LUCY'S DISCOVERY.
When it happens to an innocent and simple soul to find out suddenly at a
stroke the falsehood of some one upon whose truth the whole universe
depends, the effect is such as perhaps has never been put forth by any
attempt at psychological investigation. When it happens to a great mind,
we have Hamlet with all the world in ruins round him--all other thoughts
as of revenge or ambition are but secondary and spasmodic, since neither
revenge nor advancement can put together again the works of life or
make man delight him, or woman either. But Lady Randolph was not a
Hamlet. She had no genius, nor even a great intellect to be
unhinged--scarcely mind enough to understand how it was that the glory
had paled out of earth and sky, and all the world seemed different when
she rose from her uneasy bed next morning, pale, after a night without
sleep, in which she had not been able to have even the relief of
restlessness, but had lain motionless, without even a sigh or tear, so
crushed by the unexpected blow that she could neither fathom nor
understand what had happened to her. She was too pure herself to jump at
any thought of gross infidelity. She felt she knew not what--that the
world had gone to pieces--that she did not know how to shape it again
into anything--that she could not look into her husband's face, or
command her voice to speak to him, for shame of the thought that he had
failed in truth. Lucy felt somehow as if she were the culprit. She was
ashamed to look him in the face. She made an early visit to the nursery,
and stayed there pretending various little occupations until she heard
Sir Tom go down stairs. He had returned so much to the old ways, and now
that the house was full, and there were other people to occupy the
Contessa, had shown so clearly (as Lucy had thought) that he was pleased
to be liberated from his attendance upon her, that the cloud that had
risen between them had melted away; and indeed, for some time back, it
had been Lucy who was the Contessa's stay and support, a change at which
Sir Tom had sometimes laughed. All had been well between the husband and
wife during the early part of the season parliamentary, the beginning of
their life in London. Sir Tom had been much engrossed with the cares of
public life, but he had been delightful to Lucy, whose faith in him and
his new occupations was great. And it was exhilarating to think that the
Contessa had secured that little house in Mayfair for her own campaign,
and that something like a new honeymoon was about to begin for the pair,
whose happiness had seemed for a moment to tremble in the balance. Lucy
had been looking forward to the return to London with a more bright and
conscious anticipation of well-being than she had ever experienced. In
the first outset of life happiness seems a necessary of existence. It is
calculated upon without misgiving; it is simple nature, beyond question.
But when the natural "of course" has once been broken, it is with a
warmer glow of content that we see the prospect once more stretching
before us bright as at first and more assured. This is how Lucy had been
regarding her life. It was not so simple, so easy as it once had been,
but the happiness to which she was looking forward, and which she had
already partially entered into possession of, was all the more sweet and
dear, that she had known, or fancied herself about to know, the loss and
absence of it. Now, in a moment, all that fair prospect, that blessed
certainty, was gone. The earth was cut away from under her feet; she
felt everything to be tottering, falling round her, and nothing in all
the universe to lay hold of to prop herself up; for when the pillars of
the world are thus unrooted the heaving of the earthquake and the
falling of the ruins impart a certain vertigo and giddy instability even
to heaven.
Fletcher, Lucy's maid, who was usually discreet enough, waited upon her
mistress that morning with a certain air of importance, and of knowing
something which she was bursting with eagerness to tell, such as must
have attracted Lady Randolph's attention in any other circumstances. But
Lucy was far too much occupied with what was in her own mind to observe
the perturbation of the maid, who consequently had no resource, since
her mistress would not question her, than to introduce herself the
subject on which she was so anxious to utter her mind. She began by
inquiring if her ladyship had heard the music last night. "The music?"
Lucy said.
"Oh, my lady, haven't you heard what a singer Miss Beachy has turned
out?" Fletcher cried.
Lucy, to whom all this seemed dim and far away as if it had happened
years ago, answered with a faint smile--"Yes, she has a lovely voice."
"It is not my place," said Fletcher, "being only a servant, to make
remarks; but, my lady, if I might make so bold, it do seem to the like
of us an 'orrible thing to take advantage of a young lady like your
ladyship that thinks no harm."
"You should not make such remarks," said Lucy, roused a little.
"No, my lady; but still a woman is a woman, even though but a servant. I
said to Mrs. Freshwater I was sure your ladyship would never sanction
it. I never thought that of Miss Beachy, I will allow. I always said she
was a nice young lady; but evil communications, my lady--we all know
what the Bible says. Gentlemen upstairs in her room and her singing to
them, and laughing and talking like as no housemaid in the house as
valued her character would do----"
"Fletcher," said Lucy, "you must say no more about this. It was Mr. Jock
and Mr. Derwentwater only who were with Miss Bice--and with my
permission," she added after a moment, "as he is going away to-morrow."
Such deceits are so easy to learn.
"Oh-oh!" Miss Fletcher cried, with a quaver in her voice. "I beg your
pardon, my lady; I'm sure--I thought--there must be something
underneath, and that Miss Beachy would never---- And when she was down
with Sir Thomas in the study it would be the same, my lady?" the woman
said.
"With Sir Thomas in the study!" The words went vaguely into Lucy's mind.
It had not seemed possible to increase the confusion and misery in her
brain, but this produced a heightening of it, a sort of wave of
bewilderment and pain greater than before, a sense of additional
giddiness and failing. She gave a wave of her hand and said something,
she scarcely knew what, which silenced Fletcher; and then she went down
stairs to the new world. She did not go to the nursery even, as was her
wont; her heart turned from little Tom. She felt that to look at him
would be more than she could bear. There was no deceit in him, no
falsehood--as yet; but perhaps when he grew up he would cheat her too.
He would pretend to love her and betray her trust; he would kiss her,
and then go away and scoff at her; he would smile, and smile, and be a
villain. Such words were not in Lucy's mind, and it was altogether out
of nature that she should even receive the thought: which made it all
the more terrible when it was poured into her soul. And it cannot be
told what discoveries she seemed to make even in the course of that
morning in this strange condition of her mind. There was a haze over
everything, but yet there was an enlightenment even in the haze. She saw
in her little way, as Hamlet saw the falsehood of his courtiers, his
gallant young companions, and the schemes of Polonius, and even Ophelia
in the plot to trap him. She saw how false all these people were in
their civilities, in their extravagant thanks and compliments to her as
they went away; for the Easter recess was just over, and everybody was
going. The mother and her daughters said to her, "Such a delightful
visit, dear Lady Randolph!" with kisses of farewell and wreathed smiles;
and she perceived, somehow by a sort of second sight, that they added to
each other, "Oh, what a bore it has been; nobody worth meeting," and
"how thankful I am it's over!" which was indeed what Miss Minnie and
Miss Edith said. If Lucy had seen a little deeper she would have known
that this too was a sort of conventional falsity which the young ladies
said to each other, according to the fashion of the day, without any
meaning to speak of; but one must have learned a great many lessons
before one comes to that.
Then Jock, who had been woke up in quite a different way, took leave of
MTutor, that god of his old idolatry, without being able to refrain from
some semblance of the old absorbing affection.
"I am so sorry you are not coming with me, old fellow," Mr. Derwentwater
said.
Jock replied, "So am I," with an effort, as if firing a parting volley
in honour of his friend: but then turned gloomily with an expression of
relief. "I'm glad he's gone, Lucy."
"Then you did not want to go with him, Jock?"
"I wouldn't have gone for anything. I've just got to that--that I can't
bear him," cried Jock.
And Lucy, in the midst of the ruins, felt her head go round: though here
too it was the falsehood that was fictitious, had she but known. It is
not, however, in the nature of such a shock that any of those
alleviating circumstances which modify the character of human sentiment
can be taken into account. Lucy had taken everything for gospel in the
first chapter of existence; she had believed what everybody said; and
like every other human soul, after such a discovery as she had made, she
went to the opposite extremity now--not wittingly, not voluntarily--but
the pillars of the earth were shaken, and nothing stood fast.
They went up to town next day. In the meantime she had little or no
intercourse with the Contessa, who was preparing for the journey and
absorbed in letter-writing, making known to everybody whom she could
think of, the existence of the little house in Mayfair. It is doubtful
whether she so much as observed any difference in the demeanour of her
hostess, having in fact the most unbounded confidence in Lucy, whom she
did not believe capable of any such revulsion of feeling. Bice was more
clear-sighted, but she thought Milady was displeased with her own
proceedings, and sought no further for a cause. And the only thing the
girl could do was to endeavour by all the little devices she could think
of to show the warm affection she really felt for Lucy--a method which
made the heart of Lucy more and more sick with that sense of falsehood
which sometimes rose in her, almost to the height of passion. A woman
who had ever learned to use harsh words, or to whose mind it had ever
been possible to do or say anything to hurt another, would no doubt have
burst forth upon the girl with some reproach or intimation of doubt
which might have cleared the matter so far as Bice went. But Lucy had no
such words at her command. She could not say anything unkind. It was not
in her. She could be silent, indeed, but not even that, so far as to
"hurt the feelings" of her companion. The effect, therefore, was only
that Lucy laboured to maintain a little artificial conversation, which
in its turn reacted upon her mind, showing that even in herself there
was the same disposition to insincerity which she had begun to discover
in the world. She could say nothing to Bice about the matters which a
little while before, when all was well, she had grieved over and
objected to. Now she had nothing to say on such subjects. That the girl
should be set up to auction, that she should put forth all those arts in
which she had been trained, to attract and secure young Montjoie, or any
like him, were things which had passed beyond her sphere. To think of
them rendered her heart more sick, her head more giddy. But if Bice
married some one whom she did not love, that was not so bad as to think
that perhaps she herself all this time had been living with, and loving,
in sacred trust and faith, a man who even by her side was full of
thoughts unknown to her, given to another. Sometimes Lucy closed her
eyes in a sort of sick despair, feeling everything about her go round
and round. But she said nothing to throw any light upon the state of her
being. Sir Tom felt a little gravity--a little distance in his wife; but
he himself was much occupied with a new and painful subject of thought.
And Jock observed nothing at all, being at a stage when man (or boy) is
wholly possessed with affairs of his own. He had his troubles, too. He
was not easy about that breach with his master now that they were
separated. When Bice was kind to him a gleam of triumph, mingled with
pity, made him remorseful towards that earlier friend; and when she was
unkind a bitter sense of fellowship turned Jock's thoughts towards that
sublime ideal of masculine friendship which is above the lighter loves
of women. How can a boy think of his sister when absorbed in such a
mystery of his own?--even if he considered his sister at all as a person
whom it was needful to think about--which he did not, Lucy being herself
one of the pillars of the earth to his unopened eyes.
All this, however, made no difference in Lucy's determination. She wrote
to Mr. Rushton that very morning, after this revolution in her soul, to
instruct him as to her intentions in respect to Bice, and to her other
trustee in London to request him to see her immediately on her arrival
in Park Lane. Nothing should be changed in that matter, for why, she
said to herself, should Bice suffer because Sir Tom was untrue? It
seemed to her that there was more reason than ever why she should rouse
herself and throw off her inaction. No doubt there were many people whom
she could make, if not happy, yet comfortable. It was comfortable
(everybody said) to have enough of money--to be well off. Lucy had no
experience of what it was to be without it. She thought to herself she
would like to try, to have only what she actually wanted, to cook the
food for her little family, to nurse little Tom all by herself, to live
as the cottagers lived. There was in her mind no repugnance to any of
the details of poverty. Her wealth was an accident; it was the habit of
her race to be poor, and it seemed to Lucy that she would be happier
could she shake off now all those external circumstances which had
grown, like everything else, into falsehoods, giving an appearance of
well-being which did not exist. But other people thought it well to have
money, and it was her duty to give it. A kind of contempt rose within
her for all that withheld her previously. To avoid her duty because it
would displease Sir Tom--what was that but falsehood too? All was
falsehood, only she had never seen it before.
They reached town in the afternoon of a sweet April day, the sky aglow
with a golden sunset, against which the trees in the park stood out with
their half-developed buds: and all the freshness of the spring was in
the long stretches of green, and the softened jubilee of sound to which
somehow, as the air warms towards summer, the voices of the world
outside tune themselves. The Contessa and Bice in great spirits and
happiness, like two children home from school, had left the Randolph
party at the railway, to take possession of the little house in Mayfair.
They had both waved their hands from the carriage window and called out,
"Be sure you come and see us," as they drove away. "You will come
to-night," they had stipulated with Sir Tom and Jock. It was like a new
toy which filled them with glee. Could it be possible that those two
adventurers going off to their little temporary home with smiles so
genuine, with so simple a delight in their new beginning, were not, in
their strange way, innocent, full of guile and shifts as one was, and
the other so apt a scholar? Lucy would have joined in all this pleasure
two days ago, but she could not now. She went home to her luxurious
house, where all was ready, as if she had not been absent an hour. How
wonderfully wealth smooths away the inconveniences of change! and how
little it has to do, Lucy thought, with the comfort of the soul! No need
for any exertion on her part, any scuffling for the first arrival, any
trouble of novelty. She came from the Hall to London without any sense
of change. Had she been compelled to superintend the arrangement of her
house, to make it habitable, to make it pretty, that would have done her
good. But the only thing for her to do was to see Mr. Chervil, her
trustee, who waited upon her according to her request, and who, after
the usual remonstrances, took her instructions about the gift to Bice
very unwillingly, but still with a forced submission. "If I cannot make
you see the folly of it, Lady Randolph, and if Sir Thomas does not
object, I don't know what more is to be said." "There is nothing more to
be said," Lucy said, with a smile; but there was this difficulty in the
proceeding which she had not thought of, that Bice's name all this time
was unknown to her--Beatrice di Forno-Populo, she supposed, but the
Contessa had never called her so, and it was necessary to be exact, Mr.
Chervil said. He hailed this as an occasion of delay. He was not so
violent as he had been on previous occasions when Lucy was young; and he
did not, like Mr. Rushton, assume the necessity of speaking to Sir Tom.
Mr. Chervil was a London solicitor, and knew very little about Sir Tom.
But he was glad to seize upon anything that was good for a little delay.
After this interview was over it was a mingled vexation and relief to
Lucy to see the Dowager drive up to the door. Lady Randolph the elder
was always in London from the first moment possible. She preferred the
first bursting of the spring in the squares and parks. She liked to see
her friends arrive by degrees, and to feel that she had so far the
better of them. She came in, full as she always was of matter, with a
thousand things to say. "I have come to stay to dinner, if you will have
me," she said, "for of course Tom will be going out in the evening. They
are always so glad to get back to their life." And it was, perhaps, a
relief to have Lady Randolph to dinner, to be saved from the purely
domestic party, to which Jock scarcely added any new element; but it was
hard for Lucy to encounter even the brief questionings which were
addressed to her in the short interval before dinner. "So you have got
rid of that woman at last," Lady Randolph said; "I hear she has got a
house in Mayfair."
"Yes, Aunt Randolph, if you mean the Contessa," said Lucy.
"And that she intends to make a bold _coup_ to get the girl off her
hands. These sort of people so often succeed: I shouldn't wonder if she
were to succeed. I always said the girl would be handsome, but I think
she might have waited another year."
To this Lucy made no reply, and it was necessary for the Dowager to
carry on the conversation, so to speak, at her own cost.
"I hope most earnestly, Lucy," she said, "that now you have got clear of
them you will not mix yourself up with them again. You were placed in an
uneasy position, very difficult to get out of, I will allow; but now
that you have shaken them off, and they have proved they can get on
without you, don't, I entreat you, mix yourself up with them again."
Lucy could not keep the blood from mounting, and colouring her face. She
had always spoken of the Contessa calmly before. She tried to keep her
composure now. "Dear Aunt Randolph, I have not shaken them off. They
have gone away of themselves, and how can I refuse to see them? There is
to be a party here for them on the 26th."
"Oh, my dear, my dear, that was very imprudent! I had hoped you would
keep clear of them in London. It is one thing showing kindness to an old
friend in the country, and it is quite another----"
Here Lucy made an imperative gesture, almost commanding silence. Sir Tom
was coming into the room. She was seated in the great bay window
against the early twilight, the soft radiance of which dazzled the eyes
of the elder lady, and prevented her from perceiving her nephew's
approach. But Lady Randolph, before she rose to meet him, gave a
startled look at Lucy. "Have you found it out, then?" she said
involuntarily, in her great surprise.