NEXT MORNING.
"You have news to tell me, Bice mia?"
There was a faint daylight in the streets, a blueness of dawn as the
ladies drove home.
"Have I? I have amused myself very much. I am not fatigued, no. I could
continue as long--as long as you please," Bice answered, who was sitting
up in her corner with more bloom than at the beginning of the evening,
her eyes shining, a creature incapable of fatigue. The Contessa lay back
in hers, with a languor which was rather adapted to her _role_ as a
chaperon than rendered necessary by the fatigue she felt. If she had not
been amused, she was triumphant, and this supplied a still more
intoxicating exhilaration than that of mere pleasure.
"Darling!" she said, in her most expressive tone. She added a few
moments after, "But Lord Montjoie! He has spoken? I read it in his
face----"
"Spoken? He said a great deal--some things that made me laugh, some
things that were not amusing. After all he is perhaps a little stupid,
but to dance there is no one like him!"
"And you go together--to perfection----"
"Ah!" said Bice, with a long breath of pleasure, "when the people began
to go away, when there was room! Certainly we deserted our other
partners, both he and I. Does that matter in London? He says No."
"Not, my angel, if you are to marry."
"That was what he said," said Bice, with superb calm. "Now, I remember
that was what he said; but I answered that I knew nothing of
affairs--that it was to dance I wanted, not to talk; and that it was
you, Madama, who disposed of me. It seemed to amuse him," the girl said
reflectively. "Is it for that reason you kiss me? But it was he that
spoke, as you call it, not I."
"You are like a little savage," cried the Contessa. "Don't you care then
to make the greatest marriage, to win the prize, to settle everything
with no trouble, before you are presented or anything has been done at
all?"
"Is it settled then?" said Bice. She shrugged her shoulders a little
within her white cloak. "Is that all?--no more excitement, nothing to
look forward to, no tr-rouble? But it would have been more amusing if
there had been a great deal of tr-rouble," the girl said.
This was in the blue dawn, when the better portion of the world which
does not go to balls was fast asleep, the first pioneers of day only
beginning to stir about the silent streets, through which now and then
the carriage of late revellers like themselves darted abrupt with a
clang that had in it something of almost guilt. Twelve hours after, the
Contessa in her boudoir--with not much more than light enough to see the
flushed and happy countenance of young Montjoie, who had been on thorns
all the night and morning with a horrible doubt in his mind lest, after
all, Bice's careless reply might mean nothing more than that fine system
of drawing a fellow on--settled everything in the most delightful way.
"Nor is she without a sou, as perhaps you think. She has something that
will not bear comparison with your wealth, yet something--which has been
settled upon her by a relation. The Forno-Populi are not rich--but
neither are they without friends."
Montjoie listened to this with a little surprise and impatience. He
scarcely believed it, for one thing; and when he was assured that all
was right as to Bice herself, he cared but little for the Forno-Populi.
"I don't know anything about the sous. I have plenty for both," he said,
"that had a great deal better go to you, don't you know. She is all I
want. Bice! oh that's too foreign. I shall call her Bee, for she must be
English, don't you know, Countess, none of your Bohem--Oh, I don't mean
that; none of your foreign ways. They draw a fellow on, but when it's
all settled and we're married and that sort of thing, she'll have to be
out and out English, don't you know?"
"But that is reasonable," said the Contessa, who could when it was
necessary reply very distinctly. "When one has a great English name and
a position to keep up, one must be English. You shall call her what you
please."
"There's one thing more," Montjoie said with a little redness and
hesitation, but a certain dogged air, with which the Contessa had not as
yet made acquaintance. "It's best to understand each other, don't you
know; it's sort of hard-hearted to take her right away. But, Countess,
you're a woman of the world, and you know a fellow must start fair. You
keep all those sous you were talking of, and just let us knock along our
own way. I don't want the money, and I dare say you'll find a use for
it. And let's start fair; it'll be better for all parties, don't you
know," the young man said. He reddened, but he met the Contessa's eye
unflinchingly, though the effort to respond to this distinct statement
in the spirit in which it was made cost her a struggle. She stared at
him for a moment across the dainty little table laden with knick-knacks.
It was strange in the moment of victory to receive such a sudden
decisive defeat. There was just a possibility for a moment that this
brave spirit should own itself mere woman, and break down and cry. For
one second there was a quiver on her lip; then she smiled, which for
every purpose was the better way.
"You would like," she said, "to see Bice. She is in the little
drawing-room. The lawyers will settle the rest; but I understand your
suggestion, Lord Montjoie." She rose with all her natural stately grace,
which made the ordinary young fellow feel very small in spite of
himself. The smile she gave him had something in it that made his knees
knock together.
"I hope," he said, faltering, "you don't mind, Countess. My people,
though I've not got any people to speak of, might make themselves
disagreeable about--don't you know? you--you're a woman of the world."
The Contessa smiled upon him once more with dazzling sweetness. "She is
in the little drawing-room," she said.
And so it was concluded, the excitement, the tr-rouble, as Bice said; it
would have been far more amusing if there had been a great deal more
tr-rouble. The Contessa dropped down in the corner of the sofa from
which she had risen. She closed her eyes for the moment, and swallowed
the affront that had been put upon her, and what was worse than the
affront, the blow at her heart which this trifling little lord had
delivered without flinching. This was to be the end of her schemes, that
she was to be separated summarily and remorselessly from the child she
had brought up. The Contessa knew, being of the same order of being,
that, already somewhat disappointed to find the ardour of the chase over
and all the excitement of bringing down the quarry, Bice, who cared
little more about Montjoie than about any other likely person, would be
as ready as not to throw him off if she were to communicate rashly the
conditions on which he insisted. But, though she was of the same order
of being, the Contessa was older and wiser. She had gone through a great
many experiences. She knew that rich young English peers, marquises,
uncontrolled by any parent or guardians, were fruit that did not grow on
every bush, and that if this tide of fortune was not taken at its flood
there was no telling when another might come. Now, though Bice was so
dear, the Contessa had still a great many resources of her own, and was
neither old nor tired of life. She would make herself a new career even
without Bice, in which there might still be much interest--especially
with the aid of a settled income. The careless speech about the sous was
not without an eloquence of its own. Sous make everything that is
disagreeable less disagreeable, and everything that is pleasant more
pleasant. And she had got her triumph. She had secured for her Bice a
splendid lot. She had accomplished what she had vowed to do, which many
scoffers had thought she would never do. She was about to be presented
at the English Court, and all her soils and spots from the world cleared
from her, and herself rehabilitated wherever she might go. Was it
reasonable then to break her heart over Montjoie and his miserable
conditions? He could not separate Bice's love from her, though he might
separate their lives--and that about the sous was generous. She was not
one who would have sold her affections or given up anybody whom she
loved for money. But still there were many things to be said, and for
Bice's advantage what would she not do? The Contessa ended by a
resolution which many a better woman would not have had the courage to
make. She buried Montjoie's condition in her own heart--never to hint
its existence--to ignore it as if it had not been. Many a more
satisfactory person would have flinched at this. Most of us would at
least have allowed the object of our sacrifice to be aware what we were
doing for them. The Contessa did not even, so far as this, yield to the
temptation of fate.
In the meantime Bice had gone through her own little episode. Mr.
Derwentwater came about noon, before the Contessa was up; but he did not
know the Contessa's habits, and he was admitted, which neither Montjoie
nor any of the Contessa's friends would have been. He was overjoyed to
find the lady of his affections alone. This made everything, he thought,
simple and easy for him, and filled him with a delightful confidence
that she was prepared for the object of his visit and had contrived to
keep the Contessa out of the way. His heart was beating high, his mind
full of excitement. He took the chair she pointed him to, and then got
up again, poising his hat between his hands.
"Signorina," he said, "they say that a woman always knows the impression
she has made."
"Why do you call me Signorina?" said Bice. "Yes, it is quite right. But
then it is so long that I have not heard it, and it is only you that
call me so."
"Perhaps," said Mr. Derwentwater, with a little natural complacency,
"others are not so well acquainted with your beautiful country and
language. What should I call you? Ah, I know what I should like to call
you. _Beatrice, loda di deo vera._ You are like the supreme and sovran
lady whom every one must think of who hears your name."
Bice looked at him with a half-comic attention. "You are a very learned
man," she said, "one can see that. You always say something that is
pretty, that one does not understand."
This piqued the suitor a little and brought the colour to his cheek.
"Teach me," he said, "to make you understand me. If I could show you my
heart, you would see that from the first moment I saw you the name of
Bice has been written----"
"Oh, I know it already," cried Bice, "that you have a great devotion for
poetry. Unhappily I have no education. I know it so very little. But I
have found out what you mean about Bice. It is more soft than you say
it. There is no sound of _tch_ in it at all. Beeshe, like that. Your
Italian is very good," she added, "but it is Tuscan, and the _bocca
romana_ is the best."
Mr. Derwentwater was more put out than it became a philosopher to be. "I
came," he cried, with a kind of asperity, "for a very different purpose,
not to be corrected in my Italian. I came----" but here his feelings
were too strong for him, "to lay my life and my heart at your feet. Do
you understand me now? To tell you that I love you--no, that is not
enough, it is not love, it is adoration," he said. "I have never known
what it meant before. However fair women might be, I have passed them
by; my heart has never spoken. But now! Since the first moment I saw
you, Bice----"
The girl rose up; she became a little alarmed. Emotion was strange to
her, and she shrank from it. "I have given," she said, "to nobody
permission to call me by my name."
"But you will give it to me! to your true lover," he cried. "No one can
admire and adore you as much as I do. It was from the first moment.
Bice, oh, listen! I have nothing to offer you but love, the devotion of
a life. What could a king give more? A true man cannot think of anything
else when he is speaking to the woman he loves. Nothing else is worthy
to offer you. Bice, I love you! I love you! Have you nothing, nothing in
return to say to me?"
All his self-importance and intellectual superiority had abandoned him.
He was so much agitated that he saw her but dimly through the mists of
excitement and passion. He stretched out his hands appealing to her. He
might have been on his knees for anything he knew. It seemed incredible
to him that his strong passion should have no return.
"Have you nothing, nothing to say to me?" he cried.
Bice had been frightened, but she had regained her composure. She looked
on at this strange exhibition of feeling with the wondering calm of
extreme youth. She was touched a little, but more surprised than
anything else. She said, with a slight tremor, "I think it must be all a
mistake. One is never so serious--oh, never so serious! It is not
something of--gravity like that. Did not you know? I am intended to make
a marriage--to marry well, very well--what you call a great marriage. It
is for that I am brought here. The Contessa would never listen--Oh, it
is a mistake altogether--a mistake! You do not know what is my career.
It has all been thought of since I was born. Pray, pray, go away, and do
not say any more."
"Bice," he cried, more earnestly than ever, "I know. I heard that you
were to be sacrificed. Who is the lady who is going to sacrifice you to
Mammon? she is not your mother; you owe her no obedience. It is your
happiness, not hers, that is at stake. And I will preserve you from her.
I will guard you like my own soul; the winds of heaven shall not visit
your cheek roughly. I will cherish you; I will adore you. Come, only
come to me."
His voice was husky with emotion; his last words were scarcely audible,
said within his breath in a high strain of passion which had got beyond
his control. The contrast between this tremendous force of feeling and
her absolute youthful calm was beyond description. It was more wonderful
than anything ever represented on the tragic stage. Only in the depth
and mystery of human experience could such a wonderful juxtaposition be.
"Mr. Derwentwater," she said, trembling a little, "I cannot understand
you. Go away, oh, go away!"
"Bice!"
"Go away, oh, go away! I am not able to bear it; no one is ever so
serious. I am not great enough, nor old enough. Don't you know," cried
Bice, with a little stamp of her foot, "I like the other way best? Oh,
go away, go away!"
He stood quiet, silently gazing at her till he had regained his power of
speech, which was not for a moment or two. Then he said hoarsely, "You
like--the other way best?"
She clasped her hands together with a mingling of impatience and wonder
and rising anger. "I am made like that," she cried. "I don't know how to
be so serious. Oh, go away from me. You tr-rouble me. I like the other
best."
He never knew how he got out of the strange, unnatural atmosphere of the
house in which he seemed to leave his heart behind him. The perfumes,
the curtains, the half lights, the blending draperies, were round him
one moment; the next he found himself in the greenness of the Park, with
the breeze blowing in his face, and his dream ended and done with.
He had a kind of vision of having touched the girl's reluctant hand, and
even of having seen a frightened look in her eyes as if he had awakened
some echo or touched some string whose sound was new to her. But if that
were so, it was not he, but only some discovery of unknown feeling that
moved her. When he came to himself, he felt that all the innocent
morning people in the Park, the children with their maids, the sick
ladies and old men sunning themselves on the benches, the people going
about their honest business, cast wondering looks at his pale face and
the agitation of his aspect. He took a long walk, he did not know how
long, with that strange sense that something capital had happened to
him, something never to be got over or altered, which follows such an
incident in life. He was even conscious by and by, habit coming to his
aid, of a curious question in his mind if this was how people usually
felt after such a wonderful incident--a thing that had happened quite
without demonstration, which nobody could ever know of, yet which made
as much change in him as if he had been sentenced to death. Sentenced to
death! that was what it felt like more or less. It had happened, and
could never be undone, and he walked away and away, but never got beyond
it, with the chain always round his neck. When he got into the streets
where nobody took any notice of him, it struck him with surprise, almost
offence. Was it possible that they did not see that something had
happened--a mystery, something that would never be shaken off but with
life?
He met Jock as he walked, and without stopping gave him a sort of
ghastly smile, and said, "You were right; she likes that best," and went
on again, with a sense that he might go on for ever like the wandering
Jew, and never get beyond the wonder and the pain.
And there is no doubt that Bice was glad to hear Montjoie's laugh, and
the nonsense he talked, and to throw off that sudden impression which
had frightened her. What was it? Something which was in life, but which
she had not met with before. "We are to have it all our own way, don't
you know?" Montjoie said. "I have no people, to call people, and she is
not going to interfere. We shall have it all our own way, and have a
good time, as the Yankees say. And I am not going to call you Bice,
which is a silly sort of name, and spells quite different from its
pronunciation. What are you holding back for? You have no call to be shy
with me now. Bee, you belong to me now, don't you know?" the young
fellow said, with demonstrations from which Bice shrunk a little. She
liked, yes, his way; but, but yet--she was perhaps a little savage, as
the Contessa said.