Lucy did not see her visitors till the hour of dinner. She had expected them to appear in the afternoon at the mystic hour of tea, which calls an English household together, but when it was represented to her that afternoon tea was not the same interesting institution in Italy, her surprise ceased, and though her expectations were still more warmly excited by this delay, she bore it with becoming patience. There was no doubt, however, that the arrival had made a great commotion in the house, and Lucy perceived without in the least understanding it, a peculiarity in the looks which various of the people around her cast upon her during the course of the day. Her own maid was one of these people, and Mrs. Freshwater, the housekeeper, who explained in a semi-apologetic tone all the preparations she had made for the comfort of the guests, was another. And Williams, though he was always so dignified, thought Lucy could not help feeling an eye upon her. He was almost compassionately attentive to his young mistress. There was a certain pathos in the way in which he handed her the potatoes at lunch. He pressed a little more claret upon her with a fatherly anxiety, and an air that seemed to say, "It will do you good." Lucy was conscious of all this additional attention without realising the cause of it. But it found its culmination in Lady Randolph, in whom a slightly-injured and aggrieved air towards Sir Tom was enhanced by the extreme tenderness of her aspect to Lucy, for whom she could not do too much. "Williams is quite right in giving you a little more wine. You take nothing," she said, "and I am sure you want support. After your long drive, too, my dear: and how cold it has been this morning!"
"Yes, it was cold; but we did not mind, we rather liked it, Jock and I. Poor Madame di Forno-Populo! She must have felt it travelling all night."
"Bravo, Lucy, that is right! you have tackled the name at last, and got through with it beautifully," said Sir Tom with a laugh.
Lucy was pleased to be praised. "I hope I shan't forget," she said, "it is so long: and oh, Tom, I do hope she can talk English, for you know my French."
"I should think she could talk English!" said Lady Randolph, with a little scorn. And what was very extraordinary was that Williams showed a distinct but suppressed consciousness, putting his lips tight as if to keep in what he knew about the matter. "And I don't think you need be so sorry for the lady, Lucy," said the dowager. "No doubt she didn't mean to travel by night. It arose from some mistake or other in Tom's letter. But she does not mind that, you may be sure, now that she has made out her point."
"What point?" said Sir Tom, with some heat. But Lady Randolph made no reply, and he did not press the question. They were both aware that it is sometimes better to hold one's tongue. And the curious thing to all of those well-informed persons was that Lucy took no notice of all their hints and innuendoes. She was in the greatest spirits, not only interested about her unknown visitors and anxious to secure their comfort, but in herself more gay than she had been for some time past. In fact this arrival was a godsend to Lucy. The cloud had disappeared entirely from her husband's brow. Instead of making any inquiries about her visit to Farafield, or resuming the agitating discussion which had ended in what was really a refusal on her part to do what he wished, he was full of a desire to conciliate and please her. The matter which had brought so stern a look to his face, and occasioned her an anxiety and pain far more severe than anything that had occurred before in her married life, seemed to have dropped out of his mind altogether. Instead of that opposition and disapproval, mingled with angry suspicion, which had been in his manner and looks, he was now on the watch to propitiate Lucy; to show a gratitude for which she knew no reason, and a pride in her which was still less comprehensible. What did it all mean, the compassion on one side, the satisfaction on the other? But Lucy scarcely asked herself the question. In her relief at having no new discussion with her husband, and at his apparent forgetfulness of all displeasure and of any question between them, her heart rose with all the glee of a child's. It seemed to her that she had surmounted the difficulties of her position by an intervention which was providential. It even occurred to her innocent mind to make reflections as to the advantage of doing what was right in the face of all difficulties. God, she said to herself, evidently was protecting her. It was known in heaven what an effort it had cost her to do her duty to fulfil her father's will, and now heavenly succour was coming, and the difficulties disappearing out of her way. Lucy would have been ready in any case with the most unhesitating readiness to receive and do any kindness to her husband's friend. No idea of jealousy had come into her unsuspicious soul. She had taken it as a matter of course that this unknown lady should have the best that the Hall could offer her, and that her old alliance with Sir Tom should throw open his doors and his wife's heart. Perhaps it was because Lucy's warm and simple-minded attachment to her husband had little in it of the character of passion that it was thus entirely without any impulse of jealousy. And what was so natural in common circumstances became still more so in the exhilaration and rebound of her troubled heart. Sir Tom was so kind to her in departing from his opposition, in letting her have her way without a word. It was certain that Lucy would not have relinquished her duty for any opposition he had made. But with what a bleeding heart she would have done it, and how hateful would have been the necessity which separated her from his goodwill and assistance! Now she felt that terrible danger was over. Probably he would not ask her what she had been about. He would not give it his approval, which would have been most sweet of all, but if he did not interfere, if he permitted it to be done without opposition, without even demanding of his wife an account of her action, how much that would be, and how cordially, with what a genuine impulse of the heart would she set to work to carry out his wishes—he who had been so generous, so kind to her! This was how it was that her gaiety, the ease and happiness of her look, startled them all so much. That she should have been amiable to the new comers was comprehensible. She was so amiable by nature, and so ignorant and unsuspicious: but that their coming should give her pleasure, this was the thing that confounded the spectators: they could not understand how any other subject should withdraw her from what is supposed to be a wife's master emotion—nay, they could not understand how it was that mere instinct had not enlightened Lucy, and pointed out to her what elements were coming together that would be obnoxious to her peace. Even Sir Tom felt this, with a deepened tenderness for his pure-minded little wife, and pride in her unconsciousness. Was there another woman in England who would have been so entirely generous, so unaware even of the possibility of evil? He admired her for it, and wondered—if it was a little silly (which he had a kind of undisclosed suspicion that it was), yet what a heavenly silliness. There was nobody else who would have been so magnanimous, so confident in his perfect honour and truth.
The only other element that could have added to Lucy's satisfaction was also present. Little Tom was better than usual. Notwithstanding the cold he had been able to go out, and was all the brighter for it, not chilled and coughing as he sometimes was. His mother had found him careering about his nursery in wild glee, and flinging his toys about, in perfectly boyish, almost mannish, altogether wicked, indifference to the danger of destroying them. It was this that brought her downstairs radiant to the luncheon table, where Lady Randolph and Williams were so anxious to be good to her. Lucy was much surprised by the solicitude which she felt to be so unnecessary. She was disposed to laugh at the care they took of her; feeling in her own mind, more triumphant, more happy and fortunate, than she had ever been before.
As for Jock, he took no notice at all of the incident of the day. He perceived with satisfaction, a point on which for the moment he was unusually observant, that Sir Tom showed no intention of questioning them as to their morning's expedition or opposing Lucy. This being the case, what was it to the boy who went or came? A couple of ladies were quite indifferent to him. He did not expect anything or fear anything. His own doings interested him much more. The conversation about this new subject floated over his head. He did not take the trouble to pay any attention to it. As for Williams' significant looks or Lady Randolph's anxieties, Jock was totally unconscious of their existence. He did not pay any attention. When the party was not interesting he had plenty of other thoughts to retire into, and the coming of new people, except in so far as it might be a bore, did not affect him at all.
Lucy went out dutifully for a drive with Lady Randolph after luncheon. It was still very bright, though it was cold, and after a little demur as to the propriety of going out when it was possible her guests might be coming downstairs, Lucy took her place beside the fur-enveloped Dowager with her hot water footstool and mountain of wrappings. They talked about ordinary matters for a little, about the landscape and the improvements, and about little Tom, whose improvement was the most important of all. But it was not possible to continue long upon indifferent matters in face of the remarkable events which had disturbed the family calm.
"I hope," said Lucy, "that Madame di Forno-Populo" (she was very careful about all the syllables) "may not be more active than you think, and come down while we are away."
"Oh, there is not the least fear," said Lady Randolph, somewhat scornfully. "She was always a candle-light beauty. She is not very fond of the eye of day."
"She is a beauty, then?" said Lucy. "I am very glad. There are so few. You know I have always been—rather—disappointed. There are many pretty people: but to be beautiful is quite different."
"That is because you are so unsophisticated, my dear. You don't understand that beauty in society means a fashion, and not much more. I have seen a quantity of beauties in my day. How they came to be so, nobody knew; but there they were, and we all bowed down to them. This woman, however, was very pretty, there was no doubt about it," said Lady Randolph, with reluctant candour. "I don't know what she may be now. She was enough to turn any man's head when she was young—or even a woman's—who ought to have known better."
"Do you think then, Aunt Randolph, that women don't admire pretty people?" It is to be feared that Lucy asked for the sake of making conversation, which it is sometimes necessary to do.
"I think that men and women see differently—as they always do," said Lady Randolph. She was rather fond of discriminating between the ideas of the sexes, as many ladies of a reasonable age are. "There is a gentleman's beauty, you know, and there is a kind of beauty that women love. I could point out the difference to you better if the specimens were before us; but it is a little difficult to describe. I rather think we admire expression, you know. What men care for is flesh and blood. We like people that are good—that is to say, who have the air of being good, for the reality doesn't by any means follow. Perhaps I am taking too much credit to ourselves," said the old lady, "but that is the best description I can hit upon. We like the interesting kind—the pensive kind—which was the fashion when I was young. Your great, fat, golden-haired, red and white women are gentlemen's beauties; they don't commend themselves to us."
"And is Madame di Forno-Populo," said Lucy, in her usual elaborate way, "of that kind?"
"Oh! my dear, she is just a witch," Lady Randolph said. "It does not matter who it is, she can bring them to her feet if she pleases!" Then she seemed to think she had gone too far, and stopped herself: "I mean when she was young; she is young no longer, and I dare say all that has come to an end."
"It must be sad to grow old when one is like that," said Lucy, with a look of sympathetic regret.
"Oh, you are a great deal too charitable, Lucy!" said the old lady: and then she stopped short, putting a sudden restraint upon herself, as if it were possible that she might have said too much; then after a while she resumed: "As you are in such a heavenly frame of mind, my dear, and disposed to think so well of her, there is just one word of advice I will give you—don't allow yourself to get intimate with this lady. She is quite out of your way. If she liked, she could turn you round her little finger. But it is to be hoped she will not like; and, in any case, you must remember that I have warned you. Don't let her, my dear, make a catspaw of you."
"A catspaw of me!" Lucy was amused by these words—not offended, as so many might have been—perhaps because she felt herself little likely to be so dominated; a fact that the much older and more experienced woman by her side was quite unaware of. "But," she said, "Tom would not have invited her, Aunt Randolph, if he had thought her likely to do that—indeed, how could he have been such great friends with her if she had not been nice as well as pretty? You forget there must always be that in her favour to me."
"Oh, Tom!" cried Lady Randolph with indignation. "My dear Lucy," she added after a pause, with subdued exasperation, "men are the most unaccountable creatures! Knowing him as I do, I should have thought she was the very last person—but how can we tell? I dare say the idea amused him. Tom will do anything that amuses him—or tickles his vanity. I confess it is as you say, very, very difficult to account for it; but he has done it. He wants to show off a little to her, I suppose; or else he—— There is really no telling, Lucy. It is the last thing in the world I should have thought of; and you may be quite sure, my dear," she added with emphasis, "she never would have been invited at all if he had expected me to be here when she came."
Lucy did not make any answer for some time. Her face, which had kept its gaiety and radiance, grew grave, and when they had driven back towards the hall for about ten minutes in silence, she said quietly "You do not mean it, I am sure; but do you know, Aunt Randolph, you are trying to make me think very badly of my husband; and no one has ever done that before."
"Oh, your husband is just like other people's husbands, Lucy," cried the elder lady impatiently. Then, however, she subdued herself, with an anxious look at her companion. "My dear, you know how fond I am of Tom: and I know he is fond of you; he would not do anything to harm you for the world. I suppose it is because he has such a prodigious confidence in you that he thinks it does not matter; and I don't suppose it does matter. The only thing is, don't be over intimate with her, Lucy; don't let her fix herself upon you when you go to town, and talk about young Lady Randolph as her dearest friend. She is quite capable of doing it. And as for Tom—well, he is just a man when all is said."
Lucy did not ask any more questions. That she was greatly perplexed there is no doubt, and her first fervour of affectionate interest in Tom's friend was slightly damped, or at least changed. But she was more curious than ever; and there was in her mind the natural contradiction of youth against the warnings addressed to her. Lucy knew very well that she herself was not one to be twisted round anybody's little finger. She was not afraid of being subjugated; and she had a prejudice in favour of her husband which neither Lady Randolph nor any other witness could impair. The drive home was more silent than the outset. Naturally, the cold increased as the afternoon went on, and the Dowager shrunk into her furs, and declared that she was too much chilled to talk. "Oh how pleasant a cup of tea will be," she said.
Lucy longed for her part to get down from the carriage and walk home through the village, to see all the cottage fires burning, and quicken the blood in her veins, which is a better way than fur for keeping one's self warm. When they got in, it was exciting to think that perhaps the stranger was coming down to tea; though that, as has been already said, was a hope in which Lucy was disappointed. Everything was prepared for her reception, however—a sort of throne had been arranged for her, a special chair near the fire, shaded by a little screen, and with a little table placed close to it to hold her cup of tea. The room was all in a ruddy blaze of firelight, the atmosphere delightful after the cold air outside, and all the little party a little quiet, thinking that every sound that was heard must be the stranger.
"She must have been very tired," Lucy said sympathetically.
"I dare say," said Lady Randolph, "she thinks a dinner dress will make a better effect."
Lucy looked towards her husband almost with indignation, with eyes that asked why he did not defend his friend. But, to be sure, Sir Tom could not judge of their expression in the firelight, and instead of defending her he only laughed. "One general understands another's tactics," he said.