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 withoutintention; 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 reproachful this time, full of meaning and grieved surprise. 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 Contessa?"
"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 hesitation 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 littleshriek 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 isfiancée, 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 revolution—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 communicate 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. "Thechild must come back at once," she said, with little cries and sobs—anaccès 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 complexion, 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 believethat." 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 believethat—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 has 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 terribleaccusation 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, looking 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, soconnaisseusein evil tales—she had not even so much as divined what innocent Lucy meant to say.
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 LordChamberlain 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 discriminating 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 theGraphic, which gave a special (fancy) picture of the drawing-room in question. 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 ruefully; "that wasn't what I bargained for, don't you know?"
"I am going to explain," said Bice. "You shallknow, then, that when I had those headaches—you remember—and you could not see me, I had no headaches,mon ami. I was with Milady Randolph in Park Lane, in the middle of the fever, nursing the boy."
Montjoie gazed at her with round eyes. He recoiled a step, then rushing at his betrothed, notwithstanding 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 overherto 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 he will be stronger now than he hasever been, having got over this so well."I want to tell you not to think any more of what I saidthatday. 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
"DEAREST LUCY—I am more glad than I can tell you to hear the good news of the dear boy. Probably he will be stronger now than he hasever been, having got over this so well."I want to tell you not to think any more of what I saidthatday. 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 anything 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 thelight 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 deadliest 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,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 understanding 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 disapproval, 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 themost 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 not be said. Lucy, in a first place, looking very wistful, wondering if the girl was happy, and Sir Tom saying to himself it was very well that he had no more to do with it than as a friend. There were two other spectators who looked upon the ceremony with still more serious countenances, a man and a boy, restored to each other as dearest friends. They watched all the details of the service with unfailing interest, but when the beautiful bride came down the aisle on her husband's arm, they turned with one accord and looked at each other. They had been quite still until 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,beaming creature to suggest a thought of future necessity, 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 sharpness 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.
Transcriber's NoteThe following printers spelling errors have been corrected:-Page 66'direst' to 'divest''could not yet divest himself'Page 278'down' to 'done''as a simple girl might have done'Page 397'pyschological' to 'psychological''any attempt at psychological investigation'Page 470'unforgetable' to 'unforgettable''almost forgotten, yet unforgettable'The following word has been changed on page 138:-'uncle' to 'father'There is no previous mention of an uncle and the title'father' makes more sense in the context of the story.
The following printers spelling errors have been corrected:-Page 66'direst' to 'divest''could not yet divest himself'Page 278'down' to 'done''as a simple girl might have done'Page 397'pyschological' to 'psychological''any attempt at psychological investigation'Page 470'unforgetable' to 'unforgettable''almost forgotten, yet unforgettable'The following word has been changed on page 138:-'uncle' to 'father'There is no previous mention of an uncle and the title'father' makes more sense in the context of the story.
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TALES OF OLD TRAVEL.
FAITHFUL AND UNFAITHFUL.
REUBEN SACHS.
THE RING OF AMASIS.
MUCKLE JOCK, AND OTHER STORIES OF PEASANT LIFE.
MRS. LORIMER.
TALES OF OLD JAPAN. Illustrated.
SPECTATOR—"Mr. Christie Murray has more power and genius for thedelineation of English rustic life than any half-dozen of our survivingnovelists put together."SATURDAY REVIEW—"Few modern novelists can tell a story of Englishcountry life better than Mr. D. Christie Murray."AUNT RACHEL.JOHN VALE'S GUARDIAN.SCHWARTZ.THE WEAKER VESSEL.HE FELL AMONG THIEVES. ByD. C. Murray And H. Herman.
ACADEMY—"At her best she is, with one or two exceptions, the best ofliving English novelists."SATURDAY REVIEW—"Has the charm of style, the literary quality andflavour that never fails to please."A BELEAGUERED CITY.JOYCE.NEIGHBOURS ON THE GREEN.KIRSTEEN.HESTER.HE THAT WILL NOT WHEN HE MAY.THE RAILWAY MAN AND HIS CHILDREN.THE MARRIAGE OF ELINOR.
TIMES—"Mr. Clark Russell is one of those writers who have setthemselves to revive the British sea story in all its gloriousexcitement. Mr. Russell has made a considerable reputation in this line.His plots are well conceived, and that ofMaroonedis no exception tothis rule."MAROONED.A STRANGE ELOPEMENT.
ANTI-JACOBIN—"Powerful, striking, and fascinating romances."JOHN INGLESANT.SIR PERCIVAL.THE LITTLE SCHOOLMASTER MARK.THE COUNTESS EVE.A TEACHER OF THE VIOLIN.
MISS BRETHERTON.
LEAVES OF A LIFE.LATER LEAVES.
THE HEIR OF REDCLYFFE.HEARTSEASE.HOPES AND FEARS.DYNEVOR TERRACE.THE DAISY CHAIN.THE TRIAL:More Links of the Daisy Chain.PILLARS OF THE HOUSE. Vol. I.PILLARS OF THE HOUSE. Vol. II.THE YOUNG STEPMOTHER.THE CLEVER WOMAN OF THE FAMILY.THE THREE BRIDES.MY YOUNG ALCIDES.THE CAGED LION.THE DOVE IN THE EAGLE'S NEST.THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS.LADY HESTER, AND THE DANVERS PAPERS.MAGNUM BONUM.LOVE AND LIFE.UNKNOWN TO HISTORY.STRAY PEARLS.THE ARMOURER'S 'PRENTICES.THE TWO SIDES OF THE SHIELD.NUTTIE'S FATHER.SCENES AND CHARACTERS.CHANTRY HOUSE.A MODERN TELEMACHUS.BYE-WORDS.BEECHCROFT AT ROCKSTONE.MORE BYWORDS.A REPUTED CHANGELING.THE LITTLE DUKE.THE LANCES OF LYNWOOD.THE PRINCE AND THE PAGE.P's AND Q'sandLITTLE LUCY'S WONDERFUL GLOBE.THE TWO PENNILESS PRINCESSES.THAT STICK.
SEEKERS AFTER GOD.ETERNAL HOPE.THE FALL OF MAN.THE WITNESS OF HISTORY TO CHRIST.THE SILENCE AND VOICES OF GOD.IN THE DAYS OF THY YOUTH.SAINTLY WORKERS.EPHPHATHA.MERCY AND JUDGMENT.SERMONS AND ADDRESSES DELIVERED IN AMERICA.
SERMONS PREACHED IN LINCOLN'S INN CHAPEL.In 6 vols.
1. CHRISTMAS DAY AND OTHER SERMONS.2. THEOLOGICAL ESSAYS.3. PROPHETS AND KINGS.4. PATRIARCHS AND LAWGIVERS.5. THE GOSPEL OF THE KINGDOM OF HEAVEN.6. GOSPEL OF ST. JOHN.7. EPISTLE OF ST. JOHN.8. LECTURES ON THE APOCALYPSE.9. FRIENDSHIP OF BOOKS.10. SOCIAL MORALITY.11. PRAYER BOOK AND LORD'S PRAYER.12. THE DOCTRINE OF SACRIFICE.