DIFFERENT VIEWS.
The time after this seemed to fly in the great quiet, all the
entertainments of the Christmas season being over, and the houses in the
neighbourhood gradually emptying of guests. The only visitors at the
Hall were the clergyman, the doctor, an odd man now and then whom Sir
Tom would invite in the character of a "native," for the Contessa's
amusement; and Mr. Rushton, who came from Farafield two or three times
on business, at first with a very keen curiosity, to know how it was
that Lucy had subdued her husband and got him to relinquish his
objection to her alienation of her money. This had puzzled the lawyer
very greatly. There had been no uncertainty about Sir Tom's opinion when
the subject was mooted to him first. He had looked upon it with very
proper sentiments. It had seemed to him ridiculous, incredible, that
Lucy should set up her will against his, or take her own way, when she
knew how he regarded the matter. He had told the lawyer that he had
little doubt of being able to bring her to hear reason. And then he had
written to say that he withdrew his objection! Mr. Rushton felt that
there must be some reason here more than met the eye. He made a pretence
of business that he might discover what it was, and he had done so
triumphantly, as he thought. Sir Tom, as everybody knew, had been "a
rover" in his youth, and the world was charitable enough to conclude
that in that youth there must be many things which he would not care to
expose to the eye of day. When Mr. Rushton beheld at luncheon the
Contessa, followed by the young and slim figure of Bice, it seemed to
him that everything was solved. And Lady Randolph, he thought, did not
look with very favourable eyes upon the younger lady. What doubt that
Sir Tom had bought the assent of his wife to the presence of the guests
by giving up on his side some of his reasonable rights?
"Did you ever hear of an Italian lady that Sir Tom was thick with before
he married?" he asked his wife when he came home.
"How can you ask me such a question," said that virtuous woman, "when
you know as well as I do that there were half-a-dozen?"
"Did you ever hear the name of Forno-Populo?" he asked.
Mrs. Rushton paused and did her best to look as if she was trying to
recollect. As a matter of fact all Italian names sounded alike to her,
as English names do to foreign ears. But after a moment she said boldly:
"Of course I have heard it. That was the lady from Naples, or Venice, or
some of those places, that ran away with him. You heard all about it at
the time as well as I."
And upon this Mr. Rushton smote upon his thigh, and made a mighty
exclamation. "By George!" he said, "he's got her there, under his wife's
very nose; and that's why he has given in about the money." Nothing
could have been more clearly reasoned out--there could be no doubt upon
that subject. And the presence of Bice decided the question. Bice must
be--they said, to be sure! Dates and everything answered to this view of
the question. There could be no doubt as to who Bice was. They were very
respectable, good people themselves, and had never given any scandal to
the world; but they never hesitated for a moment or thought there was
anything unnatural in attributing the most shameful scandal and domestic
treachery to Sir Tom. In fact it would be difficult to say that they
thought much less of him in consequence. It was Lucy, rather, upon whom
their censure fell. She ought to have known better. She ought never to
have allowed it. To pretend to such simplicity was sickening, Mrs.
Rushton thought.
It was early in February when they all went to London--a time when
society is in a sort of promissory state, full of hopes of dazzling
delights to come, but for the present not dazzling, parliamentary,
residential, a society made up of people who live in London, who are not
merely gay birds of fashion, basking in the sunshine of the seasons.
There was only a week or two of what the Contessa called Carnival, which
indeed was not Carnival at all, but a sober time in which dinner parties
began, and the men began to gather at the clubs. The Contessa did not
object to this period of quiet. She acquainted Lucy with all she meant
to do in the meantime, to the great confusion of that ingenious spirit.
"Bice must be dressed," the Contessa said, "which of itself requires no
little time and thought. Unhappily M. Worth is not in London. Even with
M. Worth I exert my own faculties. He is excellent, but he has not the
intuitions which come when one is very much interested in an object.
Sweet Lucy! you have not thought upon that matter. Your dress is as your
dressmaker sends it to you. Yes; but, my angel, Bice has her career
before her. It is different."
"Oh, Madame di Forno-Populo," said Lucy, "do you still think in that
way--must it still be exhibiting her, marrying her?"
"Marriage is honourable," said the Contessa. "It is what all girls are
thinking of; but me, I think it better that their parents should take it
in hand instead of the young ladies. There is something in Bice that is
difficult, oh, very difficult. If one chooses well for her, one will be
richly repaid; but if, on the contrary, one leaves it to the
conventional, the ordinary--My sweetest! your pretty white dresses, your
blues are delightful for you; but Bice is different, quite different.
And then she has no fortune. She must be piquant. She must be striking.
She must please. In England you take no trouble for that. It is not
_comme il faut_ here; but it is in our country. Each of us we like the
ways of our country best."
"I have often wondered," said Lucy, "to hear you speak such perfect
English, and Bice too. It is, I suppose, because you are so musical and
have such good ears----"
"Darling!" said the Contessa sweetly. She said this or a similar word
when nothing else occurred to her. She had her room full of lovely
stuffs, brought by obsequious shopmen, to whom Lady Randolph's name was
sufficient warrant for any extravagance the Contessa might think of. But
she said to herself that she was not at all extravagant; for Bice's
wardrobe was her stock-in-trade, and if she did not take the opportunity
of securing it while in her power, the Contessa thought she would be
false to Bice's interests. The girl still wore nothing but her black
frock. She went out in the park early in the morning when nobody was
there, and sometimes had riding lessons at an unearthly hour, so that
nobody should see her. The Contessa was very anxious on this point. When
Lucy would have taken Bice out driving, when she would have taken her
to the theatre, her patroness instantly interfered. "All that will come
in its time," she said. "Not now. She must not appear now. I cannot have
her seen. Recollect, my Lucy, she has no fortune. She must depend upon
herself for everything." This doctrine, at which Lucy stood aghast, was
maintained in the most matter-of-fact way by the neophyte herself. "If I
were seen," she said, "now, I should be quite stale when I appear. I
must appear before I go anywhere. Oh yes, I love the theatre. I should
like to go with you driving. But I should forestall myself. Some persons
do and they are never successful. First of all, before anything, I must
appear."
"Oh my child," Lucy cried, "I cannot bear to hear of all this. You
should not calculate so at your age. And when you appear, as you call
it, what then, Bice? Nobody will take any particular notice, perhaps,
and you will be so disappointed you will not know what to do. Hundreds
of girls appear every season and nobody minds."
Bice took no notice of these subduing and moderating previsions. She
smiled and repeated what the Contessa said. "I must do the best for
myself, for I have no fortune."
No fortune! and to think that Lucy, with her mind directed to other
matters, never once realised that this was a state of affairs which she
could put an end to in a moment. It never occurred to her--perhaps, as
she certainly was matter of fact, the recollection that there was a sort
of stipulation in the will against foreigners turned her thoughts into
another channel.
It was, however, during this time of preparation and quiet that the
household in Park Lane one day received a visit from Jock, accompanied
by no less a person than MTutor, the leader of intellectual life and
light of the world to the boy. They came to luncheon by appointment, and
after visiting some museum on which Jock's mind was set, came to remain
to dinner and go to the theatre. MTutor had a condescending appreciation
of the stage. He thought it was an educational influence, not perhaps of
any great utility to the youths under such care as his own, but of no
small importance to the less fortunate members of society; and he liked
to encourage the efforts of conscientious actors who looked upon their
own calling in this light. It was rather for this purpose than with the
idea of amusement that he patronised the play, and Jock, as in duty
bound, though there was in him a certain boyish excitement as to the
pleasure itself, did his best to regard the performance in the same
exalted light. MTutor was a young man of about thirty, slim and tall. He
was a man who had taken honours at college, though his admirers said not
such high honours as he might have taken; "For MTutor," said Jock,
"never would go in for pot-hunting, you know. What he always wanted was
to cultivate his own mind, not to get prizes." It was with heartfelt
admiration that this feature in his character was dwelt upon by his
disciples. Not a doubt that he could have got whatever he liked to go in
for, had he not been so fastidious and high-minded. He was fellow of his
college as it was, had got a poetry prize which, perhaps, was not the
Newdigate; and smiled indulgently at those who were more warm in the
arena of competition than himself. On other occasions when "men" came to
luncheon, the Contessa, though quite ready to be amused by them in her
own person, sternly forbade the appearance of Bice, the effect of whose
future was not, she was determined, to be spoilt by any such preliminary
peeps; but the Contessa's vigilance slackened when the visitors were of
no greater importance than this. She was insensible to the greatness of
MTutor. It did not seem to matter that he should be there sitting grave
and dignified by Lucy's side, and talking somewhat over Lucy's head, any
more than it mattered that Mr. Rushton should be there, or any other
person of an inferior level. It was not upon such men that Bice's
appearance was to tell. She took no precautions against such persons.
Jock himself at sixteen was not more utterly out of the question. And
the Contessa herself, as it happened, was much amused by MTutor; his
great ideas of everything, the exalted ideal that showed in all he did
or said, gave great pleasure to this woman of the world. And when they
came to the question of the educational influence of the stage, and the
conscientious character of the actors' work, she could not conceal her
satisfaction. "I will go with you, too," she said, "this evening." "We
shall all go," said Sir Tom, "even Bice. There is a big box, and behind
the curtain nobody will see her." To this the Contessa demurred, but,
after a little while, being in a yielding humour, gave way. "It is for
the play alone," she said in an undertone, raising her finger in
admonition, "You will remember, my child, for the play alone."
"We are all going for the play alone," said Sir Tom, cheerfully. "Here
is Lucy, who is a baby for a play. She likes melodrama best, disguises
and trap-doors and long-lost sons, and all the rest of it."
"It is a taste that is very general," said MTutor, indulgently; "but I
am sure Lady Randolph appreciates the efforts of a conscientious
interpreter--one who calls all the resources of art to his aid----"
"I don't care for the play alone," said Bice to Jock in an undertone. "I
want to see the people. They are always the most amusing. I have seen
nobody yet in London. And though I must not be seen, I may look, that
will do no harm. Then there will be the people who come into the box."
"The people who come into the box! but you know us all," said Jock,
astonished, "before we go----"
"You all?" said Bice, with some disdain. "It is easy to see _you_; that
is not what I mean; this will be the first time I put my foot into the
world. The actors, that is nothing. Is it the custom in England to look
much at the play? No, you go to see your friends."
MTutor was on the other side of this strange girl in her black frock. He
took it upon him to reply. He said: "That is the case in some countries,
but not here. In England the play is actually thought of. English actors
are not so good as the French, nor even the Italian. And the Germans are
much better trained. Nevertheless, we do what perhaps no other nation
does. We give them our attention. It is this which makes the position of
the actors more important, more interesting in England."
"Stop a little, stop a little!" cried Sir Tom; "don't let me interrupt
you, Derwentwater, if you are instructing the young ones; but don't
forget the _Comedie Francaise_ and the aristocracy of art."
"I do not forget it," said Mr. Derwentwater; "in that point of view we
are far behind France; still I uphold that nowhere else do people go to
the theatre for the sake of the play as we do; and it is this," he
said, turning to Bice, "that makes it possible that the theatre may be
an influence and a power."
Bice lifted her eyes upon this man with a wondering gaze of contempt.
She gave him a full look which abashed him, though he was so much more
important, so much more intellectual, than she. Then, without deigning
to take any notice, she turned to Jock at her other side. "If that is
all I do not care for going," she said. "I have seen many plays--oh,
many! I like quite as well to read at home. It is not for that I wish to
go; but to see the world. The world, that is far more interesting. It is
like a novel, but living. You look at the people and you read what they
are thinking. You see their stories going on. That is what amuses
me;--but a play on the stage, what is it? People dressed in clothes that
do not belong to them, trying to make themselves look like somebody
else--but they never do. One says--that is not I, but the people that
know--Bravo, Got! Bravo Regnier! It does not matter what parts they are
acting. You do not care for the part. Then why go and look at it?" said
Bice with straightforward philosophy.
All this she poured forth upon Jock in a low clear voice, as if there
was no one else near. Jock, for his part, was carried away by the flood.
"I don't know about Got and Regnier. But what we are going to see is
Shakespeare," he said, with a little awe, "that is not just like a
common play."
Mr. Derwentwater had been astonished by Bice's indifference to his own
instructive remarks. It was this perhaps more than her beauty which had
called his attention to her, and he had listened as well as he could to
the low rapid stream of her conversation, not without wonder that she
should have chosen Jock as the recipient of her confidence. What she
said, though he heard it but imperfectly, interested him still more. He
wanted to make her out--it was a new kind of study. While Lucy, by his
side, went on tranquilly with some soft talk about the theatre, of which
she knew very little, he thought, he made her a civil response, but gave
all his attention to what was going on at the other side; and there was
suddenly a lull of the general commotion, in which he heard distinctly
Bice's next words.
"_What_ is Shakespeare?" she said; then went on with her own
reflections. "What I want to see is the world. I have never yet gone
into the world; but I must know it, for it is there I have to live. If
one could live in Shakespeare," cried the girl, "it would be easy; but I
have not been brought up for that; and I want to see the world--just a
little corner--because that is what concerns me, not a play. If it is
only for the play, I think I shall not go."
"You had much better come," said Jock; "after all it is fun, and some of
the fellows will be good. The world is not to be seen at the theatre
that I know of," continued the boy. "Rows of people sitting one behind
another, most of them as stupid as possible--you don't call that the
world? But come--I wish you would come. It is a change--it stirs you
up."
"I don't want to be stirred up. I am all living," cried Bice. There
seemed to breathe out from her a sort of visible atmosphere of energy
and impatient life. Looking across this thrill in the air, which somehow
was like the vibration of heat in the atmosphere, Jock's eyes
encountered those of his tutor, turned very curiously, and not without
bewilderment, to the same point as his own. It gave the boy a curious
sensation which he could not define. He had wished to exhibit to Mr.
Derwentwater this strange phenomenon in the shape of a girl, with a
sense that there was something very unusual in her, something in which
he himself had a certain proprietorship. But when MTutor's eyes
encountered Jock's with an astonished glance of discovery in them, which
seemed to say that he had found out Bice for himself without the
interposition of the original discoverer, Jock felt a thrill of
displeasure, and almost pain, which he could not explain to himself.
What did it mean? It seemed to bring with it a certain defiance of, and
opposition to, this king of men.