THE ORACLE SPEAKS.
Lucy went up to the nursery when breakfast was over. It was her habit to
go and take counsel of little Tom when her heart was troubled or heavy.
He was now eighteen months old, an age at which you will say the
judicial faculties are small; but a young mother has superstitions, and
there are many dilemmas in life in which it will do a woman, though the
male critic may laugh, great good to go and confide it all to her baby,
and hold that little bundle of white against her heart to conquer the
pain of it. When little Tom was lively and well, when he put his arms
about her neck and dabbed his velvety mouth against her cheek, Lucy felt
that she was approved of and her heart rose. When he was cross and cried
and pushed her away from him, as sometimes happened, she ceased to be
sure of anything, and felt dissatisfied with herself and all the world.
It was with a great longing to consult this baby oracle and see what
heaven might have to say to her through his means, that she ran
upstairs, neglecting even Mrs. Freshwater, who advanced ceremoniously
from her own retirement with her bill of fare in her hand, as Lucy
darted past. "Wait a little and I will come to you," she cried. What was
the dinner in comparison? She flew up to the nursery only to find it
vacant. The morning was clingy and damp, no weather for the delicate
child to go out, and Lucy was not alarmed but knew well enough where to
find him. The long picture gallery which ran along the front of the
house was his usual promenade on such occasions, and there she betook
herself hurriedly. There could not be much doubt as to little Tom's
whereabouts. Shrieks of baby fun were audible whenever she came within
hearing, and the sound of a flying foot careering from end to end of the
long space, which certainly was not the foot of Tom's nurse, whose voice
could be heard in cries of caution, "Oh, take care, Miss! Oh, for
goodness sake--oh, what will my lady say to me if you should trip with
him!" Lucy paused suddenly, checked by the sound of this commotion. Once
before she had surprised a scene of the kind, and she knew what it
meant. She stopped short, and stood still to get possession of herself.
It was a circumstance which pulled her up sharply and changed the
current of her mind. Her first feeling was one of disappointment and
almost irritation. Could she not even have the baby to herself, she
murmured? But there was in reality so little of the petty in Lucy's
disposition that this was but a momentary sentiment. It changed,
however, the manner of her entrance. She came in quietly, not rushing to
seize her boy as she had intended, but still with her superstition
strong in her heart, and as determined to resort to the _Sortes Tomianae_
as ever. The sight she saw was one to make a picture of. Skimming along
the long gallery with that free light step which scarcely seemed to
touch the ground was Bice, a long stream of hair flying behind her, the
child seated on her shoulder, supported by one raised arm, while the
other held aloft the end of a red scarf which she had twisted round him.
Little Tom had one hand twisted in her hair, and with his small feet
beating upon her breast, and his little chest expanded with cries of
delight, encouraged his steed in her wild career. The dark old pictures,
some full-length Randolphs of an elder age, good for little but a
background, threw up this airy group with all the perfection of
contrast. They flew by as Lucy came in, so joyous, so careless, so
delightful in pose and movement, that she could not utter the little cry
of alarm that came to her lips. Bice had never in her life looked so
near that beauty which she considered as so serious a necessity. She was
flushed with the movement, her fine light figure, too light and slight
as yet for the full perfection of feminine form, was the very
impersonation of youth. She flew, she did not glide nor run--her elastic
foot spurned the floor. She was like a runner in a Greek game. Lucy
stood breathless between admiration and pleasure and alarm, as the
animated figure turned and came fast towards her in its airy career.
Little Tom perceived his mother as they came up. He was still more
daring than his bearer. He detached himself suddenly from Bice's
shoulder, and with a shout of pleasure threw himself upon Lucy. The
oracle had spoken. It almost brought her to her knees indeed, descending
upon her like a little thunderbolt, catching her round the throat and
tearing off with a hurried clutch the lace upon her dress; while the
flying steed, suddenly arrested, came to a dead stop in front of her,
panting, blushing, and disconcerted. "There was no fear," she cried,
with involuntary self-defence, "I held him fast." Bice forgot even in
the surprise how wildly she stood with her hair floating, and the scarf
in her hand still knotted round the baby's waist.
"There was no danger, my lady. I was watching every step; and it do
Master Tom a world of good," cried the nurse, coming to the rescue.
"Why should you think I am afraid?" said Lucy. "Don't you know I am most
grateful to you for being so kind to him? and it was pretty to see you.
You looked so bright and strong, and my boy so happy."
"Miss is just our salvation, my lady," said the nurse; "these wet days
when we can't get out, I don't know what I should do without her. Master
Tom, bless him, is always cross when he don't get no air; but once set
on Miss' shoulder he crows till it do your heart good to hear him," the
woman cried.
Bice stood with the colour still in her face, her head thrown back a
little, and her breath coming less quickly. She laughed at this
applause. "I like it," she said. "I like him; he is my only little
companion. He is pleased when he sees me."
This went to Lucy's heart. "And so are we all," she said; "but you will
not let me see you. I am often alone, too. If you will come and--and
give me your company----"
Bice gave her a wistful look; then shook her head.
"I know you do not wish for us here; and why should you?" she said.
"My dear!" cried Lucy in alarm, with a glance at the woman who stood by,
all ears. And now it was that little Tom at eighteen months showed that
precocious judgment in which his mother had an instinctive belief. He
had satisfied himself with the destruction of Lucy's lace, and with
printing the impression of his mouth all over her cheeks. That little
wet wide open mouth was delicious to Lucy. No trouble had befallen her
yet that could not be wiped out by its touch. But now a new distraction
was necessary for the little hero; and his eye caught the red sash which
still was round his waist. He transferred all his thoughts to it with an
instant revolution of idea, and holding on by it like a little sailor on
a rope, drew Bice close till he could succeed in the arduous task, not
unattended by danger, of flinging himself from one to another. This game
enchanted Master Tom. Had he been a little older it would have been
changed into that daring faltering hop from one eminence, say a
footstool, to another, which flutters the baby soul. He was too insecure
in possession of those aimless little legs to venture on any such daring
feat now; but, with a valour more desperate still, he flung himself
across the gulf from Lucy's arms to those of Bice and back again, with
cries of delight. These cries, it must be allowed, were not very
articulate, but they soon became urgent, with a demand which the little
tyrant insisted upon with increasing vehemence.
"Oh, my lady," cried the nurse, "it is as plain as if he said it, and he
is saying of it, the pet, as pretty!---- He wants you to kiss Miss, he
do. Ain't that it, my own? Nursey knows his little talk. Ain't that it,
my darling lamb?"
There was a momentary pause in the strange little group linked together
by the baby's clutches. The young mother and the girl with their heads
so near each other, looked in each other's faces. In Lucy's there was a
kind of awe, in Bice's a sort of wondering wistfulness mingled with
incipient defiance. They were not born to be each other's friends. They
were different in everything; they were even on different sides in this
house--the one an intruder, belonging to the party which was destroying
the other's domestic peace. It would be vain to say that there was not a
little reluctance in Lucy's soul as she gazed at the younger girl, come
from she knew not where, established under her roof she knew not how.
She hesitated for one moment, then she bent forward almost with
solemnity and kissed Bice's cheek. She seemed to communicate her own
agitation to the girl who stood straight up with her head a little back,
half eager, half defiant. When Bice felt the touch of Lucy's lips,
however, she melted in a moment. Her slight figure swayed, she took
Lucy's disengaged hand with her own, and, stooping over it, kissed it
with lips that quivered. There was not a word said between them; but a
secret compact was thus made under little Tom's inspiration. The little
oracle clambered up upon his mother afterwards, and laid down his head
upon her shoulder and dropped off to sleep with that entire confiding
and abandonment of the whole little being which is one of the deepest
charms of childhood. Who is there with any semblance of a heart in his,
much more her, bosom, who is not touched in the tenderest part when a
child goes to sleep in his arms? The appeal conveyed in the act is one
which scarcely a savage could withstand. The three women gathered round
to see this common spectacle, so universal, so touching. Bice, who was
almost too young for the maternal sentiment, and who was a stern young
Stoic by nature, never shedding a tear, could not tell how it was that
her eyes moistened. But Lucy's filled with an emotion which was sharp
and sore with alarm. "Oh, nurse, don't call my boy a little angel!" she
said, with a sentiment which a woman will understand.
This baby scene upstairs was balanced by one of a very different
character below. Sir Tom had gone into his own room a little disturbed
and out of sorts. Circumstances had been hard upon him, he felt. The
Contessa's letter offering her visit had been a jest to him. He was one
of those who thought the best of the Contessa. He had seen a good deal
of her one time and another in his life, and she held the clue to one or
two matters which it would not have pleased him, at this mature period
of his existence, to have published abroad. She was an adventuress, he
knew, and her friends were not among the best of humanity. She had led a
life which, without being positively evil, had shut her out from the
sympathies of many good people. When a woman has to solve the problem
how to obtain all the luxuries and amusements of life without money, it
is to be expected that her attempts to do so should lead her into risky
places, where the footing was far from sure. But she had never, as Lady
Randolph acknowledged, gone so far as that society should refuse to
receive her, and Sir Tom was always an indulgent critic. If she were
coming to England, as she gave him to understand, he saw no reason why
she should not come to the Hall. For himself, it would be rather amusing
than otherwise, and Lucy would take no harm--even if there was harm in
the Forno-Populo (which he did not believe), his wife was far too
innocent even to suspect it. She would not know evil if she saw it, he
said to himself proudly; and then there was no chance that the Contessa,
who loved merriment and gaiety, could long be content with anything so
humdrum as his quiet life in the country. Thus it will be seen that Sir
Tom had got himself innocently enough into this imbroglio. He had meant
no particular harm. He had meant to be kind to a poor woman, who after
all needed kindness much; and if the comic character of the situation
touched his sense of humour, and he was not unwilling in his own person
to get a little amusement out of it, who could blame him? This was the
worst that Sir Tom meant. To amuse himself partly by the sight of the
conventional beauty and woman of the world in the midst of circumstances
so incongruous, and partly by the fluttering of the dovecotes which the
appearance of such an adventuress would cause. He liked her conversation
too, and to hear all about the more noisy company, full of talk and
diversion in which he had wasted so much of his youth. But there were
two or three things which Sir Tom did not take into his calculations.
The first was the sort of fascination which that talk, and all the
associations of the old world, and the charms of the professional
sorceress, would exercise upon himself after his settling down as the
head of a family and pillar of the State. He had not thought how much
amused he would be, how the contrast even would tickle his fancy and
affect (for the moment) his life. He laughed within himself at the
transparent way in which his old friend bade for his sympathy and
society. She was the same as ever, living upon admiration, upon
compliments whether fictitious or not, and demanding a show of devotion,
somebody always at her feet. She thought, no doubt, he said to himself,
that she had got him at her feet, and he laughed to himself when he was
alone at the thought. But, nevertheless, it did amuse him to talk to the
Contessa, and before long, what with skilful reminders of the past, what
with hints and reference to a knowledge which he would not like extended
to the world, he had begun by degrees to find himself in a confidential
position with her. "We know each other's secrets," she would say to him
with a meaning look. He was caught in her snare. On the other hand an
indefinite visit prolonged and endless had never come within his
calculation. He did not know how to put an end to the situation--perhaps
as it was an amusement for his evenings to see the siren spread her
snares, and even to be more or less caught in them, he did not sincerely
wish to put an end to it as yet. He was caught in them more or less, but
never so much as to be unaware of the skill with which the snares were
laid, which would have amused him whatever had been the seriousness of
the attendant circumstances. He did not, however, allow that he had no
desire to make an end of these circumstances, but only said to himself,
with a shrug of his shoulders, how could he do it? He could not send his
old friend away. He could not but be civil and attentive to her so long
as she was under his roof. It distressed him that Lucy should feel it,
as this morning's experience proved her to do, but how could he help it?
He made that other sacrifice to Lucy by way of reconciling her to the
inevitable, but he could do no more. When you invite a friend to be your
guest, he said to himself, you must be more or less at the mercy of that
friend. If he (or she) stays too long, what can you do? Sir Tom was not
the sort of man to be reduced to helplessness by such a difficulty. Yet
this was what he said to himself.
It vexed him, however, that Lucy should feel it so much. He could not
throw off this uneasy feeling. He had stopped her mouth as one might
stop a child's mouth with a sugar plum; but he could not escape from the
consciousness that Lucy felt her domain invaded, and that her feeling
was just. He had thrown himself into the great chair, and was pondering
not what to do, but the impossibility of doing anything, when Williams,
his confidential man, who knew all about the Contessa almost as well as
he did, suddenly appeared before him. Williams had been all over the
world with Sir Tom before he settled down as his butler at the Hall. He
was, therefore, not one who could be dismissed summarily if he
interfered in any matter out of his sphere. He appeared on the other
side of Sir Tom's writing-table with a face as long as his arm, the face
with which Sir Tom was so well acquainted--the same face with which he
had a hundred times announced the failure of supplies, the delay of
carriages, the general hopelessness of the situation. There was tragedy
in it of the most solemn kind, but there was a certain enjoyment too.
"What is the matter?" said Sir Tom; and then he jumped to his feet.
"Something is wrong with the baby," he cried.
"No, Sir Thomas; Mr. Randolph is pretty well, thank you, Sir Thomas. It
is about something else that I made so bold. There is Antonio, sir, in
the servants' hall; Madame the Countess' man."
"Oh, the Countess," cried Sir Tom, and he seated himself again; then
said, with the confidence of a man to the follower who has been his
companion in many straits, "You gave me a fright, Williams. I thought
that little shaver---- But what's the matter with Antonio? Can't you keep
a fellow like that in order without bothering me?"
"Sir Thomas," said Williams, solemnly, "I am not one as troubles my
master when things are straightforward. But them foreigners, you never
know when you have 'em. And an idle man about an establishment, that is,
so to speak, under nobody, and for ever a-kicking of his heels, and
following the women servants about, and not a blessed hand's turn to
do"--a tone of personal offence came into Williams' complaint; "there is
a deal to do in this house," he added, "and neither me nor any of the
men haven't got a moment to spare. Why, there's your hunting things, Sir
Thomas, is just a man's work. And to see that fellow loafing, and
a-hanging on about the women--I don't wonder, Sir Thomas, that it's more
than any man can stand," said Williams, lighting up. He was a married
man himself, with a very respectable family in the village, but he was
not too old to be able to understand the feelings of John and Charles,
whose hearts were lacerated by the success of the Italian fellow with
his black eyes.
"Well, well, don't worry me," said Sir Tom, "take him by the collar and
give him a shake. You're big enough." Then he laughed unfeelingly, which
Williams did not expect. "Too big, eh, Will? Not so ready for a shindy
as we used to be." This identification of himself with his factotum was
mere irony, and Williams felt it; for Sir Tom, if perhaps less slim than
in his young days, was still what Williams called a "fine figger of a
man;" whereas the butler had widened much round the waist, and was apt
to puff as he came upstairs, and no longer contemplated a shindy as a
possibility at all.
"Sir Thomas," he said, with great gravity, "if I'm corpulent, which I
don't deny, but never thought to have it made a reproach, it's neither
over-feeding nor want of care, but constitootion, as derived from my
parents, Sir Thomas. There is nothing," he added with a pensive
superiority, "as is so gen'rally misunderstood." Then Williams drew
himself up to still greater dignity, stimulated by Sir Tom's laugh. "If
this fellow is to be long in the house, Sir Thomas, I won't answer for
what may happen; for he's got the devil's own temper, like all of them,
and carries a knife like all of them."
"What do you want of me, man? Say it out! Am I to represent to Madame di
Forno-Populo that three great hulking fellows of you are afraid of her
slim Neapolitan?" Sir Tom cried impatiently.
"Not afraid, Sir Thomas, of nothing, but of breaking the law," said
Williams, quickly. Then he added in an insinuating tone: "But I tell
them, ladies don't stop long in country visits, not at this time of the
year. And a thing can be put up with for short that any man'd kick at
for long. Madame the Countess will be moving on to pay her other visits,
Sir Thomas, if I might make so bold? She is a lady as likes variety;
leastways she was so in the old times."
Sir Thomas stared at the bold questioner, who thus went to the heart of
the matter. Then he burst into a hearty laugh. "If you knew so much
about Madame the Countess," he cried, "my good fellow, what need have
you to come and consult me?"