THE CONTESSA'S TACTICS.
That morning the whole party came down to breakfast expectant, for,
notwithstanding the Contessa's habit of not appearing, it was supposed
that the young lady whom most people supposed to have arrived very
recently must be present at the morning meal. Young Montjoie, who was
generally very late, appeared among the first; and there was a look of
curiosity and anxiety in his face as he turned towards the door every
time it was opened, which betrayed his motive. But this expectation was
not destined to be repaid. Bice did not appear at breakfast. She did not
even come downstairs, though the Contessa did, for luncheon. When Madame
di Forno-Populo came in to this meal there was a general elevation of
all heads and eager look towards her, to which she replied with her
usual smile but no explanation of any kind; nor would she make any
reply, even to direct questions. She did nothing but smile when Montjoie
demanded to know if Miss Forno-Populo was not coming downstairs, if she
had gone away, if she were ill, if she would appear before three
o'clock--with which questions he assailed her in downright fashion. When
the Contessa did not smile she put on a look of injured sweetness.
"What!" she said, "Am I then so little thought of? You have no more
pleasure, ficklest of young men, in seeing me?" "Oh, I assure you,
Countess," he cried, "that's all right, don't you know; but a fellow may
ask. And then it was your own doing to make us so excited."
"Yes, a fellow may ask," said the Contessa, smiling; but this was all
the response she would give, nothing that could really throw the least
light upon the subject of his curiosity. The other men of her following
looked on with undisguised admiration at this skilled and accomplished
woman. To see how she held in hand the youth whom they all considered as
her victim was beautiful they thought; and bets even were going amongst
them as to the certainty that she would land her big fish. Sir Tom, at
the head of the table, did not regard the matter so lightly. There was a
curve of annoyance in his forehead. He did not understand what game she
was playing. It was, without doubt, a game of some sort, and its object
was transparent enough; and Sir Tom could not easily forgive the
dramatic efforts of the previous night, or endure the thought that his
house was the scene of tactics so little creditable. He was vexed with
the Contessa, with Bice, even with Lucy, who, he could not keep from
saying to himself, should have found some means of baulking such an
intention. He was somewhat mollified by the absence of Bice now, which
seemed to him, perhaps, a tribute to his own evident disapproval; but
still he was uneasy. It was not a fit thing to take place in his house.
He saw far more clearly than he had done before that a stop should have
been put ere now to the Contessa's operations, and in the light of last
night's proceedings perceived his own errors in judgment--those errors
which he had, indeed, been sensible of, yet condoned in himself with
that wonderful charity which we show towards our own mistakes and
follies. He ought not to have asked her to the Hall; he ought not to
have permitted himself to be flattered and amused by her society, or to
have encouraged her to remain, or to have been so weak as to ask the
people she wished, which was the crowning error of all. He had invited
Montjoie, a trifling boy in whom he felt little or no interest, to
please her, without any definite idea as to what she meant, but only
with an amused sense that she had designs on the lad which Montjoie was
quite knowing enough to deliver himself from. But the turn things had
taken displeased Sir Tom. It was too barefaced, he said to himself. He,
too, felt like his more innocent wife, as if he were an accomplice in a
social crime.
"I've been swindled, don't you know," Montjoie said; "I've been taken a
mean advantage of. None of these other beggars are going away like me.
They will get all the good of the music to-night, and I shall be far
away. I could cry to think of it, I could, don't you know; but you don't
care a bit, Countess."
The Contessa, as usual, smiled. "_Enfant_!" she said.
"I am not an infant. I am just the same age as everybody, old enough to
look after myself, don't you know, and pay for myself, and all that sort
of thing. Besides, I haven't got any parents and guardians. Is that why
you take such a base advantage of me?" cried the young man.
"It is, perhaps, why----" The Contessa was not much in the way of
answering questions; and when she had said this she broke off with a
laugh. Was she going to say that this was why she had taken any trouble
about him, with a frankness which it is sometimes part of the astutest
policy to employ.
"Why what? why what? Oh, come, you must tell me now," the young man
said.
"Why one takes so much interest in you," said the Contessa sweetly.
"You shall come and see me, _cher petit Marquis_, in my little house
that is to be, in Mayfair; for you have found me, _n'est ce pas_, a
little house in Mayfair?" she said, turning to another of her train.
"Hung with rose-coloured curtains and pink glass in the windows,
according to your orders, Contessa," said the gentleman appealed to.
"How good it is to have a friend! but those curtains will be terrible,"
said the Contessa, with a shiver, "if it were not that I carry with me a
few little things in a great box."
"Oh, my dear Contessa, how many things you must have picked up!" cried
Lady Anastasia. "That peep into your boudoir made me sick with envy;
those Eastern embroideries, those Persian rugs! They have furnished me
with a lovely paragraph for my paper, and it is such a delightful
original idea to carry about one's pet furniture like one's dresses. It
will become quite the fashion when it is known. And how I shall long to
see that little house in Mayfair!"
The Contessa smiled upon Lady Anastasia as she smiled upon the male
friends that surrounded her. Her paper and her paragraphs were not to be
despised, and those little mysterious intimations about the new beauty
which it delighted her to make. Madame di Forno-Populo turned to
Montjoie afterwards with a little wave of the hand. "You are going?" she
said; "how sad for us! we shall have no song to make us gay to-night.
But come and you shall sing to us in Mayfair."
"Countess, you are only laughing at me. But I shall come, don't you
know," said Montjoie, "whether you mean it or not."
The company, who were so much interested in this conversation, did not
observe the preoccupied looks of the master and mistress of the house,
although to some of the gentlemen the gravity of Sir Tom was apparent
enough. And not much wonder that he should be grave. Even the men who were
most easy in their own code looked with a certain severity and
astonishment upon him who had opened his door to the adventuress-Contessa,
of whom they all judged the worst, without even the charitable
acknowledgment which her enemy the Dowager had made, that there was
nothing in her past history bad enough to procure her absolute expulsion
from society. The men who crowded round her when she appeared, who
flattered and paid their court to her, and even took a little credit to
themselves as intimates of the siren, were one and all of opinion that to
bring her into his house was discreditable to Sir Tom. They were even a
little less respectful to Lucy for not knowing or finding out the quality
of her guest. If Tom Randolph was beginning to find out that he had been a
fool it was wonderful he had not made the discovery sooner. For he had
been a fool, and no mistake! To bring that woman to England, to keep her
in his house, to associate her in men's minds with his wife--the worst of
his present guests found it most difficult to forgive him. But they were
all the more interested in the situation from the fact that Sir Tom was
beginning to feel the effects of his folly. He said very little during
that meal. He took no notice of the badinage going on between the Contessa
and her train. When he spoke at all it was to that virtuous mother at his
other hand, who was not at all amusing, and talked of nothing but Edith
and Minnie, and her successful treatment of them through all the nursery
troubles of their life.
Lucy, at the other end of the table, was scarcely more expansive. She
had been relieved by the absence of Bice, which, in her innocence, she
believed to be a concession to her own anxiety, feeling a certain
gratitude to the Contessa for thus foregoing the chance of another
interview with Montjoie. It could never have occurred to Lucy to suppose
that this was policy on the Contessa's part, and that her refusal to
satisfy Montjoie was in reality planned to strengthen her hold on him,
and to increase the curiosity she pretended to baffle. Lucy had no such
artificial idea in her mind. She accepted the girl's withdrawal as a
tribute to her own powers of persuasion, and a proof that though the
Contessa had been led astray by her foreign notions, she was yet ready
to perceive and adopt the more excellent way. This touched Lucy's heart
and made her feel that she was herself bound to reciprocate the
generosity. They had done it without knowing anything about the
intention in her mind, and it should be hers to carry out that intention
liberally, generously, not like an unwilling giver. She cast many a
glance at her husband while this was going through her mind. Would he
object as before? or would he, because it was the Contessa who was to be
benefited, make no objection? Lucy did not know which of the two it
would be most painful to her to bear. She had read carefully the
paragraph in her father's will about foreigners, and had found there was
no distinct objection to foreigners, only a preference the other way.
She knew indeed, but would not permit herself to think, that these were
not persons who would have commended themselves to Mr. Trevor as objects
of his bounty. Mr. Churchill, with his large family, was very
different. But to endow two frivolous and expensive women with a portion
of his fortune was a thing to which he never would have consented. With
a certain shiver she recognised this; and then she made a rush past the
objection and turned her back upon it. It was quite a common form of
beneficence in old times to provide a dower for a girl that she might
marry. What could there be wrong in providing a poor girl with something
to live upon that she might not be forced into a mercenary marriage?
While all the talk was going on at the other end of the table she was
turning this over in her mind--the manner of it, the amount of it, all
the details. She did not hear the talk, it was immaterial to her, she
cared not for it. Now and then she gave an anxious look at Sir Tom at
the other end. He was serious. He did not laugh as usual. What was he
thinking of? Would his objections be forgotten because it was the
Contessa or would he oppose her and struggle against her? Her heart beat
at the thought of the conflict which might be before her; or perhaps if
there was no conflict, if he were too willing, might not that be the
worst of all!
Thus the background against which the Contessa wove her web of smiles
and humorous schemes was both dark and serious. There were many shadows
behind that frivolous central light. Herself the chief actor, the
plotter, she to whom only it could be a matter of personal advantage,
was perhaps the least serious of all the agents in it. The others
thought of possibilities dark enough, of perhaps the destruction of
family peace in this house which had been so hospitable to her, which
had received her when no other house would; and some, of the success of
a plan which did not deserve to succeed, and some of the danger of a
youth to whom at present all the world was bright. All these things
seemed to be involved in the present crisis. What more likely than that
Lucy, at last enlightened, should turn upon her husband, who no doubt
had forced this uncongenial companion upon her, should turn from Sir Tom
altogether, and put her trust in him no longer! And the men who most
admired the Contessa were those who looked with the greatest horror upon
a marriage made by her, and called young Montjoie poor little beggar and
poor devil, wondering much whether he ought not to be "spoken to." The
men were not sorry for Bice, nor thought of her at all in the matter,
save to conclude her a true pupil of the guardian whom most of them
believed to be her mother. But in this point where the others were
wanting Lucy came in, whose simple heart bled for the girl about to be
sacrificed to a man whom she could not love. Thus tragical surmises
floated in the air about Madame di Forno-Populo, that arch plotter whose
heart was throbbing indeed with her success, and the hope of successes
to come, but who had no tragical alarms in her breast. She was perfectly
easy in her mind about Sir Tom and Lucy. Even if a matrimonial quarrel
should be the result, what was that to an experienced woman of the
world, who knew that such things are only for the minute? and neither
Bice nor Montjoie caused her any alarm. Bice was perfectly pleased with
the little Marquis. He amused her. She had not the slightest objection
to him; and as for Montjoie, he was perfectly well able to take care of
himself. So that while everybody else was more or less anxious, the
Contessa in the centre of all her webs was perfectly tranquil. She was
not aware that she wished harm to any man, or woman either. Her light
heart and easy conscience carried her quite triumphantly through all.
When Montjoie had gone away, carrying in his pocket-book the address of
the little house in Mayfair, and when the party had dispersed to walk or
ride or drive, as each thought fit, Lucy, who was doing neither, met her
husband coming out of his den. Sir Tom was full of a remorseful sense
that he had wronged Lucy. He took her by both hands, and drew her into
his room. It was a long time since he had met her with the same
effusion. "You are looking very serious," he said, "you are vexed, and I
don't wonder; but I see land, Lucy. It will be over directly--only a
week more----"
"I thought you were looking serious, Tom," she said.
"So I was, my love. All that business last night was more than I could
stand. You may think me callous enough, but I could not stand that."
"Tom!" said Lucy, faltering. It seemed an opportunity she could not let
slip--but how she trembled between her two terrors! "There is something
that I want to say to you."
"Say whatever you like, Lucy," he cried; "but for God's sake don't
tremble, my little woman, when you speak to me. I've done nothing to
deserve that."
"I am not trembling," said Lucy, with the most innocent and transparent
of falsehoods. "But oh, Tom, I am so sorry, so unhappy."
"For what?" he said. He did not know what accusation she might be going
to bring against him; and how could he defend himself? Whatever she
might say he was sure to be half guilty; and if she thought him wholly
guilty, how could he prevent it? A hot colour came up upon his
middle-aged face. To have to blush when you are past the age of blushing
is a more terrible necessity than the young can conceive.
"Oh, Tom!" cried Lucy again, "for Bice! Can we stand by and let her be
sacrificed? She is not much more than a child; and she is always so good
to little Tom."
"For Bice!" he cried. In the relief of his mind he was ready to have
done anything for Bice. He laughed with a somewhat nervous tremulous
outburst. "Why, what is the matter with her?" he said. "She did her part
last night with assurance enough. She is young indeed, but she ought to
have known better than that."
"She is very young, and it is the way she has been brought up--how
should she know any better? But, Tom, if she had any fortune she would
not be compelled to marry. How can we stand by and see her sacrificed to
that odious young man?"
"What odious young man?" said Sir Tom, astonished, and then with another
burst of his old laughter such as had not been heard for weeks, he cried
out: "Montjoie! Why, Lucy, are you crazy? Half the girls in England are
in competition for him. Sacrificed to----! She will be in the greatest
luck if she ever has such a chance."
Lucy gave him a reproachful look.
"How can you say so? A little vulgar boy--a creature not worthy to----"
"My dear, you are prejudiced. You are taking Jock's view. That worthy's
opinion of a fellow who never rose above Lower Fourth is to be received
with reservation. A fellow may be a scug, and yet not a bad fellow--that
is what Jock has yet to learn."
"Oh, Tom, I cannot laugh," said Lucy. "What can she do, the Contessa
says? She must marry the first that offers, and in the meantime she
attracts notice _like that_. It is dreadful to think of it. I think that
some one--that we--I--ought to interfere."
"My innocent Lucy," said Sir Tom, "how can you interfere? You know
nothing about the tactics of such people. I am very penitent for my
share in the matter. I ought not to have brought so much upon you."
"Oh, Tom," cried Lucy again, drawing closer to him, eager to anticipate
with her pardon any blame to which he might be liable. And then she
added, returning to her own subject: "She is of English parentage--on
one side."
Why this fact, so simply stated, should have startled her husband so
much, Lucy could not imagine. He almost gasped as he met her eyes, as if
he had received or feared a sudden blow, and underneath the brownness of
his complexion grew suddenly pale, all the ruddy colour forsaking his
face. "Of English parentage!" he said, faltering, "do you mean?--what do
you mean? Why--do you tell this to me?"
Lucy was surprised, but saw no significance in his agitation. And her
mind was full of her own purpose. "Because of the will which is against
foreigners," she said simply. "But in that case she would not be a
foreigner, Tom. I think a great deal of this. I want to do it. Oh, don't
oppose me! It makes it so much harder when you go against me."
He gazed at her with a sort of awe. He did not seem able to speak. What
she had said, though she was unconscious of any special meaning in it,
seemed to have acted upon him like a spell. There was something tragic
in his look which frightened Lucy. She came closer still and put her
hand upon his arm.
"Oh, it is not to trouble you, Tom; it is not that I want to go against
you! But give me your consent this once. Baby is so fond of her, and she
is so good to him. I want to give something to Bice. Let me make a
provision for her?" she said, pleading. "Do not take all the pleasure
out of it and oppose me. Oh, dear Tom, give me your free consent!" Lucy
cried.
He kept gazing at her with that look of awe. "Oppose you!" he said. What
was the shock he had received which made him so unlike himself? His very
lips quivered as he spoke. "God forgive me; what have I been doing?" he
cried. "Lucy, I think I will never oppose you more."