THE EXPERIENCES OF BICE.
Sir Tom was concerned and anxious, but not alarmed like the women. After
all it was a complaint of which children recovered every day. It had
nothing to do with the child's lungs, which had been enfeebled by his
former illness. He had as good a chance as any other in the present
malady. Sir Tom was much depressed for an hour or two, but when
everything was done that could be done, and an experienced woman arrived
to whom the "case," though "anxious," as she said, did not appear
immediately alarming, he forced his mind to check that depression, and
to return to the cares which, if less grave, harassed and worried him
more. Lucy was invisible all day. She spoke to him through the closed
door from behind the curtain, but in a voice which he could scarcely
hear and which had no tone of individuality in it, but only a faint
human sound of distress. "He is no better. They say we cannot expect him
to be better," she said. "Come down, dear, and have some dinner," said
the round and large voice of Sir Tom, which even into that stillness
brought a certain cheer. But as it sounded into the shut-up room, where
nobody ventured to speak above their breath, it was like a bell pealing
or a discharge of artillery, something that broke up the quiet, and
made, or so the poor mother thought, the little patient start in his
uneasy bed. Dinner! oh how could he ask it, how could he think of it?
Sir Tom went away with a sigh of mingled uneasiness and impatience. He
had always thought Lucy a happy exception to the caprices and vagaries
of womankind. He had hoped that she was without nerves, as she had
certainly been without those whims that amuse a man in other people's
wives, but disgust him in his own. Was she going to turn out just like
the rest, with extravagant terrors, humours, fancies--like all of them?
Why should not she come to dinner, and why speak to him only from behind
the closed door? He was annoyed and almost angry with Lucy. There had
been something the matter, he reflected, for some time. She had taken
offence at something; but surely the appearance of a real trouble might,
at least, have made an end of that. He felt vexed and impatient as he
sat down with Jock alone. "You will have to get out of this, my boy," he
said, "or they won't let you go back to school; don't you know it's
catching?" To have infection in one's house, and to be considered
dangerous by one's friends, is always irritating. Sir Tom spoke with a
laugh, but it was a laugh of offence. "I ought to have thought of it
sooner," he said; "you can't go straight to school, you know, from a
house with fever in it. You must pack up and get off at once."
"I am not afraid," cried Jock. "Do you think I am such a cad as to leave
Lucy when she's in trouble? or--or--the little one either?" Jock added,
in a husky voice.
"We are all cads in that respect nowadays," said Sir Tom. "It is the
right thing. It is high principle. Men will elbow off and keep me at a
distance, and not a soul will come near Lucy. Well, I suppose, it's all
right. But there is some reason in it, so far as you are concerned.
Come, you must be off to-night. Get hold of MTutor, he's still in town,
and ask him what you must do."
After dinner Sir Tom strolled forth. He did not mean to go out, but the
house was intolerable, and he was very uneasy on the subject of Bice. It
felt, indeed, something like a treason to Lucy, shut up in the child's
sick-room, to go to the house which somehow or other was felt to be in
opposition, and dimly suspected as the occasion of her changed looks and
ways. He did not even say to himself that he meant to go there. And it
was not any charm in the Contessa that drew him. It was that uneasy
sense of a possibility which involved responsibility, and which,
probably, he would never either make sure of or get rid of. The little
house in Mayfair was lighted from garret to basement. If the lights were
dim inside they looked bright without. It had the air of a house
overflowing with life, every room with its sign of occupation. When he
got in, the first sight he saw was Montjoie striding across the doorway
of the small dining-room. Montjoie was very much at home, puffing his
cigarette at the new comer. "Hallo, St. John!" he cried, then added with
a tone of disappointment, "Oh! it's you."
"It is I, I'm sorry to say, as you don't seem to like it," said Sir Tom.
The young fellow looked a little abashed. "I expected another fellow.
That's not to say I ain't glad to see you. Come in and have a glass of
wine."
"Thank you," said Sir Tom. "I suppose as you are smoking the ladies are
upstairs."
"Oh, they don't mind," said Montjoie; "at least the Contessa, don't you
know? She's up to a cigarette herself. I shouldn't stand it," he added,
after a moment, "in--Mademoiselle. Oh, perhaps you haven't heard. She
and I--have fixed it all up, don't you know?"
"Fixed it all up?"
"Engaged, and that sort of thing. I'm a kind of boss in this house now.
I thought, perhaps, that was why you were coming, to hear all about it,
don't you know?"
"Engaged!" cried Sir Tom, with a surprise in which there was no
qualification. He felt disposed to catch the young fellow by the throat
and pitch him out of doors.
"You don't seem over and above pleased," said Montjoie, throwing away
his cigarette, and confronting Sir Tom with a flush of defiance. They
stood looking at each other for a moment, while Antonio, in the
background, watched at the foot of the stairs, not without hopes of a
disturbance.
"I don't suppose that my pleasure or displeasure matters much: but you
will pardon me if I pass, for my visit was to the Contessa," Sir Tom
said, going on quickly. He was in an irritable state of mind to begin
with. He thought he ought to have been consulted, even as an old friend,
much more as---- And the young ass was offensive. If it turned out that
Sir Tom had anything to do with it Montjoie should find that to be the
best _parti_ of the season was not a thing that would infallibly
recommend him to a father at least. The Contessa had risen from her
chair at the sound of the voices. She came forward to Sir Tom with both
her hands extended as he entered the drawing-room. "Dear old friend!
congratulate me. I have accomplished all I wished," she said.
"That was Montjoie," said Sir Tom. He laughed, but not with his usual
laugh. "No great ambition, I am afraid. But," he said, pressing those
delicate hands not as they were used to be pressed, with a hard
seriousness and imperativeness, "you must tell me! I must have an
explanation. There can be no delay or quibbling longer."
"You hurt me, sir," she said with a little cry, and looked at her hands,
"body and mind," she added, with one of her smiles. "Quibbling--that is
one of your English words a woman cannot be expected to understand. Come
then with me, barbarian, into my boudoir."
Bice sat alone somewhat pensively with one of those favourite Tauchnitz
volumes from which she had obtained her knowledge of English life in her
hand. It was contraband, which made it all the dearer to her. She was
not reading, but leaning her chin against it lost in thought. She was
not pining for the presence of Montjoie, but rather glad after a long
afternoon of him that he should prefer a cigarette to her company. She
felt that this was precisely her own case, the cigarette being
represented by the book or any other expedient that answered to cover
the process of thought.
Bice was not used to these processes. Keen observation of the ways of
mankind in all the strange exhibitions of them which she had seen in her
life had been the chief exercise of her lively intelligence. To Mr.
Derwentwater, perhaps, may be given the credit of having roused the
girl's mind, not indeed to sympathy with himself, but into a kind of
perturbation and general commotion of spirit. Events were crowding
quickly upon her. She had accepted one suitor and refused another within
the course of a few hours. Such incidents develop the being; not,
perhaps, the first in any great degree--but the second was not in the
programme, and it had perplexed and roused her. There had come into her
mind glimmerings, reflections, she could not tell what. Montjoie was
occupied in something of the same manner downstairs, thinking it all
over with his cigarette, wondering what Society and what his uncle would
say, for whom he had a certain respect. He said to himself on the whole
that he did not care that for Society! She suited him down to the
ground. She was the jolliest girl he had ever met, besides being so
awfully handsome. It was worth while going out riding with her just to
see how the fellows stared and the women grew green with envy; or coming
into a room with her, Jove! what a sensation she would make, and how
everybody would open their eyes when she appeared blazing in the
Montjoie diamonds! His satisfaction went a little deeper than this, to
do him justice. He was, in his way, very much in love with the beautiful
creature whom he had made up his mind to secure from the first moment he
saw her. But, perhaps, if it had not been for the triumph of her
appearance at Park Lane, and the hum of admiration and wonder that rose
around her, he would not have so early fixed his fate; and the shadow of
the uncle now and then came like a cloud over his glee. After the sudden
gravity with which he remembered this, there suddenly gleamed upon him a
vision of all his plain cousins gathering round his bride to scowl her
down, and blast her with criticism and disapproval, which made him burst
into a fit of laughter. Bice would hold her own; she would give as good
as she got. She was not one to be cowed or put down, wasn't Bee! He felt
himself clapping his hands and urging her on to the combat, and
celebrated in advance with a shout of laughter the discomfiture of all
those young ladies. But she should have nothing more to do with the
Forno-Populo. No; his wife should have none of that sort about her. What
did old Randolph mean always hanging about that old woman, and all the
rest of the old fogeys? It was fun enough so long as you had nothing to
do with them, but, by Jove, not for Lady Montjoie. Then he rushed
upstairs to shower a few rough caresses upon Bice and take his leave of
her, for he had an evening engagement formed before he was aware of the
change which was coming in his life. He had been about her all the
afternoon, and Bice, disturbed in her musings by this onslaught and
somewhat impatient of the caresses, beheld his departure with
satisfaction. It was the first evening since their arrival in town,
which the ladies had planned to spend alone.
And then she recommenced these thinkings which were not so easy as those
of her lover: but she was soon subject to another inroad of a very
different kind. Jock, who had never before come in the evening, appeared
suddenly unannounced at the door of the room with a pale and heavy
countenance. Though Bice had objected to be disturbed by her lover, she
did not object to Jock; he harmonised with the state of her mind, which
Montjoie did not. It seemed even to relieve her of the necessity of
thinking when he appeared--he who did thinking enough, she felt, with
half-conscious humour, for any number of people. He came in with a sort
of eagerness, yet weariness, and explained that he had come to say
good-bye, for he was going off--at once.
"Going off! but it is not time yet," Bice said.
"Because of the fever. But that is not altogether why I have come
either," he said, looking at her from under his curved eyebrows. "I have
got something to say."
"What fever?" she said, sitting upright in her chair.
Jock took no notice of the question; his mind was full of his own
purpose. "Look here," he said huskily, "I know you'll never speak to me
again. But there's something I want to say. We've been friends----"
"Oh yes," she said, raising her head with a gleam of frank and cordial
pleasure, "good friends--_camarades_--and I shall always, always speak
to you. You were my first friend."
"That is" said Jock, taking no notice, "you were--friends. I can't tell
what I was. I don't know. It's something very droll. You would laugh, I
suppose. But that's not to the purpose either. You wouldn't have
Derwentwater to-day."
Bice looked up with a half laugh. She began to consider him closely with
her clear-sighted penetrating eyes, and the agitation under which Jock
was labouring impressed the girl's quick mind. She watched every change
of his face with a surprised interest, but she did not make any reply.
"I never expected you would. I could have told him so. I did tell him
you liked the other best. They say that's common with women," Jock said
with a little awe, "when they have the choice offered, that it is always
the worst they take."
But still Bice did not reply. It was a sort of carrying out without any
responsibility of hers, the vague wonder and questionings of her own
mind. She had no responsibility in what Jock said. She could even
question and combat it cheerfully now that it was presented to her from
outside, but for the moment she said nothing to help him on, and he did
not seem to require it, though he paused from time to time.
"This is what I've got to say," Jock went on almost fiercely. "If you
take Montjoie it's a mistake. He looks good-natured and all that; he
looks easy to get on with. You hear me out, and then I'll go away and
never trouble you again. He is not--a nice fellow. If you were to go and
do such a thing as--marry him, and then find it out! I want you to know.
Perhaps you think it's mean of me to say so, like sneaking, and perhaps
it is. But, look here, I can't help it. Of course you would laugh at
me--any one would. I'm a boy at school. I know that as well as you
do----" Something got into Jock's voice so that he paused, and made a
gulp before he could go on. "But, Bice, don't have that fellow. There
are such lots; don't have _him_. I don't think I could stand it," Jock
cried. "And look here, if it's because the Contessa wants money, I have
some myself. What do I want with money? When I am older I shall work.
There it is for you, if you like. But don't--have that fellow. Have a
good fellow, there are plenty--there are fellows like Sir Tom. He is a
good man. I should not," said Jock, with a sort of sob, which came in
spite of himself, and which he did not remark even, so strong was the
passion in him. "I should not--mind. I could put up with it then. So
would Derwentwater. But, Bice----"
She had risen up, and so had he. They were neither of them aware of it.
Jock had lost consciousness, perception, all thought of anything but her
and this that he was urging upon her. While as for Bice the tide had
gone too high over her head. She felt giddy in the presence of something
so much more powerful than any feeling she had ever known, and yet
gazed at him half alarmed, half troubled as she was, with a perception
that could not be anything but humorous of the boy's voice sounding so
bass and deep, sometimes bursting into childish, womanish treble, and
the boy's aspect which contrasted so strongly with the passion in which
he spoke. When Sir Tom's voice made itself audible, coming from the
boudoir in conversation with the Contessa, the effect upon the two thus
standing in a sort of mortal encounter was extraordinary. Bice straining
up to the mark which he was setting before her, bewildered with the
flood on which she was rising, sank into ease again and a mastery of the
situation, while Jock, worn out and with a sense that all was over, sat
down abruptly, and left, as it were, the stage clear.
"The poor little man is rather bad, I fear," said Sir Tom, coming
through the dim room. There was something in his voice, an easier tone,
a sound of relief. How had the Contessa succeeded in cheering him? "And
what is worse (for he will do well I hope) is the scattering of all her
friends from about Lucy. I am kept out of it, and it does not matter,
you see; but she, poor little woman,"--his voice softened as he named
her with a tone of tenderness--"nobody will go near her," he said.
The Contessa gave a little shiver, and drew about her the loose shawl
she wore. "What can we say in such a case? It is not for us, it is for
those around us. It is a risk for so many----"
"My aunt," said Sir Tom, "would be her natural ally; but I know Lady
Randolph too well to think of that. And there is Jock, whom we are
compelled to send away. We shall be like two crows all alone in the
house."
"Is it this you told me of, fever?" cried Bice, turning to Jock. "But it
is I that will go--oh, this moment! It is no tr-rouble. I can sit up. I
never am sleepy. I am so strong nothing hurts me. I will go directly,
now."
"You!" they all cried, but the Contessa's tones were most high. She made
a protest full of indignant virtue.
"Do you think," she said, "if I had but myself to think of that I would
not fly to her? But, child in your position! _fiancee_ only to-day--with
all to do, all to think of, how could I leave you? Oh, it is impossible;
my good Lucy, who is never unreasonable, she will know it, she will
understand. Besides, to what use, my Bice? She has nurses for day and
night. She has her dear husband, her good husband, to be with her. What
does a woman want more? You would be _de trop_. You would be out of
place. It would be a trouble to them. It would be a blame to me. And you
would take it, and bring it back and spread it, Bice--and perhaps Lord
Montjoie----"
Bice looked round her bewildered from one to another.
"Should I be _de trop_?" she said, turning to Sir Tom with anxious eyes.
Sir Tom looked at her with an air of singular emotion. He laid his hand
caressingly on her shoulder: "_De trop_? no; never in my house. But that
is not the question. Lucy will be cheered when she knows that you wanted
to come. But what the Contessa says is true; there are plenty of
nurses--and my wife--has me, if I am any good; and we would not have you
run any risk----"
"In her position!" cried the Contessa; "_fiancee_ only to-day. She owes
herself already to Lord Montjoie, who would never consent, never; it is
against every rule. Speak to her, _mon ami_, speak to her; she is a girl
who is capable of all. Tell her that now it is thought criminal, that
one does not risk one's self and others. She might bring it here, if not
to herself, to me, Montjoie, the domestics." The Contessa sank into a
chair and began fanning herself; then got up again and went towards the
girl clasping her hands. "My sweetest," she cried, "you will not be
_entetee_, and risk everything. We shall have news, good news, every
morning, three, four times a day."
"And Milady," said Bice, "who has done everything, will be alone and in
tr-rouble. Sir Tom, he must leave her, he must attend to his affairs. He
is a man; he must take the air; he must go out in the world. And
she--she will be alone: when we have lived with her, when she has been
more good, more good than any one could deserve. Risk! The doctor does
not take it, who is everywhere, who will, perhaps, come to you next,
Madama; and the nurses do not take it. It is a shame," cried the girl,
throwing up her fine head, "if Love is not as good as the servants, if
to have gratitude in your heart is nothing! And the risk, what is it? An
illness, a fever. I have had a fever----"
"Bice, you might bring--what is dreadful to think of," cried the
Contessa, with a shiver. "You might die."
"Die!" the girl cried, in a voice like a silver trumpet with a keen
sweetness of scorn and tenderness combined. "_Apres_?" she said,
throwing back her head. She was not capable of those questions which Mr.
Derwentwater and his pupil had set before her. But here she was upon
different ground.
"Oh, she is capable of all! she is a girl that is capable of all," cried
the Contessa, sinking once more into a chair.