THE BALL CONTINUED.
Other eyes than those of her lovers followed Bice through this brilliant
scene. Sir Tom had been living a strange stagnant life since that day
before he left the Hall, when Lucy, innocently talking of Bice's English
parentage, had suddenly roused him to the question--Who was Bice, and
who her parents, English or otherwise? The suggestion was very sudden
and very simple, conveying in it no intended hint or innuendo. But it
came upon Sir Tom like a sudden thunderbolt, or rather like the firing
of some train that had been laid and prepared for explosion. The tenor
of his fears and suspicions has already been indicated. Nor has it ever
been concealed from the reader of this history that there were incidents
in Sir Tom's life upon which he did not look back with satisfaction, and
which it would have grieved him much to have revealed to his wife in her
simplicity and unsuspecting trust in him. One of these was a chapter of
existence so long past as to be almost forgotten, yet unforgettable,
which gave, when he thought of it, an instant meaning to the fact that a
half-Italian girl of English parentage on one side should have been
brought mysteriously, without warning or formal introduction, to his
house by the Contessa. From that time, as has been already said, the
disturbance in his mind was great. He could get no satisfaction one way
or another. But to-night his uneasiness had taken a new and unexpected
form. Should it so happen that Bice's identity with a certain poor baby,
born in Tuscany seventeen years before, might some day be proved, what
new cares, what new charge might it not place upon his shoulders? At
such a thought Sir Tom held his very breath.
The first result of such a possibility was, that he might find himself
to stand in a relationship to the girl for whom he had hitherto had a
careless liking and no more, which would change both his life and hers;
and already he watched her with uneasy eyes and with a desire to
interfere which bewildered him like a new light upon his own character.
He could scarcely understand how he had taken it all so lightly before
and interested himself so little in the fate of a young creature for
whom it would not be well to be brought up according to the Contessa's
canons, and follow her example in the world. He remembered, in the light
of this new possibility, the levity with which he had received his
wife's distress about Bice, and how lightly he had laughed at Lucy's
horror as to the Contessa's ideas of marriage, and of what her
_protegee_ was to do. He had said if they could catch any decent fellow
with money enough it was the best thing that could happen to the girl,
and that Bice would be no worse off than others, and that she herself,
after the training she had gone through, was very little likely to have
any delicacy on the subject. But when it had once occurred to him that
the girl of whom he spoke so lightly might be his own child, an
extraordinary change came over Sir Tom's views. He laughed no longer--he
became so uneasy lest something should be done or said to affect Bice's
good name, or throw her into evil hands, that his thoughts had circled
unquietly round the house in Mayfair, and he had spent far more of his
time there on the watch than he himself thought right. He knew very well
the explanation that would be given of those visits of his, and he did
not feel sure that some good-natured friends might not have already
suggested suspicion to Lucy, who had certainly been very strange since
their arrival in town. But he would not give up his watch, which was in
a way, he said to himself, his duty, if---- He followed the girl's
movements with disturbed attention, and would hurry into the Park to
ride by her, to shut out an unsuitable cavalier, and make little
lectures to her as to her behaviour with an embarrassed anxiety which
Bice could not understand but which amused more than it benefited the
Contessa, to whom this result of her mystification was the best fun in
the world. But it was not amusing to Sir Tom. He regarded the society of
men who gathered about the ladies with disgust. Montjoie was about the
best--he was not old enough to be much more than silly--but even
Montjoie was not a person whom he would himself choose to be closely
connected with. Then came the question: If it should turn out that she
was _that_ child, was it expedient that any one should know of it? Would
it be better for her to be known as Sir Thomas Randolph's daughter, even
illegitimate, or as the relative and dependent of the Forno-Populo? In
the one case, her interests would have no guardian at all; in the other,
what a shock it would give to his now-established respectability and the
confidence all men had in him, to make such a connection known. Turning
over everything in his thoughts, it even occurred to Sir Tom that it
would be better for him to confess an early secret marriage, and thus
save his own reputation and give to Bice a lawful standing ground. The
poor young mother was dead long ago; there could be no harm in such an
invention. Lucy could not be wounded by anything which happened so long
before he ever saw her. And Bice would be saved from all stigma; if only
it was Bice! if only he could be sure!
But Sir Tom, whose countenance had not the habit of expressing anything
but a large and humorous content, the careless philosophy of a happy
temper and easy mind, was changed beyond description by the surging up
of such thoughts. He became jealous and suspicious, watching Bice with a
constant impulse to interfere, and even--while disregarding all the
safeguards of his own domestic happiness for this reason--in his heart
condemned the girl because she was not like Lucy, and followed her
movements with a criticism which was as severe as that of the harshest
moralist.
Nobody in that lighthearted house could understand what had come over
the good Sir Tom, not even the Contessa, who after a manner knew the
reason, yet never imagined that the idea, which gave her a sort of
malicious pleasure, would have led to such a result. Sir Tom had always
been the most genial of hosts, but in his present state of mind even in
this respect he was not himself. He kept his eye on Bice with a
sternness of regard quite out of keeping with his character. If she
should flirt unduly, if she began to show any of those arts which made
the Contessa so fascinating, he felt, with a mingling of self-ridicule
which tickled him in spite of his seriousness, that nothing could keep
him from interposing. He had been charmed in spite of himself, even
while he saw through and laughed at the Contessa's cunning ways; but to
see them in a girl who might, for all he knew, have his own blood in her
veins was a very different matter. He felt it was in him to interpose
roughly, imperiously--and if he did so, would Bice care? She would turn
upon him with smiling defiance, or perhaps ask what right had he to
meddle in her affairs. Thus Sir Tom was so preoccupied that the change
in Lucy, the effort she made to go through her necessary duties, the
blotting out of all her simple kindness and brightness, affected him
only dully as an element of the general confusion, and nothing more.
But the Contessa, for her part, was radiant. She was victorious all
along the line. She had received Lucy's note informing her of the
provision she meant to make for Bice only that afternoon, and her heart
was dancing with the sense of wealth, of money to spend and endless
capability of pleasure. Whatever happened this was secure, and she had
already in the first hour planned new outlays which would make Lucy's
beneficence very little of a permanent advantage. But she said nothing
of it to Bice, who might (who could tell, girls being at all times
capricious) take into her little head that it was no longer necessary to
encourage Montjoie, on whom at present she looked complacently enough as
the probable giver of all that was best in life. This was almost enough
for one day; but the Contessa fully believed in the proverb that there
is nothing that succeeds like success, and had faith in her own
fortunate star for the other events of the evening. And she had been
splendidly successful. She had altogether vanquished the timid spirit of
the Duchess, that model of propriety. Her entry upon the London world
had been triumphant, and she had all but achieved the honours of the
drawing-room. Unless the Lord Chamberlain should interfere, and why
should he interfere? her appearance in the larger world of society would
be as triumphant as in Park Lane. Her beautiful eyes were swimming in
light, the glow of satisfaction and triumph. It fatigued her a little
indeed to play the part of a virtuous chaperon, and stand or sit in one
place all the evening, awaiting her _debutante_ between the dances,
talking with the other virtuous ladies in the same exercise of patience,
and smilingly keeping aloof from all participation at first hand in the
scene which would have helped to amuse her indeed, but interfered with
the fulfilment of her _role_. But she had internal happiness enough to
make up to her for her self-denial. She would order that set of pearls
for Bice and the emerald pendant for herself which had tempted her so
much, to-morrow. And the Duchess was to present her, and probably this
evening Montjoie would propose. Was it possible to expect in this world
a more perfect combination of successes?
Mr. Derwentwater went off somewhat discomfited to make a tour of the
rooms after the remorseless address of Bice. He tried to smile at the
mock severity of her judgment. He, no more than Montjoie, would believe
that she meant only what she said. This accomplished man of letters and
parts agreed, if in nothing else, in this, with the young fool of
quality, that such extreme candour and plain speaking was some subtle
Italian way of drawing an admirer on. He put it into finer words than
Montjoie could command, and said to himself that it was that mysterious
adorable feminine instinct which attracted by seeming to repel. And even
on a more simple explanation it was comprehensible enough. A girl who
attached so much importance to the accomplishments of society would
naturally be annoyed by the failure in these of one to whom she looked
up. A regret even moved his mind that he had not given more attention to
them in earlier days. It was perhaps foolish to neglect our
acquirements, which after all would not take very much trouble, and need
only be brought forward, as Dogberry says, when there was no need for
such vanities. He determined with a little blush at himself to note
closely how other men did, and so be able another time to acquit himself
to her satisfaction. And even her severity was sweet; it implied that he
was not to her what other men were, that even in the more trifling
accessories of knowledge she would have him to excel. If he had been
quite indifferent to her, why should she have taken this trouble? And
then that "To-morrow; with pleasure." What did it mean? That though she
would not give him her attention to-night, being devoted to her dancing
(which is what girls are brought up to in this strangely imperfect
system), she would do so on the earliest possible occasion. He went
about the room like a man in a dream, following everywhere with his eyes
that vision of beauty, and looking forward to the next step in his
life-drama with an intoxication of hope which he did not attempt to
subdue. He was indeed pleased to experience a _grande passion_. It was a
thing which completed the mental equipment of a man. Love--not humdrum
household affection, such as is all that is looked for when the
exigencies of life make a wife expedient, and with full calculation of
all he requires the man sets out to look for her and marry her. This was
very different, an all-mastering passion, disdainful of every obstacle.
To-morrow! He felt an internal conviction that, though Montjoie might
dance and answer for the amusement of an evening, that bright and
peerless creature would not hesitate as to who should be her guide for
life.
It was while he was thus roaming about in a state of great excitement
and a subdued ecstasy of anticipation, that he encountered Jock, who had
not been enjoying himself at all. At this great entertainment Jock had
been considered a boy, and no more. Even as a boy, had he danced there
might have been some notice taken of him, but he was incapable in this
way, and in no other could he secure any attention. At a party of a
graver kind there were often people who were well enough pleased to talk
to Jock, and from men who owed allegiance to his school a boy who had
distinguished himself and done credit to the old place was always sure
of notice. But then, though high up in Sixth Form, and capable of any
eminence in Greek verse, he was nobody; while a fellow like Montjoie,
who had never got beyond the rank of lower boy, was in the front of
affairs, the admired of all admirers, Bice's chosen partner and
companion. The mind develops with a bound when it has gone through such
an experience. Jock stood with his back against the wall, and watched
everything from under his eyebrows. Sometimes there was a glimmer as of
moisture in those eyes, half veiled under eyelids heavily curved and
puckered with wrath and pain, for he was very young, not much more than
a child, notwithstanding his manhood. But what with a keenness of
natural sight, and what with the bitter enlightening medium of that
moisture, Jock saw the reality of the scene more clearly than Mr.
Derwentwater, roaming about in his dream of anticipation, self-deceived,
was capable of doing. He caught sight of Jock in his progress, and,
though it was this sentiment which had separated them, its natural
effect was also to throw them together. MTutor paused and took up a
position by his pupil's side. "What a foolish scene considered
philosophically," he said; "and yet how many human interests in
solution, and floating adumbrations of human fate! I have been dancing,"
Mr. Derwentwater continued, with some solemnity and a full sense of the
superior position involved, "with, I verily believe, the most beautiful
creature in the world."
Jock looked up, fixing him with a critical, slightly cynical regard. He
had been well aware of Mr. Derwentwater's very ineffective performance,
and divined too clearly the sentiments of Bice not to feel all a
spectator's derision for this uncalled-for self-complacency; but he made
no remark.
"There is nothing trivial in the exercise in such a combination. I
incline to think that beauty is almost the greatest of all the
spectacles that Nature sets before us. The effect she has upon us is
greater than that produced by any other influence. You are perhaps too
young to have your mind awakened on such a subject----"
To hear this foolish wisdom pouring forth, while the listener felt at
every breath how his own bosom thrilled with an emotion too deep to be
put into words, with a passion, hopeless, ridiculous, to which no one
would accord any sympathy or comment but a laugh! Heaven and earth! and
all because a fellow was some dozen years older, thinking himself a man,
and you only a boy!
"----but you have a fine intelligence, and it can never be amiss for you
to approach a great subject on its most elevated side. She is not much
older than you are, Jock."
"She is not so old as I am. She is three months younger than I am,"
cried Jock, in his gruffest voice.
"And yet she is a revelation," said Mr. Derwentwater. "I feel that I am
on the eve of a great crisis in my being. You have always been my
favourite, my friend, though you are so much younger; and in this I feel
we are more than ever sympathetic. Jock, to-morrow--to-morrow I am to
see her, to tell her---- Come out on the balcony, there is no one there,
and the moonlight and the pure air of night are more fit for such heart
opening than this crowded scene."
"What are you going to tell her?" said Jock, with his eyebrows meeting
over his eyes and his back against the wall. "If you think she'll listen
to what you tell her! She likes Montjoie. It is not that he's rich and
that, but she likes him, don't you know, better than any of us. Oh, talk
about mysteries," cried Jock, turning his head away, conscious of that
moisture which half-blinded him, but which he could not get rid of, "how
can you account for that? She likes him, that fellow, better than either
you or me!"
Better than Jock; far better than this man, his impersonation of noble
manhood, whom the most levelling of all emotions, the more than Red
Republican Love, had suddenly brought down to, nay, below, Jock's
level--for not only was he a fool like Jock, but a hopeful fool, while
Jock had penetrated the fulness of despair, and dismissed all illusion
from his youthful bosom. The boy turned his head away, and the voice
which he had made so gruff quavered at the end. He felt in himself at
that moment all the depths of profound and visionary passion, something
more than any man ever was conscious of who had an object and a hope.
The boy had neither; he neither hoped to marry her nor to get a hearing,
nor even to be taken seriously. Not even the remorse of a serious
passion rejected, the pain of self-reproach, the afterthought of pity
and tenderness would be his. He would get a laugh, nothing more. That
schoolboy, that brother of Lady Randolph's, who does not leave school
for a year! He knew what everybody would say. And yet he loved her
better than any one of them! MTutor startled, touched, went after him as
Jock turned away, and linking his arm in his, said something of the
kind which one would naturally say to a boy. "My dear fellow, you don't
mean to tell me----? Come, Jock! This is but your imagination that
beguiles you. The heart has not learned to speak so soon," MTutor said,
leaning upon Jock's shoulder. The boy turned upon him with a fiery glow
in his eyes.
"What were you saying about dancing?" he said. "They seem to be making
up that Lancers business again."