Part 23 (1/2)
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 husband's friend.”
”Few women are so,” said the Contessa gravely. ”I knew it when I came.
Few, very few, care for their husband's friend--especially when she is a woman----”
Lucy fixed her eyes upon her with earnest attention. Her look was not suspicious, yet there was investigation 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” (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, meaning 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 myself, 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 _de trop_. 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. 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 meaning. 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 grat.i.tude 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? No, no, she cried within herself, the tears coming to her eyes; and yet there was a very real pang behind.
”But rea.s.sure yourself, dear child,” said the Contessa, ”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. 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, _cher_ Tom! that shall be consulted,” cried the Contessa. ”Lucy, my little angel! if it is really so that you will give my Bice the advantage of your protection for her _debut_---- But that is to be an angel indeed, superior to all our little, petty, miserable---- Is it possible, then,” cried the Contessa, ”that there is some one so good, so n.o.ble in this low world?”
This grat.i.tude 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 Randolph cried, taking courage. ”Her _debut_? 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 ending to her transports of grat.i.tude. ”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, 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 perceptible. But she was still too much moved by her own emotion to have got beyond its spell, and she had committed herself beyond recall.
While the Contessa talked on with--was it a little, little change?--a faint difference, 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 himself?” 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 s.h.i.+ne, 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----”
”Relations?” said the Contessa; there was something peculiar in her tone which attracted Lucy's attention, 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 parentage.
But pardon me, my sweetest, I did not mean to tell you all this: only, my Lucy, you will one time be 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.