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 household 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 expectations 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 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 Randolph, 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 Forno-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 Randolph, 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 Randolph made no
reply, and he did not 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 forgetfulness 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 providential. 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, evidently was protecting her. It was known in heaven what an
effort it had cost her to do her duty 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
goodwill 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 opposition, without
even demanding of his wife an account of her action, how much that would
be, and how cordially, 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 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 unsuspicious: but that their coming should
give her pleasure, 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 possibility of evil? He
admired her for it, and wondered--if it was a little silly (which he had
a kind of undisclosed 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 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 Randolph'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 Randolph 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
improvements, 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-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 Randolph, 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
Randolph, 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 Randolph, 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 Randolph. 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 difference to you better if the specimens
were before us; but it is a little difficult to describe. I rather
think 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 Randolph 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 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 experienced woman
by her side was quite unaware of. "But," she said, "Tom would not have
invited her, Aunt Randolph, 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 Randolph with indignation. "My dear Lucy," she
added after a pause, with subdued 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, "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 husbands, 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 intimate with her, Lucy; don't
let her fix herself upon you when you go to town, and talk about young
Lady Randolph 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 herself 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 Randolph 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 keeping one's
self warm. When they got in, it was exciting 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 atmosphere 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 sympathetically.
"I dare say," said Lady Randolph, "she thinks a dinner dress will make a
better effect."
Lucy looked towards her husband almost with indignation, 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 defending
her he only laughed. "One general understands another's tactics," he
said.