THE CONTESSA PREPARES THE WAY.
"I never sing," said the Contessa, with that serene smile with which she
was in the habit of accompanying a statement which her hearers knew to
be quite untrue. "Oh never! It is one of my possibilities which are
over--one of the things which you remember of me in--other days----"
"So far back as March," said Sir Tom; "but we all recognise that in a
lady's calendar that may mean a century."
"Put it in the plural, _mon ami_--centuries, that is more correct," said
the Contessa, with her dazzling smile.
"And might one ask why this sudden acceleration of time?" asked one of
the gentlemen who were always in attendance, belonging, so to speak, to
the Contessa's side of the party. She opened out her lovely hands and
gave a little shrug to her shoulders, and elevation of her eyebrows.
"It is easy to tell: but whether I shall tell you is another
question----"
"Oh, do, do, Countess," cried young Montjoie, who was somewhat rough in
his attentions, and treated the lady with less ceremony than a less
noble youth would have ventured upon. "Come, don't keep us all in
suspense. I must hear you, don't you know; all the other fellows have
heard you. So, please, get over the preliminaries, and let's come to the
music. I'm awfully fond of music, especially singing. I'm a dab at that
myself----"
The Contessa let her eyes dwell upon this illustrious young man. "Why,"
she said, "have I been prevented from making acquaintance with the art
in which my Lord Montjoie is--a dab----"
At this there was a laugh, in which the good-natured young nobleman did
not refuse to join. "I say, you know! it's too bad to make fun of me
like this," he cried; "but I'll tell you what, Countess, I'll make a
bargain with you. I'll sing you three of mine if you'll sing me one of
yours."
The Contessa smiled with that gracious response which so often answered
instead of words. The other ladies had withdrawn, except Lucy, who
waited somewhat uneasily till her guest was ready. Though Madame di
Forno-Populo had never lost the ascendency which she had acquired over
Lady Randolph by throwing herself upon her understanding and sympathy,
there were still many things which Lucy could not acquiesce in without
uneasiness, in the Contessa's ways. The group of men about her chair,
when all the other ladies took their candles and made their way
upstairs, wounded Lucy's instinctive sense of what was befitting. She
waited, punctilious in her feeling of duty, though the Contessa had not
hesitated to make her understand that the precaution was quite
unnecessary--and though even Sir Tom had said something of a similar
signification. "She is old enough to take care of herself. She doesn't
want a chaperon," Sir Tom had said; but nevertheless Lucy would take up
a book and sit down at the table and wait: which was the more
troublesome that it was precisely at this moment that the Contessa was
most amusing and enjoyed herself most. Sir Tom's parliamentary friends
had disappeared to the smoking-room when the ladies left the room. It
was the other kind of visitors, the gentlemen who had known the
Contessa in former days, and were old friends likewise of Sir Tom, who
gathered round her now--they and young Lord Montjoie, who was rather out
of place in the party, but who admired the Contessa greatly, and thought
her better fun than any one he knew.
The Contessa gave the young man one of those speaking smiles which were
more eloquent than words. And then she said: "If I were to tell you why,
you would not believe me. I am going to retire from the world."
At this there was a little tumult of outcry and laughter. "The world
cannot spare you, Contessa." "We can't permit any such sacrifice." And,
"Retire! Till to-morrow?" her courtiers said.
"Not till to-morrow. I do more than retire. I abdicate," said the
Contessa, waving her beautiful hands as if in farewell.
"This sounds very mysterious; for an abdication is different from a
withdrawal; it suggests a successor."
"Which is an impossibility," another said.
The Contessa distributed her smiles with gracious impartiality to all,
but she kept a little watch upon young Montjoie, who was eager amid the
ring of her worshippers. "Nevertheless, it is more than a successor,"
she said, playing with them, with a strange pleasure. To be thus
surrounded, flattered more openly than men ever venture to flatter a
woman whom they respect, addressed with exaggerated admiration,
contemplated with bold and unwavering eyes, had come by many descents to
be delightful to the Contessa. It reminded her of her old triumphs--of
the days when men of a different sort brought homage perhaps not much
more real but far more delicate, to her feet. A long career of baths and
watering-places, of Baden and Homburg, and every other conceivable
resort of temporary gaiety and fashion, had brought her to this. Sir
Tom, who was not taking much share in the conversation, stood with his
arm on the mantelpiece, and watched her and her little court with
compassionate eyes. He had laughed often before; but he did not laugh
now. Perhaps the fact that he was himself no longer her first object
helped to change the aspect of affairs. He had consented to invite these
men as old acquaintances; but it was intolerable to him to see this
scene going on in the room in which his wife was; and the Contessa's
radiant satisfaction seemed almost horrible to him in Lucy's presence.
Lucy was seated at some distance from the group, her face turned away,
her head bent, to all appearance very intent upon the book she was
reading. He looked at her with a sort of reverential impatience. She was
not capable of understanding the degradation which her own pure and
simple presence made apparent. He could not endure her to be there
sanctioning the indecorum;--and yet the tenacity with which she held her
place, and did what she thought her duty to her guest, filled him with a
wondering pride. No other scene, perhaps, he thought, in all England,
could have presented a contrast so curious.
"The Contessa speaks in riddles," said one of the circle. "We want an
OEdipus."
"Oh, come, Countess," said young Montjoie, "don't hang us up like this.
We are all of us on pins and needles, don't you know? It all began about
you singing. Why don't you sing? All the fellows say it's as good as
Grisi. I never heard Grisi, but I know every note Patti's got in her
voice; and I want to compare, don't you know?"
The Contessa contemplated the young man with a sort of indulgent smile
like a mother who withholds a toy.
"When are you going away?" she said. "You will soon go back to your dear
London, to your clubs and all your delights."
"Oh, come, Countess," repeated Montjoie, "that isn't kind. You talk as
if you wanted to get rid of a fellow. I'm due at the Duke's on Friday,
don't you know?"
"Then it shall be on Thursday," said the Contessa, with a laugh.
"What shall be on Thursday?"
The others all came round her with eager questions.
"I am going on Wednesday," said one. "What is this that is going to
happen?"
"And why am I to be excluded?"
"And I? If there is to be anything new, tell us what it is."
"Inquisitors! and they say that curiosity belongs to women," said the
Contessa. "Messieurs, if I were to tell you what it was, it would be no
longer new."
"Well, but hang it all," cried young Montjoie, who was excited and had
forgotten his manners, "do tell us what it is. Don't you see we don't
even know what kind of thing you mean? If it's music----"
Madame di Forno-Populo laughed once more. She loved to mystify and raise
expectations. "It is not music," she said. "It is my reason for
withdrawing. When you see that, you will understand. You will all say
the Contessa is wise. She has foreseen exactly the right moment to
retire."
And with this she rose from the sofa with a sudden movement which took
her attendants by surprise. She was not given to shaking hands. She
withdrew quickly from Montjoie's effort to seize her delicate fingers,
which she waved to the company in general. "My Lucy," she said, "I have
kept you waiting! to this extent does one forget one's self in your
delightful house. But, my angel, you should not permit me to do it. You
should hold up your finger, and I would obey."
"Bravo," said Montjoie's voice behind their backs in a murmur of
delight. "Oh, by Jove, isn't that good? Fancy, a woman like her, and
that simple----"
One of the elder men gave Montjoie something like a kick, inappropriate
as the scene was for such a demonstration. "You little----think what you
are saying," he cried.
But Sir Tom was opening the door for the ladies, and did not hear. Lucy
was tired and pale. She looked like a child beside the stately Contessa.
She had taken no notice of Madame di Forno-Populo's profession of
submission. In her heart she was longing to run to the nursery, to see
her boy asleep, and make sure that all was well; and she was not only
tired with her vigil, but uneasy, disapproving. She divined what the
Contessa meant, though not even Sir Tom had made it out. Perhaps it was
feminine instinct that instructed her on this point. Perhaps the strong
repugnance she had, and sense of opposition to what was about to be
done, quickened her powers of divination. She who had never suspected
anybody in all her life fathomed the Contessa's intentions at a glance.
"That boy!" she said to herself as she followed up the great staircase.
Lucy divined the Contessa, and the Contessa divined that she had
divined her. She turned round when they reached the top of the stairs
and paused for a moment looking at Lady Randolph's face, lit up with the
light of her candle. "My sweetest," said the Contessa, "you do not
approve. It breaks my heart to see it. But what can I do! This is my
way, it is not yours; but to me it is the only way."
Lucy could do nothing but shake her head as she turned the way of the
nursery where her boy was sleeping. The contrast gave her a pang. Bice,
too, was no doubt sleeping the deep and dreamless sleep of youth behind
one of those closed doors; poor Bice! secluded there to increase the
effect of her eventual appearance, and about whom her protectress was
draping all those veils of mystery in order to tempt the fancy of a
commonplace youth not much more than a schoolboy! And yet the Contessa
loved her charge, and persuaded herself that she was acting for Bice's
good. Poor Bice, who was so good to little Tom! Was there nothing to be
done to save her?
"What's going to happen on Thursday?" the men of the Contessa's train
asked of Sir Tom, as they followed him to the smoking-room, where Mr.
Derwentwater, in a velvet coat, was already seated smoking a mild
cigarette, and conversing with one of the parliamentary gentlemen. Jock
hung about in the background, turning over the books (for there were
books everywhere in this well-provided house) rather with the intention
of making it quite evident that he went to bed when he liked, and could
stay up as late as any one, than from any hankering after that cigar
which a Sixth Form fellow, so conscientious as Jock was, might not
trifle with. "Oh, here are those two duffers; those saps, don't you
know," Montjoie said, with a grimace, as he perceived them on entering
the room; in which remark he was perhaps justified by the epithets which
these two superior persons applied to him. The two parties did not
amalgamate in the smoking-room any more than in other places. The new
comers surrounded Sir Tom in a noisy little crowd, demanding of him an
explanation of the Contessa's meaning. This, however, was subdued
presently by a somewhat startling little incident. The gentlemen were
discussing the Contessa with the greatest freedom. "It's rather
astounding to meet her in a good house, just like any one else," one man
forgot himself sufficiently to say, but he came to his recollection very
quickly on meeting Sir Tom's eyes. "I beg your pardon, Randolph, of
course that's not what I mean. I mean after all those years." "Then I
hope you will remember to say exactly what you mean," said Sir Tom, "on
other occasions. It will simplify matters."
This momentary incident, though it was quiet enough, and expressed in
tones rather less than more loud than the ordinary conversation, made a
sensation in the room, and produced first an involuntary stillness, and
then an eager access of talk. It had the effect, however, of making
everybody aware that the Contessa intended to make, on Thursday, some
revelation or other, an intimation which moved Jock and his tutor as
much or even more than it moved the others. Mr. Derwentwater even made
advances to Montjoie, whom he had steadily ignored, in order to
ascertain what it was. "Something's coming off, that's all we can tell,"
that young patrician said. "She is going to retire, so she says, from
the world, don't you know? That's like a tradesman shutting up shop when
he's made his fortune, or a _prima donna_ going off the stage. It ain't
so easy to make out, is it, how the Forno-Populo can retire from the
world? She can't be going to take poison, like the great Sarah, and give
us a grand dying seance in Lady Randolph's drawing-room. That would be
going a bit too far, don't you know?"
"It is going a bit too far to imagine such a thing," Derwentwater said.
"Oh, come, you know, it isn't school-time," cried Montjoie, with a
laugh. And though Mr. Derwentwater was as much superior to the little
lordling as could be conceived, he retired disconcerted from this
passage of arms. To be reminded that you are a pedagogue is difficult to
bear, especially an unsuccessful pedagogue, attempting to exert
authority which exists no longer. MTutor prided himself on being a man
of the world, but he retired a little with an involuntary sense of
offence from this easy setting down. He rose shortly after and took Jock
by the arm and led him away. "You are not smoking, which I am glad to
see--and shows your sense," he said. "Come out and have a breath of air
before we go upstairs. Can you imagine anything more detestable than
that little precocious _roue_, that washed-out little man-about-town,"
he added with some energy, as they stepped out of the open windows of
the library, left open in case the fine night should have seduced the
gentlemen on to the terrace to smoke their cigars. It was a lovely
spring night, soft and balmy, with a sensation of growth in the air, the
sky very clear, with airy white clouds all lit up by the moon. The quiet
and freshness gave to those who stepped into it a curious sensation of
superiority to the men whom they left in the warm brightly-lit room,
with its heavy atmosphere and artificial delights. It felt like a moral
atmosphere in contrast with the air all laden with human emanations,
smoke, and the careless talk of men. These two were perhaps somewhat
inclined to feel a superiority in any circumstances. They did so doubly
in these.
"He was always a little cad," said Jock.
"To hear a lady's name from his mouth is revolting," said Derwentwater.
"We are all too careless in that respect. I admire Madame di
Forno-Populo for keeping her--is it her daughter or niece?--out of the
way while that little animal is here."
"Oh, Bice would soon make him know his place," said Jock; "she is not
just like one of the girls that are civil, you know. She is not afraid
of telling you what she thinks of you. I know exactly how she'd look at
Montjoie." Jock permitted himself an abrupt laugh in the pleasure of
feeling that he knew her ways far better than any one. "She would soon
set him down--the little beast!--in his right place."
As they walked up and down the terrace their steps and voices were very
audible in the stillness of the night; and the windows were lighted in
the east wing, showing that the inhabitants were still up there and
about. While Jock spoke, one of these windows opened quite suddenly, and
for a single moment a figure like a shadow appeared in it. The light
movement, sudden as a bird's on the wing, would have betrayed her (she
felt) to Jock, even if she had not spoken. But she waved her hand and
called out "Good-night" in a voice full of laughter. "Don't talk
secrets, for we can hear you," she said. "Good-night!" And so vanished
again, with a little echo of laughter from within. The young men were
both excited and disconcerted by this interruption. It gave them a
sensation of shame for the moment as if they had been caught in a
discussion of a forbidden subject; and then a tingling ran through their
veins. Even MTutor for the moment found no fine speech in which to
express his sense of this sudden momentary tantalising appearance of the
mystic woman standing half visible out of the background of the unknown.
He did think some very fine things on the subject after a time, with a
side glance of philosophical reflection that her light laugh of mockery
as she momentarily revealed herself, was an outcome of this sceptical
century, and that in a previous age her utterance would have been a song
or a sigh. But at the moment even Mr. Derwentwater was subjugated by the
thrill of sensation and feeling, and found nothing to say.