Part 15 (1/2)

CHAPTER XIX.

THE OPENING OF THE DRAMA.

”Come and sit beside me and tell me everything,” said the Contessa. She had appropriated the little sofa next the fire where Lady Randolph 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 delightful 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 p.r.o.nunciation, but when she uttered these two words she gave a little roll of the ”r”

as if she meant to a.s.sume 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.”

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 pa.s.s 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 Randolph from hearing, but gave Lucy's hand a special pressure, and fixed upon her a significant look.

”Oh! Aunt Randolph?” 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 Randolph'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 indefinable 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 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 hesitation, 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 Forno-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, with a vivid blush. She did not know what to say, whether this meant a little derision of her careful p.r.o.nunciation, 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 sigh--”so was I. He was perhaps not handsome, but he was distinguished. Many Englishmen are so who have no beauty, no handsomeness, 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 interpretation. ”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 without 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 examination. ”How delightful is that English domesticity. You go everywhere together?” She had no appearance 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 a.s.sured. And now I shall share it for a little. You will make us all happy. 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 _tap.i.s.serie_, and he will read to us while we work. What a tableau!” cried the Contessa. ”Domestic happiness, which one only tastes in England. 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 amus.e.m.e.nt was not so lively. He said sententiously, 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 n.o.ble 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.”