THE LAST CRISIS.
"Go to your father." Bice did not know what Lucy meant. The words
bewildered her beyond description, but she did not hesitate what to do.
She went downstairs to Sir Tom, who sat with his door opened and his
heart sinking in his bosom waiting to hear. There was no need for any
words. He followed her at once, almost as softly and as noiselessly as
she had come. And when they entered the dim room, where by this time
there was scarcely light enough for unaccustomed eyes to see, he went up
to Lucy and put his arms round her as she stood leaning on the little
bed. "My love," he said, "my love; we must be all in all to each other
now." His voice was choked and broken, but it did not reach Lucy's
heart. She put him away from her with an almost imperceptible movement.
"You have others," she said hoarsely; "I have nothing, nothing but him."
Just then the child stirred faintly in his bed, and first extending her
arms to put them all away from her, Lucy bent over him and lifted him to
her bosom. The nurse made a step forward to interfere, but then stepped
back again wringing her hands. The mother had risen into a sort of
sublimity, irresponsible in her great woe--if she had killed him to
forestall her agony a little, as is the instinct of desperation, they
could not have interfered. She sat down, and gathered the child close,
close in her embrace, his head upon her breast, holding him as if to
communicate life to him with the contact of hers. Her breath, her arms,
her whole being enveloped the little dying creature with a fulness of
passionate existence expanded to its highest. It was like taking back
the half-extinguished germ into the very bosom and core of life. They
stood round her with an awe of her, which would permit no intrusion
either of word or act. Even the experienced nurse who believed that the
little spark of life would be shaken out by this movement, only wrung
her hands and said nothing. The rest were but as spectators, gathering
round to see the tragedy accomplished and the woman's heart shattered
before their eyes.
Which was unjust too--for the husband who stood behind was as great a
sufferer. He was struck in everything a man can feel most, the instincts
of paternal love awakened late, the pride a man has in his heir, all
were crushed in him by a blow that seemed to wring his very heart out of
his breast; but neither did any one think of him, nor did he think of
himself. The mother that bare him!--that mysterious tie that goes beyond
and before all, was acknowledged by them all without a word. It was hers
to do as she pleased. The moments are long at such a time. They seemed
to stand still on that strange scene. The light remained the same; the
darkness seemed arrested, perhaps because it had come on too early on
account of clouds overhead; perhaps because time was standing still to
witness the easy parting of a soul not yet accustomed to this earth; the
far more terrible rending of the woman's heart.
Presently a sensation of great calm fell, no one could tell how, into
the room. The terror seemed to leave the hearts of the watchers. Was it
the angel who had arrived and shed a soothing from his very presence
though he had come to accomplish the end?
Another little change, almost imperceptible, Lucy beginning to rock her
child softly, as if lulling him to sleep. No one moved, or even
breathed, it seemed, for how long? some minutes, half a lifetime. Then
another sound. Oh, God in heaven! had she gone distracted, the innocent
creature, the young mother, in her anguish? She began to sing--a few low
notes, a little lullaby, in a voice ineffable, indescribable, not like
any mortal voice. One of the women burst out into a wail--it was the
child's nurse--and tried to take him from the mother's arms. The other
took her by the shoulders and turned her away. "What does it matter, a
few minutes more or less; she'll come to herself soon enough, poor
dear," said the attendant with a sob. Thus the group was diminished. Sir
Tom stood with one hand on his wife's chair, his face covered with the
other, and in his heart the bitterness of death; Bice had dropped down
on her knees by the side of that pathetic group; and in the midst sat
the mother bent over, almost enfolding the child, cradling him in her
own life. Bice was herself not much more than a child; to her all things
were possible--miracles, restorations from the dead. Her eyes were full
of tears, but there was a smile upon her quivering mouth. It was at her
Lucy looked, with eyes full of something like that "awful rose of dawn"
of which the poet speaks. They were dilated to twice their natural size.
She made a slight movement, opening to Bice the little face upon her
bosom, bidding her look as at a breathless secret to be kept from all
else. Was it a reflection or a faint glow of warmth upon the little worn
cheek? The eyes were no longer open, showing the white, but closed, with
the eyelashes shadowing against the cheek. There came into Lucy's eyes a
sort of warning look to keep the secret, and the wonderful spectacle
was, as it were, closed again, hidden with her arms and bending head.
And the soft coo of the lullaby went on.
Presently the women stole back, awed and silenced, but full of a
reviving thrill of curiosity. The elder one, who was from the hospital
and prepared for everything, drew nearer, and regarded with a
scientific, but not unsympathetic eye, the mother and the child. She
withdrew a little the shawl in which the infant was wrapped, and put her
too-experienced, instructed hands upon his little limbs, without taking
any notice of Lucy, who remained passive through this examination. "He's
beautiful and warm," said the woman, in a wondering tone. Then Bice rose
to her feet with a quick sudden movement, and went to Sir Tom and drew
his hand from his face. "He is not dying, he is sleeping," she said.
"And I think, miss, you're right. He has taken a turn for the better,"
said the experienced woman from the hospital. "Don't move, my lady,
don't move; we'll prop you with cushions--we'll pull him through still,
please God," the nurse said, with a few genuine tears.
When the doctor came some time after, instead of watching the child's
last moments, he had only to confirm their certainty of this favourable
change, and give his sanction to it; and the cloud that had seemed to
hang over it all day lifted from the house. The servants began to move
about again and bustle. The lamps were lighted. The household resumed
their occupations, and Williams himself in token of sympathy carried up
Mr. Randolph's beef-tea. When Lucy, after a long interval, was liberated
from her confined attitude and the child restored to his bed, the
improvement was so evident that she allowed herself to be persuaded to
lie down and rest. "Milady," said Bice, "I am not good for anything,
but I love him. I will not interfere, but neither will I ever take away
my eyes from him till you are again here." There was no use in this, but
it was something to the young mother. She lay down and slept, for the
first time since the illness began; slept not in broken, painful
dozings, but a real sleep. She was not in a condition to think; but
there was a vague feeling in her mind that here was some one, not as
others were, to whom little Tom was something more than to the rest.
Consciously she ought to have shrunk from Bice's presence; unconsciously
it soothed her and warmed her heart.
Sir Tom went back to his room, shaken as with a long illness, but
feeling that the world had begun again, and life was once more liveable.
He sat down and thought over every incident, and thanked God with such
tears as men too, like women, are often fain to indulge in, though they
do it chiefly in private. Then, as the effect of this great crisis began
to go off a little, and the common round to come back, there recurred to
his mind Lucy's strange speech, "You have others----" What others was he
supposed to have? She had drawn herself away from him. She had made no
appeal to his sympathy. "You have--others. I have nothing but him." What
did Lucy mean? And then he remembered how little intercourse there had
been of late between them, how she had kept aloof from him. They might
have been separated and living in different houses for all the union
there had been between them. "You have others----" What did Lucy mean?
He got up, moved by the uneasiness of this question, and began to pace
about the floor. He had no others; never had a man been more devoted to
his own house. She had not been exacting, nor he uxorious. He had lived
a man's life in the world, and had not neglected his duties for his
wife; but he reminded himself, with a sort of indignant satisfaction,
that he had found Lucy far more interesting than he expected, and that
her fresh curiosity, her interest in everything, and the just enough of
receptive intelligence, which is more agreeable than cleverness, had
made her the most pleasant companion he had ever known. It was not an
exercise of self-denial, of virtue on his part, as the Dowager and
indeed many other of his friends had attempted to make out, but a real
pleasure in her society. He had liked to talk to her, to tell her his
own past history (selections from it), to like, yet laugh at her simple
comments. He never despised anything she said, though he had laughed at
some of it with a genial and placid amusement. And that little beggar!
about whom Sir Tom could not even think to-day without a rush of water
to his eyes--could any man have considered the little fellow more, or
been more proud of him or fond? He could not live in the nursery, it was
true, like Lucy, but short of that--"Others." What could she mean? There
were no others. He was content to live and die, if but they might be
spared to him, with her and the boy. A sort of chill doubt that somebody
might have breathed into her ear that suggestion about Bice's parentage
did indeed cross his mind; but ever since he had ascertained that this
fear was a delusion, it had seemed to him the most ridiculous idea in
the world. It had not seemed so before; it had appeared probable enough,
nay, with many coincidences in its favour. And he had even been
conscious of something like disappointment to find that it was not true.
But now it seemed to him too absurd for credence; and what creature in
the world, except himself, could have known the circumstances that made
it possible? No one but Williams, and Williams was true.
It was not till next morning that the ordinary habits of the household
could be said to be in any measure resumed. On that day Bice came down
to breakfast with Sir Tom with a smiling brightness which cheered his
solitary heart. She had gone back out of all her finery to the simple
black frock, which she told him had been the easiest thing to carry.
This was in answer to his question, "How had she come? Had the Contessa
sent her?" Bice clapped her hands with pleasure, and recounted how she
had run away.
"The news were always bad, more bad; and Milady all alone. At length the
time came when I could bear it no longer. I love him, my little Tom; and
Milady has always been kind, so kind, more kind than any one. Nobody has
been kind to me like her, and also you, Sir Tom; and baby that was my
darling," the girl said.
"God bless you, my dear," said Sir Tom; "but," he added, "you should not
have done it. You should have remembered the infection."
Bice made a little face of merry disdain and laughed aloud. "Do I care
for infection? Love is more strong than a fever. And then," she added,
"I had a purpose too."
Sir Tom was delighted with her girlish confidences about her frock and
her purpose. "Something very grave, I should imagine, from those looks."
"Oh, it is very grave," said Bice, her countenance changing. "You know I
am _fiancee_. There has been a good deal said to me of Lord Montjoie;
sometimes that he was not wise, what you call silly, not clever, not
good to have to do with. That he is not clever one can see; but what
then? The clever they do not always please. Others say that he is a
great _parti_, and all that is desirable. Myself," she added with an air
of judicial impartiality, "I like him well enough; even when he does not
please me, he amuses. The clever they are not always amusing. I am
willing to marry him since it is wished, otherwise I do not care much.
For there is, you know, plenty of time, and to marry so soon--it is a
disappointment, it is no longer exciting. So it is not easy to know
distinctly what to do. That is what you call a dilemma," Bice said.
"It is a serious dilemma," said Sir Tom, much amused and flattered too.
"You want me then to give you my advice----"
"No," said Bice, which made his countenance suddenly blank, "not advice.
I have thought of a way. All say that it is almost wicked, at least very
wrong to come here (in the Tauchnitz it would be miserable to be afraid,
and so I think), and that the fever is more than everything. Now for me
it is not so. If Lord Montjoie is of my opinion, and if he thinks I am
right to come, then I shall know that, though he is not clever---- Yes;
that is my purpose. Do you think I shall be right?"
"I see," said Sir Tom, though he looked somewhat crestfallen. "You have
come not so much for us, though you are kindly disposed towards us, but
to put your future husband to the test. There is only this drawback,
that he might be an excellent fellow and yet object to the step you have
taken. Also that these sort of tests are very risky, and that it is
scarcely worth while for this, to run the risk of a bad illness, perhaps
of your life."
"That is unjust," said Bice with tears in her eyes. "I should have come
to Milady had there been no Montjoie at all. It is first and above all
for her sake. I will have a fever for her, oh willingly!" cried the
girl. Then she added after a little pause: "Why did she bid me 'go to
your father and tell him----?' What does that mean, go to my father? I
have never had any father."
"Did she say that?" Sir Tom cried. "When? and why?"
"It was when all seemed without hope. She was kneeling by the bed, and
he, my little boy, my little darling! Ah," cried Bice, with a shiver.
"To think it should have been so near! when God put that into her mind
to save him. She said 'Go to your father, and tell him my boy is dying.'
What did she mean? I came to you; but you are not my father."
He had risen up in great agitation and was walking about the room. When
she said these words he came up to her and laid his hand for a moment on
her head. "No," he said, with a sense of loss which was painful; "No,
the more's the pity, Bice. God bless you, my dear."
His voice was tremulous, his hand shook a little. The girl took it in
her pretty way and kissed it. "You have been as good to me as if it were
so. But tell me what Milady means? for at that moment she would say
nothing but what was at the bottom of her heart."
"I cannot tell you, Bice," said Sir Tom, almost with tears. "If I have
made her unhappy, my Lucy, who is better than any of us, what do I
deserve? what should be done to me? And she has been unhappy, she has
lost her faith in me. I see it all now."
Bice sat and looked at him with her eyes full of thought. She was not a
novice in life though she was so young. She had heard many a tale not
adapted for youthful ears. That a child might have a father whose name
she did not bear and who had never been disclosed to her was not
incomprehensible, as it would have been to an English girl. She looked
him severely in the face, like a young Daniel come to judgment. Had she
been indeed his child to what a terrible ordeal would Sir Tom have been
exposed under the light of those steady eyes. "Is it true that you have
made her unhappy?" she said, as if she had the power of death in her
hands.
"No!" he said, with a sudden outburst of feeling. "No! there are things
in my life that I would not have raked up; but since I have known her,
nothing; there is no offence to her in any record of my life----"
Bice looked at him still unfaltering. "You forget us--the Contessa and
me. You brought us, though she did not know. We are not like her, but
you brought us to her house. Nevertheless," said the young judge
gravely, "that might be unthoughtful, but not a wrong to her. Is it
perhaps a mistake?"
"A mistake or a slander, or--some evil tongue," he cried.
Bice rose up from the chair which had been her bench of justice, and
walked to the door with a stately step, befitting her office, full of
thought. Then she paused again for a moment and looked back and waved
her hand. "I think it is a pity," she said with great gravity. She
recognised the visionary fitness as he had done. They would have suited
each other, when it was thus suggested to them, for father and
daughter; and that it was not so, by some spite of fate, was a pity. She
found Lucy dressed and refreshed sitting by the bed of the child, who
had already begun to smile faintly. "Milady," said Bice, "will you go
downstairs? There is a long time that you have not spoken to Sir Tom. Is
he afraid of your fever? No more than me! But his heart is breaking for
you. Go to him, Milady, and I will stay with the boy."
It was not for some time that Lucy could be persuaded to go. He
had--others. What was she to him but a portion of his life? and the
child was all of hers: a small portion of his life only a few years,
while the others had a far older and stronger claim. There was no anger
in her mind, all hushed in the exhaustion of great suffering past, but a
great reluctance to enter upon the question once more. Lucy wished only
to be left in quiet. She went slowly, reluctantly, downstairs. Unhappy?
No. He had not made her unhappy. Nothing could make her unhappy now that
her child was saved. It seemed to Lucy that it was she who had been ill
and was getting better, and she longed to be left alone. Sir Tom was
standing against the window with his head upon his hand. He did not hear
her light step till she was close to him. Then he turned round, but not
with the eagerness for her which Bice had represented. He took her hand
gently and drew it within his arm.
"All is going well?" he said, "and you have had a little rest, my dear?
Bice has told me----"
She withdrew a little the hand which lay on his arm. "He is much
better," she said; "more than one would have thought possible."
"Thank God!" Sir Tom cried; and they were silent for a moment, united
in thanksgiving, yet so divided, with a sickening gulf between them.
Lucy felt her heart begin to stir and ache that had been so quiet. "And
you," he said, "have had a little rest? Thank God for that too. Anything
that had happened to him would have been bad enough; but to you,
Lucy----"
"Oh, hush, hush," she cried, "that is over; let us not speak of anything
happening to him."
"But all is not over," he said. "Something has happened--to us. What did
you mean when you spoke to me of others? 'You have others.' I scarcely
noticed it at that dreadful moment; but now---- Who are those others,
Lucy? Whom have I but him and you?"
She did not say anything, but withdrew her hand altogether from his arm,
and looked at him. A look scarcely reproachful, wistful, sorrowful,
saying, but not in words, in its steady gaze--You know.
He answered as if it had been speech.
"But I don't know. What is it, Lucy? Bice too has something she asked me
to explain, and I cannot explain it. You said to her, 'Go to your
father.' What is this? You must tell what you mean."
"Bice?" she said, faltering; "it was at a moment when I did not think
what I was saying."
"No, when you spoke out that perilous stuff you have got in your heart.
Oh, my Lucy, what is it, and who has put it there?"
"Tom," she said, trembling very much. "It is not Bice; she--that--is
long ago--if her mother had been dead. But a man cannot have two lives.
There cannot be two in the same place. It is not jealousy. I am not
finding fault. It has been perhaps without intention; but it is not
befitting--oh, not befitting. It cannot--oh, it is impossible! it must
not be."
"What must not be? Of what in the name of heaven are you speaking?" he
cried.
Once more she fixed on him that look, more reproachful this time, full
of meaning and grieved surprise. She drew away a little from his side.
"I did not want to speak," she said. "I was so thankful; I want to say
nothing. You thought you had left that other life behind; perhaps you
forgot altogether. They say that people do. And now it is here at your
side, and on the other side my little boy and me. Ah! no, no, it is not
befitting, it cannot be----"
"I understand dimly," he said; "they have told you Bice was my child. I
wish it were so. I had a child, Lucy, it is true, who is dead in
Florence long ago. The mother is dead too, long ago. It is so long past
that, if you can believe it, I had--forgotten."
"Dead!" she said. And there came into her mild eyes a scared and
frightened look. "And--the Contessa?"
"The Contessa!" he cried.
They were standing apart gazing at each other with something more like
the heat of a passionate debate than had ever arisen between them, or
indeed seemed possible to Lucy's tranquil nature, when the door was
suddenly opened and the voice of Williams saying, "Sir Thomas is here,
my lady," reduced them both in an instant to silence. Then there was a
bustle and a movement, and of all wonderful sights to meet their eyes,
the Contessa herself came with hesitation into the room. She had her
handkerchief pressed against the lower part of her face, from above
which her eyes looked out watchfully. She gave a little shriek at the
sight of Lucy. "I thought," she said, "Sir Tom was alone. Lucy, my
angel, my sweetest, do not come near me!" She recoiled to the door which
Williams had just closed. "I will say what I have to say here. Dearest
people, I love you, but you are charged with pestilence. My Lucy, how
glad I am for your little boy--but every moment they tell me increases
the danger. Where is Bice? Bice! I have come to bring her away."
"Contessa," said Sir Tom, "you have come at a fortunate moment. Tell
Lady Randolph who Bice is. I think she has a right to know."
"Who Bice is? But what has that to do with it? She is _fiancee_, she
belongs to more than herself. And there is the drawing-room in a
week--imagine, only in a week!--and how can she go into the presence of
the Queen full of infection? I acknowledge, I acknowledge," cried the
Contessa, through her handkerchief, "you have been very kind--oh, more
than kind. But why then now will you spoil all? It might make a
revolution--it might convey to Majesty herself---- Ah! it might spoil all
the child's prospects. Who is she? Why should you reproach me with my
little mystery now? She is all that is most natural; Guido's child, whom
you remember well enough, Sir Tom, who married my poor little sister, my
little girl who followed me, who would do as I did. You know all this,
for I have told you. They are all dead, all dead--how can you make me
talk of them? And Bice perhaps with the fever in her veins, ready to
communicate it--to Majesty herself, to me, to every one!"
The Contessa sank down on a chair by the door. She drew forth her fan,
which hung by her side, and fanned away from her this air of pestilence.
"The child must come back at once," she said, with little cries and
sobs--an _acces de nerfs_, if these simple people had known--through her
handkerchief. "Let her come at once, and we may conceal it still. She
shall have baths. She shall be fumigated. I will not see her or let her
be seen. She shall have a succession of headaches. This is what I have
said to Montjoie. Imagine me out in the air, that is so bad for the
complexion, at this hour! But I think of nothing in comparison with the
interests of Bice. Send for her. Lucy, sweet one, you would not spoil
her prospects. Send for her--before it is known." Then she laughed with
a hysterical vehemence. "I see; some one has been telling her it was the
poor little child whom you left with me, whom I watched over--yes, I was
good to the little one. I am not a hard-hearted woman. Lucy: it was I
who put this thought into your mind. I said--of English parentage. I
meant you to believe so--that you might give something, when you were
giving so much, to my poor Bice. What was wrong? I said you would be
glad one day that you had helped her:--yes--and I allowed also my enemy
the Dowager, to believe it."
"To believe _that_." Lucy stood out alone in the middle of the room,
notwithstanding the shrinking back to the wall of the visitor, whose
alarm was far more visible than any other emotion. "To believe
_that_--that she was your child, and----"
Something stopped Lucy's mouth. She drew back, her pale face dyed with
crimson, her whole form quivering with remorse and pain as of one who
has given a cowardly and cruel blow.
The Contessa rose. She stood up against the wall. It did not seem to
occur to her what kind of terrible accusation this was, but only that
it was something strange, incomprehensible. She withdrew for a moment
the handkerchief from her mouth. "My child? But I have never had a
child!" she said.
"Lucy," cried Sir Tom in a terrible voice.
And then Lucy stood aghast between them, looking from one to another.
The scales seemed to fall from her eyes. The perfectly innocent when
they fall under the power of suspicion go farthest in that bitter way.
They take no limit of possibility into their doubts and fears. They do
not think of character or nature. Now, in a moment the scales fell from
Lucy's eyes. Was her husband a man to treat her with such unimaginable
insult? Was the Contessa, with all her triumphant designs, her
mendacities, her mendicities, her thirst for pleasure, such a woman?
Whoever said it, could this be true?
The Contessa perceived with a start that her hand had dropped from her
mouth. She put back the handkerchief again with tremulous eagerness. "If
I take it, all will go wrong--all will fall to pieces," she said
pathetically. "Lucy, dear one, do not come near me, but send me Bice, if
you love me," the Contessa cried. She smiled with her eyes, though her
mouth was covered. She had not so much as understood, she, so
experienced, so acquainted with the wicked world, so _connaisseuse_ in
evil tales--she had not even so much as divined what innocent Lucy meant
to say.