THE BREAKFAST TABLE.
Lucy found her life much changed when Jock had gone, and she was left
alone to face the change of circumstances which had tacitly taken place.
The Contessa said not a word of terminating her visit. The departure of
Lady Randolph apparently suggested nothing to her. She could scarcely
have filled up the foreground more entirely than she did before--but she
was now uncriticised, unremarked upon. There seemed even to be no
appropriation of more than her due, for it was very natural that a
person of experience and powers of conversation like hers should take
the leading place, and simple Lucy, so much younger and with so much
less acquaintance with the world, fall into the background. And
accordingly this was what happened. Madame di Forno-Populo knew
everybody. She had a hundred mutual acquaintances to tell Sir Tom about,
and they seemed to have an old habit of intercourse, which by this time
had been fully resumed. The evenings were the time when this was most
apparent. Then the Contessa was at her brightest. She had managed to
introduce shades upon all the lamps, so as to diffuse round her a
softened artificial illumination such as is favourable to beauty that
has passed its prime: and in this ruddy gloom she sat half seen, Sir Tom
sometimes standing by her, sometimes permitted to take the other corner
of her sofa--and talked to him, sometimes sinking her voice low as her
reminiscences took some special vein, sometimes calling sweetly to her
pretty Lucy to listen to this or that. These extensions of confidence,
generally, were brought in to make up for a long stretch of more private
communications, and the aspect of the little domestic circle was on such
occasions curious enough. By the table, in a low chair, with the full
light of the lamp upon her, sat Lucy, generally with some work in her
hands; she did not read or write (exercises to which, to tell the truth,
she was not much addicted) out of politeness, lest she should seem to be
withdrawing her attention from her guest, but sat there with her slight
occupation, so as to be open to any appeal, and ready if she were
wanted. On the other side of the table, the light making a sort of
screen and division between them, sat Bice, generally with a book before
her, which, as has been said, did not at all interfere with her power of
giving a vivid attention to what was going on around her. These two said
nothing to each other, and were often silent for the whole evening, like
pieces of still life. Bice sat with her book upon the table, so that
only the open page and the hands that held the book were within the
brightness of the light, which on the other side streamed down upon
Lucy's fair shoulders and soft young face, and upon the work in her
hands. In the corner was the light continuous murmur of talk; the
half-seen figure of the Contessa, generally leaning back, looking up to
Sir Tom, who stood with his arm on the mantelpiece with much animation,
gesticulation of her hands and subdued laughter, the most lively
current of sound, soft, intensified by little eloquent breaks, by
emphatic gestures, by sentences left incomplete, but understood all the
better for being half said. There were many evenings in which Lucy sat
there with a little wonder, but no other active feeling in her mind. It
is needless to say that it was not pleasant to her. She would sit and
wonder wistfully whether her husband had forgotten she was there, but
then reminded herself that of course it was his duty to think of the
Contessa first, and consoled herself that by and by the stranger would
go away, and all would be as it had been. As time went on, the desire
that this should happen, and longing to have possession of her home
again, grew so strong that she could scarcely subdue it, and it was with
the greatest difficulty that she kept all expression of it from her
lips. And by and by, the warmth of this restrained desire so absorbed
Lucy that she scarcely dared allow herself to speak lest it should burst
forth, and there seemed to herself to be continually going on in her
mind a calculation of the chances, a scrutiny of everything the Contessa
said which seemed to point at such a movement. But, indeed, the Contessa
said very little upon which the most sanguine could build. She said
nothing of her arrangements at all, nor spoke of what she was going to
do, and answered none of Lucy's ardent and innocent fishings after
information. The evenings became more and more intolerable to Lady
Randolph as they went on. She was glad that anybody should come, however
little she might care for their society, to break these private
conferences up.
And this was not all, nor even perhaps the worst, of the vague evils not
yet defined in her mind, and which she was so very reluctant to define,
which Lucy had to go through. At breakfast, when she was alone with her
husband, matters were almost worse. Sir Tom, it was evident, began to
feel the _tete-a-tete_ embarrassing. He did not know what to say to his
little wife when they were alone. The presence of the Dowager and Jock
had freed him from any necessity of explanation, had kept him in his
usual easy way; but now that Lucy alone sat opposite to him, he was more
silent than his wont, and with no longer any of the little flow of
simple observations which had once been so delightful to her. Sir Tom
was more uneasy than if she had been a stern and jealous Eleanor, a
clear-sighted critic seeing through and through him. The contest was so
unequal, and the weaker creature so destitute of any intention or
thought of resistance, that he felt himself a coward and traitor for
thus deserting her and overclouding her home and her life. Then he took
to asking himself, Did he overcloud her? Was she sensible of any
difference? Did she know enough to know that this was not how she ought
to be treated, or was she not quite contented with her secondary place?
Such a simple creature, would she not cry--would she not show her anger
if she was conscious of anything to be grieved or angry about? He took
refuge in those newspapers which, he gave out, it was so necessary he
should study, to understand the mind of the country before the opening
of Parliament. And thus they would sit, Lucy dutifully filling out the
tea, taking care that he had the dish he liked for breakfast, swallowing
her own with difficulty yet lingering over it, always thinking that
perhaps Tom might have something to say. While he, on the other hand,
kept behind his newspaper, feeling himself guilty, conscious that
another sort of woman would make one of those "scenes" which men dread,
yet despising Lucy a little in spite of himself for the very quality he
most admired in her, and wondering if she were really capable of feeling
at all. Sometimes little Tom would be brought downstairs to roll about
the carpet and try his unsteady little limbs in a series of clutches at
the chairs and table; and on these occasions the meal was got through
more easily. But little Tom was not always well enough to come
downstairs, and sometimes Lucy thought that her husband might have
something to say to her which the baby's all-engrossing presence
hindered. Thus it came about that the hours in which the Contessa was
present and in the front of everything, were really less painful than
those in which the pair were alone with the shadow of the intruder, more
powerful even than her presence holding them apart.
One of these mornings, however, Lucy's anticipations and hopes seemed
about to be realised. Sir Tom laid down his paper, looked at her frankly
without any shield, and said, as she had so often imagined him saying,
"I want to talk to you, Lucy." How glad she was that little Tom was not
downstairs that morning!
She looked at him across the table with a brightening countenance, and
said, "Yes, Tom!" with such warm eagerness and sudden pleasure that her
look penetrated his very heart. It implied a great deal more than Sir
Tom intended and thought, and he was a man of very quick intelligence.
The expectation in her eyes touched him beyond a thousand complaints.
"I had an interview yesterday, in which you were much concerned," he
said; then made a pause, with such a revolution going on within him as
seldom happens in a mature and self-collected mind. He had begun with
totally different sentiments from those which suddenly came over him at
the sight of her kindling face. When he said, "I want to talk to you,
Lucy," he had meant to speak of her interview with Mr. Rushton, to point
out to her the folly of what she was doing, and to show her how it was
that he should be compelled to do everything that was in his power to
oppose her. He did not mean to go to the root of the matter, as he had
done before, when he was obliged to admit to himself that he had
failed--but to address himself to the secondary view of the question, to
the small prospect there was of doing any good. But when he caught her
eager, questioning look, her eyes growing liquid and bright with
emotion, her face full of restrained anxiety and hope, Sir Tom's heart
smote him. What did she think he was going to say? Not anything about
money, important as that subject was in their life--but something far
more important, something that touched her to the quick, a revelation
upon which her very soul hung. He was startled beyond measure by this
disclosure. He had thought she did not feel, and that her heart
unawakened had regarded calmly, with no pain to speak of, the new state
of affairs of which he himself was guiltily conscious; but that eager
look put an end in a moment to his delusion. He paused and swerved
mentally as if an angel had suddenly stepped into his way.
"It is about--that will of your father's," he said.
Lucy, gazing at him with such hope and expectation, suddenly sank, as it
were, prostrate in the depth of a disappointment that almost took the
life out of her. She did not indeed fall physically or faint, which
people seldom do in moments of extreme mental suffering. It was only her
countenance that fell. Her brightening, beaming, hopeful face grew
blank in a moment, her eyes grew utterly dim, a kind of mist running
over them: a sound--half a sob, half a sigh, came from her breast. She
put up her hand trembling to support her head, which shook too with the
quiver that went over her. It took her at least a minute to get over the
shock of the disappointment. Then commanding herself painfully, but
without looking at him, which, indeed, she dared not do, she said again,
"Yes, Tom?" with a piteous quiver of her lip.
It did not make Sir Tom any the less kind, and full of tender impulses,
that he was wounding his wife in the profoundest sensibilities of her
heart. In this point the greater does not include the lesser. He was
cruel in the more important matter, without intending it indeed, and
from what he considered a fatality, a painful combination of
circumstances out of which he could not escape; but in the lesser
particulars he was as kind as ever. He could not bear to see her
suffering. The quiver in her lip, the failure of the colour in her
cheeks affected him so that he could scarcely contain himself.
"My dear love," he cried, "my little Lucy! you are not afraid of what I
am going to say to you?" These words came to his lips naturally, by the
affectionate impulse of his kind nature. But when he had said them, an
impulse, which was perhaps more crafty than loving, followed. Quick as
thought he changed his intention, his purpose altogether. He could not
resist the appeal of Lucy's face; but he slipped instinctively from the
more serious question that lay between them, and resolved to sacrifice
the other, which was indeed very important, yet could be treated in an
easier way and without involving anything more painful. Sir Tom was at
an age when money has a great value, and the mere sense of possession is
pleasant; and there was a principle involved which he had determined a
few weeks ago not to relinquish. But the position in which he found
himself placed was one out of which some way of escape had to be
invented at once. "Lucy," he said, "you are frightened; you think I am
going to cross you in the matter that lies so near your heart. But you
mistake me, my dear. I think I ought to be your chief adviser in that as
in all matters. It is my duty: but I hope you never thought that I would
exercise any force upon you to put a stop to--what you thought right."
Lucy had overcome herself, though with a painful effort. She followed
with a quivering humility what he was saying. She acknowledged to
herself that this was, indeed, the great thing in her life, and that it
was only her childishness and foolishness which had made her place other
matters in the chief place. Most likely, she said to herself, Tom was
not aware of anything that required explanation; he would never think it
possible that she could be so ungracious and unkind as to grudge his
guests their place in his house. She gathered herself up hastily to meet
him when he entered upon the great question which was far more
important, which was indeed the only question between them. "I know,"
she said, "that you were always kind, Tom. If I did not ask you first it
was because----"
"We need not enter upon that, my dear. I was angry, and went too far. At
the same time, Lucy, it is a mad affair altogether. Your father himself,
had he realised the difficulty of carrying it out, would have seen this.
I only say so to let you know my opinion is unchanged. And you know
your trustees are of the same mind. But if you think this is your duty,
as I am sure you do----"
It seemed to Lucy that her duty had sailed far away from her on some sea
of strange distance and dullness where she could scarcely keep it in
sight. Her own very voice seemed strange and dull to her and far away,
as she said almost mechanically: "I do think it is my duty--to my
father----"
"I am aware that you think so, my love. As you get older you will,
perhaps, see as I do--that to carry out the spirit of your father's will
would be better than to follow so closely the letter of it. But you are
still very young, and Jock is younger; and, fortunately, you can afford
to indulge a freak of this sort. I shall let Mr. Rushton know that I
withdraw all opposition. And now, give me a kiss, and let us forget that
there ever was any controversy between us--it never went further than a
controversy, did it, darling?" Sir Tom said.
Lucy could not speak for the moment. She looked up into his face with
her eyes all liquid with tears, and a great confusion in her soul. Was
this all? as he kissed her, and smiled, leaning over her in the old kind
way, with a tenderness that was half-fatherly and indulgent to her
weakness, she did not seem at all sure what it was that had moved like a
ghost between him and her; was it in reality only this--this and no
more? She almost thought so as she looked up into his kind face. Only
this! How glad it would have made her three weeks ago to have his
sanction for the thing she was so reluctant to attempt, which it was so
much her duty to do, which Jock urged with so much pertinacity, and
which her father from his grave enjoined. If it affected her but dully
now, whose was the fault? Not Tom's, who was so generously ready to
yield to her, although he disapproved. When he retired behind his
newspaper once more with a kind smile at her, to end the matter, Lucy
sat quite still in a curious stunned confusion trying to account for it
all to herself. There could be no doubt, she thought, that it was she
who was in the wrong. She it was who had created the embarrassment
altogether. He was not even aware of any other cause. It had never
occurred to his greater mind that she could be so petty as to fret under
the interruption which their visitors had made in her life. He had
thought that the other matter was the cause of her dullness and silence,
and generously had put an end to it, not by requiring any sacrifice from
her, but by making one in his own person. She sat silent trying to
realise all this, but unable to get quite free from the confusion and
dimness that had invaded her soul.