Part 30 (2/2)

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. Now 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 hospitable to her, which had received her when no other 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 involved 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 altogether, 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 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 long 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 opportunity 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 G.o.d'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 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 blus.h.i.+ng 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 a.s.surance 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 compelled to marry. How can we stand by and see her sacrificed to that odious young man?”

”What odious young man?” said Sir Tom, astonished, 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 compet.i.tion for him. Sacrificed 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.”

”Oh, Tom, I cannot laugh,” 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 antic.i.p.ate 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 received 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 something tragic in his look which frightened Lucy. She came closer still and put her hand upon his arm.

”Oh, 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!” 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. ”G.o.d forgive me; what have I been doing?” he cried. ”Lucy, I think I will never oppose you more.”

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