. I am
afraid she liked it," said Lucy. "Jock, don't you
think Bice liked it. I should much rather think not,
but I am afraid — I am afraid "
" She couldn't like that little cad," said Jock, who
had drawn near with an instinctive sense that some-
thing was going on which concerned him. " But she's
never solemn either," added the boy.
" Is that for me, Jock ? " said MTutor, with a pen-
sive gentleness of reproach. " Well, never mind. We
must all put up with little misunderstandings from
the younger generation. Some time or other you will
judge differently. I should like to have had an
opportunity again of such music as we heard last night;
but I suppose I must not hope for it."
" Oh, do you mean Lord Montjoie's song ? " cried
one of .the young ladies in blue, who had drawn near.
" Wasn't it fun ? Of course I know it wasn't to be
compared to the Contessa ; but I've no musical taste.
I always confess it — that's Edith's line. But Lord
Montjoie was fun. Don't you think so, dear Lady
Pianclolph," Miss Minnie said.
Mr. Derwentwater gave her one glance, and retired,
Jock following. " Perhaps that's your opinion too,"
he said, " that Lord Montjoie's was fun ? "
" He's a scug," said Jock, laconically, " that's all I
think about him."
Mr. Derwentwater took the lad's arm. " And yet,"
392 SIR TOM. [chap,
he said, " Jock, though you and I consider ourselves
his superiors, that is the fellow that will carry off the
prize. Beauty and genius are for him. He must
have the best that humanity can produce. You ought
to be too young to have any feeling on the subject;
but it is a humiliating thought."
"Bice will have nothing to say to him," said Jock,
with straightforward application of the abstract descrip-
tion ; but MTutor shook his head.
" How can we tell the persecutions to which Woman
is subject ?" he said. " You and I, Jock, are in a very
different position. But we should try to realise, though
it is difficult, those dangers to which she is subject.
Kept indoors," said MTutor, with pathos in his
voice, " debarred from all knowledge of the world, with
all the authorities about her leading one way. How
can we tell what is said to her ? with a host of petty
maxims preaching down a daughter's heart — strange !"
cried Mr. Derwentwater, with a closer pressure of the
boy's arm, " that the most lovely existence should thus
continually be led to link itself with the basest. We
must not blame Woman; we must keep her idea sacred,
whatever happens in our own experience."
" It always sets one right to talk to you," cried
Jock, full of emotion. " I was a beast to say that."
" My boy, don't you think I understand the dis-
turbance in your mind ? " with a sigh, MTutor said.
They had left the drawing-room during the course
of this conversation, and were crossing the hall on the
way to the library, when some one suddenly drew back
with a startled movement from the passage which led
to Sir Tom's den. Then there followed a laugh, and " Oh,
is it only you ! " after which there came forth a slim
shadow, as unlike as possible to the siren of the previous
xxxviii.] DISCOVERIES. 393
night. " We have met before, and I don't mind. Is
there any one else coming ?" Bice said.
"Why do you hide and skulk in corners?" cried
Jock. " Why shouldn't you meet any one ? Have you
done something wrong ?"
This made Bice laugh still more. "You don't
understand," she said.
" Si<morina " said Mr. Derwentwater (who was
somewhat proud of having remembered this good ab-
stract title to give to the mysterious girl), "I am
going away to-morrow, and perhaps I shall never hear
you again. Your voice seemed to open the heavenly
gates. Why, since you are so good as to consider us
different from the others, won't you sing to us once
more ?
" Sing ?" said Bice, with a little surprise ; "but by
myself my voice is not much "
" It is like a voice out of heaven," Mr. Derwent-
water said fervently.
" Do you really, really think so ?" she said with a
wondering look. She was surprised, but pleased too.
" I don't think you would care for it without the Con-
tessa's; but, perhaps " Then she looked round
her with a reflective look. " What can I do ? There
is no piano, and then these people would hear." After
this a sudden idea struck her. She laughed aloud like
a child with sudden glee. " I don't suppose it would
be any harm ! You belong to the house — and then
there is Marietta. Yes ! Come !" she cried suddenly,
rushing up the great staircase and waving her hand
impatiently, beckoning them to follow. " Come quick,
quick," she cried ; " I hear some one coming," and flew
upstairs. They followed her, Mr. Derwentwater pass-
ing Jock, who hung back a little, and did not know
394 SIR TOM. [chap.
what to think of this adventure. " Come quick/' she
cried, darting along the dimly-lighted corridor with a
laugh that rang lightly along like the music to which
her steps were set. " Oh, come in, come in. They
will hear, but they wTill not know where it comes
from." The young men stupefied, hesitating, followed
her. They found themselves among all the curiosities
and luxuries of the Contessa's boudoir. And in a
moment Bice had placed herself at the little piano
which was • placed across one of the corners, its back
covered with a wonderful piece of Eastern embroidery
which would have invited Derwentwater's attention
had he been able to fix that upon anything but Bice.
As it was, he gave a half regard to these treasures.
He would have examined them all with the devotion
of a connoisseur but for her presence, which exercised
a spell still more subtle than that of art.
The sound of the singing penetrated vaguely even
into the drawing-room, where the Contessa, startled,
rose from her seat much earlier than usual. Lucy,
who attended her dutifully upstairs according to her
usual custom, was dismayed beyond measure by seeing
Jock and his tutor issue from that door. Bice came
with them, with an air of excitement and triumphant
satisfaction. She had been singing, and the inspiration
and applause had gone to her head. She met the
ladies not with the air of a culprit, but in all the bold-
ness of innocence. " They like to hear me, even by
myself," she cried ; " they have listened, as if I had
been an angel." And she clapped her hands with
almost childish pleasure.
" Perhaps they think you are," said the Contessa,
who shook her head, yet smiled wTith sympathy. " Yon
must not say to these messieurs below that you have
xxxviil] DISCOVERIES. 395
been in my room. Oh, I know the confidences of a
smoking-room ! Yon must not brag, mes amis. For
Bice does not understand the convenances, nor remember
that this is England, where people meet only in the
drawing-room."
"Divine forgetfulness ! " murmured Derwentwater.
Jock, for his part, turned his back with a certain sense
of shame. He had liked it, but he had not thought
it right. The room altogether, with its draperies and
mysteries, had conveyed to him a certain intoxication
as of wrong-doing. Something that was dangerous was
in the air of it. It was seductive, it was fascinating ;
he had felt like a man banished when Bice had started
from the piano and bidden them " Go away ; go away !"
in the same laughing tone in which she had bidden
them come. But the moment he was outside the
threshold his impulse was to escape — to rush out of
sight — and obliterate even from his own mind the
sense that he had been there. To meet the Contessa,
and still more his sister, full in the face, was a shock
to all his susceptibilities. He turned his back upon
them, and but that his fellow-culprit made a momentary
stand, would have fled away. Lucy partook of Jock's
feeling it wounded her to see him at that door.
She gave him a glance of mingled reproach and pity ;
a vague sense that these were siren-women dangerous
to all mankind stole into her heart.
But Lucy was destined to a still greater shock.
The party from the smoking-room was late in breaking
up. The sound of their steps and voices as they came
upstairs roused Lady Eandolph, not from sleep — for
she had been unable to sleep — but from the confused
maze of recollections and efforts to think which dis-
tracted her placid soul. She was not made for these
396 SIR TOM. [chap.
agitations. The constitution of her mind was overset
altogether. The moment that suspicion and distrust
came in there was no further strength in her. She
was lying not thinking so much as remembering stray
words and looks which drifted across her memory as
across a dim mirror, with a meaning in them which
she did not grasp. She was not clever. She could
not put this and that together with the dolorous skill
which some women possess. It is a skill which does
not promote the happiness of the possessor, but per-
haps it is scarcely more happy to stand in the midst
of a vague mass of suggestions without being able to
make out what they mean, which was Lucy's case.
She did not understand her husband's sudden excite-
ment ; what it had to do with Bice, with the Contessa,
with her own resolution and plans she could not tell,
but felt vaguely that many things deeply concerning
her were in the air, and was unhappy in the confusion
of her thoughts. For a long time after the sounds of
various persons coming upstairs had died away, Lucy
lay silent waiting for her husband's appearance — but
at last unable to bear the vague wretchedness of her
thoughts any longer, got up and put on a dressing-
gown and stole out into the dark gallery to go to the
nursery to look at her boy asleep, which was her best
anodyne. The lights were all extinguished except the
faint ray that came from the nursery door, and Lucy
went softly towards that, anxious to disturb little Tom
by no sound. As she did so a door suddenly opened,
sending a glare of light into the dark corridor. It was
the door of the Contessa's room, and with the light
came Sir Tom, the Contessa herself appearing after him
on the threshold. She was still in her dinner dress,
and her appearance remained long impressed upon
xxxix.] lucy's discovery. 397
Lucy's imagination like a photograph without colour,
in shadow and light. She gave Sir Tom a little packet
apparently of letters, and then she held out both hands
to him, which he took in his. Something seemed to
flash through Lucy's heart like a knife, quivering like
the " pale death " of the poet, in sight and sense. The
sudden surprise and pang of it was such for a moment
that she seemed turned into stone, and stood gazing
like a spectre in her white flowing dress, her face more
white, her eyes and mouth open in the misery and
trouble of the moment. Then she stole back softly
into her room — her head throbbing, her heart beating
— and buried her face in her pillow and closed her
eyes. Even baby could not soothe her in this un-
looked-for pang. And then she heard his step come
slowly along the gallery. How was she to look at him?
how listen to him in the shock of such an extraordin-
ary discovery? She took refuge in a semblance of
sleep.
CHAPTEE XXXIX.
LUCY'S DISCOVERY.
WHEN it happens to an innocent and simple soul to
find out suddenly at a stroke the falsehood of some one
upon whose truth the whole universe depends, the
effect is such as perhaps has never been put forth by
any attempt at pyschological investigation. When it
happens to a great mind, we have Hamlet with all the
world in ruins round him — all other thoughts as of
revenge or ambition are but secondary and spasmodic,
since neither revenge nor advancement can put together
398 SIR TOM. [chap.
again the works of life or make man delight him, or
woman either. But Lady Eandolph was not a Hamlet.
She had no genius, nor even a great intellect to be un-
hinged— scarcely mind enough to understand how it
was that the glory had paled out of earth and sky, and
all the world seemed different when she rose from her
uneasy bed next morning, pale, after a night without
sleep, in which she had not been able to have even the
relief of restlessness, but had lain motionless, without
even a sigh or tear, so crushed by the unexpected blow
that she could neither fathom nor understand what had
happened to her. She was too pure herself to jump at
any thought of gross infidelity. She felt she knew not
what — that the world had gone to pieces — that she did
not know how to shape it again into anything — that
she could not look into her husband's face, or command
her voice to speak to him, for shame of the thought
that he had failed in truth. Lucy felt somehow as if
she were the culprit. She was ashamed to look him
in the face. She made an early visit to the nursery,
and stayed there pretending various little occupations
until she heard Sir Tom go down stairs. He had re-
turned so much to the old ways, and now that the
house was full, and there were other people to occupy
the Contessa, had shown so clearly (as Lucy had
thought) that he was pleased to be liberated from his
attendance upon her, that the cloud that had risen
between them had melted away ; and indeed, for some
time back, it had been Lucy who was the Contessa's
stay and support, a change at which Sir Tom had some-
times laughed. All had been well between the husband
and wife during the early part of the season parliament-
ary, the beginning of their life in London. Sir Tom
had been much engrossed with the cares of public life,
xxxix.] lucy's discovery. 399
but he had been delightful to Lucy, whose faith in him
and his new occupations was great. And it was ex-
hilarating to think that the Contessa had secured that
little house in Mayfair for her own campaign, and that
something like a new honeymoon was about to begin
for the pair, whose happiness had seemed for a moment
to tremble in the balance. Lucy had been looking for-
ward to the return to London with a more bright and
conscious anticipation of well-being than she had ever
experienced. In the first outset of life happiness seems
a necessary of existence. It is calculated upon with-
out misgiving ; it is simple nature, beyond question.
But when the natural " of course " has once been
broken, it is with a warmer glow of content that we
see the prospect once more stretching before us bright
as at first and more assured. This is how Lucy had
been regarding her life. It was not so simple, so easy
as it once had been, but the happiness to which she was
looking forward, and which she had already partially
entered into possession of, was all the more sweet and
dear, that she had known, or fancied herself about to
know, the loss and absence of it. Xow, in a moment,
all that fair prospect, that blessed certainty, was gone.
The earth was cut away from under her feet ; she felt
everything to be tottering, falling round her, and no-
thing in all the universe to lay hold of to prop herself
up ; for when the pillars of the world are thus unrooted
the heaving of the earthquake and the falling of the
ruins impart a certain vertigo and giddy instability even
to heaven.
Fletcher, Lucy's maid, who was usually discreet
enough, waited upon her mistress that morning with a
certain air of importance, and of knowing something
which she was bursting with eagerness to tell, such as
400 SIR TOM. [chap.
must have attracted Lady Bandolph's attention in any
other circumstances. But Lucy was far too much oc-
cupied with what was in her own mind to observe the
perturbation of the maid, who consequently had no
resource, since her mistress would not question her,
than to introduce herself the subject on which she was
so anxious to utter her mind. She began by inquiring
if her ladyship had heard the music last night. " The
music?" Lucy said.
" Oh, my lady, haven't you heard what a singer
Miss Beachy has turned out ? " Fletcher cried.
Lucy, to whom all this seemed dim and far away
as if it had happened years ago, answered with a faint
smile — " Yes, she has a lovely voice."
" It is not my place," said Fletcher, " being only a
servant, to make remarks ; but, my lady, if I might
make so bold, it do seem to the like of us an 'orrible
thing to take advantage of a young lady like your lady-
ship that thinks no harm."
" You should not make such remarks," said Lucy,
roused a little.
" No, my lady; but still a woman is a woman, even
though but a servant. I said to Mrs. Freshwater I was
sure your ladyship would never sanction it. I never
thought that of Miss Beachy, I will allow. I always
said she was a nice young lady ; but evil communica-
tions, my lady — we all know what the Bible says.
Gentlemen upstairs in her room and her singing to
them, and laughing and talking like as no housemaid
in the house as valued her character would do "
" Fletcher," said Lucy, " you must say no more about
this. It was Mr. Jock and Mr. Derwentwater only
who were with Miss Bice — and with my permission,"
she added after a moment, " as he is going away to-
morrow." Such deceits are so easy to learn.
xxxix.] LUCY'S DISCOVERY. 401
" Oh-oh ! " Miss Fletcher cried, with a quaver in her
voice. " I beg your pardon, my lady ; I'm sure — I
thought — there must be something underneath, and
that Miss Beachy would never And when she
was down with Sir Thomas in the study it would be
the same, my lady ? " the woman said.
" With Sir Thomas in the study ! " The words went
vaguely into Lucy's mind. It had not seemed possible
to increase the confusion and misery in her brain, but
this produced a heightening of it, a sort of wave of
bewilderment and pain greater than before, a sense of
additional giddiness and failing. She gave a wave of her
hand and said something, she scarcely knew what, which
silenced Fletcher ; and then she went down stairs to
the new world. She did not go to the nursery even,
as was her wont ; her heart turned from little Tom.
She felt that to look at him would be more than she
could bear. There was no deceit in him, no falsehood
— as yet; but perhaps when he grew up he would
cheat her too. He would pretend to love her and
betray her trust ; he would kiss her, and then go away
and scoff at her ; he would smile, and smile, and be a
villain. Such words were not in Lucy's mind, and it
was altogether out of nature that she should even re-
ceive the thought : which made it all the more terrible
when it was poured into her soul. And it cannot be
told what discoveries she seemed to make even in the
course of that morning in this strange condition of her
mind. There was a haze over everything, but yet there
was an enlightenment even in the haze. She saw in
her little way, as Hamlet saw the falsehood of his
courtiers, his gallant young companions, and the
schemes of Polonius, and even Ophelia in the plot to
trap him. She saw how false all these people were in
2 D
402 SIR TOM. [chap.
their civilities, in their extravagant thanks and compli-
ments to her as they went away ; for the Easter recess
was just over, and everybody was going. The mother
and her daughters said to her, " Such a delightful
visit, dear Lady Bandolph ! " with kisses of farewell
and wreathed smiles ; and she perceived, somehow by
a sort of second sight, that they added to each other,
" Oh, what a bore it has been ; nobody worth meeting,"
and " how thankful I am it's over ! " which was indeed
what Miss Minnie and Miss Edith said. If Lucy had
seen a little deeper she would have known that this too
was a sort of conventional falsity which the young ladies
said to each other, according to the fashion of the day,
without any meaning to speak of; but one must have
learned a great many lessons before one comes to that.
Then Jock, who had been woke up in quite a differ-
ent way, took leave of MTutor, that god of his old
idolatry, without being able to refrain from some sem-
blance of the old absorbing affection.
" I am so sorry you are not coming with me, old
fellow," Mr. Derwentwater said.
Jock replied, " So am I," with an effort, as if firing
a parting volley in honour of his friend : but then
turned gloomily with an expression of relief. " I'm
glad he's gone, Lucy."
" Then you did not want to go with him, Jock ? "
" I wouldn't have gone for anything. I've just got
to that — that I can't bear him," cried Jock.
And Lucy, in the midst of the ruins, felt her head
go round : though here too it was the falsehood that was
fictitious, had she but known. It is not, however, in the
nature of such a shock that any of those alleviating
circumstances which modify the character of human
sentiment can be taken into account. Lucy had taken
xxxix.] LUCY'S DISCOVERY. 403
everything for gospel in the first chapter of existence ;
she had believed what everybody said ; and like every
other human soul, after such a discovery as she had
made, she went to the opposite extremity now — not
wittingly, not voluntarily — but the pillars of the earth
were shaken, and nothing stood fast.
They went up to town next day. In the meantime
she had little or no intercourse with the Contessa, who
was preparing for the journey and absorbed in letter-
writing, making known to everybody whom she could
think of, the existence of the little house in Mayfair.
It is doubtful whether she so much as observed any
difference in the demeanour of her hostess, having in
fact the most unbounded confidence in Lucy, whom
she did not believe capable of any such revulsion of
feeling. Bice was more clear-sighted, but she thought
Milady was displeased with her own proceedings, and
sought no further for a cause. And the only thing the
girl could do was to endeavour by all the little devices
she could think of to show the warm affection she
really felt for Lucy — a method which made the heart
of Lucy more and more sick with that sense of false-
hood which sometimes rose in her, almost to the height
of passion. A woman who had ever learned to use
harsh words, or to whose mind it had ever been
possible to do or say anything to hurt another, would
no doubt have burst forth upon the girl with some
reproach or intimation of doubt which might have
cleared the matter so far as Bice went. But Lucy had
no such words at her command. She could not say
anything unkind. It was not in her. She could be
silent, indeed, but not even that, so far as to " hurt the
feelings " of her companion. The effect, therefore, was
only that Lucy laboured to maintain a little artificial
404 SIR TOM. [chap.
conversation, which in its turn reacted upon her mind,
showing that even in herself there was the same dis-
position to insincerity which she had begun to discover
in the world. She could say nothing to Bice about
the matters which a little while before, when all was
well, she had grieved over and objected to. Now she
had nothing to say on such subjects. That the girl
should be set up to auction, that she should put forth
all those arts in which she had been trained, to attract
and secure young Montjoie, or any like him, were
things which had passed beyond her sphere. To think
of them rendered her heart more sick, her head more
giddy. But if Bice married some one whom she did
not love, that was not so bad as to think that perhaps
she herself all this time had been living with, and
loving, in sacred trust and faith, a man who even by
her side was full of thoughts unknown to her, given to
another. Sometimes Lucy closed her eyes in a sort of
sick despair, feeling everything about her go round and
round. But she said nothing to throw any light upon
the state of her being. Sir Tom felt a little gravity —
a little distance in his wife ; but he himself was much
occupied with a new and painful subject of thought.
And Jock observed nothing at all, being at a stage
when man (or boy) is wholly possessed with affairs of
his own. He had his troubles, too. He was not easy
about that breach with his master now that they were
separated. When Bice was kind to him a gleam of
triumph, mingled with pity, made him remorseful
towards that earlier friend ; and when she was unkind
a bitter sense of fellowship turned Jock's thoughts
towards that sublime ideal of masculine friendship
which is above the lighter loves of women. How can
a boy think of his sister when absorbed in such a
xxxix.] Lucy's discovery. 405
mystery of his own ? — even if he considered his sister
at all as a person whom it was needful to think about
— which he did not, Lucy being herself one of the
pillars of the earth to his unopened eyes.
All this, however, made no difference in Lucy's
determination. She wrote to Mr. Eushton that very
morning, after this revolution in her soul, to instruct
him as to her intentions in respect to Bice, and to her
other trustee in London to request him to see her im-
mediately on her arrival in Park Lane. Nothing
should be changed in that matter, for why, she said to
herself, should Bice suffer because Sir Tom was untrue?
It seemed to her that there was more reason than ever
why she should rouse herself and throw off her inaction.
No doubt there were many people whom she could
make, if not happy, yet comfortable. It was comfort-
able (everybody said) to have enough of money — to be
well off. Lucy had no experience of what it was to
be without it. She thought to herself she would like
to try, to have only what she actually wanted, to cook
the food for her little family, to nurse little Tom all by
herself, to live as the cottagers lived. There was in
her mind no repugnance to any of the details of
poverty. Her wealth was an accident ; it was the
habit of her race to be poor, and it seemed to Lucy
that she would be happier could she shake off now all
those external circumstances which had grown, like
everything else, into falsehoods, giving an appearance of
well-being which did not exist. But other people thought
it well to have money, and it was her duty to give it.
A kind of contempt rose within her for all that withheld
her previously. To avoid her duty because it would
displease Sir Tom — what was that but falsehood too ?
All was falsehood, only she had never seen it before.
406 SIR TOM. [chap.
They reached town in the afternoon of a sweet
April day, the sky aglow with a golden sunset, against
which the trees in the park stood out with their half-
developed buds : and all the freshness of the spring was
in the long stretches of green, and the softened jubilee
of sound to which somehow, as the air warms towards
summer, the voices of the world outside tune them-
selves. The Contessa and Bice in great spirits and
happiness, like two children home from school, had left
the Eandolph party at the railway, to take possession
of the little house in Mayfair. They had both waved
their hands from the carriage window and called out,
" Be sure you come and see us," as they drove away.
" You will come to-night," they had stipulated with
Sir Tom and Jock. It was like a new toy which filled
them with glee. Could it be possible that those two
adventurers going off to their little temporary home
with smiles so genuine, with so simple a delight in
their new beginning, were not, in their strange way,
innocent, full of guile and shifts as one was, and the
other so apt a scholar ? Lucy would have joined in all
this pleasure two days ago, but she could not now.
She went home to her luxurious house, where all was
ready, as if she had not been absent an hour. How
wonderfully wealth smooths away the inconveniences
of change ! and how little it has to do, Lucy thought,
with the comfort of the soul ! No need for any
exertion on her part, any scuffling for the first arrival,
any trouble of novelty. She came from the Hall to
London without any sense of change. Had she been
compelled to superintend the arrangement of her house,
to make it habitable, to make it pretty, that would
have done her good. But the only thing for her to do
was to see Mr. Chervil, her trustee, who waited upon
xxxix.] lucy's discovery. 407
her according to her request, and who, after the usual
remonstrances, took her instructions about the gift to
Bice very unwillingly, but still with a forced submission.
" If I cannot make you see the folly of it, Lady Ran-
dolph, and if Sir Thomas does not object, I don't know
what more is to be said.'"' " There is nothing more to
be said," Lucy said, with a smile; but there was this
difficulty in the proceeding which she had not thought
of, that Bice's name all this time was unknown to her
— Beatrice di Forno-Populo, she supposed, but the
Contessa had never called her so, and it was necessary
to be exact, Mr. Chervil said. He hailed this as an
occasion of delay. He was not so violent as he had
been on previous occasions when Lucy was young ;
and he did not, like Mr. Rushton, assume the necessity
of speaking to Sir Tom. Mr. Chervil was a London
solicitor, and knew very little about Sir Tom. But he
was glad to seize upon anything that was good for a
little delay.
After this interview was over it was a mingled
vexation and relief to Lucy to see the Dowager drive
up to the door. Lady Randolph the elder was always
in London from the first moment possible. She pre-
ferred the first bursting of the spring in the squares and
parks. She liked to see her friends arrive by degrees,
and to feel that she had so far the better of them. She
came in, full as she always was of matter, with a thou-
sand things to say. " I have come to stay to dinner, if
you will have me," she said, " for of course Tom will be
going out in the evening. They are always so glad to
get back to their life." And it was, perhaps, a relief to
have Lady Randolph to dinner, to be saved from the
purely domestic party, to which Jock scarcely added any
new element ; but it was hard for Lucy to encounter
408 SIR TOM. [chap.
even the brief questionings which were addressed to
her in the short interval before dinner. " So you have
got rid of that woman at last," Lady Eandolph said ;
" I hear she has got a house in Mayfair."
" Yes, Aunt Eandolph, if you mean the Contessa,"
said Lucy.
"And that she intends to make a bold coup to
get the girl off her hands. These sort of people so
often succeed : I shouldn't wonder if she were to suc-
ceed. I always said the girl would be handsome, but
I think she might have waited another year."
To this Lucy made no reply, and it was necessary
for the Dowager to carry on the conversation, so to
speak, at her own cost.
" I hope most earnestly, Lucy," she said, " that now
you have got clear of them you will not mix yourself
up with them again. You were placed in an uneasy
position, very difficult to get out of, I will allow ; but
now that you have shaken them off, and they have
proved they can get on without you, don't, I entreat
you, mix yourself up with them again."
Lucy could not keep the blood from mounting, and
colouring her face. She had always spoken of the
Contessa calmly before. She tried to keep her com-
posure now. "Dear Aunt Eandolph, I have not
shaken them off. They have gone away of themselves,
and how can I refuse to see them ? There is to be a
party here for them on the 26th."
" Oh, my dear, my dear, that was very imprudent !
I had hoped you would keep clear of them in London.
It is one thing showing kindness to an old friend in the
country, and it is quite another "
Here Lucy made an imperative gesture, almost
commanding silence. Sir Tom was coming into the
XL.] THE DOWAGER'S EXPLANATION. 409
room. She was seated in the great bay window against
the early twilight, the soft radiance of which dazzled
the eyes of the elder lady, and prevented her from per-
ceiving her nephew's approach. But Lady Eandolph,
before she rose to meet him, gave a startled look at
Lucy. " Have you found it out, then ? " she said in-
voluntarily, in her great surprise.
CHAPTEE XL.
THE DOWAGER'S EXPLANATION.
The Dowager was a woman far more clever than Lucy,
who knew the world. And she was apt perhaps, in-
stead of missing the meaning of the facts around her,
to put too much significance in them. Now, when the
little party met at dinner, Lady Eandolph saw in the
faces of both husband and wife more than was there,
though much was there. Sir Tom was more grave
than became a man who had returned into life, as his
aunt said, and was looking forward to resuming: the
better part of existence — the House, the clubs, the quick
throb of living which is in London. His countenance
was full of thought, and there was both trouble and
perplexity in it, but not the excitement which the
Dowager supposed she found there, and those signs
of having yielded to an evil influence which eyes
accustomed to the world are so ready to discover.
Lucy for her part was pale and silent. She had little
to say, and scarcely addressed her husband at all.
Lady Eandolph, and that was very natural, took those
signs of heart sickness for tokens of complete enlighten-
410 SIR TOM. [chap.
nient, for the passion of a woman who had entered
upon that struggle with another woman for a man's
love which, even when the man is her husband, has
something degrading in it. There had been a disclosure,
a terrible scene, no doubt, a stirring up of all the
passions, Lady Eandolph thought. No doubt that was
the reason why the Contessa had loosed her clutches,
and left the house free of her presence ; but Lucy was
still trembling after the tempest, and had not learned
to take any pleasure in her victory. This was the
conclusion of the woman of the world.
The dinner was not a lengthy one, and the ladies
went upstairs again, with a suppressed constraint, each
anxious to know what the other was on her guard not
to tell. They sat alone expectant for some time,
making conversation, taking their coffee, listening, and
watching each how the other listened, for the coming of
the gentlemen, or rather for Sir Tom ; for Jock, in
his boyish insignificance, counted for little. The trivial
little words that passed between them during this in-
terval were charged with a sort of moral electricity,
and stung and tingled in the too conscious silence. At
length, after some time had elapsed : " I am glad I
came," said Lady Eandolph, " to sit with you, Lucy,
this first evening ; for of course Tom cannot resist, the
first evening in town, the charms of his club."
" His club ! Oh, I think he has gone to see the house,"
Lucy said. " He promised ; it is not very far off."
" The house ? You mean that woman's house.
Lucy, I have no patience with you any more than I
have with Tom. Why don't you put a stop to it ?
why don't you — for I suppose you have found out
what sort of a woman she is by this time, and why
she came here ? "
XL.] THE DOWAGER'S EXPLANATION. 411
She came to introduce Bice and establish
her in the world;' Lucy said; in a faint tone. " Oh !
Aunt Randolph, please do not let us discuss it ! I:
not what I like to think of. Bice will he sacrificed to
the first rich man who asks her; or at least that is
what the Contessa means."
"My dear Lucy," said the Dowager, calmly, "that is
reasonable enough. I wish the Contessa m^ant no
worse than that. Most girls are persuaded to inarry
a rich man if he asks them. I don't think so much
of that. But it will not be so easy as she think-
the Dowager added. "It is true that beauty d -
much — but not everything ; and a girl in that position,
with no connections, or, at least, none that she would
not be better without "
Lucy's attention strayed from this question, which
once had been so important, and which now seemed
so secondary; but the conversation must be main-
tained. She said at random : ■ She has a beautiful
v ice."
" Has she ? And the Contessa herself sings very
well. That will no doubt be another attraction," said
Lady Eandolph, in her impartial way. a But the end
of it all is, who will she get to go, and who will invite
them ? It i? vain to lay snares if there is nothing to
be caught."
;; They will be invited — here," said Lucy, faltering
a little. " I told you I am to have a great gathering
on the 26th."
* I could not believe my ears. You ! — and she is I
appear here for the first time to make her debut. Good
heavens, Lucy ! What can I say to you — that girl ! "
• Why not, Aunt Randolph ? " said Lucy (oh, what
does it matter — what does it matter, that she should
412 SIR TOM. [chap.
make so much fuss a,bout it ? she was saying in herself) ;
" I have always liked Bice, and she has been very
good to little Tom."
" Well," cried the angry lady, forgetting herself, and
smiling the fierce smile of wrath, "there is no doubt
that it is perfectly appropriate — the very thing that
ought to happen if we lived according to the rules of
nature, without thought of conventionalities and de-
corums, and so forth — oh, perfectly appropriate ! If
you don't object I know no one who has any right to
say a word."
Even now Lucy was scarcely roused enough to be
surprised by the vehemence of these words. " Why
should I object ? " she said ; " or why should any one
say a word ? " Her calm, which was almost indiffer-
ence, excited Lady Kandolph more and more.
"You are either superhuman," she said, with ex-
asperation, " or you are Lucy, I don't know what
words to use. You put one out of every reckoning.
You are like nobody I ever knew before. Why should
you object ? Why, good heavens ! you are the only
person that has any right Who should object
if not you ? "
"Aunt Randolph," said Lucy, rousing herself with
an effort, " would you please tell me plainly what you
mean ? I am not clever. I can't make things out.
I have always liked Bice. To save her from being
made a victim I am going to give her some of the
money under my father's will — and if I could give
her What is the matter ? " she cried, stopping
short suddenly, and in spite of herself growing pale.
Lady Kandolph flung up her hands in dismay. She
gave something like a shriek as she exclaimed : " And
Tom is letting you do this ? " with horror in her tone.
xl.] THE DOWAGER'S EXPLANATION. 413
" He lias promised that he will not oppose," Lucy
said ; " but why do you speak so, and look so ? Bice
— has done no harm."
"Oh, no; Bice has done no harm," cried Lady
Eandolph bitterly ; " nothing, except being born, which
is harm enough, I think. But do you mean to tell
me, Lucy, that Tom — a man of honour, notwithstanding
all his vagaries — Tom lets you do this and never
says a word ? Oh, it is too much. I have always
stood by him. I have been his support when every
one else failed. But this is too much, that he should
put the burden upon you — that he should make you
responsible for this girl of his "
" Aunt Eandolph ! " cried Lucy, rising up quickly
and confronting the angry woman. She put up her
hand with a serious dignity that was doubly impres-
sive from her usual simpleness. "What is it you
mean ? This girl of his ! I do not understand.
She is not much more than a child. You cannot,
cannot suppose that Bice — that it is she — that she
is " Here she suddenly covered her face with
her hands. " Oh, you put things in my mind that I
am ashamed to think of," Lucy cried.
" I mean," said Lady Eandolph, who in the heat of
this discussion had got beyond her own power of self-
restraint, "what everybody but yourself must have
seen long ago. That woman is a shameless woman,
but even she would not have had the effrontery to
bring any other girl to your house. It was more
shameless, I think, to bring that one than any other ;
but she would not think so. Oh, cannot you see it
even now ? Why, the likeness might have told you ;
that was enough. The girl is Tom's girl. She is your
husband's "
414 SIR TOM. [chap.
Lucy uncovered her face, which was perfectly colour-
less, with eyes dilated and wide open. " What ? " she
whispered, looking intently into Lady Eandolph's face.
"His own child — his — daughter — though I am
bitterly ashamed to say it," the Dowager said.
For a moment everything seemed to waver and turn
round in Lucy's eyes, as if the walls were making a
circuit with her in giddy space. Then she came to her
feet with the sensation of a shock, and found herself
standing erect, with the most amazing incomprehen-
sible sense of relief. Why should she have felt re-
lieved by this communication which filled her com-
panion with horror ? A softer air seemed to breathe
about Lucy, she felt solid ground under her feet. For
the first moment there seemed nothing but ease and
sweet soothing and refreshment in what she heard.
" His — daughter ? " she said. Her mind went back
with a sudden flash upon the past, gathering up in-
stantaneously pieces of corroborative evidence, things
which she had not noted at the moment, which she had
forgotten, yet which came back nevertheless when they
were needed : the Contessa's mysterious words about
Bice's parentage, her intimation that Lucy would one
day be glad to have befriended her : Sir Tom's sudden
agitation when she had told him of Bice's English
descent : finally, and most conclusive of all, touching
Lucy with a most unreasonable conviction and bringing
a rush of warm feeling to her heart, Baby's adoption
of the girl and recommendation of her to his mother.
Was it not the voice of nature, the voice of God ? Lucy
had no instinctive sense of recoil, no horror of the
discovery. She did not realise the guilt involved, nor
was she painfully struck, as some women might have
been, by this evidence of her husband's previous life
xl.] THE DOWAGER'S EXPLANATION. 415
"If it is so," she said quietly, "there is more reason
than ever, Aunt Eandolph, that I should do everything
I can for Bice. It never came into my mind before.
I see now — various things : but I do not see why it
should — make me unhappy/' she added with a faint
smile which brought the water to her eyes : " it must
have been — long before I knew him. Will you tell
me who was her mother ? Was she a foreigner ? Did
she die long ago ? "
" Oh, Lucy, Lucy," cried Lady Eandolph, " is it
possible you don't see ? "Who would take all that
trouble about her ? Who would burden themselves
with another woman's girl that was no concern of
theirs ? Who would — can't you see ? can't you see ? "
There came over Lucy's face a hot and feverish
flush. She grew red to her hair, agitation and shame
took possession of her ; something seemed to throb and
swell as if it would burst in her forehead. She could
not speak. She could not look at her informant for
shame of the revelation that had been made. All
the bewildered sensations which for the moment had
been stilled in her breast sprang up again with a
feverish whirl and tumult. She tottered back to the
chair on which she had been sitting and dropped down
upon it, holding by it as if that were the only thing in
the world secure and steadfast. It was only now
that Lady Eandolph seemed to awake to the risks and
dangers of this bold step she had taken. She had
roused the placid soul at last. To what strange agony,
to what revenue might she have roused it ? She had
looked for tears and misery, and fleeting rage and mad
jealousy. But Lucy's look of utter giddiness and over-
throw alarmed her more than she could say.
" Lucy ! Oh, my love, you must recollect, as you
416 SIR TOM. [chap.
say, that it was all long before lie knew you — that there
was no injury to you ! "
Lucy made a movement with her hand to bar
further discussion, but she could not say anything. She
pointed Lady Eandolph to her chair, and made that
mute prayer for silence, for no more. But in such a
moment of excitement there is nothing that is more
difficult to grant than this.
" Oh, Lucy," the Dowager cried, " forgive me ! Per-
haps I ought not to have said anything. Oh, my dear,
if you will but think what a painful position it was for
me. To see you so unsuspicious, ready to do any-
thing, and even Tom taking advantage of you. It is
not more than a week since I found it all out, and
how could I keep silence ? Think what a painful posi-
tion it was for me."
Lucy made no reply. There seemed nothing but
darkness round her. She put out her hand imploring
that no more might be said ; and though there was a
great deal more said, she scarcely made out what it was.
Her brain refused to take in any more. She suffered
herself to be kissed and blessed, and said good-night
to, almost mechanically. And when the elder lady at
last went away, Lucy sat where Lady Eandolph had left
her, she did not know how long, gazing woefully at
the ruins of that crumbled world which had all fallen
to pieces about her. All was to pieces now. What was
she and what was the other ? Why should she be here
and not the other ? Two, were there ? — two with an equal
claim upon him ? Was everything false, even the law,
even the external facts which made her Tom's wife. He
had another wife and a child. He was two, he was
not one true man ; one for baby and her, another for
Bice and the Contessa. When she heard her husband
xii.] SEVERED. 417
coming in Lucy fled upstairs like a hunted thing, and
took refuge in the nursery where little Tom was sleep-
ing. Even her bourgeoise horror of betraying herself,
of letting the servants suspect that anything was
wrong, had no effect upon her to-night.
CHAPTEE XLI.
SEVERED.
Sir Tom came home later, so much later than he in-
tended that he entered the house with such a sense of
compunction as had not visited him since the days when
the alarm of being caught was a part of the pleasure.
He had no fear of a lecture from Lucy, whose gifts
were not of that kind; but he was partially conscious
of having neglected her on her first night in town, as
well as having sinned against her in matters more
serious. And he did not know how to explain his
detention at the Contessa's new house, or the matters
which he had been discussing there. It was a sensible
relief to him not to find her in any of the sitting-
rooms, all dark and closed up, except his own room, in
which there was no trace of her. She had gone to
bed, which was so sensible, like Lucy's unexaggerated
natural good sense : he smiled to himself — though, at
the same time, a wondering question within himself,
whether she felt at all, passed through his mind — a re-
flection full of mingled disappointment and satisfaction.
But when, a full hour after his return, after a tranquil
period of reflection, he went leisurely upstairs, expect-
ing to find her peacefully asleep, and found her not,
2 E
418 SIR TOM. [chap.
nor any evidence that she had ever been there, a great
wave of alarm passed over the mind of Sir Tom. He
paused confounded, looking at her vacant place, startled
beyond expression. " Lucy ! " he cried, looking in his
dismay into every corner, into his own dressing-room,
and even into the large wardrobe where her dresses
hung, like shells and husks, which she had laid aside,
And then he made an agitated pause, standing in the
middle of the room, not knowing what to think. It
was by this time about two in the morning ; the middle
of the night, according to Lucy. Where could she have
cone? Then he bethought himself with an imme-
diate relief, which was soon replaced by poignant
anxiety, of the only possible reason for her absence — a
reason which would explain everything — little Tom.
When this thought occurred to him all the excitement
that had been in Sir Tom's mind disappeared in a
moment, and he thought of nothing but that baby
lying, perhaps tossing uneasily, upon his little bed, his
mother watching over him ; most sacred group on earth
to him, who, whatever his faults might be, loved them
both dearly. He took a candle in his hand and,
stepping lightly, went up the stairs to the nursery
door. There was no sound of wailing within, no pitiful
little cry to tell the tale ; all was still and dark. He
tried the door softly, but it would not open. Then
another terror awoke, and for the moment took his
breath from him. What had happened to the child ?
Sir Tom suffered enough at this moment to have ex-
piated many sins. There came upon him a vision of
the child extended motionless upon his bed, and his
mother by him refusing to be comforted. What could
it mean ? The door looked as if hope had departed.
He knocked softly, yet imperatively, divided between
xli.] SEVERED. 419
the horror of these thoughts and the gentle everyday
sentiment which forbade any noise at little Tom's
door. It was some time before he got any reply — a time
which seemed to him interminable. Then he suddenly
heard Lucy's voice close to the door whispering. There
had been no sound of any footsteps. Had she been
there all the time listening to all his appeals and taking
no notice ?
" Open the door," he said anxiously. " Speak to
me. What is the matter ? Is he ill ? Have you
sent for the doctor ? Let me in."
"We are all shut up and settled for the night."
said Lucy, through the door.
" Shut up for the night ? Has he been very ill ?"
Sir Tom cried.
" Oh, hush, you will wake him ; no, not very ill : but
I am going to stay with him," said the voice inside
with a quiver in it.
" Lucy, what does this mean ? You are concealing
something from me. Have you had the doctor ? Good
God, tell me. What is the matter ? Can't I see my boy?"
" There is nothing — nothing to be alarmed about,"
said Lucy from within. " He is asleep — he is — doing
well. Oh ! go to bed and don't mind us. I am going
to stay with him."
" Don't mind you ? that is so easy," he cried, with
a broken laugh ; then the silence stealing to his heart,
he cried out, " Is the child ? " But Sir Tom could
not say the word. He shivered, standing outside the
closed door. The mystery seemed incomprehensible,
save on the score of some great calamity. The bitter-
ness of death went over him ; but then he asked him-
self what reason there could be to conceal from him
any terrible sudden blow. Lucy would have wanted
420 SIR TOM. [chap.
him in such a case, not kept him from her. In this
dread moment of sudden panic he thought of everything
but the real cause, which made a more effectual barrier
between them than that closed door.
" He is well enough now," said Lucy's voice, coming
faintly out of the darkness. " Oh, indeed, there is
nothing the matter. Please go away ; go to bed. It
is so late. I am going to stay with him."
" Lucy," said Sir Tom, " I have never been shut out
before. There is something you are concealing from me.
Let me see him and then you shall do as you please."
There was a little pause, and then slowly, reluctantly,
Lucy opened the door. She was still fully dressed as
she had been for dinner. There was not a particle of
colour in her face. Her eyes had a scared look and
were surrounded by wide circles, as if the orbit had been
hollowed out. She stood aside to let him pass without
a word. The room in which little Tom slept was an
inner room. There was scarcely any light in either,
nothing but the faint glimmer of the night-lamp. The
sleeping-room was hushed and full of the most tranquil
quiet, the regular soft breathing of the sleeping child
in his little bed, and of his nurse by him, who was as
completely unaware as he of any intrusion. Sir Tom
stole in and looked at his boy, in the pretty baby atti-
tude of perfect repose, his little arms thrown up over
his head. The anxiety vanished from his heart, but
not the troubled sense of something wrong, a mystery
which altogether baffled him. Mystery had no place
here in this little sanctuary of innocence. But what
did it mean ? He stole out again to where Lucy stood,
scared and silent in her white dress, with a jewelled
pendant at her neck which gleamed strangely in the
half light.
xli.] SEVERED. 421
" He seems quite well now. What was it, and why
are you so anxious ?" he asked. " Did the doctor "
" There was no need for a doctor. It is only — my-
self. I must stay with him, he might want me "
And nobody else does, Lucy was about to say, but pride
and modesty restrained her. Her husband looked at her
earnestly. He perceived with a curious pang of astonish-
ment that she drew away from him, standing as far off
as the limited space permitted and avoiding his eye.
" I don't understand it," he said ; " there is some-
thing underneath ; either he has been more ill than you
will let me know, or — there is something else "
She gave him no answering look, made no wondering
exclamation what could there be else ? as he had hoped ;
but replied hurriedly, as she had done before, " I want to
stay with him. I must stay with him for to-night "
It was with the most extraordinary sense of some
change, which he could not fathom or divine, that Sir
Tom consented at last to leave his wife in the child's
room and go to his own. What did it mean ? "What
had happened to him, or was about to happen ? He
could not explain to himself the aspect of the slight
little youthful figure in her airy white dress, with the
diamonds still at her throat, careless of the hour and
time, standing there in the middle of the night, shrink-
ing away from him, forlorn and wakeful with her
scared eyes. At this hour on ordinary occasions Lucy
was fast asleep. "When she came to see her boy, if
society had kept her up late, it was in the ease of a
dressing-gown, not with any cold glitter of ornaments.
And to see her shrink and draw herself away in that
strange repugnance from his touch and shadow con-
founded him. He was not angry, as he might have
been in another case, but pitiful to the bottom of Lis
422 SIR TOM. [chap.
heart. What could have come to Lucy ? Half a dozen
times he turned back on his way to his room. What
meaning could she have in it ? What could have
happened to her ? Her manifest shrinking from him
had terrified him, and filled his mind with confusion.
But controversy of any kind in the child's room at the
risk of waking him in the middle of the night was
impossible, and no doubt, he tried to say to himself, it
must be some panic she had taken, some sudden alarm
for the child, justified by reasons which she did not like
to explain to him till the morning light restored her
confidence. Women were so, he had often heard : and
the women he had known in his youth had certainly
been so — unreasoning creatures, subject to their imagi-
nation, taking fright when no occasion for fright was,
incapable of explaining. Lucy had never been like this ;
but yet Lucy, though sensible, was a woman too, and if
it is not permitted to a woman to take an unreasoning
panic about her only child, she must be hardly judged
indeed. Sir Tom was not a hard judge. When he got
over the painful sense that there must be something
more in this than met the eye, he was half glad to find
that Lucy was like other women — a dear little fool, not
always sensible. He thought almost the better of her
for it, he said to himself. She would laugh herself at
her panic, whatever it was, when little Tom woke up
fresh and fair in the morning light.
With this idea he did what he could to satisfy him-
self. The situation was strange, unprecedented in his
experience ; but he had many subjects of thought on
his own part which returned to his mind as the surprise
of the moment calmed down. He had a great deal to
think about. Old difficulties which seemed to have
passed away for long years were now coming back again
xli.] SEVERED. 423
to embarrass and confuse him. " Our pleasant vices
are made the whips to scourge us/' he said to himself.
The past had come back to him like the opening of a
book, no longer merely frivolous and amusing, as in the
Contessa's talk, touched with all manner of light emo-
tions, but bitter, with tragedy in it, and death and deso-
lation. Death and life : he had heard enough of the
dead to make them seem alive again, and of ibp living
to confuse their identity altogether ; but he had not
yet succeeded in clearing up the doubt which had been
thrown into his mind. That question about Bice's
parentage, " English on one side," tormented him still.
He had made again an attempt to discover the truth,
and he had been foiled. The probabilities seemed all
in favour of the solution which at the first word had
presented itself to him ; but still there was a chance
that it might not be so.
His mind had been full and troubled enough,
when he returned to the still house, and thought with
compunction how many thoughts which he could not
share with her he was bringing back to Lucy's side.
He could not trust them to her, or confide in her, and
secure her help, as in many other circumstances he
would have done without hesitation. But he could not
do that in this case, — not so much because she was
his wife, as because she was so young, so innocent, so
unaware of the complications of existence. How could
she understand the temptations that assail a young man
in the heyday of life, to whom many indulgences appear
permissible or venial, which to her limited and inno-
cent soul would seem unpardonable sins ? To live even
for a few years with a stainless nature like that of Lucy,
in whom there was not even so much knowledge as
would make the approaches of vice comprehensible, is a
424 SIR TOM. [chap.
new kind of education to the most experienced of men.
He had not believed it to be possible to be so altogether
ignorant of evil as he had found her ; and how could
he explain to her and gain her indulgent consideration
of the circumstances which had led him into what in
her vocabulary would be branded with the name of
vice ? Sir Tom even now did not feel it to be vice.
It was unfortunate that it had so happened. He had
been a fool. It was almost inconceivable to him now
how for the indulgence of a momentary passion he
could have placed himself in a position that might one
day be so embarrassing and disagreeable. He had not
behaved ill at the moment ; it was the woman who had
behaved ill. But how in the name of wonder to ex-
plain all this to Lucy ? Lucy, who was not conscious
of any reason why a man's code of morals should be
different from that of a woman ! When Sir Tom
returned to this painful and difficult subject, the im-
mediate question as to Lucy's strange conduct died
from his mind. It became more easy, by dint of re-
peating it, to believe that a mere unreasonable panic
about little Tom was the cause of her withdrawal. It
was foolish, but a loving and lovely foolishness which
a man might do more than forgive, which he might
adore and smile at, as men love to do, feeling that for
a woman to be thus silly is desirable, a counterpoise to
the selfishness and want of feeling which are so com-
mon in the world. But how to make this spotless
creature understand that a man might slip aside and
yet not be a dissolute man, that he might be betrayed
into certain proceedings which would not perhaps bear
the inspection of severe judges, and yet be neither
vicious nor heartless. This problem, after he had con-
sidered it in every possible way, Sir Tom finally gave
xli.] SEVERED. 425
up with a sort of despair. He must keep his secret
within his own bosom. He must contrive some means
of doing what, in case his hypothesis was right,
would now be clearly a duty, without exciting any
suspicion on Lucy's part. That, he thought with a
compunction, would be easy enough. There was no
one whom it would cost less trouble to deceive. "With
these thoughts he went to sleep in the room which
seemed strangely lonely without her presence. Per-
haps, however, it was not ungrateful to him to be
alone to think all those thoughts without the additional
sense of treachery which must have ensued had he
thought them in her presence. There was no treachery.
He had been all along, he thought to himself, a man
somewhat sinned against in the matter. To be sure it
was wrong — according to all rules of morals, it was
necessary to admit this ; but not more wrong, not so
much wrong, as most other men had been. And, grant-
ing the impropriety of that first step, he had nothing
to reproach himself with afterwards. In that respect
he knew he had behaved both liberally and honourably,
though he had been deceived. But how — how — good
heavens ! — explain this to Lucy ? In the silence of her
room, where she was not, he actually laughed out to him-
self at the thought ; laughed with a sense of an impossi-
bility beyond all laws or power of reasoning. AYhat
miracle would make her understand ? It would be easier
to move the solid earth than to make her understand.
But it was altogether a very strange night — such a
night as never had been passed in that house before ;
and fearful tilings were about in the darkness, ill
dreams, strange shadows of trouble. When Sir Tom
woke in the morning and found no sign that his wife
had been in the room or any trace of her, there arose
426 SIR TOM. [chap.
once more a painful apprehension in his mind. He
hurried half-dressed to the nursery to ask for news of
the child, but was met by the nurse with the most
cheerful countenance, with little Tom holding by her
skirts, in high spirits, and full of babble and glee.
" He has had a good night, then ? " the father said
aloud, lifting the little fellow to his shoulder.
" An excellent night, Sir Thomas," the woman said,
" and not a bit tired with his journey, and so pleased
to see all the carriages and the folks passing."
Sir Tom put the boy down with a cloud upon his face.
" What was the cause, then, of Lady Eandolph's
anxiety last night ? "
" Anxiety, Sir Thomas ! Oh no ; her ladyship was
quite pleased. She do always say he is a regular little
town-bird, and always better in London. And so she
said when I was putting of him to sleep. And he never
stirred, not from the moment he went off till six o'clock
this morning, the darling. I do think now, Sir Thomas,
as we may hope he's taken hold of his strength."
Sir Tom turned away with a blank countenance.
What did it mean, then ? He went back to his dress-
ing-room, and completed his toilette without seeiDg
anything of Lucy. The nurse seemed quite uncon-
scious of her mistress's vigil by the baby's side. Where,
then, had Lucy passed the night, and why taken refuge
in that nursery ? Sir Tom grew pale, and saw his
own countenance white and full of trouble, as if it had
been a stranger's, in the glass. He hurried downstairs
to the breakfast-room, into which the sun was shining.
There could not have been a more cheerful sight.
Some of the flowers brought up from the Hall were on
the table ; there was a merry little fire burning ; the
usual pile of newspapers were arranged for him by
XLii.] lady Randolph winds up her affairs. 427
Williams's care, who felt himself a political character
too, and understood the necessity of seeing what the
country was thinking. Jock stood at the window with
a book, reading and watching the changeful movements
outside. But the chair at the head of the table was
vacant. " Have you seen Lucy ? " he said to Jock, with
an anxiety which he could scarcely disguise. At this
moment she came in, very guilty, very pale, like a
ghost. She gave him no greeting, save a sort of
attempt at a smile and warning look, calling his atten-
tion to Williams, who had followed her into the room
with that one special dish which the butler always
condescended to place on the table. Sir Tom sat down
to his newspapers confounded, not knowing what to
think or to say.
CHAPTEE XLII.
LADY RANDOLPH WINDS UP HER AFFAIRS.
Lucy contrived somehow to elude all private inter-
course with her husband that morning. She was not
alone with him for a moment. To his question about
little Tom and her anxiety of last night she made as
slight an answer as possible. " Xurse tells me he is all
right." " He is quite well this morning," Lucy replied
with quiet dignity, as if she did not limit herself to
nurse's observations. She talked a little to Jock about
his school and how long the holidays lasted, while
Sir Tom retired behind the shield of his newspapers.
He did not get much benefit from them that morning,
or instruction as to what the country was thinking.
He was so much more curious to know what his wife
428 SIR TOM. [chap.
was thinking, that simple little girl who knew no evil.
The most astnte of men could not have perplexed Sir
Tom so much. It seemed to him that something must
have happened, but what ? What was there that any
one could betray to her ? not the discovery that he
himself thought he had made. That was impossible. If
any one else had known it he surely must have known
it. It could not be anything so unlikely as that.
But Lucy gave him no opportunity of inquiring.
She went away to see the housekeeper, to look after
her domestic affairs ; and then Sir Tom made sure he
should find her in the nursery, whither he took his way,
when he thought he had left sufficient time for her
other occupations. But Lady Eandolph was not there.
He heard from Fletcher, whose disturbed countenance
seemed to reflect his own, that her mistress had gone
out. She was the only one of the household who
shared his certainty that something had happened
out of the ordinary routine. Fletcher knew that her
mistress had not undressed in the usual way ; that she
had not gone to bed. Her own services had not been
required either in the morning or evening, and she had
a strong suspicion that Lady Eandolph had passed the
night on a sofa in the little morning-room upstairs.
To Fletcher's mind it was not very difficult to account
for this. Quarrels between husband and wife are com-
mon enough. But her consciousness and sympathetic
significance of look struck Sir Tom with a troubled
sense of the humour of the situation which broke the
spell of his increasing agitation, if but for a moment.
It was droll to think that Fletcher should be in a man-
ner his confidant, the only participator in his woes.
Lucy had gone out half to avoid her husband, half
with a determination to expedite the business which
XLII.] LADY RANDOLPH WINDS UP HER AFFAIRS. 429
she had begun, with very different feelings the day
before. The streets were very gay and bright on that
April morning, with all the quickening of life which
many arrivals and the approach of the season, with all
its excitements, brings. Houses were opening up,
carriages coming out, even the groups of children and
nurse-maids in the Park making a sensible difference on
the other side of the great railing. It was very unusual
for her to find herself in the streets alone, and this
increased the curious dazed sensation with which she
went out among all these real people, so lively and
energetic, while she was still little more than a dream-
woman, possessed by one thought, moving along, she
knew not how, with a sense of helplessness and un-
protectedness, which made the novelty all the more
sensible to her. She went on for what seemed to be a
long time, following mechanically the line of the pave-
ment, without knowing what she was doing, along the
long course of Park Lane, and then into the cheerful
bustle of Piccadilly, where, with a sense of morning
ease and leisure, not like the artificiality of the after-
noon, so many people were coming and going, all occu-
pied in business of their own, though so different from
the bustle of more absorbing business, the haste and
obstruction of the city. Lucy was not beautiful enough
or splendid enough to attract much attention from the
passers-by in the streets, though one or two sympa-
thetic and observant wayfarers were caught by the
look of trouble in her face. She had never walked
about London, and she did not know where she was
^oins. But she did not think of this. She thought
only on one subject, — about her husband and that
other life which he had, of which she knew nothing,
which might, for anything she could tell, have been
430 SIR TOM. [chap.
going on side by side with the life she knew and shared.
This was the point upon which Lucy's mind had given
way. The revelation as to Bice had startled and
shaken her soul to its foundations ; but after the
shock things had fallen into their place again, and she
had felt no anger, though much pain and pity. Her
mind had thrown itself back into the unknown past
almost tenderly towards the mother who had died long
ago, to whom perhaps Bice had been what little Tom
was now to herself. But when the further statement
reached her ears all that softening which seemed to have
swept over her disappeared in a moment. A horrible
bewilderment had seized her. Was he two men, with
two wives, two lives, two children dear to him ?
It is usual to talk of women as being the most
severe judges of each other's failures in one particular
at least, an accusation which no doubt is true of both
sexes, though generally applied, like so many universal
truths, to one. And an injured wife is a raging fury in
those primitive characterisations which are so common
in the world. But the ideas which circled like the flakes
in a snowstorm through the mind of Lucy were of a
kind incomprehensible to the vulgar critic who judges
humanity in the general. Her ways of thinking, her
modes of judging were as different as possible from
those of minds accustomed to generalisation and lightly
acquainted with the vices of the world. Lucy knew
no general ; she knew three persons involved in an
imbroglio so terrible that she saw no way out of it.
Herself, her husband, another woman. Her mind was
the mind almost of a child. It had resisted all that
dismal information which the chatter of society conveys.
She knew that married people were " not happy "
sometimes. She knew that there were wretched stories
XLII.] LADY RANDOLPH WINDS UP HER AFFAIRS. 431
of which she held that they could not be true. She was
of Desdemona's mind, and did not believe that there
was any such woman. And when she was suddenly
strangely brought face to face with a tragedy of her
own, that was not enough to turn this innocent and
modest girl into a raging Eleanor. She was pro-
foundly reasonable in her simple way, unapt to blame ;
thinking no evil, and full of those prepossessions and
fixed canons of innocence which the world-instructed
are incapable not only of understanding, but of belie v-
ino- in the existence of. A connection between a man
and a woman was to her, in one way or other, a mar-
riage. Into the reasons, whatever they might have been,
that could have brought about any such connection
without the rites that made it sacred, she could not
penetrate or inquire. It was a subject too terrible,
from which her mind retreated with awe and incom-
prehension. Xever could it, she felt, have been in-
tended so, at least on the woman's side. The mock
marriage of romance, the deceits practised on the stage
and in novels upon the innocent, she believed in with-
out hesitation, everything in the world being more
comprehensible than impurity. There might be vil-
lainous men, betrayers, seducers, Lucy could not tell ;
there might be monsters, griffins, fiery dragons, for
anything she knew ; but a woman abandoned by all her
natural guard of modesties and reluctances, moved by
passion, capable of being seduced, she could not under-
stand. And still more impossible was it to imagine
such sins as the outcome of mere levity, without any
tragic circumstances ; or to conceive of the mysteries
of life as outraged and intruded upon by folly, or for
the darker bait of interest. Her heart sickened at
such suggestions. She knew there were poor women
432 SIR TOM. [chap.
in the streets, victims of want and vice, poor degraded
creatures for whom her heart bled, whom she could
not think of for the intolerable pang of pity and shame.
But all these questions had nothing to do with the
sudden revelation in which she herself had so pain-
ful a part. These broken reflections were in her mind
like the falling of snow. They whirled through the
vague world of her troubled soul without consequence
or coherence ; all that had nothing to do with her.
Her husband was no villain, and the woman — the
beautiful, smiling woman, so much fairer, greater,
more important than Lucy, she was no wretched, de-
graded creature. What was she then ? His wife —
his true wife ? And if so, what was Lucy ? Her brain
reeled and the world went round her in a sickening
whirl. The circumstances were too terrible for resent-
ment. What could anger do, or any other quick-
springing short-lived emotion ? What did it matter
even what Lucy felt, what any one felt ? It was far
beyond that. Here was fact which no emotion could
undo. A wife and a child on either side, and what
was to come of it ; and how could life go on with this
to think of, never to be forgotten, not to be put aside
for a moment ? It brought existence to a stand-still.
She did not know what was the next step she must
take, or how she could go back, or what she must
say to the man who, perhaps, was not her husband, or
how she could continue under that roof, or arrange the
commonest details of life. There was but one thing
clear before her, the business which she was bent on
hurrying to a conclusion now.
She found herself in the bustle of the streets that
converge upon the circus at the end of Piccadilly as
she thus went on thinking, and there Lucy looked
XLII.] LADY RANDOLPH WINDS UP HER AFFAIRS. 433
about her in some dismay, finding that she had reached
the limit of the little world she knew. She was afraid
of plunging alone into those bustling ways, and almost
afraid of the only other alternative, which, however,
she adopted, of calling a cab and giving the driver the
address of Mr. Chervil in the city. To do this, and
to mount into the uneasy jingling cab, gave her
a little shock of the unaccustomed, which was like a
breach of morals to Lucy. It seemed, though she had
been independent enough in more important matters,
the most daring step she had ever taken on her own
responsibility. But the matter of the cab, and the
aspect of this unknown world into which it conveyed
her, occupied her mind a little, and stopped the tumult
of her thoughts. She seemed scarcely to know what
she had come about when she found herself set down
at the door of Mr. Chervil's office, and ascending the
grimy staircase, meeting people who stared at her,
and wondered what a lady could be doing there. Mr.
Chervil himself was scarcely less surprised. He said,
' Lady Eandolph ! " with a cry of astonishment when
she was shown in. And she found some difficulty,
which she had not thought of, in explaining her busi-
ness. He reminded her that she had given him the
same instructions yesterday when he had the honour
of waiting upon her in Park Lane. He was far more
respectful to Lady Eandolph than he had been to Lucy
Trevor in her first attempts to carry out her father's will.
" I assure you," he said, u I have not neglected your
wishes. I have written to Eushton on the subject.
"We both know by this time, Lady Eandolph, that
when you have made up your mind — and you have
the most perfect right to do so — though we may
not like it, nor think it anything but a squandering
2 F
434 SIR TOM. [chap.
of money, still we are aware we have no right to
oppose "
" It is not that," said Lucy faintly. " It is that the
circumstances have changed since yesterday. I want
to — I should like to "
" Give up your intention ? I am delighted to hear
it. For you must allow me to say, as a man of busi-
ness "
" It is not that," Lucy repeated. " I want to in-
crease the sum. I find the young lady has a claim —
and I want it to be done immediately, without the loss
of a day. Oh, I am more, much more in earnest
about it than I was yesterday. I want it settled at
once. If it is not settled at once difficulties might
arise. I want to double the amount. Could you not
telegraph to Mr. Eushton instead of writing ? I have
heard that people telegraph about business."
" Double the amount ! Have you thought over
this ? Have you had Sir Thomas's advice ? It is
a very important matter to decide so suddenly.
Pardon me, Lady Randolph, but you must know that
if you bestow at this rate you will soon not have very
much left to you."
" Ah, that would be a comfort ! " cried Lucy ; and
then there came over her the miserable thought that
all the circumstances were changed, and to have a sub-
ject of disagreement between her husband and herself
removed would not matter now. Once it had been
the only subject, now The suddenness of this
realisation of the change filled her eyes with tears.
But she restrained herself with a great effort. " Yes,"
she said, " I should be glad, very glad, to have done all
my father wished — for many things might happen.
I might die — and then who would do it ? "
xlii.] LADY RANDOLPH WINDS UP HER AFFAIRS. 435
" We need not discuss that very unlikely contin-
gency," said Mr. Chervil. (He said to himself: Sir
Tom wouldn't, that is certain.) " But even under Mr.
Trevor's will," he added, " this will be a very large
sum to give — larger, don't you think, than he intended;
unless there is some very special claim ? "
"It is a special claim," cried Lucy, " and papa
made no conditions. I was to be free in doing it.
He left me quite free."
" Without doubt," the lawyer said. " I need not
repeat my opinion on the subject, but you are certainly
quite free. And you have brought me the young
lady's name, no doubt, Lady Eandolph ? Yesterday,
you recollect you were uncertain about her name. It
is important to be quite accurate in an -affair of so
much importance. She is a lucky young lady. A
great many would like to learn the secret of pleasing
you to this extent,"
Lucy looked at him with a gasp. She did not
understand the rest of his speech or care to hear it.
Her name ? What was her name ? If she had not
known it before, still less did she know it now.
" Oh," she cried, " what does it matter about a
name ? People, girls, change their names. She is
Beatrice. You might leave a blank and it could be
filled up after. She is going to — marry. She is —
must everything be delayed for that ? — and yet it is of
no importance — no importance that I can see," Lucy
said, wringing her hands.
" My dear Lady Eandolph ! Let me say that to
give a very large sum of money to a person with
whose very name you are unacquainted — forgive me,
but in your own interests I must speak. Let me con-
sult with Sir Thomas."
436 SIR TOM. [chap.
" I do not wish my husband to be consulted. He
has promised me not to interfere, and it is my business,
not his," Lucy said, with a flush of excitement. And
though there was much further conversation, and the
lawyer did all he could to move her, it need not be
said that Lucy was immovable. He went down to the
door with her to put her into her carriage, as he sup-
posed, not unwilling even in that centre of practical
life to have the surrounding population see on what
confidential terms he was with this fine young lady.
But when he perceived that no carriage was there, and
Lucy, not without a tremor, as of a very strange re-
quest, and one which might shock the nerves of her
companion, asked him to get a cab for her, Mr. Cher-
vil's astonishment knew no bounds.
" I never thought how far it was," Lucy said,
faltering and apologetic. " I thought I might perhaps
have been able to walk."
" Walk ! " he cried, " from Park Lane ? " with con-
sternation. He stood looking after her as she drove
away, saying to himself that the old man had un-
doubtedly been mad, and that this poor young thing
was evidently cracked too. He thought it would be best
to write to Sir Thomas, who was not Sir Tom to Mr.
Chervil ; but if it was going to happen that the poor
young lady should show what he had no doubt was the
hereditary weakness, Mr. Chervil could not restrain a
devout wish that it might show itself decisively before
half her fortune was alienated. No Sir Thomas in
existence would carry out a father-in-law's will of
such an insane character as that.
In the meanwhile Lucy jingled home in her cab,
feeling more giddy, more heartsick than ever. There
now came upon her with more potency than ever, since
xliii.] THE LITTLE HOUSE IN MAYFALR. 437
now it was the matter immediately before her, the
question what was she to do ? What was she to do ?
She had eluded Sir Tom on the night before, and
obliged him to accept, without any demand for ex~
planation, her strange retirement. But now what was
she to do? Little Tom would not answer for a pretext
a^ain. She must either resume the former habits of
o
her life, subdue herself entirely, meet him with a
cheerful face, ignore the sudden chasm that had been
made between them — or She looked with
terrified eyes at this blank wall of impossibility, and
could see no way through it. Live with him as of
old, in a pretence of union where no union could be,
or explain how it was that she could not do so. Both
these things were impossible — impossible ! — and what,
then, was she to do ?
CHAPTER XLIII.
THE LITTLE HOUSE IX MAYFAIR.
The little house in Mayfair was very bright and gay.
What conventional words are those ! It was nothing
of the kind. It was dim and poetical. No light that
could be kept out of it was permitted to come in.
The quality of light in London, even in April, is not
exquisite, and perhaps the Contessa's long curtains
and all the delicate draperies which she loved to hang
about her were more desirable to see than that very
poor thing in the way of daylight which exists in
Mayfair. Bice, who was a child of light, objected a
little to this shutting out, and she would have objected
438 SIR TOM. [chap.
strongly, being young enough to love the sunshine for
itself, but for the exquisite reason which the Contessa
gave for the interdict she had put upon it. " Cara,"
she said, " if you were all white and red like those
English girls (it is tant soit peu vulgar between our-
selves, and not half so effective as your Mane mat), then
you might have as much light as you pleased ; but to
put yourself in competition with them on their own
ground — no, Bice mia. But in this light there is
nothing to desire."
"Don't you think, then, Madama," said Bice,
piqued, " that no light at all would be better still, and
not to be seen the best "
" Darling ! " said the Contessa, with that smile
which embodied so many things. It answered for
encouragement and applause and gentle reproof, and
many other matters which words could but indifferently
say, and it was one of her favourite ways of turning
aside a question to which she did not think fit to give
any reply. And Bice swallowed her pique and asked
no more. The lamps were all shaded like the windows
in this bower of beauty. There was scarcely a corner
that was not draped with some softly-falling, richly-
tinted tissue. A delicate perfume breathed through
this half-lighted world. Thus, though neither gay nor
bright, it realised the effect which in our day, in the
time when everything was different, was meant by
these words. It was a place for pleasure, for intimate
society, and conversation, and laughter, and wit ; for
music and soft words ; and, above all, for the setting off
of beauty, and the expression of admiration. The
chairs were soft, the carpets like moss ; there were
flowers everywhere betraying themselves by their
odour, even when you could not see them. The Con-
sun.] THE LITTLE HOUSE IX MAYFAIR. 439
tessa had spared no expense in making the little place
— which she laughed at softly, calling it her doll's
house — as perfect as it could be made.
And here the two ladies began to live a life very
different from that of the Randolphs' simple dwelling.
Bice, it need scarcely be said, had fulfilled all the
hopes of her patroness, else had she never been pro-
duced with such bewildering mystery, yet deftness, to
dazzle the eyes of young Montjoie at the Hall. She
had realised all the Contessa's expectations, and justi-
fied the bills which Madame di Forno-Populo looked
upon with a certain complacency as they came in, as
something creditable to her, as proof of her magnifi-
cence of mind and devotion to the best interests of her
protegee. And now they had entered upon their
campaign. It had annoyed her in this new beginning,
amid all its excitements and hopes, to be called upon
by Sir Tom for explanations which it was not to her
interest to give ; which she had, indeed, when she
deliberately sowed the seed of mystery, resolved not
to give. To allow herself to be brought to book was
not in her mind at all, and she was clever enough to
mystify even Sir Tom, and keep his mind in a sus-
pense- and uncertainty very painful to him. But she
had managed to elude his inquiries, and though it had
changed the demeanour of Sir Tom, and entirelv done
away with the careless good humour which had been
so pleasant, still she felt herself now independent of
the Piandolphs, and had begun her life very cheerfully
and with every promise of great enjoyment. The
Contessa " received " every day and all day long, from
the time when she was visible, which was not, however,
at a very early hour. About four the day of the
ladies began. Sometimes, indeed, before that hour two
440 SIR TOM. [chap,
favoured persons, not always the same, who had accom-
panied them home from the Park, would be admitted to
share a dainty little luncheon. Bice now rode at the
hour when everybody rides, with the Contessa, who was
a graceful horsewoman, and never looked to greater
advantage than in the saddle. The two beauti-
ful Italians, as they were called, had in this way,
within a week of their arrival, caused a sensation in
the Eow, and already their days overflowed with amuse-
ment and society. Few ladies visited the little house
in Mayfair, but then they were not much wanted
there. The Contessa was not one of those vulgar
practitioners who profess in words their preference for
men's society. But she said, so sweetly that it was
barbarous to laugh (though many of her friends did
so), that, having one close companion of her own sex,
her dearest Bice, who was everything to her, she was
independent of the feminine element. " And then
they are so busy, these ladies of fashion ; they have no
leisure ; they have so many things to do. It is a
thraldom, a heavy thraldom, though the chains are
gilded." " Shall we see you at Lady Blank Blank's
to-night? You must be going to the Duchess's?
Of course we shall meet at the Highton Grandmodes!"
" Ah ! " cried the Contessa, spreading out her white
hands, " it is fatiguing even only to hear of it. We
love our ease, Bice and I; we go nowhere where we
are expected to go."
The gentlemen to whom this speech was made
laughed " consumedly." They even made little signs
to each other behind back, and exploded again. When
she looked round at them they said the Contessa was
a perfect mimic, better than anything on the stage,
and that she had perfectly caught the tone of that old
xliil] THE LITTLE HOUSE IN MAYFAIR. 441
Lady Barbe Montfichet, who went everywhere (whom,
indeed, the Contessa did not know), and laughed
again. But it was not at the Contessa's power of
mimicry that they laughed. It was at the delicious
falsehood of her pretensions, and the thought that if
she pleased she might appear at the Highton Grand-
modes, or meet the best society at Lady Blank Blank's.
These gentlemen knew better ; and it was a joke ot
which they never tired. They were not, perhaps, the
most desirable class of people in society who had the
entrte in the Contessa's little house ; they were old
acquaintances who had known her in her progress
through the world, mingled with a few young men
whom they brought with them, partly because the boys
admired these two lovely foreign women ; partly be-
cause, with a certain easy benevolence that cost them
nothing, they wanted the Contessa's little girl, whoever
she was, to have her chance. But few, if any, of these
astute gentlemen, young or old, was in any doubt as to
the position she held.
Nor was she altogether without female visitors.
Lady Anastasia, that authority of the press, who made
the public acquainted with the movements of distin-
guished strangers and was not afraid of compromising
herself, sometimes made one at the little parties and
enjoyed them much. The Dowager Lady Ban-
dolph's card was left at the Contessa's door, as was
that of the Duchess, who had looked upon her with
such consternation at Lucy's party in the country.
What these ladies meant it would be curious to know.
Perhaps it was a lingering touch of kindness, perhaps
a wish to save their credit in case it should happen
by some bewildering turn of fortune that La Forno-
Populo might come uppermost again. Would she dare
442 SIR TOM. [chap,
to have herself put forward at the Drawing-room was
what these ladies asked each other with bated breath.
It was possible, nay, quite likely, that she might suc-
ceed in doing so, for there were plenty of good-natured
people who would not refuse if she asked them, and of
course so close a scrutiny was not kept upon foreigners
as upon native subjects ; while, as a matter of fact,
the Dowager Lady Eandolph was right in her assertion
that, so far as could be proved, there was nothing
absolutely fatal to a woman's reputation in the history
of the Contessa. Would she have the courage to dare
that ordeal, or would she set up a standard of revolt, and
declare herself superior to that hall-mark of fashion ?
She was clever enough, all the people who knew her
allowed, for either role ; either to persuade some good
woman, innocent and ignorant enough, to be respon-
sible for her, and elude the researches of the Lord
Chamberlain, or else to retreat bravely in gay rebellion
and declare that she was not rich enough, nor her
diamonds good enough, for that noonday display.
For either part the Contessa was clever enough.
Meanwhile Bice had all the enjoyment, without
any of the drawbacks of this new life. It was far
more luxurious, splendid, and even amusing, than the
old existence of the watering-places. To ride in the
Park and feel herself one of that brilliant crowd, to be
surrounded by a succession of lively companions, to
have always "something going on," that delight of
youth, and a continual incense of admiration rising
around her enough to have turned a less steady head,
filled Bice's cup with happiness. But perhaps the
most penetrating pleasure of all was that of having
carried out the Contessa's expectations and fulfilled
her hopes. Had not Madame di Forno-Populo been
XLIII.] THE LITTLE HOUSE IX MAYFAIE. 443
satisfied with the beauty of her charge, none of these
expenses would have been incurred, acd this life of
many delights would never have been; so that the
soothing and exhilarating consciousness of having
indeed deserved and earned her present well -being-
was in Bice's mind. The future, too, opened before
her a horizon of boundless hope. To have everything
she now had and more, along with that one element of
happiness which had always been wanting, the cer-
tainty that it would last, was the happy prospect
within her grasp. Her head was so steady, and the
practical sense of the advantage so great, that the ex-
citement and pleasure did not intoxicate her ; but
everything was delightful, novel, breathing confidence
and hope. The guests at the table, where she now took
her place, equal in importance to the Contessa herself,
all flattered and did their best to please her. They
amused her, either because they were clever or because
they were ridiculous — Bice, with youthful cynicism,
did not much mind which it was. TVTien they went
to the opera, a similar crowd would flutter in and out
of the box, and appear afterwards to share the gay
little supper and declare that no prime -clonne on the
stage could equal the two lovely blending voices of
the Contessa and her ward. To sit late talking, laugh-
ing, singing, surrounded by all this worship, and to
wake up again to a dozen plans and the same routine
of pleasure next day, what heart of seventeen (and she
was not quite seventeen) could resist it ? One thing,
however, Bice missed amid all this. It was the
long gallery at the Hall, the nursery in Park Lane,
little Tom crowing upon her shoulder, digging his
hands into her hair, and Lucy looking on — many
things, yet one. She missed this, and laughed at her-
444 SIR TOM. [ohap.
self, and said she was a fool — but missed it all the
same. Lucy had come, as in duty bound, and paid
her call. She had been very grave — not like herself.
And Sir Tom was very grave; looking at her she could
not tell how ; no longer with his old easy good humour,
with a look of criticism and anxiety — an uneasy look,
as if he had something to say to her and could not.
Bice felt instinctively that if he ever said that some-
thing it would be disagreeable, and avoided his pre-
sence. But it troubled her to lose this side of her
landscape, so to speak. The new was entrancing,
but the old was a loss. She missed it, and thought
herself a fool for missing it, and laughed, but felt it
the more.
The only member of the household with whom she
remained on the same easy terms as before was Jock,
who came to the house in Mayfair at hours when
nobody else was admitted, though he was quite un-
aware of the privilege he possessed. He came in the
morning when Bice, too young to want the renewal
which the Contessa sought in bed and in the mys-
teries of the toilette, sometimes fretted a little indoors
at the impossibility of getting the air into her lungs,
and feeling the warmth of the morning light. She
was so glad to see him that Jock was deeply flattered,
and sweet thoughts of the most boundless foolishness
got into his head. Bice ran to her room, and found
one of her old hats which she had worn in the country,
and tied a veil over her face, and came flying down-
stairs like a bird.
" We may go out and run in the Park so long as
no one sees us," she cried. " Oh, come ; nobody can
see me through this veil."
" And what good will the air do you through that
xliii.] THE LITTLE HOUSE IN MAYFALR. 445
veil?" said Jock contemptuously. "You can't see the
sun through it ; it makes the whole world black. I
would not go out if I were you with that thing over
my face, the only chance I had for a walk. I'd rather
stay at home ; but perhaps you like it. Girls are
such "
" TVTiat ? You are going to swear, and if you
swear I will simply turn my back. Well, perhaps
you didn't mean it. But I mean it. Boys are
such TYhat ? little prudes, like the old duennas
in the books, and that is what you are. You think
things are wrong that are not wrong. But it is to an
Englishman the right thing to grumble," Bice said,
with a smile of reconciliation as they stepped into the
street. On that sweet morning even the street was
delightful. It restored them to perfect satisfaction
with each other as they made their way to the Park,
which stretched its long lines of waving grass almost
within sight.
a And I suppose," said Jock, after a pause, " that
you like being here ? "
Bice gave him a look half friendly, half disdainful.
u I like living," she said. " In the country in what
you call the quiet, it is only to be half alive : we are
always living here. But you never come to see us ride,
to be among the crowd. You are never at the opera.
You don't talk as those others do "
" Montjoie, for instance," said Jock, with a strange
sense of jealousy and pain.
" Very well, Montjoie. He is what you call fun ;
he has always something to say, betises perhaps, but
what does that matter ? He makes me laugh."
" Makes you laugh ! at his wit perhaps ? " cried
Jock. " Oh, what things girls are ! Lau^h at what a
446 SIR TOM. [chap.
duffer like that, an ass, a fellow that has not two
ideas, says."
" You have a great many ideas," said Bice ; " you
are clever — you know a number of things ; but you
are not so amusing, and you are not so good-natured.
You scold me ; and you say another, a friend, is an
ass "
" He was never any friend of mine," said Jock,
with a hot flush of anger. " That fellow ! I never had
anything to say to him."
" No," said Bice, with a smiling disdain which cut
poor Jock like a knife. " I made a mistake, that was
not possible, for he is a man and you are only a boy."
To describe Jock's feelings under this blow would be
beyond the power of words. He inferior to Montjoie !
he only a boy while the other was a man ! Eage was
nothing in such an emergency. He looked at her with
eyes that were almost pathetic in their sense of un-
appreciated merit, and, deeper sting still, of folly pre-
ferred. In spite of himself, Locksley Hall and those
musings which have become, by no fault of the poet's,
the expression of a despair which is half ridiculous,
came into his mind. He did not see the ridicule.
"Having known me to decline" — his eyes became
moist with a dew of pain — " If you think that," he
said slowly, " Bice "
Bice answered only with a laugh. " Let us make
haste ; let us run," she cried. " It is so early, no one
will see us. Why don't you ride, it is like flying ?
And to run is next best." She stopped after a flight,
swift as a bird, along an unfrequented path which lay
still in the April sunshine, the lilac bushes stand-
ing up on each side all athrill and rustling with the
spring, with eyes that shone like stars, and that unusual
xliii.] THE LITTLE HOUSE EN MAYFAIR. 447
colour which made her radiant, Jock, though he could
have gone on much faster, was behind her for the
moment, and came up after her, more occupied by the
shame of being outrun and laughed at than by admira-
tion of the girl and her beauty. She was more con-
scious of her own splendour of bloom than he was :
though Bice was not vain, and he was more occupied
by the thought of her than by any other thought.
" Girls never think of being able to stay/' he said,
" you do only what can be done with a rush ; but
that's not running. If you had ever seen the School
Mile "
" Oh no, I want to see no miles," cried Bice ; " this
is what I like, to have all my fingers tingle." Then
she suddenly calmed down in a moment, and walked
along demurely as the paths widened out to a more
frequented thoroughfare. "What I want," she said,
"is little Tom upon my shoulder, and to hear him
scream and hold by my hair. Milady does not look
as if I pleased her now. She has come once only and
looked — not as she once looked. But she is still kind.
She has made this ball for me — for me only. Did you
know ? do you dance then, if nothing else ? Oh, you
shall dance since the ball is for me. I love dancing
— to distraction ; but not once have I had a single
turn, not once, since we came to England," Bice said
with a sigh, which rose into a laugh in another mo-
ment, as she added, " It will be for me to come out,
as you say, to be introduced into society, and after
that we shall go everywhere, the Contessa says."
448 SIR TOM. [chap.
CHAPTEK XLIV.
THE SIEGE OF LONDON.
The Contessa, "but perhaps not more than half, be-
lieved what she said. Everything was on the cards in
this capricious society of England, which is not governed
by the same absolute laws as in other places. It
seemed to be quite possible that she and her charge
might be asked everywhere after their appearance at
the ball which, she should take care to tell everybody,
Lucy was giving for Bice. It was always possible in
England that some leader of fashion, some great lady
whose nod gave distinction, might take pity upon
Bice's youth and think it hard that she should suffer,
even if without any relentings towards the Contessa.
And Madame di Forno-Populo was very strong on
the point, already mentioned, that there was nothing
against her which could give any one a right to shut
her out. The mere suggestion that the doors of
society might or could be closed in her face would
have driven another woman into frantic indignation,
but the Contessa had passed that stage. She took
the matter quite reasonably, philosophically. There
was no reason. She had been poor and put to many
shifts. Sometimes she had been compelled to permit
herself to be indebted to a man in a way no woman
should allow herself to be. She was quite aware of
this, and was not, therefore, angry with society for
its reluctance to receive her ; but she said to her-
self, with great energy, that there was no cause. She
was not hopeless even of the drawing-room, nor of
getting the Duchess herself, a model of all the virtues,
xliv.] THE SIEGE OF LONDON. 449
to present her, if the ball went off well at Park Lane.
She said to herself that there was nothing on her mind
which would make her shrink from seeking admis-
sion to the presence of the Queen. She was not afraid
even of that royal lady's penetrating eye. Shiftiness,
poverty, debts, modes of getting money that were,
perhaps, equivocal, help too lightly accepted, all these
are bad enough ; but they are not in a woman the
unpardonable sin. And a caprice in English society
was always possible. The young beauty of Bice might
attract the eye of some one whose notice would throw
down all obstacles ; or it might touch the heart of some
woman who was so high placed as to be able to defy
prejudice. And after that, of course, they would go
everywhere, and every prognostication of success and
triumph would come true.
Nevertheless, if things did not go on so well as
this, the Contessa had furnished herself with what
to say. She would tell Bice that the women were
jealous, that she had been pursued by their hostility
wherever she went, that a woman who secured the
homage of men was always an object of their spite and
malice, that it was a sort of persecution which the
lovely had to bear from the unlovely in all regions.
Knowing that it was fully more likely that she should
fail than succeed, the Contessa had carefully provided
herself with this ancient plea and would not hesitate
to use it if necessary ; but these were grands moyens,
not to be resorted to save in case of necessity. She
would herself have been willing enough to dispense
with recognition and live as she was doing now, among
the old and new admirers who had never failed
her, enjoying everything except those dull drawing-
rooms and heavy parties for which her soul longed, yet
2 G
450 SIR TOM. [chap.
which she despised heartily, which she would have
undergone any humiliation to get admission to, and
turned to ridicule afterwards with the best grace in
the world. She despised them, but there was nothing
that could make up for absence from them ; they alone
had in their power the cachet, the symbol of universal
acceptance. All these things depended upon the ball
at Park Lane. Something had been going on there
since she separated herself from that household which
the Contessa did not understand. Sir Tom, indeed,
was comprehensible. The discovery which he thought
he had made, the things which she had allowed him
to divine, and even permitted him to prove for him-
self without making a single assertion on her own
part, were quite sufficient to account for his changed
looks. But Lucy, what had she found out ? It was
not likely that Sir Tom had communicated his dis-
covery to her. Lucy's demeanour confused the Con-
tessa more than words can say. The simple creature
had grown into a strange dignity, which nothing could
explain. Instead of the sweet compliance and almost
obedience of former days, the deference of the younger
to the older woman, Lucy looked at her with grave
composure, as of an equal or superior. What had
happened to the girl ? And it was so important that
she should be friendly now and kept in good humour !
Madame di Forno-Populo put forth all her attractions,
gave her dear Lucy her sweetest looks and words, but
made very little impression. This gave her a little
tremor when she thought of it ; for all her plans for
the future were connected with the ball on the 26th at
Park Lane.
This ball appeared to Lucy, too, the most important
crisis in her life. She had made a sacrifice which
xliv.] THE SIEGE OF LONDON. 451
was heroic that nothing might go wrong upon that
day. Somehow or other, she could not tell how, for
the struggle had been desperate within her, she had
subdued the emotion in her own heart and schooled
herself to an acceptance of the old routine of her life
until that event should be over. All her calculations
went to that date, but not beyond. Life seemed to
stop short there. It had been arranged and settled
with a light heart in the pleasure of knowing that the
Contessa had taken a house for herself, and that, conse-
quently, Lucy was henceforward to be once more mistress
of her own. She had been so ashamed of her own plea-
sure in this prospect, so full of compunctions in respect
to her guest, whose departure made her happy, that she
had thrown herself with enthusiasm into this expedient
for making it up to them. She had said it was to be
Bice's ball. When the Dowager's revelation came upon
her like a thunder-bolt, as soon as she was able to think
at all, she had thought of this ball with a depth of
emotion which was strange to be excited by so frivo-
lous a matter. It was a pledge of the warmest friend-
ship, but those for whom it was to be, had turned out
the enemies of her peace, the destroyers of her happi-
ness : and it was high festival and gaiety, but her heart
was breaking. Lady Eandolph, afraid of what she had
done, yet virulent against the Contessa, had suggested
that it should be given up. It was easy to do such a
thing — a few notes, a paragraph in the newspaper, a
report of a cousin dead, or a sudden illness ; any excuse
would do. But Lucy was not to be so moved. There
was in her soft bosom a sense of justice which was
almost stern, and through all her troubles she remem-
bered that Bice, at least, had a claim upon all Sir
Thomas Piandolph could do for her, such as nobody
452 SIR TOM. [chap.
else could have. Under what roof but his should she
make her first appearance in the world ? Lucy held
sternly with a mixture of bitterness and tenderness to
Bice's rights. In all this misery Bice was without
blame, the only innocent person, the one most wronged,
more wronged even than was Lucy herself. She it
was who would have to bear the deepest stigma, with-
out any fault of hers. Whatever could be done to
advance her (as she counted advancement), to make
her happy (as she reckoned happiness) it was right
she should have it done. Lucy suppressed her own
wretchedness heroically for this cause. She bore the
confusion that had come into her life without saying a
word for the sake of the other young creature who
was her fellow-sufferer. How hard it was to do she
could not have told, nor did any one suspect, except,
vaguely, Sir Tom himself, who perceived some tragic
mischief that was at work without knowing how it
had come there or what it was. He tried to come to
some explanation, but Lucy would have no explana-
tion. She avoided him as much as it was possible to
do. She had nothing to say when he questioned her.
Till the 26 th ! Nothing, she was resolved, should in-
terfere with that. And then — but not the baby in
the nursery knew less than Lucy what was to happen
then.
They had come to London on the 2d, so that this
day of fate was three weeks off, and during that time
the Contessa had made no small progress in her affairs.
Three weeks is a long time in a house which is open to
visitors, even if only from four o'clock in the afternoon,
every day, and without intermission ; and indeed that
was not the whole, for the ladies were accessible else-
where than in the house in Mayfair. It had pleased the
xliv.] THE SIEGE OF LONDON. 453
Contessa not to be visible when Lord Montjoie called
at a somewhat early hour on the very earliest day.
He was a young man who knew the world, and not
one to have things made too easy for him. He was
all aflame accordingly to gain the entree thus withheld,
and when the Contessa appeared for the first time in
the Park, with her lovely companion, Montjoie was
eagerly on the watch, and lost no time in claiming ac-
quaintance, and joining himself to her train. He was
one of the two who were received to luncheon two or
three days afterwards. When the ladies went to the
opera he was on thorns till he could join them. He
was allowed to go home with them for one song, and
to come in next afternoon for a little music. And
from that time forward there was no more question of
shutting him out. He came and went almost when
he pleased, as a young man may be permitted to do
when he has become one of the intimates in an easy-
going, pleasure-loving household, where there is always
" something going on." He was so little flattered that
never during all these days and nights had he once
been allowed to repeat the performance upon which he
prided himself, and with which he had followed up the
singing of the Contessa and Bice at the Hall. The
admirable lady whom they had met there, with her two
daughters, had been eager that Lord Montjoie should
display this accomplishment of his, and the girls had
been enchanted by his singing ; but the Contessa,
though not so irreproachable, would have none of it.
And Bice laughed freely at the young nobleman who
had so much to bestow, and they both threw at him
delicate little shafts of wit, which never pierced his
stolid complacency, though he was quite quick withal
to see the fun when other gentlemen looked at
454 SIR TOM. [chap.
each other over the Contessa's shoulder, and burst into
little peals of laughter at her little speeches about the
Highton Grandmodes and other such exclusive houses.
Montjoie knew all about La Forno-Populo. " But yet
that little Bice," he said, " don't you know ?" No one
like her had come within Montjoie's ken. He knew
all about the girls in blue or in pink or in white, who
asked him to sing. But Bice, who laughed at his
accomplishment and at himself, and was so saucy to
him, and made fun of him, he allowed, to his face, that
was very different. He described her in terms that
were not chivalrous, and his own emotions in words
still less ornate ; but before the fortnight was over the
best judges declared among themselves that, by Jove,
the Forno-Populo had done it this time, that the little
one knew how to play her cards, that it was all up
with Montjoie, poor little beggar, with other elegances
of a similar kind. The man who had taken the Con-
tessa's house for her, and a great deal of trouble about
all her arrangements, whom she described as a very
old friend, and whose rueful sense that house-agents
and livery stables might eventually look to him if she
had no success in her enterprise did not impair his
fidelity, went so far as to speak seriously to Montjoie
on the subject. " Look here, Mont," he said, " don't
you think you are going it rather too strong ? There is
not a thing against the girl, who is as nice as a girl
can be, but then the aunt, you know "
" I'm glad she is the aunt," said Montjoie. " I
thought she was the mother : and I always heard you
were devoted to her."
" We are very old friends," said this disinterested
adviser. "There's nothing I would not do for her.
She is the best soul out, and was the loveliest woman
XLivJ THE SIEGE OF LONDON. 455
I can tell 3*011 — the girl is nothing to what she was.
Aunt or cousin, I am not sure what is the relationship ;
but that's not the question. Don't you think you are
coming it rather strong ?"
" Oh, I've got my wits about me," said Montjoie ;
and then he added, rather reluctantly — for it is the
fashion of his kind to be vulgar and to keep what
generosity or nobleness there is in them carefully out
of sight — "and I've no relations, don't you know?
I've got nobody to please but myself "
" Well, that is a piece of luck anyhow," the Mentor
said ; and he told the Contessa the gist of the conversa-
tion next morning, who was highly pleased by the
news.
The curious point in all this was that Bice had not
the least objection to Montjoie. She was a clever girl
and he was a stupid young man, but whether it was
that her entirely unawakened heart had no share at
all in the matter, or that her clear practical view of
affairs influenced her sentiments as well as her mind,
it is certain that she was quite pleased with her fate,
and ready to embrace it without the least sense that it
was a sacrifice or anything but the happiest thing-
possible. He amused her, as she had said to Jock.
He made her laugh, most frequently at himself ; but
what did that matter ? He had a kind of good looks,
and that good nature which is the product of prosperity
and well-being, and a sense of general superiority to
the world. Perhaps the girl saw no man of a superior
order to compare him with ; but, as a matter of fact,
she was perfectly satisfied with Montjoie. Mr. Der-
wentwater and Jock were more ridiculous to her than
he was, and were less in harmony with everything she
had previously known. Their work, their intellectual
456 SIR TOM. [chap.
occupations, their cleverness and aspirations were out
of her world altogether. The young man -about -town
who had nothing to do but amuse himself, who was
always "knocking about," as he said, whose business
was pleasure, was the kind of being with whom she was
acquainted. She had no understanding of the other
kind. He who had been her comrade in the country,
whose society had amused her there, and for whom she
had a sort of half-condescending affection, was droll to
her beyond measure, with his ambitions and great ideas
as to what he was to do. He, too, made her laugh ; but
not as Montjoie did. She laughed, though this would
have immeasurably surprised Jock, with much less
sympathy than she had with the other, upon whom
he looked with so much contempt. They were both
silly to Bice, — silly as, in her strange experience, she
thought it usual and natural for men to be, — but Mont-
joie's manner of being silly was more congenial to her
than the other. He was more in tune with the life
she had known. Hamburg, Baden, Wiesbaden, and
all the other Bads, even Monaco, would have suited
Montjoie well enough. The trade of pleasure-making
has its affinities like every other, and a tramp on his
way from fair to fair is more en rapport with a duke
than the world dreams of. Thus Bice found that
the young English marquis, with more money than he
knew how to spend, was far more like the elegant
adventurer living on his wits, than all those interven-
ing classes of society, to whom life is a more serious,
and certainly a much less festive and costly affair.
She understood him far better. And instead of being,
as Lucy thought, a sacrifice, an unfortunate victim sold
to a loveless marriage for the money and the advantages
it would bring, Bice went on very gaily, her heart as
xliy.] THE SIEGE OF LONDON. 457
unmoved as possible, to what she felt to be a most
congenial fate.
And they all waited for the 26th and the ball with
growing excitement. It would decide many matters.
It would settle what was to be the character of the
Contessa's campaign. It might reintroduce her into
society under better auspices than ever, or it might —
but there was no need to foretell anything unpleasant.
And very likely it would conclude at the same source
as it began, Bice's triumph — a cUbutante who was al-
ready the affianced bride of the young Marquis of
Montjoie, the greatest parti in the kingdom. The
idea was like wine, and went to the Contessa's head.
She had in this interval of excitement a brief little
note from Lucy, which startled her beyond measure for
the moment. It was to ask the exact names of Bice.
" You shall know in a few days why I ask, but it is
necessary they should be written down in full and
exactly," Lucy said. The Contessa had half forgotten,
in the new flood of life about her, what was in Lucy's
power, and the further advantage that might come of
their relations, and she did not think of this even now,
but felt with momentary tremor as if some snare lay
concealed under these simple words. After a moment's
consideration, however, she wrote with a bold and flow-
ing hand :
" Sweet Lucy — The child's name is Beatrice Ersilia. Yon
cannot, I am sure, mean her anything but good by such a
question. She has not been properly introduced, I know — 1
am fantastic, I loved the Bice, and no more.
" Darling, a te."
This was signed with a cipher, which it was not
very easy to make out — a little mystery which pleased
the Contessa. She thus involved in a pleasant little
uncertainty her own name, which nobody knew.
458 SIK TOM. [cHAr.
CHAPTER XLV.
THE BALL.
Lady Randolph's ball was one of the first of the
season, and as it was the first ball she had ever given,
and both Lucy and her husband were favourites in
society, it was looked forward to as the forerunner of
much excitement and pleasure, and with a freshness
of interest and anticipation which, unless in April, is
scarcely to be expected in town. The rooms in Park
Lane, though there was nothing specially exquisite or
remarkable in their equipment, were handsome and
convenient. They formed a good background for the
people assembled under their many lights without
withdrawing the attention of any one from the looks,
the dresses, the bright eyes, and jewels collected
within, which, perhaps, after all, is an advantage in its
way. And everybody who was in town was there,
from the Duchess, upon whom the Contessa had
designs of so momentous a character, down to those
wandering young men-about-town who form the rank
and file of the great world and fill up all the corners.
There was, it is true, not much room to dance, but a
bewildering amount of people, great names, fine
toilettes, and beautiful persons.
The Contessa timed her arrival at the most effective
moment, when the rooms were almost full, but not yet
crowded, and most of the more important guests had
already arrived. It was just after the first greetings
of people seeing each other for the first time were
over, and an event of some kind was wanted. At
xlv.] THE BALL. 459
such a moment princes and princesses are timed to
arrive and bring the glory of the assembly to a climax.
Lucy had no princess to honour her. But when out
of the crowd round the doorway there were seen to
emerge two beautiful and stately women unknown, the
sensation was almost as great. One of them, who had
the air of a Queen-Mother, was in dark dress studiously
arranged to be a little older, a little more massive and
magnificent than a woman of the Contessa's age re-
quired to wear (and which, accordingly, threw up all the
more, though this, to do her justice, was a coquetry
more or less unintentional, her unfaded beauty) ; and the
other, an impersonation of youth, contemplated the world
by her side with that open-eyed and sovereign gaze,
proud and modest, but without any of the shyness or
timidity of a debutante which becomes a young prin-
cess in her own right. There was a general thrill of
wonder and admiration wherever they were seen.
"Who were they, everybody asked ? Though the name
of the Forno-Populo was too familiarly known to a
section of society, that is not to say that the ladies
of Lucy's party, or even all the men had heard it
bandied from mouth to mouth, or were aware that it
had ever been received with less than respect : and the
universal interest was spoiled only here and there in a
corner by the laugh of the male gossips, who made little
signs to each other, in token of knowing more than
their neighbours. It was said among the more innocent
that this was an Italian lady of distinction with her
daughter or niece, and her appearance, if a little more
marked and effective than an English lady's might
have been, was thus fully explained and accounted for
by the difference in manners and that inalienable dra-
matic gift, which it is common to believe in England,
460 SIR TOM. [chap.
foreigners possess. No doubt their entrance was very
dramatic. The way in which they contrasted and
harmonised with each other was too studied for Eng-
lish traditions, which, in all circumstances, cling to
something of the impromptu, an air of accidentalism.
They were a spectacle in themselves as they advanced
through the open central space, from which the ordinary
guests instinctively withdrew to leave room for them.
" Is it the Princess ? " people asked, and craned their
necks to see. It must at least be a German Serenity
— the Margravine of Pimpernikel, the Hereditary
Princess of Weissnichtwo — but more beautiful and
graceful than English prejudice expects German ladies
to be. Ah, Italian ! that explained everything — their
height, their grace, their dark beauty, their effective
pose. The Latin races alone know how to arrange a
spectacle in that easy way, how to produce themselves
so that nobody could be unimpressed. There was
a dramatic pause before them, a hum of excitement
after they had passed. Who were they ? Evidently
the most distinguished persons present — the guests of
the evening. Sir Tom, uneasy enough, and looking
grave and preoccupied, which was so far from being his
usual aspect, led them into the great drawing-room,
where the Duchess, who had daughters who danced,
had taken her place. He did not look as if he liked
it, but the Contessa, for her part, looked round her
with a radiant smile, and bowed very much as the
Queen does in a state ceremonial to the people she
knew. She performed a magnificent curtsey, half
irony, half defiance, before the Dowager Lady Randolph,
who looked on at this progress speechless. How Lucy
could permit it ; how Tom could have the assurance
to do it ; occupied the Dowager's thoughts. She had
xlv.] THE BALL. 461
scarcely self-command to make a stiff sweep of recog-
nition as the procession passed.
The Duchess was at the upper end of the room,
with all her daughters about her. Besides the younger
ones who danced, there were two countesses support-
ing their mother. She was the greatest lady present,
and she felt the dignity. But when she perceived the
little opening that took place among the groups about,
and, looking up, perceived the Contessa sweeping along
in that regal separation, you might have blown her Grace
away with a breath. Xot only was the Duchess the
most important person in the room, but her reception
of the newcomer would be final, a sort of social life
or death for the Contessa. But the supplicant ap-
proached with the air of a queen, while the arbiter of
fate grew pale and trembled at the sight. If there
was a tremor in her Grace's breast there was no less a
tremor under the Contessa's velvet. But Madame di
Forno-Populo had this great advantage, that she knew
precisely what to do, and the Duchess did not know :
she was fully prepared, and the Duchess taken by
surprise : and still more that her Grace was a shy
woman, whose intellect, such as it was, moved slowly,
while the Contessa was very clever, and as prompt as
lightning. She perceived at a glance that the less
time the great lady had to think the better, and hast-
ened forward for a step or two, hurrying her stately
pace, " All, Duchess ! " she said, " how glad I am
to meet so old an acquaintance. And I want,
above all things, to have your patronage for my little
one. Bice — the Duchess, an old friend of my prosper-
ous days, permits me to present you to her." She
drew her young companion forward as she spoke, while
the Duchess faltered and stammered a " How d'ye do ?"
462 SIR TOM. [chap.
and looked in vain for succour to her daughters, who
were looking on. Then Bice showed her blood. It
had not been set down in the Contessa's programme
what she was to do, so that the action took her pat-
roness by surprise, as well as the great lady whom it
was so important to captivate. While the Duchess
stood stiff and awkward, making a conventional
curtsey against her will, and with a conventional smile
on her mouth, Bice, with the air of a young princess,
innocently, yet consciously superior to all her sur-
roundings, suddenly stepped forward, and taking the
Duchess's hand, bent her stately young head to kiss it.
There was in the sudden movement that air of acci-
dent, of impulse, which we all love. It overcame all
the tremors of the great lady. She said, " My dear ! "
in the excitement of the moment, and bent forward to
kiss the cheek of this beautiful young creature, who
was so deferential, so reverent in her young pride.
And the Duchess's daughters did not disapprove !
Still more wonderful than the effect on the Duchess
was the effect upon these ladies, of whose criticisms
their mother stood in dread. They drew close about
the lovely stranger, and it immediately became appa-
rent to the less important guests that the Italian
ladies, the heroines of the evening, had amalga-
mated with the ducal party — as it was natural they
should.
Never had there been a more complete triumph.
The Contessa stepped in and made hay while the sun
shone. She waved off with a scarcely perceptible
movement of her hand several of her intimates who
would have gathered round her, and vouchsafed only a
careless word to Montjoie, who had hastened to present
himself. The work to which she devoted herself was
xlv.] THE BALL. 463
the amusement of the Duchess, who was not, to tell the
truth, very easily amused. But Madame di Forno-
Populo had infinite resources, and she succeeded. She
selected the Dowager Lady Eandolph for her butt,
and made fun of her so completely that her Grace
almost exceeded the bounds of decorum in her
laughter.
" You must not, really ; you must not — she is a
great friend of mine," the Duchess said. But per-
haps there was not much love between the two ladies.
And thus by degrees the conversation was brought
round to the Populina palace and the gay scenes so
loner aero.
" You must have heard of our ruin," the Contessa
said, looking full into the Duchess's face ; " everybody
has heard of that. I have been too poor to live in my
own house. We have wandered everywhere, Bice and
I. When one is proud it is more easy to be poor
away from home. But we are in very high spirits to-
day, the child and I," she added. " All can be put
right again. My little niece has come into a fortune.
She has made an inheritance. We received the news
to-night only. That is how I have recovered my
spirits^ — and to see you, Duchess, and renew the
beautiful old times."
" Oh, indeed ! " the Duchess said, which was not
much ; but then she was a woman of few words.
" Yes, we came to London very poor," said the
Contessa. " What could I do ? It was the moment
to produce the little one. We have no Court. Could
I seek for her the favour of the Piedmontese ? Oh
no ! that was impossible. I said to myself she shall
come to that generous England, and my old friends
there will not refuse to take my Bice by the hand."
464 SIR TOM. [chap.
" Oh no ; I am sure not/' said the Duchess.
As for Bice she had long ere now set off with
Montjoie, who had hung round her from the moment
of her entrance into the room, and whose admiration
had grown to such a height by the cumulative force of
everybody else's admiration swelling into it, that he
could scarcely keep within those bounds of compliment
which are permitted to an adorer who has not yet
acquired the right to be hyperbolical.
" Oh yes, it's pretty enough : but you don't see
half how pretty it is, for you can't see yourself, don't
you know?" said this not altogether maladroit young
practitioner. Bice gave him a smile like one of the
Contessa's smiles, which said everything that was
needful without giving her any trouble. But now
that the effect of her entrance was attained, and all
that dramatic business done with, the girl's soul was
set upon enjoyment. She loved dancing as she loved
every other form of rapid movement. The only draw-
back was that there was so little room. " Why do they
make the rooms so small ? " she said pathetically ; a
speech which was repeated from mouth to mouth like
a witticism, as something so characteristic of the young
Italian, whose marble halls would never be over-
crowded : though, as a matter of fact, Bice knew very
little of marble halls.
" Were you ever in the gallery at the Hall ? " she
asked. " To go from one end to the other, that was
worth the while. It was as if one flew."
" I never knew they danced down there," said
Montjoie. " I thought it very dull, don't you know,
till you appeared. If I had known you had dances,
and fun going on, and other fellows cutting one
out -"
xlv.] THE BALL. 465
" There was but one other fellow/' said Bice gravely.
" I have seen in this country no one like him. Ah,
why is he not here ? He is more fun than any one,
but better than fun. He is "
Montjoie's countenance was like a thunder- cloud
big with fire and flame.
"Trevor, I suppose you mean. I never thought
that duffer could dance. He was a great sap at school,
and a hideous little prig, giving himself such airs !
But if you think all that of him "
" It was not Mr. Trevor," said Bice. Then catch-
ing sight of Lady Eandolph at a little distance, she
made a dart towards her on her partner's arm.
" I am telling Lord Montjoie of my partner at the
Hall," she said. " Ah, Milady, let him come and
look ! How he would clap his hands to see the lights
and the flowers. But we could not have our gym-
nastique with all the people here."
Lucy was very pale ; standing alone, abstracted
amid the gay crowd, as if she did not very well know
where she was.
" Baby ? Oh, he is quite well, he is fast asleep,"
she said, looking up with dim eyes. And then there
broke forth a little faint smile on her face. "You
were always good to him," she said.
" So it was the baby," said Montjoie, delighted.
" What a one you are to frighten a fellow. If it had
been Trevor I think I'd have killed him. How jolly
of you to do gymnastics with that little beggar ;
he's dreadfully delicate, ain't he, not likely to live \
But you're awfully cruel to me. You think no
more of giving a wring to my heart than if it was
a bit of rag. I think you'd like to see the blood
come."
2 H
466 SIR TOM. [chap.
"Let us dance," said Bice with great composure.
She was bent upon enjoyment. She had not calculated
upon any conversation. Indeed she objected to conver-
sation on this point even when it did not interfere with
the waltz. All could be settled much more easily by
the Contessa, and if marriage was to be the end, that
was a matter of business not adapted for a ballroom.
She would not allow herself to be led away to the con-
servatory or any other retired nook such as Montjoie
felt he must find for this affecting purpose. Bice did
not want to be proposed to. She wanted to dance.
She abandoned him for other partners without the
slightest evidence of regret. She even accepted, when
he was just about to seize upon her at the end of a
dance, Mr. Derwentwater, preferring to dance the
Lancers with him to the bliss of sitting out with Lord
Montjoie. That forsaken one gazed at her with a
consternation beyond words. To leave him and the
proposal that was on his very lips for a square dance
with a tutor ! The young Marquis gazed after her as
she disappeared with a certain awe. It could not be
that she preferred Derwentwater. It must be her
cleverness which he could not fathom, and some
wonderful new system of Italian subtlety to draw a
fellow on.
" I like it better than standing still — I like it —
enough," said Bice. " To dance, that is always some-
thing." Mr. Derwentwater also felt, like Lord Montjoie,
that the young lady gave but little importance to her
partner.
"You like the rhythm, the measure, the woven
paces and the waving hands," her companion said.
Bice stared at him a little, not comprehending.
" But you prefer," he continued, " like most ladies, the
xlv.] THE BALL. 467
modern Bacchic dance, the whirl, the round, though
what the old Puritans call promiscuous dancing
of men and women together was not, I fear,
Greek "
" I know nothing of the Greeks," said Bice.
" Vienna is the best place for the valse, but Greek —
no. we never were there."
" I am thinking of classic terms," said MTutor
with a smile, but he liked her all the better for not
knowing. "We have in vases and in sculpture the
most exquisite examples. You have never perhaps
given your attention to ancient art ? I cannot quite
agree with Mr. Alma Tadema on that point. He
is a great artist, but I don't think the wild leap
of his dances is sanctioned by anything we pos-
sess."
"Do not take wild leaps," said Bice, "but keep
time. That is all you require in a quadrille. "Why-
does every one laugh and go wrong. But it is a shame 1
One should not dance if one will not take the trouble.
And why does he not do anything ? " she said, in the
pause between two figures, suddenly coming in sight
of Jock, who stood against the wall in their sight,
following her about with eyes over which his brows
were curved heavily ; " he does not dance nor ride ;
he only looks on."
" He reads," said Mr. Derwentwater. " The boy
will be a great scholar if he keeps it up."
" One cannot read in society," said Bice. " Xow,
you must remember, you go that way; you do not come
after me."
" I should prefer to come after you. That is the
heavenly way when one can follow such a leader.
You remember what your own Dante "
468 SIR TOM. [chap.
" Oh ! " murmured Bice, with a long sigh of im-
patience, " I have no Dante. I have a partner who
will not give himself the pains — Now," she said, with
an emphatic little pat of her foot and movement of
her hands. Her soul was in the dance, though it was
only the Lancers. With a slight line of annoyance
upon her forehead she watched his performance, taking
upon herself the responsibility, pushing him by his
elbow when he went wrong, or leading him in the right
way. Mr. Derwentwater had thought to carry off his
mistakes with a laugh, but this was not Bice's way of
thinking. She made him a little speech when the
dance was over.
" I think you are a great scholar too," she said ;
" but it will be well that you should not come for-
ward again with a lady to dance the Lancers, for you
cannot do it. And that will sometimes make a girl
to have the air of being also awkward, which is not
just."
Mr. Derwentwater grew very red while this speech
was making to him. He was a man of great and
varied attainments, and had any one told him that he
would blush about so trivial a matter as a Lancers !
But he grew very red and almost stammered as he
said with humility, " I am afraid I am very deficient,
but with you to guide me — Signorina, there is one
divine hour which I never forget — when you sang that
evening. May I call ? May I see you for half an
hour to-morrow ? "
" Oh," said Bice, with a deep-drawn breath, " here is
some one else coming who does not dance very well !
Talk to him about the Greek, and Lord Montjoie will
take me. To-morrow ! oh yes, with pleasure," she said
as she took Montjoie's arm and darted away into the
Xlvi.] THE BALL CONTINUED. 469
crowd. Montjoie was all glowing and radiant with
pride and joy.
" I thought I'd hang off and on and take my chance,
don't you know ? I thought you'd soon get sick of
that sort. You and I go together like two birds. I
have been watching you all this time, you and old
Derwentwater. What was that he said about to-
morrow ? I want to talk about to-morrow too — unless,
indeed, to-night "
" Oh, Lord Montjoie," cried Bice, " dance ! It
was not to talk you came here, and you can dance
better than you talk," she added, with that candour
which distinguished her. And Montjoie flew away
with her rushing and whirling. He could dance. It
was almost his only accomplishment.
CHAPTEE XLVI.
THE BALL CONTINUED.
Other eyes than those of her lovers followed Bice
through this brilliant scene. Sir Tom had been living
a strange stagnant life since that day before he left the
Hall, when Lucy, innocently talking of Bice's English
parentage, had suddenly roused him to the question —
Who was Bice, and who her parents, English or other-
wise ? The suggestion was very sudden and very
simple, conveying in it no intended hint or innuendo.
But it came upon Sir Tom like a sudden thunderbolt,
or rather like the firing of some train that had been laid
and prepared for explosion. The tenor of Ms fears and
470 SIR TOM. [chap.
suspicions lias already been indicated. Nor has it ever
been concealed from the reader of this history that there
were incidents in Sir Tom's life upon winch he did not
look back with satisfaction, and which it would have
grieved him much to have revealed to his wife in her
simplicity and unsuspecting trust in him. One of
these was a chapter of existence so long past as to be
almost forgotten, yet unforgetable, which gave, when
he thought of it, an instant meaning to the fact that
a half-Italian girl of English parentage on one side
should have been brought mysteriously, without warn-
ing or formal introduction, to his house by the Con-
tessa. From that time, as has been already said, the
disturbance in his mind was great. He could get no
satisfaction one way or another. But to-night his
uneasiness had taken a new and unexpected form.
Should it so happen that Bice's identity with a certain
poor baby, born in Tuscany seventeen years before,
might some day be proved, what new cares, what new
charge might it not place upon his shoulders ? At
such a thought Sir Tom held his very breath.
The first result of such a possibility was, that he
might find himself to stand in a relationship to the
girl for whom he had hitherto had a careless liking
and no more, which would change both his life
and hers ; and already he watched her with uneasy
eyes and with a desire to interfere which bewildered
him like a new light upon his own character. He
could scarcely understand how he had taken it
all so lightly before and interested himself so little
in the fate of a young creature for whom it would
not be well to be brought up according to the
Contessa's canons, and follow her example iD the
world. He remembered, in the light of this new
xlvi.] THE BALL CONTINUED. 471
possibility, the levity with which he had received
his wife's distress about Bice, and how lightly he had
laughed at Lucy's horror as to the Contessa's ideas of
marriage, and of what her proUgte was to do. He had
said if they could catch any decent fellow with money
enough it was the best thing that could happen to the
girl, and that Bice would be no worse off than others,
and that she herself, after the training she had gone
through, was very little likely to have any delicacy on
the subject. But when it had once occurred to him
that the girl of whom he spoke so lightly might be his
own child, an extraordinary change came over Sir
Tom's views. He laughed no longer — he became so
uneasy lest something should be done or said to
affect Bice's good name, or throw her into evil
hands, that his thoughts had circled unquietly round
the house in Mayfair, and he had spent far more
of his time there on the watch than he himself
thought right. He knew very well the explanation
that would be given of those visits of his, and he
did not feel sure that some good-natured friends
might not have already suggested suspicion to
Lucy, who had certainly been very strange since
their arrival in town. But he would not give up
his watch, which was in a way, he said to himself,
his duty, if He followed the girl's movements
with disturbed attention, and would hurry into the
Park to ride by her, to shut out an unsuitable cavalier,
and make little lectures to her as to her behaviour
with an embarrassed anxiety which Bice could not
understand but which amused more than it benefited
the Contessa, to whom this result of her mystification
was the best fun in the world. But it was not
amusing to Sir Tom. He regarded the society of men
472 SIR TOM. [chap.
who gathered about the ladies with disgust. Montjoie
was about the best — he was not old enough to be
much more than silly — but even Montjoie was not a
person whom he would himself choose to be closely
connected with. Then came the question : If it should
turn out that she was that child, was it expedient that
any one should know of it ? Would it be better for her
to be known as Sir Thomas Eandolph's daughter, even
illegitimate, or as the relative and dependent of the
Forno-Populo ? In the one case, her interests would
have no guardian at all ; in the other, what a shock
it would give to his now -established respectability
and the confidence all men had in him, to make such
a connection known. Turning over everything in his
thoughts, it even occurred to Sir Tom that it would
be better for him to confess an early secret marriage,
and thus save his own reputation and give to Bice
a lawful standing ground. The poor young mother
was dead long ago ; there could be no harm in
such an invention. Lucy could not be wounded
by anything which happened so long before he
ever saw her. And Bice would be saved from all
stigma ; if only it was Bice ! if only he could be
sure !
But Sir Tom, whose countenance had not the habit
of expressing anything but a large and humorous con-
tent, the careless philosophy of a happy temper and
easy mind, was changed beyond description by the
surging up of such thoughts. He became jealous and
suspicious, watching Bice with a constant impulse to
interfere, and even — while disregarding all the safe-
guards of his own domestic happiness for this reason —
in his heart condemned the girl because she was
not like Lucy, and followed her movements with a
xlvl] THE BALL CONTINUED. 473'
criticism which was as severe as that of the harshest
moralist.
Nobody in that lighthearted house could under-
stand what had come over the good Sir Tom, not even
the Contessa, who after a manner knew the reason, yet
never imagined that the idea, which gave her a sort of
malicious pleasure, would have led to such a result.
Sir Tom had always been the most genial of hosts, but
in his present state of mind even in this respect he
was not himself. He kept his eye on Bice with a
sternness of regard quite out of keeping with his charac-
ter. If she should flirt unduly, if she began to show
any of those arts which made the Contessa so fascinat-
ing, he felt, with a mingliug of self-ridicule which
tickled him in spite of his seriousness, that nothing
could keep him from interposing. He had been charmed
in spite of himself, even while he saw through and
laughed at the Contessa's cunning ways ; but to see
them in a girl who might, for all he knew, have his
own blood in her veins was a very different matter.
He felt it was in him to interpose roughly, imperiously
— and if he did so, would Bice care ? She would turn
upon him with smiling defiance, or perhaps ask what
right had he to meddle in her affairs. Thus Sir Tom
was so preoccupied that the change in Lucy, the effort
she made to go through her necessary duties, the blot-
ting out of all her simple kindness and brightness,
affected him only dully as an element of the general
confusion, and nothing more.
But the Contessa, for her part, was radiant. She
was victorious all along the line. She had received
Lucy's note informing her of the provision she meant to
make for Bice only that afternoon, and her heart was
dancing with the sense of wealth, of money to spend
474 SIR TOM. [chap.
and endless capability of pleasure. Whatever happened
this was secure, and she had already in the first hour
planned new outlays which would make Lucy's benefi-
cence very little of a permanent advantage. But she
said nothing of it to Bice, who might (who could tell,
girls being at all times capricious) take into her little
head that it was no longer necessary to encourage
Montjoie, on whom at present she looked complacently
enough as the probable giver of all that was best in
life. This was almost enough for one day; but the
Contessa fully believed in the proverb that there is
nothing that succeeds like success, and had faith in
her own fortunate star for the other events of the even-
ing. And she had been splendidly successful. She
had altogether vanquished the timid spirit of the
Duchess, that model of propriety. Her entry upon
the London world had been triumphant, and she had
all but achieved the honours of the drawing-room.
Unless the Lord Chamberlain should interfere, and
why should he interfere ? her appearance in the
larger world of society would be as triumphant as
in Park Lane. Her beautiful eyes were swimming
in light, the glow of satisfaction and triumph. It
fatigued her a little indeed to play the part of a
virtuous chaperon, and stand or sit in one place all
the evening, awaiting her debutante between the
dances, talking with the other virtuous ladies in the
same exercise of patience, and smilingly keeping aloof
from all participation at first hand in the scene which
would have helped to amuse her indeed, but interfered
with the fulfilment of her role. But she had internal
happiness enough to make up to her for her self-denial.
She would order that set of pearls for Bice and the
emerald pendant for herself which had tempted her so
xlvi.] THE BALL CONTINUED. 475
much, to-morrow. And the Duchess was to present
her, and probably this evening Montjoie would propose.
Was it possible to expect in tins world a more perfect
combination of successes ?
Mr. Derwentwater went off somewhat discomfited
to make a tour of the rooms after the remorseless
address of Bice. He tried to smile at the mock
severity of her judgment. He, no more than Mont-
joie, would believe that she meant only what she
said. This accomplished man of letters and parts
agreed, if in nothing else, in this, with the young fool
of quality, that such extreme candour and plain
speaking was some subtle Italian way of drawing
an admirer on. He put it into finer words than
Montjoie could command, and said to himself that it
was that mysterious adorable feminine instinct which
attracted by seeming to repel. And even on a more
simple explanation it was comprehensible enough. A
girl who attached so much importance to the accom-
plishments of society would naturally be annoyed
by the failure in these of one to whom she looked up.
A regret even moved his mind that he had not given
more attention to them in earlier days. It was perhaps
foolish to neglect our acquirements, which after all
would not take very much trouble, and need only be
brought forward, as Dogberry says, wThen there was no
need for such vanities. He determined with a little
blush at himself to note closely how other men did, and
so be able another time to acquit himself to her satis-
faction. And even her severity was sweet ; it implied
that he was not to her what other men were, that even
in the more trifling accessories of knowledge she would
have him to excel. If he had been quite indifferent
to her, why should she have taken this trouble ? And
476 SIR TOM. [chap.
then that " To-morrow ; with pleasure." What did
it mean ? That though she would not give him her
attention to-night, being devoted to her dancing (which
is what girls are brought up to in this strangely imper-
fect system), she would do so on the earliest possible
occasion. He went about the room like a man in a
dream, following everywhere with his eyes that vision
of beauty, and looking forward to the next step in his
life-drama with an intoxication of hope which he did
not attempt to subdue. He was indeed pleased to
experience a grande passion. It was a thing which
completed the mental equipment of a man. Love —
not humdrum household affection, such as is all
that is looked for when the exigencies of life make
a wife expedient, and with full calculation of all
he requires the man sets out to look for her and
marry her. This was very different, an all-mastering
passion, disdainful of every obstacle. To-morrow!
He felt an internal conviction that, though Mont-
joie might dance and answer for the amusement
of an evening, that bright and peerless creature
would not hesitate as to who should be her guide
for life.
It was while he was thus roaming about in a state of
great excitement and a subdued ecstasy of anticipation,
that he encountered Jock, who had not been enjoying
himself at all. At this great entertainment Jock had
been considered a boy, and no more. Even as a boy,
had he danced there might have been some notice
taken of him, but he was incapable in this way, and in
no other could he secure any attention. At a party of
a graver kind there were often people who were well
enough pleased to talk to Jock, and from men who
owed allegiance to his school a boy who had dis-
xlvl] THE BALL CONTINUED. 477
tinguished himself and done credit to the old place
was always sure of notice. But then, though high up
in Sixth Form, and capable of any eminence in Greek
verse, he was nobody ; while a fellow like Montjoie,
who had never got beyond the rank of lower boy, was
in the front of affairs, the admired of all admirers,
Bice's chosen partner and companion. The mind de-
velops with a bound when it has gone through such
an experience. Jock stood with his back against the
wall, and watched everything from under his eyebrows.
Sometimes there was a glimmer as of moisture in those
eyes, half veiled under eyelids heavily curved and
puckered with wrath and pain, for he was very
young, not much more than a child, notwithstand-
ing his manhood. But what with a keenness of
natural sight, and what with the bitter enlightening
medium of that moisture, Jock saw the reality of the
scene more clearly than Mr. Derwentwater, roaming
about in his dream of anticipation, self-deceived, was
capable of doing. He caught sight of Jock in his
progress, and, though it was this sentiment which
had separated them, its natural effect was also to
throw them together. MTutor paused and took up a
position by his pupil's side. " What a foolish scene
considered philosophically," he said ; " and yet how
many human interests in solution, and floating adum-
brations of human fate ! I have been dancing," Mr.
Derwentwater continued, with some solemnity and
a full sense of the superior position involved, " with,
I verily believe, the most beautiful creature in the
world."
Jock looked up, fixing him with a critical, slightly
cynical regard. He had been well aware of Mr. Der-
wentwater's very ineffective performance, and divined
478 SIR TOM. [cnAP.
too clearly the sentiments of Bice not to feel all a
spectator's derision for this uncalled-for self-com-
placency ; but he made no remark.
"There is nothing trivial in the exercise in such
a combination. I incline to think that beauty is
almost the greatest of all the spectacles that Nature
sets before us. The effect she has upon us is greater
than that produced by any other influence. You are
perhaps too young to have your mind awakened on
such a subject "
To hear this foolish wisdom pouring forth, while
the listener felt at every breath how his own bosom
thrilled with an emotion too deep to be put into words,
with a passion, hopeless, ridiculous, to which no one
would accord any sympathy or comment but a laugh !
Heaven and earth ! and all because a fellow was some
dozen years older, thinking himself a man, and you
only a boy !
" but you have a fine intelligence, and it can
never be amiss for you to approach a great subject on
its most elevated side. She is not much older than
you are, Jock."
" She is not so old as I am. She is three months
younger than I am," cried Jock, in his gruffest
voice.
" And yet she is a revelation," said Mr. Derwent-
water. " I feel that I am on the eve of a great crisis
in my being. You have always been my favourite, my
friend, though you are so much younger ; and in this
I feel we are more than ever sympathetic. Jock, to-
morrow— to-morrow I am to see her, to tell her
Come out on the balcony, there is no one there, and
the moonlight and the pure air of night are more fit
for such heart opening than this crowded scene."
xlvl] the ball continued. 479
" What are you going to tell her ?" said Jock, with
his eyebrows meeting over his eyes and his back
against the wall. " If you think she'll listen to what
you tell her ! She likes Montjoie. It is not that
he's rich and that, but she likes him, don't you
know, better than any of us. Oh, talk about mys-
teries," cried Jock, turning his head away, conscious
of that moisture which half-blinded him, but which
he coidd not get rid of, " how can you account for
that ? She likes him, that fellow, better than either
you or me !"
Better than Jock ; far better than this man, his
impersonation of noble manhood, whom the most
levelling of all emotions, the more than Eed Ee-
publican Love, had suddenly brought down to, nay,
below, Jock's level — for not only was he a fool like
Jock, but a hopeful fool, while Jock had penetrated
the fulness of despair, and dismissed all illusion from
his youthful bosom. The boy turned his head away,
and the voice which he had made so gruff quavered
at the end. He felt in himself at that moment all the
depths of profound and visionary passion, something
more than any man ever was conscious of who had
an object and a hope. The boy had neither ; he neither
hoped to marry her nor to get a hearing, nor even
to be taken seriously. ISTot even the remorse of a
serious passion rejected, the pain of self-reproach, the
afterthought of pity and tenderness would be his.
He would get a laugh, nothing more. That schoolboy,
that brother of Lady Eandolph's, who does not leave
school for a year ! He knew what everybody would
say. And yet he loved her better than any one of
them ! MTutor startled, touched, went after him as
Jock turned away, and linking his arm in his, said
480 SIR TOM. [chap.
something of the kind which one would naturally say
to a boy. " My dear fellow, you don't mean to tell me
? Come, Jock ! This is but your imagination that
beguiles you. The heart has not learned to speak so
soon," MTutor said, leaning upon Jock's shoulder. The
boy turned upon him with a fiery glow in his eyes.
"What were you saying about dancing?" he said.
" They seem to be making up that Lancers business
again."
CHAPTEE XLVII.
NEXT MORNING.
" You have news to tell me, Bice mia ? "
There was a faint daylight in the streets, a blueness
of dawn as the ladies drove home.
" Have I ? I have amused myself very much. I
am not fatigued, no. I could continue as long — as
long as you please," Bice answered, who was sitting up
in her corner with more bloom than at the beginning
of the evening, her eyes shining, a creature incapable
of fatigue. The Contessa lay back in hers, with a
languor which was rather adapted to her role as a
chaperon than rendered necessary by the fatigue she
felt. If she had not been amused, she was triumphant,
and this supplied a still more intoxicating exhilaration
than that of mere pleasure.
" Darling ! " she said, in her most expressive tone.
She added a few moments after, " But Lord Montjoie !
He has spoken ? I read it in his face "
" Spoken ? He said a great deal — some things that
made me laugh, some things that were not amusing.
xlvil] NEXT MORXING. 481
After all he is perhaps a little stupid, but to dance
there is no one like him ! "
" And you go together — to perfection "
" Ah ! " said Bice, with a long breath of pleasure,
" when the people began to go away, when there was
room ! Certainly we deserted our other partners, both he
and I. Does that matter in London ? He says Xo."
" Not, my angel, if you are to marry."
" That was what he said," said Bice, with superb
calm. " Xow, I remember that was what he said ; but
I answered that I knew nothing of affairs — that it was
to dance I wanted, not to talk ; and that it was you,
Madama, who disposed of me. It seemed to amuse
him," the girl said reflectively. " Is it for that reason
you kiss me ? But it was he that spoke, as you call
it, not I."
" You are like a little savage," cried the Contessa,
" Don't you care then to make the greatest marriage,
to win the prize, to settle everything with no trouble,
before you are presented or anything has been done
at all ? "
" Is it settled then ? " said Bice. She shrugged her
Co
shoulders a little within her white cloak. " Is that all ?
— no more excitement, nothing to look forward to, no
tr- rouble ? But it would have been more amusing if
there had been a great deal of tr-rouble," the girl said.
This was in the blue dawn, when the better portion
of the world which does not go to balls was fast asleep,
the first pioneers of day only beginning to stir about
the silent streets, through which now and then the
carriage of late revellers like themselves darted abrupt
with a clang that had in it something of almost guilt.
Twelve hours after, the Contessa in her boudoir — with
not much more than light enouqh to see the flushed
2i
482 SIR TOM. [chap,
and happy countenance of young Montjoie, who had
been on thorns all the night and morning with a hor-
rible doubt in his mind lest, after all, Bice's careless
reply might mean nothing more than that fine system
of drawing a fellow on — settled everything in the most
delightful way.
" Nor is she without a sou, as perhaps you think.
She has something that will not bear comparison with
your wealth, yet something — which has been settled
upon her by a relation. The Forno-Populi are not rich
— but neither are they without friends."
Montjoie listened to this with a little surprise and
impatience. He scarcely believed it, for one thing ;
and when he was assured that all was right as to Bice
herself, he cared but little for the Forno-Populi. " I
don't know anything about the sous. I have plenty
for both," he said, " that had a great deal better go to
you, don't you know. She is all I want. Bice ! oh that's
too foreign. I shall call her Bee, for she must be
English, don't you know, Countess, none of your Bohem
— Oh, I don't mean that ; none of your foreign ways.
They draw a fellow on, but when it's all settled and
we're married and that sort of thing, she'll have to be
out and out English, don't you know ? "
" But that is reasonable," said the Contessa, who
could when it was necessary reply very distinctly.
" When one has a great English name and a position
to keep up, one must be English. You shall call her
what you please."
" There's one thing more," Montjoie said with a little
redness and hesitation, but a certain dogged air, with
which the Contessa had not as yet made acquaintance.
" It's best to understand each other, don't you know ;
it's sort of hard-hearted to take her right away. But,
xlyil] NEXT MORNING. 483
Countess, you're a woman of the world, and you know
a fellow must start fair, You keep all those sous you
were talking of, and just let us knock along our own
way. I don't want the money, and I dare say you'll
find a use for it And let's start fair ; it'll be better
for all parties, don't you know," the young man said.
He reddened, but he met the Contessa's eye unflinch-
ingly, though the effort to respond to this distinct
statement in the spirit in which it was made cost her
a struo-cde. She stared at him for a moment across
the dainty little table laden with knick-knacks. It
was strange in the moment of victory to receive such
a sudden decisive defeat. There was just a possibility
for a moment that this brave spirit should own itself
mere woman, and break down and cry. For one second
there was a quiver on her lip ; then she smiled, which
for every purpose was the better way.
" You would like," she said, " to see Bice. She is
in the little drawing-room. The lawyers will settle the
rest ; but I understand your suggestion, Lord Montjoie."
She rose with all her natural stately grace, which made
the ordinary young fellow feel very small in spite of
himself. The smile she gave him had something in it
that made his knees knock together.
"I hope," he said, faltering, "you don't mind,
Countess. My people, though I've not got any people
to speak of, might make themselves disagreeable about
— don't you know ? you — you're a woman of the world."
The Contessa smiled upon him once more with
dazzling sweetness. " She is in the little drawing-room,"
she said.
And so it was concluded, the excitement, the
tr-rouble, as Bice said ; it would have been far more
amusing if there had been a great deal more tr-rouble.
484 SIR TOM. [chap.
The Contessa dropped down in the corner of the sofa
from which she had risen. She closed her eyes for the
moment, and swallowed the affront that had been pnt
upon her, and what was worse than the affront, the blow
at her heart which this trifling little lord had delivered
without flinching. This was to be the end of her
schemes, that she was to be separated summarily and
remorselessly from the child she had brought up. The
Contessa knew, being of the same order of being, that,
already somewhat disappointed to find the ardour of
the chase over and all the excitement of bringing down
the quarry, Bice, who cared little more about Montjoie
than about any other likely person, would be as ready
as not to throw him off if she were to communicate
rashly the conditions on which he insisted. But, though
she was of the same order of being, the Contessa was
older and wiser. She had gone through a great many
experiences. She knew that rich young English peers,
marquises, uncontrolled by any parent or guardians,
were fruit that did not grow on every bush, and that if
this tide of fortune was not taken at its flood there was
no telling when another might come. Now, though
Bice was so dear, the Contessa had still a great many
resources of her own, and was neither old nor tired of
life. She would make herself a new career even with-
out Bice, in which there might still be much interest
— especially with the aid of a settled income. The
careless speech about the sous was not without an
eloquence of its own. Sous make everything that is
disagreeable less disagreeable, and everything that is
pleasant more pleasant. And she had got her triumph.
She had secured for her Bice a splendid lot. She had
accomplished what she had vowed to do, which many
scoffers had thought she would never do. She was about
xlvil] NEXT MOEXIXG.
485
to be presented at the English Court, and all her soils
and spots from the world cleared from her, and herself
rehabilitated wherever she might go. Was it reason-
able then to break her heart over Montjoie and his
miserable conditions? He could not separate Bice's
love from her, though he might separate their lives —
and that about the sous was generous. She was not
one who would have sold her affections or given up
anybody whom she loved for money. But still there
were many things to be said, and for Bice's advantage
what would she not do ? The Contessa ended by a
resolution which many a better woman would not have
had the courage to make. She buried Montjoie's con-
dition in her own heart — never to hint its existence
to ignore it as if it had not been. Many a more
satisfactory person would have flinched at this. Most
of us would at least have allowed the object of our
sacrifice to be aware what we were doing for them.
The Contessa did not even, so far as this, yield to the
temptation of fate.
In the meantime Bice had gone through her own
little episode. Mr. Derwentwater came about noon,
before the Contessa was up ; but he did not know the
Contessa's habits, and he was admitted, which neither
Montjoie nor any of the Contessa's friends would have
been. He was overjoyed to find the lady of his affec-
tions alone. This made everything, he thought, simple
and easy for him, and filled him with a delightful confi-
dence that she was prepared for the object of his visit
and had contrived to keep the Contessa out of the
way. His heart was beating high, his mind full of
excitement. He took the chair she pointed him to,
and then got up again, poising his hat between his
hands.
486 SIR TOM. [chap.
" Signorina," he said, " they say that a woman always
knows the impression she has made."
" Why do you call me Signorina ? " said Bice. " Yes,
it is quite right. But then it is so long that I have
not heard it, and it is only you that call me so."
" Perhaps," said Mr. Derwentwater, with a little
natural complacency, "others are not so well acquainted
with your beautiful country and language. What should
I call you ? Ah, I know what I should like to call
you. Beatrice, loda di deo vera. You are like the
supreme and sovran lady whom every one must think
of who hears your name."
Bice looked at him with a half -comic attention.
" You are a very learned man," she said, " one can see
that. You always say something that is pretty, that
one does not understand."
This piqued the suitor a little and brought the
colour to his cheek. " Teach me," he said, " to make
you understand me. If I could show you my heart,
you would see that from the first moment I saw you
the name of Bice has been written "
" Oh, I know it already," cried Bice, " that you
have a great devotion for poetry. Unhappily I have
no education. I know it so very little. But I have
found out what you mean about Bice. It is more soft
than you say it. There is no sound of tch in it at all.
Beeshe, like that. Your Italian is very good," she
added, " but it is Tuscan, and the bocca romana is the
best."
Mr. Derwentwater was more put out than it became
a philosopher to be. " I came," he cried, with a kind
of asperity, " for a very different purpose, not to be cor-
rected in my Italian. I came " but here his feel-
ings were too strong for him, " to lay my life and my
xlvii.] NEXT MORNING. 487
heart at your feet. Do you understand me now ? To
tell you that I love you — no, that is not enough, it is
not love, it is adoration," he said. " I have never known
what it meant before. However fair women might be,
I have passed them by ; my heart has never spoken.
But now ! Since the first moment I saw you, Bice "
The girl rose up ; she became a little alarmed. Emo-
tion was strange to her, and she shrank from it. " I
have given," she said, " to nobody permission to call
me by my name."
" But you will give it to me ! to your true lover,"
he cried. " Xo one can admire and adore you as much
as I do. It was from the first moment. Bice, oh,
listen ! I have nothing to offer you but love, the
devotion of a life. What could a king give more ? A
true man cannot think of anything else when he is
speaking to the woman he loves. Nothing else is
worthy to offer you. Bice, I love you ! I love you !
Have you nothing, nothing in return to say to me ? "
All his self-importance and intellectual superiority
had abandoned him. He was so much agitated that
he saw her but dimly through the mists of excitement
and passion. He stretched out his hands appealing to
her. He might have been on his knees for anything
he knew. It seemed incredible to him that his strong-
passion should have no return.
"Have you nothing, nothing to say to me?" he
cried.
Bice had been frightened, but she had regained her
composure. She looked on at this strange exhibition
of feeling with the wondering calm of extreme youth.
She was touched a little, but more surprised than any-
thing else. She said, with a slight tremor, " I think it
must be all a mistake. One is never so serious — oh,
488 SIR TOM. [chap.
never so serious ! It is not something of — gravity like
that. Did not you know ? I am intended to make a
marriage — to marry well, very well — what you call a
great marriage. It is for that I am brought here. The
Contessa would never listen — Oh, it is a mistake alto-
gether— a mistake ! You do not know what is my
career. It has all been thought of since I was born.
Pray, pray, go away, and do not say any more."
" Bice," he cried, more earnestly than ever, " I know.
I heard that you were to be sacrificed. Who is the
lady who is going to sacrifice you to Mammon ? she is
not your mother; you owe her no obedience. It is
your happiness, not hers, that is at stake. And I will
preserve you from her. I will guard you like my own
soul ; the winds of heaven shall not visit your cheek
roughly. I will cherish you ; I will adore you. Come,
only come to me."
His voice was husky with emotion ; his last words
were scarcely audible, said within his breath in a high
strain of passion which had got beyond his control.
The contrast between this tremendous force of feeling
and her absolute youthful calm was beyond description.
It was more wonderful than anything ever represented
on the tragic stage. Only in the depth and mystery
of human experience could such a wonderful juxta-
position be.
"Mr. Derwentwater," she said, trembling a little,
" I cannot understand you. Go away, oh, go away ! "
" Bice ! "
" Go away, oh, go away ! I am not able to bear it ;
no one is ever so serious. I am not great enough, nor
old enough. Don't you know," cried Bice, with a little
stamp of her foot, " I like the other way best ? Oh, go
away, go away ! "
xlvil] NEXT MORXIXG. 489
He stood quiet, silently gazing at her till he had
regained his power of speech, which was not for a
moment or two. Then he said hoarsely, " You like —
the other way best ? "
She clasped her hands together with a mingling of
impatience and wonder and rising anger. " I am made
like that," she cried. " I don't know how to be so
serious. Oh, go away from me. You tr-rouble me.
I like the other best."
He never knew how he got out of the strange, un-
natural atmosphere of the house in which he seemed
to leave his heart behind him. The perfumes, the cur-
tains, the half lights, the blending draperies, were round
him one moment ; the next he found himself in the
greenness of the Park, with- the breeze blowing in his
face, and his dream ended and done with.
He had a kind of vision of having touched the girl's
reluctant hand, and even of having seen a frightened
look in her eyes as if he had awakened some echo or
touched some string whose sound was new to her. But
if that were so, it was not he, but only some discovery
of unknown feeling that moved her. "When he came to
himself, he felt that all the innocent morning people in
the Park, the children with their maids, the sick ladies
and old men sunning themselves on the benches, the
people going about their honest business, cast wonder-
ing looks at his pale face and the agitation of his
aspect. He took a long walk, he did not know how
long, with that strange sense that something capital had
happened to him, something never to be got over or
altered, which follows such an incident in life. He
was even conscious by and by, habit coming to his aid,
of a curious question in his mind if this was how people
usually felt after such a wonderful incident — a thing
490 SIR TOM. [chap.
that had happened quite without demonstration, which
nobody could ever know of, yet which made as
much change in him as if he had been sentenced to
death. Sentenced to death ! that was what it felt like
more or less. It had happened, and could never be
undone, and he walked away and away, but never got
beyond it, with the chain always round his neck. When
he got into the streets where nobody took any notice
of him, it struck him with surprise, almost offence.
Was it possible that they did not see that something-
had happened — a mystery, something that would never
be shaken off but with life ?
He met Jock as he walked, and without stopping
gave him a sort of ghastly smile, and said, " You were
right; she likes that best," and went on again, with a
sense that he might go on for ever like the wandering
Jew, and never get beyond the wonder and the pain.
And there is no doubt that Bice was glad to hear
Montjoie's laugh, and the nonsense he talked, and to
throw off that sudden impression which had frightened
her. What was it ? Something which was in life, but
which she had not met with before. " We are to have
it all our own way, don't you know ? " Montjoie said.
" I have no people, to call people, and she is not going
to interfere. We shall have it all our own way, and
have a good time, as the Yankees say. And I am not
gomg to call you Bice, which is a silly sort of name,
and spells quite different from its pronunciation. What
are you holding back for ? You have no call to be
shy with me now. Bee, you belong to me now, don't
you know ? " the young fellow said, with demonstra-
tions from which Bice shrunk a little. She liked, yes,
his way ; but, but yet — she was perhaps a little savage,
as the Contessa said.
XL viil] THE LAST BLOW. 491
CHAPTEE XLVIIL
THE LAST BLOW.
Lucy stood out stoutly to the last gasp. She did not
betray herself, except by the paleness, the seriousness
which she could not banish from her countenance. Her
guests thought that Lady Eandolph must be ill, that
she was disguising a bad headache, or even something
more serious, under the smile with which she received
them. " I am sure you ought to be in bed," the older
ladies said, and when they took their leave of her, after
their congratulations as to the success of the evening,
they all repeated this in various tones. " I am sure
you are quite worn out ; I shall send in the morning
to ask how you are," the Duchess said. Lucy listened
to everything with a smile which was somewhat set
and painful. She was so worn out with emotion and
pain that at last neither words nor looks made much
impression upon her. She saw the Contessa and Bice
stream by to their carriage with a circle of attendants,
still in all the dazzle and flash of their triumph ; and
after that the less important crowd, the insignificant
people who lingered to the last, the girls who would
not give up a last waltz, and the men who returned
for a final supper, swam in her dazed eyes. She stood
at the door mechanically shaking hands and saying
" Good -night." The Dowager, moved by curiosity,
anxiety, perhaps by pity, kept by her till a late hour,
though Lucy was scarcely aware of it. When she went
away at last, she repeated with earnestness and a cer-
tain compunction the advice of the other ladies. " You
492 SIR TOM. [chap.
don't look fit to stand/' she said. " If you will go to
bed I will wait till all these tiresome people are gone.
You have been doing too much, far too much." " It
does not matter," Lucy said, in her semi-consciousness
hearing her own voice like something in a dream. " Oh,
my dear, I am quite unhappy about you ! " Lady Ban-
dolph cried. " If you are thinking of what I told you,
Lucy, perhaps it may not be true." There was a bevy
of people going away at that moment, and she had to
shake hands with them. She waited till they were
gone and then turned, with a laugh that frightened the
old lady, towards her.
" You should have thought of that before," she said.
Perhaps it might not be true ! Can heaven be veiled
and the pillars of the earth pulled down by a perhaps ?
The laugh sounded even to herself unnatural, and
the elder Lady Eandolph was frightened by it, and
stole away almost without another word. When every-
body was gone Sir Tom stood by her in the deserted
rooms, with all the lights blazing and the blue day
coming in through the curtains, as grave and as pale
as she was. They did not look like the exhausted yet
happy entertainers of the (as yet) most successful party
of the season. Lucy could scarcely stand and could
not speak at all, and he seemed little more fit for those
mutual congratulations, even the " Thank heaven it is
well over," with which the master and the mistress of the
house usually salute each other in such circumstances.
They stood at different ends of the room, and made no
remark. At last, " I suppose you are going to bed,"
Sir Tom said. He came up to her in a preoccupied
way. " I shall go and smoke a cigar first, and it does
not seem much good lighting a candle for you." They
both looked somewhat drearily at the daylight, now no
xltiii.] THE LAST BLOW. 493
longer blue, but rosy. Then he laid his hand upon her
shoulder. " You are dreadfully tired, Lucy, and I think
there has been something the matter with you these
few days. I'd ask you what it was, but I'm dead beat,
and you are dreadfully tired too." He stopped and
kissed her forehead, and took her hand in Ins in a sort
of langiiid way. " Good -night ; go to bed, my poor
little woman," he said.
It is terrible to be wroth with those we love.
Anger against them is deadly to ourselves. It " works
like madness in the brain ;" it involves heaven and
earth in a gloom that nothing can lighten. But when
that anger being just, and such as we must not depart
from, is crossed by those unspeakable relentings, those
quick revivals of love, those sudden touches of tender-
ness that carry all before them, what anguish is equal
to those bitter sweetnesses ? Lucy felt this as she
stood there with her husband's hand upon her shoulder,
in utter fatigue, and broken down in all her faculties.
Through all those dark and bitter mists which rose
about her, his voice broke like a ray of light : her timid
heart sprang up in her bosom and went out to him
with an abandon which, but for the extreme physical
fatigue, which produces a sort of apathy, must have
broken down everything. For a moment she swayed
towards him as if she would have thrown herself upon
his breast.
\Vhen this movement comes to both the estranged
persons, there follows a clearing away of difficulties, a
revolution of the heart, a reconciliation when that is
possible, and sometimes when it is not possible. But
it very seldom happens that this comes to both at the
same time. Sir Tom remained unmoved while his
wife had that sudden access of reawakened tenderness.
494 SIR TOM. [chap.
He was scarcely aware even how far she had been from
him, and now was quite unaware how near. His mind
was full of cares and doubts, and an embarrassing
situation which he could not see how to manage. He
was not even aware that she was moved beyond the
common. He took his hand from her shoulder, and
without another word let her go away.
Oh, those other words that are never spoken !
They are counterbalanced in the record of human mis-
fortune by the many other words which are too much,
which should never have been spoken at all. Thus all
explanation, all ending of the desperate situation, was
staved off for another night.
Lucy woke next morning in a kind of desperation.
No new event had happened, but she could not rest.
She felt that she must do something or die, and what
could she do ? She spent the early morning in the
nursery, and then went out. This time she was reason-
able, not like that former time when she went out to
the city. She knew very well now that nothing was
to be gained by walking or by jolting in a disagreeable
cab. On the former occasion ftat had been something
of a relief to her ; but not now. It is scarcely so bad
when some out-of-the-way proceeding like this, some
strange thing to be done, gives the hurt and wounded
spirit a little relief. She had come to the further stage
now when she knew that nothing of the sort could
give any relief; nothing but mere dull endurance,
going on, and no more. She drove to Mr. Chervil's
office quietly, as she might have gone anywhere, and
thus, though it seems strange to say so, betrayed a
deeper despair than before. She took with her a list
of names with sums written opposite. There was
enough there put down to make away with a large
xlviil] the last blow. 495
fortune. This one so much, that one so much. This
too was an impulse of the despair in her mincL She
was carrying out her father's will in a lump. It meant
no exercise of discrimination, no careful choice of persons
to be benefited, such as he had intended, but only a
hurried rush at a duty which she had neglected, a
desire to be done with it. Lucy was on the eve, she
felt, of some great change in her life. She could not
tell what she might be able to do after ; whether she
should live through it or bring her mind and memory
unimpaired through it, or think any longer of anything
that had once been her duty. She would get it done
while she could. She was very sensible that the
money she had given to Bice was not in accordance
with what her father would have wished : neither were
these perhaps. She could not tell, she did not care.
At least it would be done with, and could not be done
over again.
" Lady Eandolph," said Mr. Chervil, in dismay,
" have you any idea of the sum you are — throwing
away ?
" I have no idea of any sum," said Lucy, gently.
" except just the money I spend, so much in my purse.
But you have taught me how to calculate, and that so
much would — make people comfortable. Is not that
what you said ? Well, if it was not you, it was — I do
not remember. When I first got the charge of this
into my hands "
" Lady Eandolph, you cannot surely think what you
are doing. At the worst," said the distressed trustee,
" this was meant to be a fund for — beneficence all your
life : not to be squandered away, thousands and thou-
sands in a day "
" Is it squandered when it gives comfort — perhaps
496 SIR TOM. [chap.
even happiness ? And how do you know how long
my life may last ? It may be over — in a day "
" You are ill," said the lawyer. " I thought so the
moment I saw you. I felt sure you were not up to
business to-day."
" I don't think I am ill," said Lucy ; " a little tired,
for I was late last night — did not you know we had a
ball, a very pretty ball ? " she added, with a curious
smile, half of gratification, half of mockery. " It was
a strange thing to have, perhaps, just — at this moment."
" A very natural thing," said Mr. Chervil. " I am
glad to know it ; you are so young, Lady Eanclolph,
pardon me for saying so."
" It was not for me," said Lucy ; " it was for a
young lady — my husband's "
Was she going out of her senses ? What was she
about to say ?
" A relation ? " said Mr. Chervil. Perhaps the
young lady for whom you interested yourself so much
in a more important way ? They are fortunate, Lady
Eandolph, who have you for a friend."
" Do you think so ? I don't know that any one
thinks so." She recovered herself a little and pointed
to the papers. " You will carry that out, please. I
may be going away. I am not quite sure of my move-
ments. As soon as you can you will carry this out."
" Going away — at the beginning of the season ! "
" Oh, there is nothing settled ; and besides you
know life — life is very insecure."
" At your age it is very seldom one thinks so," said
the lawyer, at which she smiled only, then rose up,
and without any further remark went away. He saw
her to her carriage, not now with any recollection of
the pleasant show and the exhibition of so fine a client
xlviii.] THE LAST BLOW. 497
to the admiration of his neighbours. He had a heart
after all, and daughters of his own ; and he was
troubled more than he could say. He stood bare-
headed and saw her drive away, with a look of anxiety
upon his face. Was it the same bee in her bonnet which
old Trevor had shown so conspicuously ? was it eccen-
tricity verging upon madness ? He went back to his
office and wrote to Sir Tom, enclosing a copy of Lucy's
list. " I must ask your advice in the matter instead
of offering you mine/' he wrote. " Lady Eandolph has
a right, of course, if she chooses to press matters to an
extremity, but I can't fancy that this is right."
Lucy went home still in the same strange excite-
ment of mind. All had been executed that was in her
programme. She had gone through it without flinch-
ing. The ball — that strange, frivolous-tragic effort of
despair — it was over, thank heaven ! and Bice had got
full justice in her — was it in her — father's house ?
She could not have been introduced to greater advan-
tage, Lucy thought, with a certain forlorn, simple pride,
had she been Sir Tom's acknowledged daughter. Oh, not
to so much advantage ! for the Contessa, her guardian,
her was far more skilful than Lucy ever could have
been. . Bice had got her triumph ; nothing had been
neglected. And the other business was in train — the
disposing of the money. She had made her wishes
fully known, and even taken great trouble, calculating
and transcribing to prevent any possibility of a mistake.
And now, now the moment had come, the crisis of life
when she must tell her husband what she had heard,
and say to him that this existence could not go on any
longer. A man could not have two lives. She did
not mean to upbraid him. What good would it do
to upbraid ? none, none at all ; that would not make
2x
498 SIR TOM. [chap.
things as they were again, or return to her him whom
she had lost. She had not a word to say to him, except
that it was impossible — that it could not go on any
more.
To think that she should have this to say to him
made everything dark about her as Lucy went home.
She felt as if the world must come to an end to-night.
All was straightforward, now that the need of self-
restraint was over. She contemplated no delay 01
withdrawal from her position. She went in to accom-
plish this dark and miserable necessity like a martyr
going to the cross. She would go and see baby first,
who was his boy as well as hers. Sir Tom no doubt
would be in his library, and would come out for luncheon
after a while, but not until she had spoken. But first
she would go, just for a little needful strength, and kiss
her boy.
Fletcher met her at the head of the stairs.
" Oh, if you please, my lady — not to hurry you or
frighten you — but nurse says please would you step in
and look at baby/'
Suddenly, in a moment, Lucy's whole being changed.
She forgot everything. Her languor disappeared and
her fatigue. She sprang up to where the woman was
standing. " What is it ? is he ill ? Is it the old
" She hurried along towards the nursery as she
spoke.
" No, my lady, nothing he has had before ; but
nurse thinks he looks — oh, my lady, there will be
nothing to be frightened about — we have sent for the
doctor."
Lucy was in the room where little Tom was, before
Fletcher had finished what she was saying. The child
was seated on his nurse's knee. His eyes were heavy,
XLViii.] THE LAST BLOW. 499
yet blazing with fever, He was plucking with his
little hot hands at the woman's dress, flinging himself
about her, from one arm, from one side to the other.
When he saw his mother he stretched out towards her.
Just eighteen months old ; not able to express a
thought ; not much, you will say, perhaps, to change
to a woman the aspect of heaven and earth. She took
him into her arms without a word, and laid her cheek
— which was so cool, fresh with the morning air, though
her heart was so fevered and sick — against the little
cheek, which burned and glowed. " What is it ? Can
you tell what it is ? " she said in a whisper of awe.
"Was it God Himself who had stepped in — who had
come to interfere ?
Then the baby began to wail with that cry of
inarticulate suffering which is the most pitiful of all
the utterances of humanity. He could not tell what
ailed him. He looked with his great dazed eyes piti-
fully from one to another as if asking them to help
him.
" It is the fever, my lady," said the nurse. " We
have sent for the doctor. It may not be a bad attack."
Lucy sat down, her limbs failing her, her heart
failing, her still more, her bonnet and outdoor dress
cumbering her movements, the child tossing and rest-
less in her arms. This was not the form his ailments
had ever taken before. " Do you know what is to be
done ? Tell me what to do for him," she said.
There was a kind of hush over all the house. The
servants would not admit that anything was wrong
until their mistress should come home. As soon as
she was in the nursery and fully aware of the state of
affairs, they left off their precautions. The maids
appeared on the staircases clandestinely as they ought
500 SIR TOM. [chap.
not to have done. Mrs. Freshwater herself abandoned
her cosy closet, and declared in an impressive voice
that no bell must be rung for luncheon — nor anything
done that could possibly disturb the blessed baby, she
said as she gave the order. And Williams desired to
know what was preparing for Mr. Eandolph's dinner,
and announced his intention of taking it up himself.
The other meal, the lunch, in the dining-room, was of
no importance to any one. If he could take his beef-
tea it would do him good, they all said.
It seemed as if a long time passed before the doctor
came ; from Sir Tom to the youngest kitchen-wench,
the scullery-maid, all were in suspense. There was but
one breath, long drawn and stifled, when he came into
the house. He was a long time in the nursery, and
when he came out he went on talking to those who
accompanied him. " You had better shut off this part
of the house altogether," he was saying, " hang a sheet
over this doorway, and let it be always kept wet. I
will send in a person I can rely upon to take the
night. You must not let Lady Eandolph sit up." He
repeated the same caution to Sir Tom, who came out
with a bewildered air to hear what he had said. Sir
Tom was the only one who had taken no fright.
" Highly infectious," the Doctor said. " I advise you
to send away every one who is not wanted. If Lady
Eandolph could be kept out of the room so much the
better, but I don't suppose that is possible ; anyhow,
don't let her sit up. She is just in the condition to
take it. It would be better if you did not go near the
child yourself ; but, of course, I understand how diffi-
cult that is. Parents are a nuisance in such cases,"
the Doctor said, with a smile which Sir Tom thought
heartless, though it was intended to cheer him. " It is
xlviii.] THE LAST BLOW. 501
far better to give the little patient over to scientific
unemotional care."
" But you don't mean to say that there is danger,
Doctor," cried Sir Tom. " Why, the little beggar was
as jolly as possible only this morning."
" Oh, we'll pull him through, we'll pull him
through," the good-natured Doctor said. He preferred
to talk all the time, not to be asked questions, for
what could he say ? Nurse looked very awful as she
went upstairs, charged with private information almost
too important for any woman to contain. She stopped
at the head of the stairs to whisper to Fletcher, shaking
her head the while, and Fletcher, too, shook her head
and whispered to Mrs. Freshwater that the doctor had
a very bad opinion of the case. Poor little Tom had
got to be " the case " all in a moment. And " no
constitution " they said to each other under their breath.
Thus the door closed upon Lucy and all her trouble.
She forgot it clean, as if it never had existed. Every-
thing in the world in one moment became utterly un-
important to her, except the fever in those heavy eyes.
She reflected dimly, with an awful sense of having fore-
stalled fate, that she had made a pretence that he was
ill to shield herself that night, the first night after
their arrival. She had said he was ill when all was
well. And lo ! sudden punishment scathing and ter-
rible had come to her out of the angry skies.
502 SIR TOM. [chat.
CHAPTEE XLIX.
THE EXPERIENCES OF BICE.
Sir Tom was concerned and anxious, but not alarmed
like the women. After all it was a complaint of
which children recovered every day. It had nothing
to do with the child's lungs, which had been enfeebled
by his former illness. He had as good a chance as
any other in the present malady. Sir Tom was much
depressed for an hour or two, but when everything
was done that could be done, and an experienced
woman arrived to whom the " case," though " anxious,"
as she said, did not appear immediately alarming, he
forced his mind to check that depression, and to re-
turn to the cares which, if less grave, harassed and
worried him more. Lucy was invisible all day. She
spoke to him through the closed door from behind the
curtain, but in a voice which he could scarcely hear and
which had no tone of individuality in it, but only a
faint human sound of distress. " He is no better.
They say we cannot expect him to be better," she
said. " Come down, clear, and have some dinner,"
said the round and large voice of Sir Tom, which even
into that stillness brought a certain cheer. But as it
sounded into the shut -up room, where nobody ven-
tured to speak above their breath, it was like a bell
pealing or a discharge of artillery, something that
broke up the quiet, and made, or so the poor mother
thought, the little patient start in his uneasy bed.
Dinner ! oh how could he ask it, how could he think
of it ? Sir Tom went away with a sigh of mingled
xlix.] THE EXPERIENCES OF BICE. 503
uneasiness and impatience. He had always thought
Lucy a happy exception to the caprices and vagaries
of womankind. He had hoped that she was without
nerves, as she had certainly been without those whims
that amuse a man in other people's wives, but disgust
him in his own. "Was she going to turn out just like
the rest, with extravagant terrors, humours, fancies —
like all of them ? Why should not she come to dinner,
and why speak to him only from behind the closed
door ? He was annoyed and almost angry with Lucy.
There had been something the matter, he reflected, for
some time. She had taken offence at something ;
but surely the appearance of a real trouble might, at
least, have made an end of that. He felt vexed and
impatient as he sat down with Jock alone. " You
will have to get out of this, my boy," he said, " or
they won't let you go back to school ; don't you know
it's catching ? " To have infection in one's house, and
to be considered dangerous by one's friends, is always
irritating. Sir Tom spoke with a laugh, but it was a
laugh of offence. u I ought to have thought of it
sooner," he said ; " you can't go straight to school, you
know, from a house with fever in it. You must pack
up and get off at once."
" I am not afraid," cried Jock. " Do you think I
am such a cad as to leave Lucy when she's in trouble ?
or — or — the little one either ? " Jock added, in a husky
voice.
" "We are all cads in that respect nowadays," saia
Sir Tom. " It is the right thing. It is high principle.
Men will elbow off and keep me at a distance, and
not a soul will come near Lucy. Well, I suppose, it's
all right. But there is some reason in it, so far as you
are concerned. Come, you must be off to-night. Get
504 SIR TOM. [chap.
hold of MTutor, he's still in town, and ask him what
you must do."
After dinner Sir Tom strolled forth. He did not
mean to go out, but the house was intolerable, and he
was very uneasy on the subject of Bice. It felt, in-
deed, something like a treason to Lucy, shut up in the
child's sick-room, to go to the house which somehow
or other was felt to be in opposition, and dimly sus-
pected as the occasion of her changed looks and ways.
He did not even say to himself that he meant to go
there. And it was not any charm in the Contessa
that drew him. It was that uneasy sense of a possi-
bility which involved responsibility, and which, prob-
ably, he would never either make sure of or get rid of.
The little house in Mayfair was lighted from garret to
basement. If the lights were dim inside they looked
bright without. It had the air of a house overflowing
with life, every room with its sign of occupation.
When he got in, the first sight he saw was Montjoie
striding across the doorway of the small dining-room.
Montjoie was very much at home, puffing his ciga-
rette at the new comer. " Hallo, St. John ! " he cried,
then added with a tone of disappointment, " Oh ! it's
you."
" It is I, I'm sorry to say, as you don't seem to like
it," said Sir Tom.
The young fellow looked a little abashed. " I ex-
pected another fellow. That's not to say I ain't glad
to see you. Come in and have a glass of wine."
" Thank you," said Sir Tom. " I suppose as you
are smoking the ladies are upstairs."
" Oh, they don't mind," said Montjoie ; " at least the
Contessa, don't you know? She's up to a cigarette
herself. I shouldn't stand it/' he added, after a moment.
xlix.] THE EXPERIENCES OF BICE. 505
" in — Mademoiselle. Oh, perhaps you haven't heard.
She and I — have fixed it all up, don't you know ? "
" Fixed it all up ? "
" Engaged, and that sort of thing. I'm a kind of
boss in this house now. I thought, perhaps, that was
why you were coming, to hear all about it, don't you
know ? "
" Engaged ! " cried Sir Tom, with a surprise in which
there was no qualification. He felt disposed to catch
the young fellow by the throat and pitch him out of doors.
"You don't seem over and above pleased," said
Montjoie, throwing away his cigarette, and confront-
ing Sir Tom with a flush of defiance. They stood
looking at each other for a moment, while Antonio, in
the background, watched at the foot of the stairs, not
without hopes of a disturbance.
" I don't suppose that my pleasure or displeasure
matters much : but you will pardon me if I pass, for
my visit was to the Contessa," Sir Tom said, going on
quickly. He was in an irritable state of mind to
begin with. He thought he ought to have been con-
suited, even as an old friend, much more as
And the young ass was offensive. If it turned out
that Sir Tom had anything to do with it Montjoie
should find that to be the best parti of the season was
not a thing that would infallibly recommend him to a
father at least. The Contessa had risen from her chair
at the sound of the voices. She came forward to Sir
Tom with both her hands extended as he entered the
drawing-room. u Dear old friend ! congratulate me.
I have accomplished all I wished," she said.
" That was Montjoie," said Sir Tom. He laughed,
but not with his usual laugh. " Xo great ambition,
I am afraid. But," he said, pressing those delicate
506 SIR TOM. [chap.
hands not as they were used to be pressed, with a hard
seriousness and imperativeness, " you must tell me ! I
must have an explanation. There can be no delay
or quibbling longer."
" You hurt me, sir," she said with a little cry, and
looked at her hands, " body and mind," she added,
with one of her smiles. " Quibbling — that is one of
your English words a woman cannot be expected to
understand. Come then with me, barbarian, into my
boudoir."
Bice sat alone somewhat pensively with one of
those favourite Tauchnitz volumes from which she had
obtained her knowledge of English life in her hand.
It was contraband, which made it all the dearer to her.
She was not reading, but leaning her chin against it
lost in thought. She was not pining for the presence
of Montjoie, but rather glad after a long afternoon of
him that he should prefer a cigarette to her company.
She felt that this was precisely her own case, the
cigarette being represented by the book or any other
expedient that answered to cover the process of
thought.
Bice was not used to these processes. Keen obser-
vation of the ways of mankind in all the strange exhi-
bitions of them which she had seen in her life had been
the chief exercise of her lively intelligence. To Mr.
Derwentwater, perhaps, may be given the credit of
having roused the girl's mind, not indeed to sympathy
with himself, but into a kind of perturbation and general
commotion of spirit. Events were crowding quickly
upon her. She had accepted one suitor and refused
another within the course of a few hours. Such inci-
dents develop the being ; not, perhaps, the first in any
great degree — but the second was not in the programme,
xlix.] THE EXPERIENCES OF BICE. 507
and it had perplexed and roused her. There had come
into her mind glimmerings, reflections, she could not
tell what. Montjoie was occupied in something of the
same manner downstairs, thinking it all over with his
cigarette, wondering what Society and what his uncle
would say, for whom he had a certain respect. He
said to himself on the whole that he did not care that
for Society ! She suited him down to the ground.
She was the j oiliest girl he had ever met, besides being
so awfully handsome. It was worth while going out
riding with her just to see how the fellows stared and the
women grew green with envy ; or coming into a room
with her, Jove ! what a sensation she would make, and
how everybody would open their eyes when she ap-
peared blazing in the Montjoie diamonds ! His satis-
faction went a little deeper than this, to do him justice.
He was, in his way, very much in love with the beau-
tiful creature whom he had made up his mind to secure
from the first moment he saw her. But, perhaps, if it
had not been for the triumph of her appearance at
Park Lane, and the hum of admiration and wonder
that rose around her, he would not have so early fixed
his fate ; and the shadow of the uncle now and then
came like a cloud over his glee. After the sudden
gravity with which he remembered this, there suddenly
gleamed upon him a vision of all his plain cousins
gathering round his bride to scowl her down, and blast
her with criticism and disapproval, which made him
burst into a fit of laughter. Bice would hold her own ;
she would give as good as she got. She was not one
to be cowed or put down, wasn't Bee ! He felt himself
clapping his hands and urging her on to the combat,
and celebrated in advance with a shout of laughter the
discomfiture of all those young ladies. But she should
508 SIR TOM. [chap.
have nothing more to do with the Forno-Populo.
No ; his wife should have none of that sort about her.
What did old Eandolph mean always hanging about
that old woman, and all the rest of the old fogeys?
It was fun enough so long as you had nothing to do
with them, but, by Jove, not for Lady Montjoie. Then
he rushed upstairs to shower a few rough caresses
upon Bice and take his leave of her, for he had an
evening engagement formed before he was aware of
the change which was coming in his life. He had
been about her all the afternoon, and Bice, disturbed
in her musings by this onslaught and somewhat im-
patient of the caresses, beheld his departure with satis-
faction. It was the first evening since their arrival in
town, which the ladies had planned to spend alone.
And then she recommenced these thinkings which
were not so easy as those of her lover : but she was soon
subject to another inroad of a very different kind. Jock,
who had never before come in the evening, appeared
suddenly unannounced at the door of the room with a
pale and heavy countenance. Though Bice had ob-
jected to be disturbed by her lover, she did not object
to Jock ; he harmonised with the state of her mind,
which Montjoie did not. It seemed even to relieve her
of the necessity of thinking when he appeared — he
who did thinking enough, she felt, with half-conscious
humour, for any number of people. He came in with
a sort of eagerness, yet weariness, and explained that he
had come to say good-bye, for he was going off — at once.
" Going off ! but it is not time yet," Bice said.
" Because of the fever. But that is not altogether
why I have come either," he said, looking at her from
under his curved eyebrows. " I have got something
to say."
xlix.] THE EXPERIENCES OF BICE. 509
" What fever ? " she said, sitting upright in her
chair.
Jock took no notice of the question ; his mind
was full of his own purpose. " Look here," he said
huskily, " I know you'll never speak to me again.
But there's something I want to say. "We've been
friends "
" Oh yes," she said, raising her head with a gleam
of frank and cordial pleasure, " good friends — cama-
racles — and I shall always, always speak to you. You
were my first friend."
" That is," said Jock, taking no notice, " you were
— friends. I can't tell what I was. I don't know.
It's something very droll. You would laugh, I sup-
pose. But that's not to the purpose either. You
wouldn't have Derwentwater to-day."
Bice looked up with a half laugh. She began to
consider him closely with her clear-sighted penetrating
eyes, and the agitation under which Jock was labour-
ing impressed the girl's quick mind. She watched
every change of his face with a surprised interest, but
she did not make any reply.
" I never expected you would. I could have told
him so.. I did tell him you liked the other best.
They say that's common with women," Jock said with
a little awe, " when they have the choice offered, that
it is always the worst they take."
But still Bice did not reply. It was a sort of
carrying out without any responsibility of hers, the
vague wonder and questionings of her own mind.
She had no responsibility in what Jock said. She
could even question and combat it cheerfully now that
it was presented to her from outside, but for the
moment she said nothing to help him on, and he did
510 SIR TOM. [chap.
not seem to require it, though he paused from time to
time.
" This is what I've got to say," Jock went on
almost fiercely. " If you take Montjoie it's a mistake.
He looks good-natured and all that; he looks easy to
get on with. You hear me out, and then I'll go away
and never trouble you again. He is not — a nice
fellow. If you were to go and do such a thing as —
marry him, and then find it out ! I want you to know.
Perhaps you think it's mean of me to say so, like
sneaking, and perhaps it is. But, look here, I can't
help it. Of course you would laugh at me — any one
would. I'm a boy at school. I know that as well as
you do " Something got into Jock's voice so that
he paused, and made a gulp before he could go on.
" But, Bice, don't have that fellow. There are such
lots ; don't have him. I don't think I could stand it,"
Jock cried. " And look here, if it's because the
Contessa wants money, I have some myself. What
do I want with money ? When I am older I shall
work. There it is for you, if you like. But don't —
have that fellow. Have a good fellow, there are plenty
— there are fellows like Sir Tom. He is a good man.
I should not," said Jock, with a sort of sob, which
came in spite of himself, and which he did not remark
even, so strong was the passion in him. " I should
not — mind. I could put up with it then. So would
Derwentwater. But, Bice "
She had risen up, and so had he. They were
neither of them aware of it. Jock had lost conscious-
ness, perception, all thought of anything but her and
this that he was urging upon her. While as for Bice
the tide had gone too high over her head. She felt
giddy in the presence of something so much more
xlix.] THE EXPEKIENCES OF BICE. 511
powerful than any feeling she had ever known, and
yet gazed at him half alarmed, half troubled as she
was, with a perception that could not be anything but
humorous of the boy's voice sounding so bass and deep,
sometimes bursting into childish, womanish treble, and
the boy's aspect which contrasted so strongly with the
passion in which he spoke. When Sir Tom's voice
made itself audible, coming from the boudoir in con-
versation with the Contessa, the effect upon the two
thus standing in a sort of mortal encounter was extra-
ordinary. Bice straining up to the mark which he
was setting before her, bewildered with the flood on
which she was rising, sank into ease again and a
mastery of the situation, while Jock, worn out and
with a sense that all was over, sat down abruptly, and
left, as it were, the stage clear.
" The poor little man is rather bad, I fear," said
Sir Tom, coming through the dim room. There was
something in his voice, an easier tone, a sound of relief.
How had the Contessa succeeded in cheering him ?
" And what is worse (for he will do well I hope) is
the scattering of all her friends from about Lucy. I
am kept out of it, and it does not matter, you see ;
but she, poor little woman," — his voice softened as he
named her with a tone of tenderness — " nobody will go
near her," he said.
The Contessa gave a little shiver, and drew about
her the loose shawl she wore. " What can we say in
such a case ? It is not for us, it is for those around
us. It is a risk for so many "
"My aunt," said Sir Tom, "would be her natural ally;
but I know Lady Eandolph too well to think of that.
And there is Jock, whom we are compelled to send away,
We shall be like two crows all alone in the house."
512 SIR TOM. [chap.
" Is it this you told me of, fever ?" cried Bice,
turning to Jock. " But it is I that will go — oh, this
moment ! It is no tr-rouble. I can sit up. I never
am sleepy. I am so strong nothing hurts me. I will
go directly, now."
"You!" they all cried, but the Contessa's tones
were most high. She made a protest full of indignant
virtue.
" Do you think," she said, " if I had but myself to
think of that I would not fly to her ? But, child in
your position ! fiancSe only to-day — with all to do, all to
think of, how could I leave you ? Oh, it is impossible ;
my good Lucy, who is never unreasonable, she will
know it, she will understand. Besides, to what use,
my Bice ? She has nurses for day and night. She
has her dear husband, her good husband, to be with
her. What does a woman want more ? You would
be de trop. You would be out of place. It would be
a trouble to them. It would be a blame to me. And
you would take it, and bring it back and spread it, Bice
— and perhaps Lord Montjoie "
Bice looked round her bewildered from one to
another.
" Should I be de trop ?" she said, turning to Sir Tom
with anxious eyes.
Sir Tom looked at her with an air of singular
emotion. He laid his hand caressingly on her shoulder:
" De trop ? no ; never in my house. But that is not
the question. Lucy will be cheered when she knows
that you wanted to come. But what the Contessa says
is true ; there are plenty of nurses — and my wife —
has me, if I am any good ; and we would not have you
run any risk "
" In her position I" cried the Contessa ; " fiance' e only
xlixJ THE EXPERIENCES OF BICE. 513
to-day. She owes herself already to Lord Montjoie,
who would never consent, never; it is against every
rule. Speak to her, mon ami, speak to her ; she is a
girl who is capable of all. Tell her that now it is
thought criminal, that one does not risk one's self and
others. She might bring it here, if not to herself, to me,
Montjoie, the domestics." The Contessa sank into a
chair and began fanning herself; then got up again
and went towards the girl clasping her hands. " My
sweetest," she cried, " you will not be entetec, and risk
everything. We shall have news, good news, every
morning, three, four times a day.
'• And Milady," said Bice, " who has done every-
thing, will be alone and in tr-rouble. Sir Tom, he
must leave her, he must attend to his affairs. He is a
man ; he must take the air ; he must go out in the
world. And she — she will be alone : when we have
lived with her, when she has been more good, more
good than any one could deserve. Bisk ! The doctor
does not take it, who is everywhere, who will, perhaps,
come to you next, Madama ; and the nurses do not
take it. It is a shame," cried the girl, throwing up
her fine head, " if Love is not as good as the servants,
if to have gratitude in your heart is nothing ! And
the risk, what is it ? An illness, a fever. I have had
a fever "
" Bice, you might bring — what is dreadful to think
of," cried the Contessa, with a shiver. a You might die."
•'• Die ! " the girl cried, in a voice like a silver
trumpet with a keen sweetness of scorn and tenderness
combined. " Apr&s V she said, throwing back her
head. She was not capable of those questions which
Mr. Derwentwater and his pupil had set before her.
But here she was upon different ground.
2 L
514 SIR TOM. [chap.
" Oh, she is capable of all ! she is a girl that is
capable of all," cried the Contessa, sinking once more
into a chair.
CHAPTEE L.
THE EVE OF SORROW.
Sir Tom stepped out into the night some time after,
holding Jock by the arm. The boy had a sort of
thrill and tremble in him as if he had been reading
poetry or witnessing some great tragic scene, which the
elder man partially understood without being at all
aware that Jock had himself been an actor in this
drama. He himself had been dismissed out of it, so
to speak. His mind was relieved, and yet he was not
so satisfied as he expected to be. It had been proved
to him that he had no responsibility for Bice, and his
anxiety relieved on that subject ; relieved, oh yes : and
yet was he a little disappointed too. It would have
been endless embarrassment, and Lucy would not have
liked it. Still he had been accustoming himself to
the idea, and, now that it was broken clean off, he was
not so much pleased as he had expected. Poor little
Bice ! her little burst of generous gratitude and affec-
tion had gone to his heart. If that little thing who
(it appeared) had died in Florence so many years ago
had survived and grown a woman, as an hour ago he
had believed her to have done, that is how he should
have liked her to feel and to express herself. Such
a sense of approval and admiration was in him that he
felt the disappointment the more. Yes, he supposed
it was a disappointment. He had begun to get used
L.] THE EVE OF SORROW. 515
to the idea, and he had always liked the girl ; but of
course it was a relief — the greatest relief — to have no
explanation to make to Lucy, instead of the painful one
which perhaps she would only partially believe. He
had felt that it would be most difficult to make her
understand that, though this was so, he had not been
in any plot, and had not known of it any more than
she did when Bice was brought to his house. This
would have been the difficult point in the matter, and
now, heaven be praised ! all that was over, and there
was no mystery, nothing to explain. But so strange
is human sentiment that the world felt quite im-
poverished to Sir Tom, though he was much relieved.
Life became for the moment a more commonplace
affair altogether. He was free from the annoyance.
It mattered nothing to him now who she married — the
best parti in society, or Jock's tutor, or anybody the
girl pleased. If it had not been for that exhibition of
feeling Sir Tom would probably have said to himself,
satirically, that there could be little doubt which the
Contessa's ward and pupil would choose. But after
that little scene he came out very much shaken,
touched to the heart, thinking that perhaps life would
have been .more full and sweet had his apprehensions
been true. She had been overcome by the united
pressure of himself and the Contessa, and for the
moment subdued, though the fire in her eye and swell-
ing of her young bosom seemed to say that the victory
was very incomplete. He would have liked the little
one that died to have looked like that, and felt like
that, had she lived to grow a woman like Bice. Great
heaven, the little one that died ! The words as they
went through his mind sent a chill to Sir Tom's breast.
Might it be that they would be said again- — once
516 SIR TOM. [chap.
more — and that far-back sin bring thus a punishment
all the more bitter for being so long delayed. Human
nature will never get to believe that God is not
lying in wait somewhere to exact payment of every
account.
" She understands that," said Jock suddenly. " She
don't know the meaning of other things."
" What may be the other things ? " said Sir Tom,
feeling a half jealousy of anything that could be said
to Bice's disadvantage. " I don't think she is wanting
in understanding. Ah, I see. You don't know how
any one could resist the influence of MTutor, Jock."
Through the darkness under the feeble lamp Jock
shot a glance at his elder of that immeasurable con-
tempt which youth feels for the absence of all pene-
tration shown by its seniors, and their limited powers
of observation. But he said nothing. Perhaps he
could not trust himself to speak.
" Don't think I'm a scoffer, my boy," said Sir Tom.
" MTutor's a very decent fellow. Let us go and look
him up. He would be better, to my thinking, if he
were not quite so fine, you know. But that's a trifle,
and I'm an old fogey. You are not going back to Park
Lane to-night."
" After what you heard her say ? Do you think
I've got no heart either ? If I could have it instead
of him ! "
" But you can't, my boy," Sir Tom said with a pres-
sure of Jock's arm. " And you must not make Lucy
more wretched by hanging about. There's the mystery,"
he broke out suddenly. " You can't — none of us can.
What might be nothing to you or me may be death to
that little thing, but it is he that has to go through with
it ; life is a horrible sort of pleasure, Jock."
L.] THE EVE OF SORROW. 517
" Is it a pleasure ? " the boy said under his breath.
Life in him at that moment was one big heavy throb-
bing through all his being, Ml of mysterious powers
unknown, of which Death was the least — yet, coming
as he did a great shadow upon the feeblest, a terrible
and awe-striking power beyond the strength of man to
understand.
After this night, so full of emotion, there came cer-
tain days which passed without sign or mark in the dim
great house looking out upon all the lively sights and
sounds of the great park. The sun rose and reddened
the windows, the noon blazed, the gray twilight touched
everything into colour. In the chamber which was
the centre of all interest no one knew or cared how
the hours went, and whether it was morning or noon or
night. Instead of these common ways of reckoning,
they counted by the hours when the doctor came,
when the child must have his medicine, when it was
time to refresh the little cot with cool clean linen, or
sponge the little hot hands. The other attendants took
their turns and rested, but Lucy was capable of no rest.
She dozed sometimes with her eyes half opened, hear-
ing every movement and little cry. Perhaps as the
time went on and the watch continued her faculties
were a little blunted by this, so that she was scarcely
full awake at any time, since she never slept. She
moved mechanically about, and was conscious of nothing
but a dazed and confused misery, without anticipation
or recollection. Something there was in her mind
besides, which perhaps made it worse ; she could not
tell. Could anything make it worse ? The heart, like
any other vessel, can hold but what it is capable of,
and no more.
It is not easy to estimate what is the greatest sor-
518 SIR TOM. [chap.
row of human life. It is that which has us in its grip,
whatever it may be. Bereavement is terrible until
there comes to you a pang more bitter from living than
from dying : and one grief is supreme until another tops
it, and the sea comes on and on in mountain waves.
But perhaps of all the endurances of nature there is
none which the general consent would agree upon as
the greatest, like that of a mother watching death ap-
proach, with noiseless, awful step, to the bed of her
only child. If humanity can approach more near the
infinite in capacity of suffering, it is hard to know how.
We must all bow down before this extremity of anguish,
humbly begging the pardon of that sufferer, that in our
lesser griefs, we dare to bemoan ourselves in her pre-
sence. And whether it is the dear companion — man
or woman grown — or the infant out of her clasping
arms, would seem to matter very little. According as
it happens, so is the blow the most terrible. To Lucy,
enveloped by that woe, there could have been no change
that would not have lightened something (or so she felt)
of her intolerable burden. Could he have breathed his
fever and pain into words, could he have told what
ailed him, could he have said to her only one little
phrase of love, to be laid up in her heart ! But the
pitiful looks of those baby eyes, now bright with fever,
now dull as dead violets, the little inarticulate murmur-
ings, the appeals that could not be comprehended, added
such a misery as was almost too much for flesh and
blood to bear. This terrible ordeal was what Lucy had
to go through. The child, though he had, as the maids
said, no constitution, and though he had been enfeebled
by illness for half his little lifetime, fought on hour
after hour and day after day. Sometimes there was a
look in his little face as of a conscious intelligence
l.] THE EVE OF SORROW. 519
fighting a brave battle for life. His young mother
beside him rose and fell with his breath, lived only in
him, knew nothing but the vicissitudes of the sick room,
taking her momentary broken rest when he slept, only
to start up when, with a louder breath, a little cry, the
struggle was resumed. The nurses could not, it would
be unreasonable to expect it, be as entirely absorbed in
their charge as was his mother. They got to talk at
last, not minding her presence, quite freely in half
whispers about other " cases," of patients and circum-
stances thev had known. Stories of children who had
died, and of some who had been miraculously raised
from the brink of the grave, and of families swept away
and houses desolated, seemed to get into the air of the
room and float about Lucy, catching her confused ear,
which was always on the watch for other sounds. Three
or four times a day Sir Tom came to the door for news,
but was not admitted, as the doctor's orders were
stringent. There was no one admitted except the doc-
tor ; no cheer or comfort from without came into the
sick room. Sir Tom did his best to speak a cheerful
word, and would fain have persuaded Lucy to come out
into the corridor, or to breathe the fresh air from a
balcony. But Lucy, had she been capable of leaving
the child, had a dim recollection in her mind that there
was something, she could not tell what, interposing
between her and her husband, and turned away from
him with a sinking at her heart. She remembered
vaguely that he had something else — some other pos-
sessions to comfort him — not this child alone as
she had. He had something that he could perhaps
love as well — but she had nothing ; and she turned
away from him with an instinctive sense of the
difference, feeling it to be a wrong to her boy. But
520 SIR TOM. [chap.
for this tliey might have comforted each other, and
consulted each other over the fever and its symptoms.
And she might have stolen a few moments from her
child's bed and thrown herself on her husband's bosom
and been consoled. But after all what did it matter ?
Could anything have made it more easy to bear ? When
sorrow and pain occupy the whole being, what room is
there for consolation, what importance in the lessening
by an infinitesimal shred of sorrow !
This had gone on for — Lucy could not tell how
many days (though not in reality for very many), when
there came one afternoon in which everything seemed
to draw towards the close. It is the time when the
heart fails most easily and the tide of being runs most
low. The light was beginning to wane in those dim
rooms, though a great golden sunset was being enacted
in purple and flame on the other side of the house.
The child's eyes were dull and glazed ; they seemed to
turn inward with that awful blank which is like the
soul's withdrawal ; its little powers seemed all ex-
hausted. The little moan, the struggle, had fallen into
quiet. The little lips were parched and dry. Those
pathetic looks that seemed to plead for help and under-
standing came no more. The baby was too much worn
out for such painful indications of life. The women
had drawn aside, all their talk hushed, only a faint
whisper now and then of directions from the most ex-
perienced of the two to the subordinates aiding the
solemn watch. Lucy sat by the side of the little bed
on the floor, sometimes raising herself on her knees to
see better. She had fallen into the chill and apathy
of despair.
At this time a door opened, not loudly or with any
breach of the decorum of such a crisis, but with a dis-
l.] THE EVE OF SORROW. 521
tinct soft sound, which denoted some one not bound by
the habits of a sick room. A step equally distinct,
though soft, not the noiseless step of a watcher, came
in through the outer room and to the bed. The women,
who were standing a little apart, gave a low, involuntary
cry. It looked like health and youthful vigour em-
bodied which came sweeping into the dim room to the
bedside of the dying child. It was Bice, who had asked
no leave, who fell on her knees beside Lucy and stooped
down her beautiful head, and kissed the hand which
lay on the baby's coverlet. " Oh, pardon me," she said,
" I could not keep away any longer. They kept me by
force, or I would have come long, long since. I have
come to stay, that you may have some rest, for I can
nurse him — oh, with all my heart ! "
She had said all this hurriedly in a breath before
she looked at the child. Now she turned her head to
the little bed. Her countenance underwent a sudden
change. The colour forsook her cheeks, her lips dropped
apart. She turned round to the nurse with a low cry,
with a terrified question in her eyes.
" You see," said Lucy, speaking with a gasp as if in
answer to some previous argument, " she thinks so,
too — " Then there was a terrible pause. There
seemed to come another " change," as the women said,
over the little face, out of which life ebbed at every
breath. Lucy started to her feet ; she seized Bice's
arm and raised her, which would have been impossible
in a less terrible crisis. " Go," she said ; " Go, Bice, tc
your father, and tell him to come, for my boy is dying
Go— go ! "
522 SIR TOM. [chap.
CHAPTEE LI.
THE LAST CRISIS.
" Go to your father." Bice did not know what Lucy
meant. The words bewildered her beyond description,
but she did not hesitate what to do. She went down-
stairs to Sir Tom, who sat with his door opened and
his heart sinking in his bosom waiting to hear. There
was no need for any words. He followed her at once,
almost as softly and as noiselessly as she had come.
And when they entered the dim room, where by this
time there was scarcely light enough for unaccustomed
eyes to see, he went up to Lucy and put his arms round
her as she stood leaning on the little bed. " My love,"
he said, " my love ; we must be all in all to each other
now." His voice was choked and broken, but it did
not reach Lucy's heart. She put him away from her
with an almost imperceptible movement. " You have
others," she said hoarsely ; " I have nothing, nothing but
him." Just then the child stirred faintly in his bed, and
first extending her arms to put them all away from her,
Lucy bent over him and lifted him to her bosom. The
nurse made a step forward to interfere, but then stepped
back again wringing her hands. The mother had risen
into a sort of sublimity, irresponsible in her great woe
— if she had killed him to forestall her agony a little,
as is the instinct of desperation, they could not have
interfered. She sat down, and gathered the child close,
close in her embrace, his head upon her breast, hold-
ing him as if to communicate life to him with the con-
tact of hers. Her breath, her arms, her whole being
li.] THE LAST CKISIS. 523
enveloped the little dying creature with a fulness of
passionate existence expanded to its highest. It was
like taking back the half- extinguished germ into the
very bosom and core of life. They stood round her
with an awe of her, which would permit no intrusion
either of word or act. Even the experienced nurse who
believed that the little spark of life would be shaken
out by this movement, only wrung her hands and said
nothing. The rest were but as spectators, gathering
round to see the tragedy accomplished and the woman's
heart shattered before their eyes.
Which was unjust too — for the husband who stood
behind was as great a sufferer. He was struck in
everything a man can feel most, the instincts of paternal
love awakened late, the pride a man has in his heir, all
were crushed in him by a blow that seemed to wring
his very heart out of his breast ; but neither did any
one think of him, nor did he think of himself. The
mother that bare him ! — that mysterious tie that goes
beyond and before all, was acknowledged by them all
without a word. It was hers to do as she pleased.
The moments are long at such a time. They seemed
to stand still on that strange scene. The light remained
the same ; the darkness seemed arrested, perhaps be-
cause it had come on too early on account of clouds
overhead ; perhaps because time was standing still to
witness the easy parting of a soul not yet accustomed to
this earth ; the far more terrible rending of the woman's
heart.
Presently a sensation of great calm fell, no one could
tell how, into the room. The terror seemed to leave
the hearts of the watchers. Was it the angel who had
arrived and shed a soothing from his very presence
though he had come to accomplish the end ?
524 SIR TOM. [chap.
Another little change, almost imperceptible, Lucy
beginning to rock her child softly, as if lulling him to
sleep. No one moved, or even breathed, it seemed, for
how long ? some minutes, half a lifetime. Then another
sound. Oh, God in heaven ! had she gone distracted,
the innocent creature, the young mother, in her anguish ?
She began to sing — a few low notes, a little lullaby, in
a voice ineffable, indescribable, not like any mortal voice.
One of the women burst out into a wail — it was the
child's nurse — and tried to take him from the mother's
arms. The other took her by the shoulders and turned
her away. " What does it matter, a few minutes more
or less ; she'll come to herself soon enough, poor dear,"
said the attendant with a sob. Thus the group was
diminished. Sir Tom stood with one hand on his wife's
chair, his face covered with the other, and in his heart
the bitterness of death ; Bice had dropped down on her
knees by the side of that pathetic group ; and in the
midst sat the mother bent over, almost enfolding the
child, cradling him in her own life. Bice was herself
not much more than a child ; to her all things were
possible — miracles, restorations from the dead. Her
eyes were full of tears, but there was a smile upon her
quivering mouth. It was at her Lucy looked, with
eyes full of something like that " awful rose of dawn "
of which the poet speaks. They were dilated to twice
their natural size. She made a slight movement, open-
ing to Bice the little face upon her bosom, bidding her
look as at a breathless secret to be kept from all else.
Was it a reflection or a faint glow of warmth upon the
little worn cheek ? The eyes were no longer open,
showing the white, but closed, with the eyelashes shadow-
ing against the cheek. There came into Lucy's eyes a
sort of warning look to keep the secret, and the won-
Li.] THE LAST CRISIS. 525
clerful spectacle was, as it were, closed again, hidden
with her arms and bending head. And the soft coo of
the lullaby went on.
Presently the women stole back, awed and silenced,
but full of a reviving thrill of curiosity. The elder one,
who was from the hospital and prepared for everything,
drew nearer, and regarded with a scientific, but not
unsympathetic eye, the mother and the child. She
withdrew a little the shawl in which the infant was
wrapped, and put her too-experienced, instructed hands
upon his little limbs, without taking any notice of Lucy,
who remained passive through this examination. " He's
beautiful and warm," said the woman, in a wondering
tone. Then Bice rose to her feet with a quick sudden
movement, and went to Sir Tom and drew his hand
from his face. " He is .not dying, he is sleeping," she
said. " And I think, miss, you're right. He has taken
a turn for the better," said the experienced woman from
the hospital. " Don't move, my lady, don't move ; we'll
prop you with cushions — we'll pull him through still,
please God," the nurse said, with a few genuine tears.
When the doctor came some time after, instead of
watching the child's last moments, he had only to con-
firm their certainty of this favourable change, and give
his sanction to it ; and the cloud that had seemed to
hang over it all day lifted from the house. The servants
began to move about again and bustle. The lamps
were lighted. The household resumed their occupations,
and Williams himself in token of sympathy carried up
Mr. Randolph's beef- tea. When Lucy, after a long
interval, was liberated from her confined attitude and
the child restored to his bed, the improvement was so
evident that she allowed herself to be persuaded to lie
down and rest. " Milady," said Bice, " I am not good
526 SIR TOM. [chap.
for anything, but I love him. I will not interfere, but
neither will I ever take away my eyes from him till
you are again here." There was no use in this, but it
was something to the young mother. She lay down
and slept, for the first time since the illness began ;
slept not in broken, painful dozings, but a real sleep.
She was not in a condition to think ; but there was a
vague feeling in her mind that here was some one, not
as others were, to whom little Tom wTas something
more than to the rest. Consciously she ought to have
shrunk from Bice's presence ; unconsciously it soothed
her and warmed her heart.
Sir Tom went back to his room, shaken as with a
long illness, but feeling that the world had begun again,
and life was once more liveable. He sat down and
thought over every incident, and thanked God with
such tears as men too, like women, are often fain to
indulge in, though they do it chiefly in private. Then,
as the effect of this great crisis began to go off a little,
and the common round to come back, there recurred to
his mind Lucy's strange speech, " You have others "
What others was he supposed to have ? She had drawn
herself away from him. She had made no appeal to
his sympathy. . " You have — others. I have nothing
but him." What did Lucy mean ? And then he re-
membered how little intercourse there had been of late
between them, how she had kept aloof from him. They
might have been separated and living in different
houses for all the union there had been between them.
" You have others " What did Lucy mean ?
He got up, moved by the uneasiness of this ques-
tion, and began to pace about the floor. He had no
others ; never had a man been more devoted to his own
house. She had not been exacting, nor he uxorious.
ll] THE LAST CRISIS. 527
He had lived a man's life in the world, and had not
neglected his duties for his wife ; but he reminded him-
self, with a sort of indignant satisfaction, that he had
found Lucy far more interesting than he expected, and
that her fresh curiosity, her interest in everything, and
the just enough of receptive intelligence, which is more
agreeable than cleverness, had made her the most
pleasant companion he had ever known. It was not
an exercise of self-denial, of virtue on his part, as the
Dowager and indeed many other of his friends had
attempted to make out, but a real pleasure in her
society. He had liked to talk to her, to tell her his
own past history (selections from it), to like, yet laugh
at her simple comments. He never despised anything
she said, though he had laughed at some of it with a genial
and placid amusement. And that little beggar ! about
whom Sir Tom could not even think to-day without a
rush of water to his eyes — could any man have con-
sidered the little fellow more, or been more proud of
him or fond ? He could not live in the nursery, it was
true, like Lucy, but short of that — " Others." What
could she mean ? There were no others. He was
content to live and die, if but they might be spared to
him, with her and the boy. A sort of chill doubt that
somebody might have breathed into her ear that sug-
gestion about Bice's parentage did indeed cross his
mind ; but ever since he had ascertained that this fear
was a delusion, it had seemed to him the most ridicu-
lous idea in the world. It had not seemed so before ;
it had appeared probable enough, nay, with many co-
incidences in its favour. And he had even been con^
scious of something like disappointment to find that it
was not true. But now it seemed to him too absurd
for credence ; and what creature in the world, except
528 SIR TOM. [chap.
himself, could have known the circumstances that made
it possible ? No one but Williams, and Williams was
true.
It was not till next morning that the ordinary habits
of the household could be said to be in any measure
resumed. On that day Bice came down to breakfast
with Sir Tom with a smiling brightness which cheered
his solitary heart. She had gone back out of all her
finery to trie simple black frock, which she told him
had been the easiest thing to carry. This was in
answer to his question, " How had she come ? Had
the Contessa sent her ? " Bice clapped her hands with
pleasure, and recounted how she had run away.
" The news were always bad, more bad ; and Milady
all alone. At length the time came when I could
bear it no longer. I love him, my little Tom ; and
Milady has always been kind, so kind, more kind than
any one. Nobody has been kind to me like her, and
also you, Sir Tom ; and baby that was my darling,"
the girl said.
"God bless you, my dear," said Sir Tom ; "but,"
he added, " you should not have done it. You should
have remembered the infection."
Bice made a little face of merry disdain and laughed
aloud. " Do I care for infection ? Love is more
strong than a fever. And then," she added, " I had a
purpose too."
Sir Tom was delighted with her girlish confidences
about her frock and her purpose. " Something very
grave, I should imagine, from those looks."
• " Oh, it is very grave," said Bice, her countenance
changing. " You know I am fiancee. There has
been a good deal said to me of Lord Montjoie ; some-
times that he was not wise, what you call silly, not
ll] THE LAST CRISIS. 529
clever, not good to have to do with. That he is not
clever one can see ; but what then ? The clever they
do not always please. Others say that he is a great
parti, and all that is desirable. Myself/' she added
with an air of judicial impartiality, " I like him well
enough ; even when he does not please me, he amuses.
The clever they are not always amusing. I am williug
to marry him since it is wished, otherwise I do not
care much. For there is, you know, plenty of time,
and to marry so soon — it is a disappointment, it is no
longer exciting. So it is not easy to know distinctly
what to do. That is what you call a dilemma," Bice said.
" It is a serious dilemma," said Sir Tom, much
amused and flattered too. " You want me then to
give you my advice "
"No," said Bice, which made his countenance sud-
denly blank, " not advice. I have thought of a way.
All say that it is almost wicked, at least very wrong-
to come here (in the Tauchnitz it would be miserable
to be afraid, and so I think), and that the fever is
more than everything. Now for me it is not so. If
Lord Montjoie is of my opinion, and if he thinks I am
right to come, then I shall know that, though he is not
clever— Yes ; that is my purpose. Do you think
I shall be right ? "
" I see," said Sir Tom, though he looked somewhat
crestfallen. " You have come not so much for us,
though you are kindly disposed towards us, but to put
your future husband to the test. There is only this
drawback, that he might be an excellent fellow and
yet object to the step you have taken. Also that these
sort of tests are very risky, and that it is scarcely
worth while for this, to run the risk of a bad illness,
perhaps of your life."
2m
530 SIR TOM. [chap.
" That is unjust/' said Bice with tears in her eyes.
" I should have come to Milady had there been no
Montjoie at all. It is first and above all for her
sake. I will have a fever for her, oh willingly ! "
cried the girl. Then she added after a little pause :
" Why did she bid me ' go to your father and
tell him ? ' What does that mean, go to my
father ? I have never had any father."
"Did she say that?" Sir Tom cried. "When?
and why ? "
" It was when all seemed without hope. She was
kneeling by the bed, and he, my little boy, my little
darling ! Ah," cried Bice, with a shiver. " To think
it should have been so near ! when God put that into
her mind to save him. She said ' Go to your father,
and tell him my boy is dying.' What did she mean ?
I came to you ; but you are not my father."
He had risen up in great agitation and was walk-
ing about the room. When she said these words he
came up to her and laid his hand for a moment on her
head. " No," he said, with a sense of loss which was
painful ; " No, the more's the pity, Bice. God bless
you, my clear."
His voice was tremulous, his hand shook a little.
The girl took it in her pretty way and kissed it.
" You have been as good to me as if it were so. But
tell me what Milady means ? for at that moment she
would say nothing but what was at the bottom of her
heart."
" I cannot tell you, Bice," said Sir Tom, almost
with tears. " If I have made her unhappy, my Lucy,
who is better than any of us, what do I deserve ? what
should be done to me ? And she has been unhappy,
she has lost her faith in me. I see it all now."
li.] THE LAST CRISIS. 531
Bice sat and looked at hini with her eyes full of
thought. She was not a novice in life though she
was so young. She had heard many a tale not
adapted for youthful ears. That a child might have a
father whose name she did not bear and who had
never been disclosed to her was not incomprehensible,
as it would have been to an English girl. She looked
him severely in the face, like a young Daniel come to
judgment. Had she been indeed his child to what
a terrible ordeal would Sir Tom have been exposed
under the light of those steady eyes. " Is it true that
you have made her unhappy ? " she said, as if she had
the power of death in her hands.
" ~No ! " he said, with a sudden outburst of feeling.
" No ! there are things in my life that I would not
have raked up ; but since I have known her, nothing ;
there is no offence to her in any record of my
life "
Bice looked at him still unfaltering. " You forget
us — the Contessa and me. You brought us, though
she did not know. We are not like her, but you
brought us to her house. Nevertheless," said the
young judge gravely, " that might be unthoughtful,
but not a wrong to her. Is it perhaps a mistake ?"
" A mistake or a slander, or — some evil tongue,"
he cried.
Bice rose up from the chair which had been her
bench of justice, and walked to the door with a stately
step, befitting her office, full of thought. Then she
paused again for a moment and looked back and
waved her hand. " I think it is a pity," she said with
great gravity. She recognised the visionary fitness as
he had done. They would have suited each other,
when it was thus suggested to them, for father and
532 SIR TOM. [chap.
daughter; and that it was not so, by some spite of
fate, was a pity. She found Lucy dressed and re-
freshed sitting by the bed of the child, who had
already begun to smile faintly. " Milady," said Bice,
" will you go downstairs ? There is a long time that
you have not spoken to Sir Tom. Is he afraid of
your fever ? No more than me ! But his heart is
breaking for you. Go to him, Milady, and I will stay
with the boy."
It was not for some time that Lucy could be per-
suaded to go. He had — others. What was she to
him but a portion of his life ? and the child was all of
hers : a small portion of his life only a few years,
while the others had a far older and stronger claim.
There was no anger in her mind, all hushed in the
exhaustion of great suffering past, but a great reluct-
ance to enter upon the question once more. Lucy
wished only to be left in quiet. She went slowly,
reluctantly, downstairs. Unhappy ? No. He had
not made her unhappy. Nothing could make her un-
happy now that her child was saved. It seemed to
Lucy that it was she who had been ill and was getting
better, and she longed to be left alone. Sir Tom was
standing against the window with Ins head upon his
hand. He did not hear her light step till she was
close to him. Then he turned round, but not with the
eagerness for her which Bice had represented. He
took her hand gently and drew it within his arm.
" All is going well ? " he said, " and you have had
a little rest, my dear ? Bice has told me "
She withdrew a little the hand which lay on his
arm. " He is much better," she said ; " more than one
would have thought possible."
" Thank God ! " Sir Tom cried ; and they were
Li.] THE LAST CRISIS. 533
silent for a moment, united in thanksgiving, yet so
divided, with a sickening gulf between them. Lucy
felt her heart begin to stir and ache that had been so
quiet. " And you," he said, " have had a little rest ?
Thank God for that too. Anything that had happened
to him would have been bad enough; but to you,
Lucy "
" Oh, hush, hush," she cried, " that is over ; let us
not speak of anything happening to him."
" But all is not over," he said. " Something has
happened — to us. What did you mean when you
spoke to me of others ? ' You have others.' I scarcely
noticed it at that dreadful moment; but now
Who are those others, Lucy ? Whom have I but him
and you ? "
She did not say anything, but withdrew her hand
altogether from his arm, and looked at him. A look
scarcely reproachful, wistful, sorrowful, saying, but not
iu words, in its steady gaze — You know.
He answered as if it had been speech.
" But I don't know. What is it, Lucy ? Bice too
has something she asked me to explain, and I cannot
explain it. You said to her, 'Go to your father.'
What is this ? You must tell what you mean."
" Bice ? " she said, faltering ; " it was at a moment
when I did not think what I was saying."
" No, when you spoke out that perilous stuff you
have got in your heart. Oh, my Lucy, what is it, and
who has put it there ? "
" Tom," she said, trembling very much. " It is not
Bice; she — that — is long ago — if her mother had
been dead. But a man cannot have two lives. There
cannot be two in the same place. It is not jealousy.
I am not finding fault. It has been perhaps without
534 SIR TOM. [chap.
intention; but it is not befitting — oh, not befitting.
It cannot — oh, it is impossible ! it must not be."
" What must not be ? Of what in the name of
heaven are you speaking ? " he cried.
Once more she fixed on him that look, more re-
proachful this time, full of meaning and grieved sur-
prise. She drew away a little from his side. " I did
not want to speak," she said. " I was so thankful ; I
want to say nothing. You thought you had left that
other life behind; perhaps you forgot altogether.
They say that people do. And now it is here at your
side, and on the other side my little boy and me.
Ah ! no, no, it is not befitting, it cannot be "
" I understand dimly," he said ; " they have told
you Bice was my child. I wish it were so. I had a
child, Lucy, it is true, who is dead in Florence long
ago. The mother is dead too, long ago. It is so long
past that, if you can believe it, I had — forgotten."
" Dead !" she said. And there came into her mild
eyes a scared and frightened look. " And — the Con-
tessa ? "
" The Contessa ! " he cried.
They were standing apart gazing at each other
with something more like the heat of a passionate
debate than had ever arisen between them, or indeed
seemed possible to Lucy's tranquil nature, when the
door was suddenly opened and the voice of Williams
saying, " Sir Thomas is here, my lady," reduced them
both in an instant to silence. Then there was a
bustle and a movement, and of all wonderful sights to
meet their eyes, the Contessa herself came with hesita-
tion into the room. She had her handkerchief pressed
against the lower part of her face, from above which
her eyes looked out watchfully. She gave a little
LI.] THE LAST CRISIS. 535
shriek at the sight of Lucy. " I thought," she said,
" Sir Tom was alone. Lucy, my angel, my sweetest,
do not come near me ! " She recoiled to the door
which Williams had just closed. " I will say what I
have to say here. Dearest people, I love you, but
you are charged with pestilence. My Lucy, how glad
I am for your little boy — but every moment they tell
me increases the danger. "Where is Bice ? Bice ! I
have come to bring her away."
"Contessa," said Sir Tom, "you have come at a
fortunate moment. Tell Lady Randolph who Bice is.
I think she has a right to know."
" Who Bice is ? But what has that to do with it ?
She is fiancde, she belongs to more than herself. And
there is the drawing-room in a week — imagine, only in
a week ! — and how can she go into the presence of the
Queen full of infection ? I acknowledge, I acknowledge,"
cried the Contessa, through her handkerchief, "you
have been very kind — oh, more than kind. But why
then now will you spoil all ? It might make a re-
volution— it might convey to Majesty herself
Ah ! it might spoil all the child's prospects. Who is
she ? Why should you reproach me with my little
mystery now ? She is all that is most natural; Guido's
child, whom you remember well enough, Sir Tom, who
married my poor little sister, my little girl who
followed me, who would do as I did. You know all
this, for I have told you. They are all dead, all dead
— how can you make me talk of them? And Bice
perhaps with the fever in her veins, ready to com-
municate it — to Majesty herself, to me, to every one ! "
The Contessa sank down on a chair by the door.
She drew forth her fan, which hung by her side, and
fanned away from her this air of pestilence. " The
536 SIR TOM. [chap.
child must come back at once,'' she said, with little
cries and sobs — an acchs de nerfs, if these simple people
had known — through her handkerchief. " Let her
come at once, and we may conceal it still. She shall
have baths. She shall be fumigated. I will not see
her or let her be seen. She shall have a succession of
headaches. This is what I have said to Montjoie.
Imagine me out in the air, that is so bad for the com-
plexion, at this hour ! But I think of nothing in
comparison with the interests of Bice. Send for her.
Lucy, sweet one, you would not spoil her prospects.
Send for her — before it is known." Then she laughed
with a hysterical vehemence. " I see ; some one has
been telling her it was the poor little child whom you
left with me, whom I watched over — yes, I was good
to the little one. I am not a hard-hearted woman.
Lucy : it was I who put this thought into your mind.
I said — of English parentage. I meant you to believe
so — that you might give something, when you were
giving so much, to my poor Bice. What was wrong ?
I said you would be glad one day that you had
helped her : — yes — and I allowed also my enemy the
Dowager, to believe it."
" To believe that" Lucy stood out alone in the
middle of the room, notwithstanding the shrinking
back to the wall of the visitor, whose alarm was far
more visible than any other emotion. " To believe
that — that she was your child, and "
Something stopped Lucy's mouth. She drew back,
her pale face dyed with crimson, her whole form
quivering with remorse and pain as of one who lias
given a cowardly and cruel blow.
The Contessa rose. She stood up against the wall.
It did not seem to occur to her what kind of terrible
IX.] THE LAST CRISIS. 537
accusation this was, but only that it was something
strange, incomprehensible. She withdrew for a moment
the handkerchief from her mouth. " My child ? But
I have never had a child ! " she said.
" Lucy," cried Sir Tom in a terrible voice.
And then Lucy stood aghast between them, look-
ing from one to another. The scales seemed to fall
from her eyes. The perfectly innocent when they fall
under the power of suspicion go farthest in that bitter
way. They take no limit of possibility into their
doubts and fears. They do not think of character or
nature. Now, in a moment the scales fell from Lucy's
eyes. Was her husband a man to treat her with such
unimaginable insult ? Was the Contessa, with all her
triumphant designs, her mendacities, her mendicities,
her thirst for pleasure, such a woman ? Whoever said
it, could this be true ?
The Contessa perceived with a start that her hand
had dropped from her mouth. She put back the
handkerchief again with tremulous eagerness. " If I
take it, all will go wrong — all will fall to pieces," she
said pathetically. " Lucy, dear one, do not come near
me, but send me Bice, if you love me," the Contessa
cried. She smiled with her eyes, though her mouth
was covered. She had not so much as understood,
she, so experienced, so acquainted with the wicked
world, so connccissease in evil tales — she had not even
so much as divined what innocent Lucy meant to say.
538 SIR TOM. [chap.
CHAPTEE LII
THE END.
Bice was taken away in the cab, there being no
reason why she should remain in a house where Lucy
was no longer lonely or heartbroken — but not by her
patroness, who was doubly her aunt, but did not love
that old-fashioned title, and did love a mystery. The
Contessa would not trust herself in the same vehicle
with the girl who had come out of little Tom's nursery,
and was no doubt charged with pestilence. She walked,
marvel of marvels, with a thick veil over her face, and
Sir Tom, in amused attendance, looking with some
curiosity through the gauze at this wonder of a spring
morning which she had not seen for years. Bice, for
her part, was conveyed by the old woman who waited
in the cab, the mother of one of the servants in the
Mayfair house, to her humble home, where the girl
was fumigated and disinfected to the Contessa's desire.
She was presented a week after, the strictest secrecy
being kept about these proceedings ; and mercifully, as
a matter of fact, did not convey infection either to the
Contessa or to the still more distinguished ladies with
whom she came in contact. What a day for Madame
di Forno-Populo ! There was nothing against her.
The Duchess had spent an anxious week, inquiring
everywhere. She had pledged herself in a weak hour ;
but though the men laughed, that was all. Not even
in the clubs was there any story to be got hold of.
The Duchess had a son-in-law who was clever in
gossip. He said there was nothing, and the Lord
lil] THE END. 539
Chamberlain made no objection. The Contessa di
Forno-Populo had not indeed, she said loftily, ever
desired to make her appearance before the Piedmontese ;
but she had the stamp upon her, though partially worn
out, of the old Grand Ducal Court of Tuscany — which
many people think more of — and these two stately
Italian ladies made as great a sensation by their beauty
and their stately air as had been made at any drawing-
room in the present reign. The most august and discrimi-
nating of critics remarked them above all others. And
a Lady, whose knowledge of family history is unrivalled,
like her place in the world, condescended to remember
that the Conte di Forno-Populo had married an English
lady. Their dresses were specially described by Lady
Anastasia in her favourite paper ; and their portraits
were almost recognisable in the Graphic, wmich gave
a special (fancy) picture of the drawing-room in ques-
tion. Triumph could not farther go.
It was not till after this event that Bice revealed
the purpose which was one of her inducements for that
visit to little Tom's sick bed. On the evening of that
great day, just before going out in all her splendour to
the Duchess's reception held on that occasion, she took
her lover aside, whose pride in her magnificence and
all the applause that had been lavished on her knew
no bounds.
" Listen," she said, " I have something to tell you.
Perhaps, when you hear it, all will be over. I have
not allowed you to come near me nor touch me "
" No, by Jove ! It has been stand off, indeed ! I
don't know what you mean by it," cried Montjoie rue-
fully; "that wasn't what I bargained for, don't you
know % "
" I am going to explain," said Bice. " You shall
540 SIR -TOM. [chap.
know, then, that when I had those headaches — you
remember — and you could not see me, I had no head-
aches, mom, ami. I was with Milady Eandolph in
Park Lane, in the middle of the fever, nursing the
boy."
Montjoie gazed at her with round eyes. He re-
coiled a step, then rushing at his betrothed, notwith-
standing her Court plumes and flounces, got Bice in
his arms. " By Jove !" he cried, " and that was why !
You thought I was frightened of the fever ; that is the
best joke I have heard for ages, don't you know ?
What a pluck you've got, Bee ! And what a beauty
you are, my pretty dear! I am going to pay myself
all the arrears."
" Don't," said Bice, plaintively ; the caresses were
not much to her mind, but she endured them to a
certain limit. " I wondered," she said with a faint
sigh, " what you would say."
" It was awfully silly," said Montjoie. " I couldn't
have believed you were so soft, Bee, with your training,
don't you know? And how did you come over her to
let you go ? She was in a dead funk all the time.
It was awfully silly; you might have caught it, or
given it to me, or a hundred things, and lost all your
fun ; but it was awfully plucky," cried Montjoie, " by
Jove ! I knew you were a plucky one;" and he added,
after a moment's reflection, in a softened tone, "a good
little girl too."
It was thus that Bice's fate was sealed.
That afternoon Lucy received a note from Lady
Randolph in the following words : —
" Dearest Lucy — I am more glad than I can tell you to hear
the good news of the dear boy. Probably lie will be stronger
now than he lias ever been, having got over this so well.
LII>] THE END. 541
" I want to tell you not to think any more of what I said
that day. I hope it has not vexed you. I find that my
informant was entirely mistaken, and acted upon a misconception
all the time. I can't tell how sorry I am ever to have mentioned
such a thing ; but it seemed to be on the very best authority.
I do hope it has not made any coolness between Tom and you.
" Don't take the trouble to answer this. There is nothing
that carries infection like letters, and I inquire after the boy
every day. — Your loving M. Randolph."
"It was not her fault," said Lucy, sobbing upon
her husband's shoulder. " I should have known you
better, Tom."
" I think so, my dear," he said quietly, " though I
have been more foolish than a man of my age ought
to be ; but there is no harm in the Contessa, Lucy."
"No," Lucy said, yet with a grave face. "But
Bice will be made a sacrifice: Bice, and " she added
with a guilty look, " I shall have thrown away that
money, for it has not saved her."
"Here is a great deal of money," said Sir Tom,
drawing a letter from his pocket, " which seems also
in a fair way of being thrown away."
He took out the list which Lucy had given to her
trustee, which Mr. Chervil had returned to her husband,
and held it out before her. It was a very curious
document, an experiment in the way of making poor
people rich. The names were of people of whom Lucy
knew very little personally ; and yet it had not been
done without thought. There was nobody there to
whom such a gift might not mean deliverance from
many cares. In the abstract it was not throwing any-
thing away. Perhaps, had there been some public
commission to reward with good incomes the struggling
and honourable, these might not have been the chosen
names; but yet it was all legitimate, honest, in the
542 SIR TOM. [chap.
light of Lucy's exceptional position. The husband
and wife stood and looked at it together in this moment
of their reunion, when both had escaped from the dead-
liest perils that could threaten life — the loss of their
child, the loss of their union. It was hard to tell
which would have been the most mortal blow.
"He says I must prevent you; that you cannot
have thought what you were doing ; that it is madness,
Lucy."
" I think I was nearly mad," said Lucy simply.
" I thought to get rid of it whatever might happen to
me — that was best."
" Let us look at it now in our full senses," said
Sir Tom.
Lucy grasped his arm with both her hands. " Tom,"
she said in a hurried tone, " this is the only thing in
which I ever set myself against you. It was the
beginning of all our trouble ; and I might have to do
that again. What does it matter if perhaps we might
do it more wisely now ? All these people are poor,
and there is the money to make them well off; that
is what my father meant. He meant it to be scattered
again, like seed given back to the reaper. He used to
say so. Shall not we let it go as it is, and be done
with it and avoid trouble any more?''
He stood holding her in his arms, looking over the
paper. It was a great deal of money. To sacrifice a
great deal of money does not affect a young woman
who has never known any need of it in her life, but
a man in middle age who knows all about it, that
makes a great difference. Many thoughts passed
through the mind of Sir Tom. It was a moment in
which Lucy's heart was very soft. She was ready to
do anything for the husband to whom, she thought,
lil] THE END. 543
she had been unjust. And it was hard upon him to
diminish his own importance and cut off at a stroke
by such a sacrifice half the power and importance of
the wealth which was his, though Lucy might be the
source of it, Was he to consent to this loss, not even
wisely, carefully arranged, but which might do little
good to any one, and to him harm unquestionable ?
He stood silent for some time thinking, almost disposed
to tear up the paper and throw it away. But then
he began to reflect of other things more important than
money ; of unbroken peace and happiness ; of Lucy's
faithful, loyal spirit that would never be satisfied with
less than the entire discharge of her trust, of the full
accord, never so entirely comprehensive and under-
standing as now, that had been restored between
them ; and of the boy given back from the gates of
hell, from the jaws of death. It was no small struggle.
He had to conquer a hundred hesitations, the dis-
approval, the resistance of his own mind. It was
with a hand that shook a little that he put it back.
"That little beggar," he said, with his old laugh —
though not his old laugh, for in this one there was a
sound of tears — " will be a hundred thousand or so the
poorer. . Do you think he'd mind, if we were to ask
him ? Come, here is a kiss upon the bargain. The
money shall go, and a good riddance, Lucy. There is
now nothing between you and me."
Bice was married at the end of the season, in the
most fashionable church, in the most correct way.
Montjoie's plain cousins had asked — asked ! without
a sign of enmity ! — to be bridesmaids, " as she had no
sisters of her own, poor thing!" Montjoie declared
that he was "ready to split" at their cheek in asking,
and in calling Bice "poor thing," she who was the
544 SIR TOM. [chap.
most fortunate girl in the world. The Contessa took
the good the gods provided her, without grumbling at
the fate which transferred to her the little fortune
which had been given to Bice to keep her from a
mercenary marriage. It was not a mercenary marriage,
in the ordinary sense of the word. To Bice's mind it
was simply fulfilling her natural career ; and she had
no dislike to Montjoie. She liked him well enough.
He had answered well to her test. He was not clever,
to be sure ; but what then ? She was well enough
content, if not rapturous, when she walked out of the
church Marchioness of Montjoie on her husband's arm.
There was a large and fashionable assembly, it need
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more to do with it than as a friend. There were two
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that point, making no remark. She passed them by,
walking as if on air, as she always walked, though
ballasted now for ever by that duller being at her
side. She was not subdued under her falling veil, like
so many brides, but saw everything, them among the
rest, as she passed, and showed by a half smile her
recognition of their presence. There was no mystic
veil of sentiment about her ; no consciousness of any
mystery. She walked forth bravely, smiling, to meet
life and the world. What was there in that beautiful,
LIL] THE END. 545
beaming creature to suggest a thought of future neces-
sity, trouble, or the most distant occasion for help or
succour ? Perhaps it is a kind of revenge we take
upon too great prosperity to say to ourselves : " There
may come a time !"
These two spectators made their way out slowly
among the crowd. They walked a long way towards
their after destination without a word. Then Mr.
Derwentwater spoke :
" If there should ever come a time when we can
help her, or be of use to her, you and I — for the time
must come when she will find out she has chosen evil
instead of good "
" Oh, humbug !" cried Jock roughly, with a sharp-
ness in his tone which was its apology. "She has
done what she always meant to do — and that is what
she likes best."
" Nevertheless " said MTutor with a sigh.
THE END.
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INDEX.
PAGE
Abbey (E. A.) . . 13,40
Abbot (F. E.) . . .35
.AEBOTT(Rev. E.) 3.i4,32>33>35
Acland (Sir H. W.). . 24
-Adams (Sir F. O.) . . 30
Addison . . .4, 20, 21
Agassiz (L.) ... 3
AiNGER(Rev. A.J 5. 17, 21, 35
Ainslie(A. D.). . . 14
-Airy (Sir G. B.) . 2, 29
Aitken (Mary C.) . . 21
Aitken (Sir W.) . . 25
Albemarle (Earl of) . 3
.Aldrich T. B.) . 14
Alexander (C. F.) . . 21
Alexander (T.) . . 9
Alexander (Bishop) . 35
•Allbutt (T. C.) . . 24
Allen (G.) ... 6
Allingha:; (W.) . . 21
Amiel(H.F.) ... 3
Anderson (A.). . . 14
Anderson (Dr. McCali) 24
Andrews (Dr. Thomas) . 28
Appleton T. G.) . . 40
Archer-Hind (R. D.) . 39
Arnold, M. 8,17,20,21 31,32,33
Arnold (Dr. T. 1 . .10
Arnold (W.T.) . . 10
Ashley (W.J.). . . 3
Atkinson (J. B. . . 2
Atkinson (Rev. J. C.) 1, 41
Attwell (H.) . . .21
Austin (Alfred) . 15
Autenrieth (Georg) . 8
Awdry (F.) . . .41
Bacon (Francis) . 20, 2t
Baines (Rev. E.) . . 35
Baker (Sir S. W.) 30, 32, 40, 41
Balch (Elizabeth) . . 12
Baldwin (Prof. J. M.) . 28
'.Balfour (F. M.) . . 6
Balfour (J. B.) . . 6
.Ball (V.) . . -41
Ball (W. Piatt) . 6
21.22.35
3s, 36
27
Ball (W. W. R.)
Ballance (C. A.)
Barker (Lady)
Barnard (C.) .
Barnes (W.
Barnett (E. A )
Bartholomew (J. G.)
Bartlett (J.) .
Barwell (R.) .
Bastable (Prof. C. F.)
Bastian (H. C.)
Bateson (W.) .
Bath (Marquis of)
Bather (Archdeacon)
Baxter (L.)
Beesly (Mrs.) .
Benham (Rev. W.)
Benson (Archbishop)
Berlioz (H.
Bernard (J. H.)
Bernard H. M.)
Bernard (M.) .
Bernard (T. D )
Berners (J.) .
Besant (W.) .
Bbthune-Bakkr (J. F.)
Bettany (G. T.)
Bickerton (T. H.)
Bigelow(M. M.)
BlKELAS D.) .
Binnie (Rev. W.)
Birks (T. R.) . 6, 27, 3
BjORNSON B.) .
Black (W.) .
Blackburne (E.)
Blackie (J. S.)
Blake (J. F.) .
Blake (W.)
Blakiston (J. R.)
Blanford(H. F.) . 9,
Blanford (W. T.) . 9,
Blomfield (R.)
Blyth (A.W.).
Bohm-Bawerk (Prof.)
Boissevain (G. M.) .
page page
24 BOLDREWOOD (Rolf ). . l8
24 BONAR (J.) . . .30
40 Bond Rev. J.). . . 33
29 Boole (G.) . .28
3 Booth (C.) . . -32
8 Bose (W. P. du) . . 36
3 Boughton G. H.) . . 40
8 Boutmy (E.) ... 13
24 Bowen (H. C.) . . .27
30 Bower (F. O.) ... 6
6, 24 Brett (R. B ) . . .10
6 Bridges (J. A.). . . 20
31 Bright (H. A.). . . 9
35 Bright (John) . . .31
3 Brimley(G.) . . .20
10 Brodie (Sir B. C.) . . 7
Brodribb (W. J.) . 14,40
Brooke (Sir J.) . . 3
Brooke S. A.) 13,14,21,35,36
Brooks (Bishop) . . 36
Brown (A. C.) . . .28
13 Brown (J. A.) . . . 1
35 Brown (Dr. James) . . 4
1? Brown (T. E. . . -15
4 Browne J. H. B.) . . i?
35 Browne (Sir T.) . . 21
6 R-?u:.TON(Dr. T.Lauder) 24, 36
24 Bryce (James) . .10,31,40
13 Buchheim (C. A.1*
18 Buckland (A.).
35 Buckley (A. B )
36 Bucknill (Dr. j. C.
18 Buckton (G. B.)
4 Bunyan .
3 Burgon (J. W.)
5, 20 Burke (E.)
3 Burn (R.).
3 Burnett (F. Hodgson)
8 Burns
?9 Bury (J. B.) . . .10
26 Butcher (Prof. S. H.) 14,20,39
9 Butler (A. J.) . . . 39
12 Butler (Rev. G.) . . 36
30 Butler (Samuel) . . 15
30 Butler 'vW. Archer) . 36
. 21
5. 3i
10, 11
• 24
• 43
4, 20, 21
• 15
• 3i
18
21
44
INDEX.
Butler (Sir W. F.) .
Buxton (Mrs. S.) .
Byron
Cairnes (J. E.)
Caldecott (R.) .13,
Calderon
Calderwood (Prof. H.)
PAGB
4
• 32
Calvert (Rev. A.)
Cameron (V. L.)
Campbell (J. F.)
Campbell (Dr. J. M.)
Campbell (Prof. Lewis)
Cantillon
Capes (W.W.).
Carles (W. R.)
Carlyle(T.) .
Carmarthen (Lady)
Carnarvon (Earl of)
Carnot (N. L. G.) .
Carpenter (Bishop)
Carr (J. C) .
Carroll (Lewis)
Carter (R. Brudenell)
Cassel (Dr. D.)
Cautley(G. S.)
Cazenove (J. G.)
Chalmers (J. B.)
Chalmers (M. D.) .
Chapman (Elizabeth R.)
Chasseresse (Diana)
Cherry (R. R.)
Cheyne (C H. H.)
Cheyne (T. K.)
Christie (J.) .
Christie (W. D.)
Church (Prof. A. H.
Church (Rev. A. J.)
Church (F. J.).
Church (Dean) 3,4,
Clark (J. W.) .
Clark (L.)
Clark (S.)
Clarke (C B.).
Clifford (Ed.)
Clifford (W. K.)
Clifford (Mrs. W. K.)
Clough (A. H.)
Cobden (R.)
Cohen (J. B.) .
Colenso (J. W.)
Coleridge (S. T.)
Collier (Hon. John
Collins (}. Churton
Colquhoun (F. S.)
Colvin (Sidney)
Combe (G.)
Congreve (Rev. J.)
Conway (Hugh)
Cook (E. T.) .
Cooke (C. Kinloch)
Cooke (J. P.) .
CORBETT (J.) .
Corfield (W. H.)
Corry (T. H.) .
COTTERILL (J: H.)
Cotton (Bishop)
Cotton (C.)
Cotton (J. S.) .
Coues (E.)
COUR'I ./OPE (W. J.)
Cowell (G.)
COWPER
Cox (G. V.)
27:
2S
33
40
40
36
14
30
14
40
3
18
39
29
36
2
41
24
10
15
36
9
31
14
32
13
3
33
24
4, 32,
6
40
39
5,20,34,36
22
3
4
30
4
28
4i
20
3i
7
34
15
36
18
2
25
36
4i
12
7
9
30
13
3i
43
4
24
41
32
34
PAGE
CRAiK(Mrs.)i5, 18,20,21,40,41
Craik (H.) . . 8, 31
Crane (Lucy) . • 2, 41
Crane (Walter)
Craven (Mrs. D.) .
Crawford (F. M.) .
Creighton (Bishop M.) t
CRICHTON-BROWNF.(SirJ.)
Cross (J. A.) .
Crossley (E.) .
Crossley (H.) .
CUMMING (L.) .
Cunningham (C) .
Cunningham (Sir H.S.).
Cunningham (Rev. J.) .
CuNNiNGHAM(Rev.W)34,35,36
Cunynghame (Sir A. T.) . 25
Curteis (Rev. G. H.) 34,36
Dahn(F.) ... 18
Dakyns (H. G.) . . 39
Dale (A. W. W.) . . 3*
Dalton (Rev. J. N.) . 40
Daniell (Alfred). . . 28
Dante . . .4, 14, 39
Davies (Rev. J. L1A 33, 35, 36
Davies (W.) .
Dawkins(W. B.)
Dawson (G. M.)
Dawson (Sir J. W.)
Dawson (J.)
Day(L. B.)
Day(R. E.) .
Defoe (D.)
Deighton (K.).
Delamotte (P. H.)
Dell(E.C) .
De Morgan (M.)
Dr Varigny (H.)
DeVere(A.) .
Dicey (A. V.) .
Dicicens (C.) . . 5, 18,
DiGGLE(Rev.J. W.),
Dii.ke (Ashton W.)
Dn.KE (Sir Charles W.) 2
Dillwyn (E. A.)
Dobbin (L.)
Dobson (A.)
Donaldson (J.)
Donisthorpe (W.)
Dowden (E.) .
Doyle (Sir F. H.)
Doyle (J. A.) .
Drake (B.)
Drummond (Prof. J
Dryden .
Du Cane (E. F.) . . 31
DuFF(Sir M.E.Grant) 21,31,40
Dunsmuir (A.). . . 18
Duntzer (H.) . . . 4, 5
Dupre (A.) ... 7
Dyer (L.) .
Eadie(J.). . . 4, 32, 33
Eastlake (Lady) . . 35
Ebers (G.)
Edgeworth (Prof. F. Y.). 30
Edmunds (Dr. W.)
Edwards-Moss (Sir J. E.) 32
Eimer(G. H. T.) . . 6
Elderton (W. A.) . . 9
Ellerton (Rev. J.) . . 36
Elliot (Hon. A.) . . 31
Ellis (T.).
Emerson (R. W.) . 4, 21
Evans (S.) . . .15
4, 21
13
41
6
20
31
21
36
19
31
18
7
4
35
3i
16
15
11
39
36
Everett (J. D.)
Falconer (Lanoe) .
Farrar (Archdeacon) 6,
Farrer (SirT. H.) .
Faulkner (F.).
Fawcett (Prof. H.) .
Fawcett (M. G.) . 6,
Fay (Amy)
Fearnley (W.)
Fearon (D. R.)
Ferrel (W.) .
Fessenden (C.)
Finck(H.T.) .
Fisher (Rev. O.)
Fiske (J.). 6, 10, 27,
Fison(L.).
Fitch (J. G.) .
Fitz Gerald (Caroline)
Fitzgerald (Edward)
Fitzmaurice (Lord E.)
Fleischer (E.).
Fleming (G.) .
Flower (Prof. W. H.)
Fluckiger (F. A.) .
Forbes (A.)
Forbes (Prof. G.) .
Forbes (Rev. G. H.)
Foster (Prof. M.) .
Fothergill (Dr. J. M.)
Fowle (Rev. T. W.).
Fowler (Rev. T.) .
Fowler (W.W.)
Fox (Dr. Wilson) .
Foxwell (Prof. H. S)
Framji (D.)
Frankland (P. F.) .
Fraser (Bishop)
Fraser-Tytler (C. C.)
Frazer (J. G.) .
Frederick (Mrs.) .
Freeman (Prof. E. A.)
2, 4, 10, it,
Frknch(G. K.)
Friedmann (P.)
Frost (A. B.) .
Froude (J. A.).
Fullerton (W. M.)
Furniss (Harry)
FURNIVALL (F. J.) .
Fyffe (C. A.) .
Fyfe(H.H.) .
Gairdner (J.) .
Galton (F.)
Gamgee (Arthur)
Gardner (Percy)
Garnett (R.) .
Garnett (W.) .
Gaskeli. (Mrs.)
Gaskoin (Mrs. H.) .
Geddes (W. D.)
Gbf (W. H.) .
Geikie (Sir A.). . 9,
Gennadius (J.)
Gibbin,^ (H. de B.) .
Gibbon (Charles)
Gilchrist (A.).
Giles (P.).
Gilman (N. P.)
Gilmore (Rev. J.) .
Gladstone (Dr. J. H.)
Gladstone (W.E.).
Glaister (E.) .
Godfray (H.) .
Godkin(G. S.).
PAGE.
. 28
. 18
33, 36
- 3i
. 7
30, 3i
3°, 3i-
25
29
8
29.
28
1
28, 29,
31, 3^'
15.
15. 2I
5
7
iS
42
24
4. 4°;
3
36
6, 29
8,24
3*i 36
4, 27
26
24
3<='
10
1
37
15
31. 34
14-
3
4i
4
40
4i
IS
11
10
4
29
29
2
15
5
12
32
14, 4c
28, 29
IO, 2Q
4-
3
27
30
13
7. £
14
2, 8
3
5.
INDEX.
45
'v^oethe . . . 4, 15
Goldsmith 4, 12, 15, 21, 22
Goo dale (Prof. G. L.) . 6
GOODFELLOW (J.) . . 12
Gordon (General C. G.) . 5
Gordon (Lady Duff)
Goschen Rt. Hon. G. J.),
Gosse (Edmund)
Gow(J0 • ■ • ■
Graham (D.) .
Graham (J. W.)
Grand'homme (E.) .
Gray (Prof. Andrew)
Gray (Asa)
Gray .
Green (J. R.) 9, 11
Green (Mrs. J. R.)
Green (W. S.) .
Greenhill (W. A.)
Greenwood (J. E.)
Grenfell (Mrs.)
Griffiths (W. H.)
Grimm
Grove (Sir G.).
Guest (E.)
Guest (M.J.) .
Guillemi:; (A.)
Guizot(F. P. G.)
Gu.NTON (G.) .
Hales (J. W.) .
Hallward (R. F.)
Hamerton (P. G.)
Hamilton (Prof. D.J.)
Hamilton (J.).
Hanbury (D.) .
Hannay (David)
Hardwick (Archd. C.) 34
Hardy (A. S.) .
Hardy (T.) .
Hare (A. W.) .
Hare (J. C.) .
Harper (Father Thos.)
Harris (Rev. G. C.)
Harrison (F.).
Harrison (Miss J.)
Harte (Bret) .
Hartig (Dr. R.)
Hartley (Prof. W. N.)
Harwood (G.) . .22,
Hayes (A.).
Headlam (W.).
Heaviside (O.)
Helps (Sir A.) .
Hempel (Dr. W.)
Herkomer (H.)
Herodotus
Herrick .
Hertel (Dr.) .
Hill (F. Davenport)
Hill(O-).
Hiorns (A. H.)
Hobart (Lord)
Hobday (E.) .
Hodgson (R^v. J. T.)
Hoffding (Prof. H.)
Hofma:.n(A.W.)
Hole (Rev. C).
Holiday (Henry)
Holland (T. E.)
Hollway-Calthrop (H
Holmes (O. W., junr.)
Homer
Hooker (Sir J. D.) .
Hoole (C. H.) .
40
3°
4, U
2
• 15 '
• 10
8
. 28
. 6
*5s 22
21, 22
9. IJ
40
21
41
:
24
4*
26
11
11
23
i
3°
20
»4
37
24
4
37
i3
18
22
37
37
37
6, 22
2
i3
6
7
34
IS
3"=-
29
33<
1?
39
34
30
15
40
30
43
40
40
39
25
?
5
I.
7
11
4i
i3i
•)
3'
41
13
14.
-•
7.
4C
33
PAGE
Hooper (G.) ... 4
Hooper (W. H.) . .2
Hope (F.J.) ... 9
Hopkins (E.) . . . 15
Hoppus (M. A. M.) .
Horace . . 14
HoRT(Prof.F.J.A.).
Horton (Hon. S. D.)
Hosken(J.D.)
Hovenden (R. M.) .
Howell (George) .
Howes (G. B.) .
Howitt (A. W.)
Howson (Very Rev. J. S.)
Hozier (Col. H. M.).
Hvbner (Baron)
Hughes (T.) 5, 15, 19, 22
Hull(E.). . . 2,10
HOLLAH (J.) . . 2. 21, 2S
Hume (D.) . . .4
HuMPHRY(Prof.SirG.M.) 30,42
Hunt(W.) . . .11
Hvt(\V.M.). . . 2
HCTTON (R. H.) . 4, 22
Huxley (T.) 4, 22, 29, 30, 32, 43
Iddings 0- p-)- • • 1<D
Illingworth (Rev. J. R.) 37
Ingram (T. D.) . . 11
Irving (J.) . . .10
Irving (Washington) . 12
Jackson (Helen)
Jacob (Rev. J. A.) .
James (Henrv).
Tames (Rev. H.) .
James (Prof. W.) .
Jardine (Rev. R.) .
Jeans (Rev. G. E.) .
jEBB(Prof. R.C.) .
Jellett (Rev. J. H.)
Jenks Prof. Ed.) .
Jennings (A. C.)
Jephson (H. ) •
Jevons (W. S.)s, 28, 30, 31, 32
J ex-Blake (Sophia)
Johnson (Amy)
Johnson (Samuel)
Jones (H. Arthur) .
Jones (Prof. D. E.) .
Jones (F.).
"Kalm ....
Kant ....
Kari ....
KA\ANAGH(Rt.Hn.A.M.)
Kay (Rev. \V.) .
Keary (Annie) . 1
Keary (Eliza) .
Keats
KELLNER(Dr. L.) .
Kellogg (Rev. S. H.)
Kelvin (Lord). .26, 28, 2g
Kempe (A. E.) . . . 28
Kennedy (Prof. A. B. W.) 9
Kennedy (B. H.) . . 39
Kennedy (P ) . . .19
Keynes (J. N.). . 28,3c
Kiepert(H.) ... 9
Killen (\V. D.) . . 34
Kingsley (Charles) 3, 9, 11.
12,13,14,15,19,22,26,35,40,41
Kingsley (Henry) . 21, 40
Kipling (J. L.). . . 40
Kipling 'Rudyard) . . 19
Kirkpatrick (Prof.) . 37
Klein (Dr. E.). . 6, 24, 26
PAGE
• 14
• 32
40
3
19
22
37
• 19
• 37
19, 22
• 37
. 28
. 28
37. 39
11, 14
• 37
31
n> 32
3i
• 29
5, 14
■ 15
. 29
7
. 40
• 27
42
5
3 3
4i
41
22
27
*9>
Knight (W.) .
KUENEN (Prof. A.) .
Kynaston (Rev. H.)
Labberton (R. H.) .
Lafargue (P.).
Lamb. . . .
Lanciani (Prof. R.). . 2
Landauer (J.). . . 7
Landor . . . 4, 22
Lane-Poole (S.) . . 22
Lanfrey(P.) ... 5
Lang (Andrew) 13, 22, 39
. 'Prof. Arnold). . 42
Langley (J. N.) . . 29
Lankester (Prof. Ray) 6, 23
Laslett (T.) ... 7
Lea (A. S.) . . . 29
Leaf (W.) . . 14, 39
Leahy (Strgeant) . . 32
Lee (M.) .... 19
Lee (S.) . . 21, 39, 40
Leeper (A.) . . -39
Legge (A. O.) . . 11, 37
Lemon (Mark) . . .21
Lethbridge (Sir Roper) . 11
Levy (Amy) . . .19
Lewis (R.) . . . 13
Lightfoot(Bp.) 23, 33, 35, 37
LlGHTWOOD (J. M.) . . 13
Lindsay (Dr. J. A.) . . 25
Lockyer (J. N.) . 3, 7, 29
Lodge (Prof. O. J.) 23,28,29
Loewy(B.) . . .28
Loftie (Mrs. W. J.). . 2
Longfellow (H. W.) . 22
Lonsdale (J.) .
Lowe (W. H.) .
Lowell (J. R.).
Lubbock (Sir J.)
Lucas (F.)
Lucas (Joseph).
Lupton (S.)
Lvall (Sir Alfred) .
Lyte(H. C. M.)
Lyttelton (E.)
Lytton (Earl of)
MacAlister (D.) .
Macarthur (M.) .
Macaulay(G. C.) .
Maccoll (Norman) .
M'Cosh (Dr. J.)
Macdonald (G.)
Macdonell (J.)
Mack ail (J. W.)
Maclagan (Dr. T.).
Maclaren (Rev. Alex.)
Maclaren (Archibald)
Maclean (W.C.) .
Maclear (Rev. Dr.) 32,34,35
M'LennanQ. F.) . . 1
M'Lennan (Malcolm) rg
MACMILLAN(Rev. H.) 23, 37, 40
Macmillan (Michael)
Macnamara (C.)
Macquoid (K. S.) .
Madoc (F.)
Maguire(J. F.)
MAHAFFY(Prof. J. P.)
2, II, 14. 23, 27, 37, 40
Maitland (F. W.) . 13,31
Malet (L.) . . .19
Malory (Sir T.) . . 21
Mansfield (C. B.) . 7
Markham (C. R.) . 4
21, 39, 40
32> 33
i3> 15, 23
6»7i9»23, 43
• 15
. 40
• 7
• 4
. 11
• 23
• 19
• 25
27i
3:,
46
INDEX.
PAGE
. 6
• 30
• 25
3. 42
• 30
• 43
c
5
Marriott (J. A. R.).
Marshall (Prof. A.)
Martkl (C.) .
Martin (Frances) .
Martin (Frederick).
Martin (H. N.)
Martineau (H.)
Martineau (J.)
Masson(D.) 4,5,16,21,23,27
Masson (G.) . . 8, 21
Masson(R. O.) . . 17
Maturin (Rev. W.). . 37
Maudsley (Dr. H.) . . 28
Maurice (F.) 9,23,27,32-35,37
Maurice (Col. F.) . 5,25,31
Max Muller (F.) .
Mayer (A.M.).
Mayor Q.B.) .
Mayor (Prof. J. E. B.)
Mazini (L.)
M'Cormick (W. S.) .
Meldola (Prof. R.). 7
Mendenhall (T. C.)
Mercier (Dr. C.)
Mercur (Prof. J.) .
Meredith (G.).
Meredith (L. A.) .
Meyer (E. von)
Michelet(M.)
Mill(H.R.) .
Miller (R. K.).
Milligan (Rev. W.).
Milton . . 5, 14
Minto (Prof. W.) .
MlTFORD (A. B.)
MiVART(St. George).
Mixter(W. G.)
Mohammad
Molesworth (Mrs.)
Molloy ;g.) .
Monahan (J. H.) .
Montelius (O.)
Moore (C. H.).
Moorhouse (Bishop)
Morison (J. C.)
Morley (John). 3,
Morris (Mowbray) .
Morris (R.)
Morshead (E. D. A.)
Moulton (L. C.)
Mudie(C. E.) .
Muir (M. M. P.) .
Muller (H.) .
Mullinger (J. B.) .
Murphy (J. J.).
Murray ( D. Christie)
Murray (E. C. G.) .
Myers (E.)
Myers (F.W.H.) .
Mylne (Bishop)
Nadal(E. S.) .
Nettleship (H.). .
Newcastle (Duke
Duchess)
Newcomb (S.) .
Newton (Sir C. T. ) .
Nichol(J.)
Noel (Lady A.)
Nordenskiold (A. E.)
Norgate (Kate)
Norris (W. E.)
Norton (Charles Eliot)
Norton (Hon. Mrs.)
Oliphant (T. L. K.)
• 27
• 29
• 34
• 3, 5
. 42
. 14
28, 29
. 29
• 25
• 25
. 16
• i3
7
11
• 9
3
34. 37
16, 21
4, J9
• 19
• 3°
7
42
28
13
37
3, 4
23
4
27
39
16
16
7
7
11
28
20
. 40
16, 39
16, 23
37
4, 17
19
and
4i
M
20
40
11
20
3.
16,
39
20
23,
27
Bart
)i3,
42
5
38
31
ZQ
16
27
27
1, 3
PAGE
OLIPHANT(MrS. M. O. W.)
4, 11, 14, 20, 21, 42
Oliver (Prof. D.) . .7
Oliver (Capt. S. P.). . 40
Oman (C. W.) ... 4
Ostwald (Prof.) . . 7
Otte(E. C.) . . .11
Page(T.E-) ... 33
Palgrave (Sir F.) . . 11
Palgrave (F. T.)
2, 16, 17, 21, 22, 35, 42
Palgrave (R. F.D.) . 31
Palgrave (R. H. Inglis) . 30
Palgrave (W. G.) 16, 31, 40
PALMER(Lady S.) . . 20
Parker (T. J.). . 6,42
Parker (W. N.) . . 42
Parkin (G. R.) . .31
Parkinson (S.) . . 29
Parkman (F.) . . .11
Parry (G.) . . .20
Parsons (Alfred) • .13
Pasteur (L.) ... 7
Pater (W. H.) . 2, 20, 23
Paterson (J.) .
Patmore (Coventry) 21
Patteson (J. C.)
Pattison (Mark) . 4, 5
Payne (E.J.) .
Peabody (C. H.)
Peel (E.) .
Peile(J.).
Pellissier (E.)
Pennell (J.) .
Pennington (R.)
Penrose (F.C.)
Perkins (J B.)
Perry (Prof. J.)
Pettigrew (J. B.)
Phillitiore (J. G.)
Phillips (J. A.)
Phillips (W. C.)
PlCTON (J. A.) .
PlFFARD (H. G.)
Pike (W.).
Plato
Plumptre (Dean)
Pollard (A. W.)
PoLLOCK(SirFk.,2nd
PoLLocK(Sir F.,Bart
Pollock (Lady)
Pollock (W. H.)
Poole (M. E.) . . . 23
Poole (R. L.) .
Pope . . . • 4, 21
Poste (E.) . . 29, 39
Potter (L.) . . 23
Potter (R.) . . .38
Preston (T.) . . .29
Price (L. L. F. R.) . . 30
Prickard (A. O.) . . 23
Prince Albert Victor . 40
Prince George . . 40
Procter (F.) . . .34
Propert (J. L.)
Radcliffe (C. B.) . . 3
Ramsay (W.) ... 7
Ransome(C) . . .14
Rathbone (W.)
Rawlinson (W. G.). . 13
Rawnsley (H. D.) . . 16
Ray (P. K.) ... 28
Rayleigh (Lord) . . 29
Reichei. (Bishop) . . 38
29
7, 30, 42
13
25
23
25
41
2, 39
38
40
5
23,31
Reid (J. S.) .
Remsen (I.)
Rendall (Rev. F.) .
Rendu (M.leC.) .
Reynolds (H. R.) .
Reynolds (J. R.)
Reynolds (O.)
Rhodes (J. F.).
Richardson (B. W.)
Richey(A. G.).
Ritchie (A.) .
Robinson (Preb. H. G.)
Robinson (J. L.)
Robinson (Matthew)
Rochester (Bishop of)
Rockstro (VV. S.) .
Rogers (J. E. T.) .
Romanes G. J.)
RoscoE(Sir H.E.) .
Roscoe (W. C.)
Rosebery (Earl of) .
Rosenbusch (H.)
Ross (P.) .
Rossetti (C. G.)
Routledge (J.)
Rowe(F.J.) .
Roy (John)
Rucker (Prof. A. W.)
Rumford (Count) .
Rushbrooke (W. G.)
Russell (Dean)
Russell Sir Charles)
Russell (W. Clark) .
Ryland (F.) .
RYLE(Prof. H. E.)
PAGE-
39-
7
34, 38
10
38
25
12
12
2, 25,
13
5
38
26
5
5
5
, 3i
6
M
4
10
20
6, 42
31
17
20
8
23
33
38
3i
20
14
38
32
St. Johnston (A.) .20, 41, 42-
Sadler (H.) ... 3
Saintsbury (G.) . 4, 14.
Salmon (Rev. G.) . . 38
Sandford (Bishop) . . 38
Sanpford (M. E.) . . 5
Sandys (J. E.) . . . 41
Sayce (A. H.) . . .12
Schaff (P.) . . .33
SCHLIEMANN (Dr.) . . 2
Schorlemmer (C.) . . 7
Scott (D.H.) ... 6
Scott (Sir W.). . i6, 21
Scratchley (Sir Peter) . 25
Scudder (S. H.) . . 43
Seaton (Dr. E. C.) . . 25
Seeley I J. R.) . . .12
Seiler (Dr. Carl) . 25,30
Selborne 1 Earl of) 13,21,34,35
Sellers (E.) . . . 2
Service (J.) . . 35,38
Sewell (E. M.) . . 12
Shadwell(C L.) . . 39
Shairp [ J. C.) . . 4, 16
Shakespeare . 14, 16, 21, 22-
Shann (G. ) . . 9, 29
Sharp (W.) ... 5
Shelley . . . 16, 21
Shirley (W.N.) . . 38
Shorthouse (J. H.) . 20
Shortland (Admiral) . 26
Shuchhardt (Carl). . 2
Shuckburgh (E. S.) 12,39
Shufeldt (R. W.) . . 42
Sibson (Dr. F.) . . 25
Sidgwick (Prof. H.) 27,30,31
Sime (J.) . . . 9, 11
Simpson (Rev. W.) . . 34
Skeat (W.W.I . . 14
INDEX.
47
Skrine (J. H.).
Slade (J. H.) .
Sloman Rev. A.)
Smart W.)
Smalley (G. W.)
Smetham (J. and S.)
Smith A.)
Smith (C. B.) .
Smith (Goldwin) 4, 6,
Smith (H.)
Smith (J.)
Smith (Rev. T.)
Smith (W. G.) .
Smith (W. S.) .
Somerville (Prof. W.)
SOUTHEY .
Spender (J. K.)
Spenser .
Spottiswoode (W.)
Stanley (Dean)
Stanley (Hon. Maude)
Statham (R.) .
Stebbing (W.) .
Stephen (C. E.)
Stephen (H.) .
Stephen (Sir J. F.)
Stephen (J. K.)
Stephen (L.) .
Stephens (J. B.)
Stevenson (J. J.)
Stewart (A.) .
Stewart (Balfour)
Stewart (S. A.)
Stokes (Sir G. G.)
Story (R. H.) .
Stone (W.H.).
Strachey (Sir E.)
STRACHEY(Gen. R.)
STRANGFORD(Viscountess
Strettell (A.)
Stubbs (Rev. C. W.)
Stubbs (Bishop)
Sutherland A.)
Symonds (J. A.)
Symonds (Mrs. J. A.)
Symons (A.)
Tait (Archbishop)
Tait (C. W. A.)
Tait (Prof. P. G.)
Tanner (H.) .
Tavernier (J. B.)
Taylor (Franklin)
Taylor (Isaac).
Taylor (Sedley)
Tegetmeier (W. B.
Temple (Bishop)
Temple (Sir R.)
Tennant (Dorothy)
Tenniel .
Tennyson . 14
Tennyson (Frederick)
PAGE
5
9
33
30
23
5
16
41
16
7
3 =
7
38
5
3> 23
42
28, 2Q, 38
7
29
4
29
9
41
16
38
34
9
4
5
16
38
12
3, 29
41
26
27, 38
26, 29
. 8
• 38
4
• 4i
• 4i
17, 22
• *7
Tennyson (Hallam).
Theodoli (Marchesa)
Thompson (D'A. V.)
Thompson (E.).
Thompson (H. M.) .
Thompson (S. P.) .
Thomson (A. W.J
Thomson (Sir C. W.)
Thomson (Hugh)
Thorne (Dr. Thome)
Thornton (J.).
Thornton (W. T.) 27,
Thorpe (T. E.).
Thring(E.)
Thrupp (J. F.) .
Thudichum (J. L. W.)
Thursfield (J. R.) .
Todhunter (I.)
TORRENS (W. M.) .
Tourgenief (I. S.) .
Tout(T.F.) .
Tozer(H. F.) .
Traill (H.D.).
Trench (Capt. F.) .
Trench (Archbishop)
Trevelyan (Sir G. O.)
Tribe (A.).
Tristram (W. O.) .
Trollope (A.) .
Truman (J.) .
Tucker (T. G.)
Tulloch (Principal).
Turner (C. Tennyson)
! Turner (G.) .
Turner (H. H.)
Turner (J. M.W.) .
. Tylor (E. B.) .
j Tyrwhitt (R. St. J.)
Vaughan (C.J.) 33,34
1 Vaughan (Rev. D.J.)
Vaughan (Rev. E. T.)
j Vaughan (Rev. R.).
Veley(M.)
Venn (Rev. J.) .
> Vernon (Hon. W. W.)
Verrall(A.W) .
Verrall ( Mrs.)
i Victor (H.) .
Wain (Louis) .
Waldstein (C.)
Walker (Prof. F. A.)
Walker (Jas.)
Wallace (A. R.) .6,
, Wallace (Sir D. M.)
Walpole (S.) .
Walton (I.)
Ward (A. W.) . . 4)
Ward (H. M.) .
Ward(S.).
Ward (T. H.) .
Ward (Mrs. T. H.) .
PAGE
13, 42
20
7
11
3°
29
9
43
12
52, 39
8
9, 23
32
7
4
5
5
20
4, 12
9
4, 31
32
38
12
7
13
4
17
39
38
17
1
29
13
1
2, 17
35,33
21, 38
38
38
20
,38
14
39
M
20
42
2
3°
7
26, 30
32
31
13
4, 21
7
17
17
20, 42
PAGE
5, 34
38
30
41
5
41
22
17
42
35
39
5,3^
26
17
3O1
Ward (W.)
Warington (G.)
Waters (C. A.)
Waterton (Charles)
Watson (E.) .
Watson (R. S.)
Watson (\V.) .
Webb(W. T.) .
Webster (Mrs. A.) .
Welby-Gregory (Lady)
Welldon (Rev.J. E.C.)
Westcott (Bp.)32, 33,34,3
Westermarck (E.).
Wetherell (J.)
Wheeler (J. T.)
Whevvell (W.).
White (Gilbert)
White (Dr. W. Hale)
White (W.) .
Whitham (J. M.) .
Whitney (W. D.) .
Whittier (J. G.)
Wickham (Rev. E. C.)
Wicksteed (P. H.) .
Wiedersheim (R.) .
Wilbraham (F. M.).
Wilkins (Prof. A. S.) 2,
Wilkinson (S.)
Williams (G. H.) .
Williams (Montagu)
Williams (S. E.)
Willoughby (F.)
Wills (W. G.) .
Wilson (A. J.) .
Wilson (Sir C.)
Wilson (Sir D.) . 1
Wilson (Dr. G.) .4
Wilson (Archdeacon)
Wilson (Mary).
Wingate (Major F. R.)
WlNKWORTH (C.)
WoLSELEY(Gen. Viscount)
Wood f A. G.) .
Wood (Rev. E. G.) .
Woods (Rev. F. H.).
Woods Miss M. A.).
Woodward (C. M.) .
woolner (t.) .
Wordsworth . 5, 14
Worthey (Mrs.)
Wright (Rev. A.) .
Wright (C. E.G.) .
Wright (J.)
Wright L. ) .
Wright (W. A.) 8,16,21,
Wurtz Ad.) .
Wyatt Sir M. D.) .
Yonge (C. M.) 5, 6, 7, 8, 11, 12,
21, 22, 72, 27, 32, 42
Young (E.W.) . . 9
Ziegler Dr. E.) . . 25
27
12
5
26
25
:;
9
8
23
39
32-
42
35
39
2!
13
-2
17
3i
4
4, 14-
5, 23
39
14
25
6
25
■:
39
1
i8,35
9
17
17, 21
20
33
8
22
29
27,34
8
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