SIR TOM.

New Zealand Herald, Volume XX, Issue 6787, 18 August 1883, Page 3

SIR TOM.

BY HKS. OIiIPHAKT. _ „» "The Chronicles of Carllnßford," "The Heiress In England," "He that Will gffwhen He May," &<=., &c. CHAPTER XXVIII. IHB SERPENT AND THE DOYB. rt - the very next day after this conversation took place a marked change occurred in the m»o ner " ie Contessa. She had been always caressing to Lucy, calling her by ttv na mes, and using a hundred tender Expressions as if to a child ; but had never nretended to talk to her otherwise than in this condescending way. On this occasion, however, she exerted herself to a most nnasnal extent during their drive to captivate and charm Lady Randolph; and as t, a cy was very simple and accessible to sverything that seemed kindness, and the Contessa rery clever and with fall command of her powers, it is not wonderful that her success was easy. She led her to talk of j jlr. Churchill, who had been kept to dinner 1 oa the previous night, and to whota Sir Tom bad been very polite, and Lucy anxiously kind, doing all that was possible to put the good man at his ease, though with but success. For the thought of such an obligation was too great to be easily borne, and the agitation of his mind was scarcely settled even by the commonplaces of the dinner, and the devotion which young Lady Randolph showed him. Perhaps the ffrave politeness of Sir Tom, which was not Tity encouraging, and the curiosity of the <reat lady, whom ho had mistaken for his benefactress, counterbalanced Mr. Churchhill's satisfaction, for he did not regain his confidence, and it was evidently with great relief o£ mind that he got up from his seat when the carriage wan announced to take him away. The Contessa had given her attention to all he said aud did, with a most lively and even anxioufi interest, and it was from this that she had mastered so many details which Bice had reluctantly confirmed by her report of the information she had derived from Jock. It was not long before Madam o di Forno-Populo managed to extract everything from Lucy. Lady Randolph wa3 not used to defend herself against snch inquiries, nor was there any reason why Bhe should do so. She was glad indeed when she saw how sweetly her companion looked, and how kind were her tones, to talk over her own difficult position with another woman, one who was interested, and who did not express her disapproval and horror as most people did. The Contessa on the contrary took a great deal of interest. She was astonished indeed,' but she did not represent to Lucy that what she had to do was impossible or even vicious as most people seemed to suppose. She listened with the gravest attention ; and she gave a soothing sense of sympathy to Lucy's troubled soul. She was so little prepared for sympathy from Buch a ffoaan that the unexpectedness of it made itoore soothing still.

"This is a. great charge to be laid upon yoa," the Contessa said, with the most kind look. " Upon you so young and with so little experience. Your father must have b«a a man of very original mind, my Lucy. I hive heard of a great many schemes of benerolence, but never one like this." "No ?" said Lucy, anxiously watching the Contessa's eye, for it was so strange to her to have sympathy on this point, that she felt a sort of longing for it, and that the new critio, who treated the Whole matter with more moderation and reasonableness than usual, should approve. " Generally one endows hospitals, or builds churches ; in my country there is a way which ia a little like yours. It is to give ma:riage portions—that is very good I am told. And it is said also that not the most worthy is always taken. Don't you remember there is a Rosiere in Barbe Bleue. Oh, I believe you have never heard of Barbo Bleue." "I know the story," said Lucy with a smile, "of the m*ny wives, and the key, and ister Anne—sister Anne." " All! that is not precisely what I mean ; bnt it does not matter. So it is this which makes you so grave, my pretty Lucy. Ido not wonder. What a charge for you ! To encounter all the prejudices of the world which will think you mad. I know it. And now your husband—the excellent Tom—be," said the Contessa, laying a caressing and significant touch upon Lucy's arm, "does not approve !" " Oh, Madame di Forna-Populo, that is the worst of it," cried Lucy, whose heart wis opened, and who had taken no precaution against assault on this side, "but how do you know? for I thought that nobody knew."

The Contessa this time took Lucy's hand between here, and pressed it tenderly, looking at her all the time with a look full of meaning. "Dear child," she said, "I have been a great deal in the world. I see much that other people do not see. And i know his face, and yours my little angel. It is much for you to carry upon those yonng shoulders. And all for the sake of goodness and charity." "I do not know," said Lucy, " that it is right to say that; for had it beer left to me, perhaps I should never have thought of it. I should have been content with doing just what I could for the poor. No one," said Lucy with a sigh, "objects to that. When people are quite poor it is natural to give them what they want; but the others—" "Ah, the others," Baid the Contessa. " Dear child, the others are the most to be pitied. It is a greater thing, and far more difficult to give to this good clergyman enough ta make his children happy, than it is to supply what is wanted in a cottage. Ah yes, yonr father was wise, he was a person of character. The poor are always cared for. There are none of us, even when we are ourselves poor who do not hold out a hand to them. There is a society in my Florence which is like you. It is for the Poveri Vergognosi. You don't understand Italian? That means those who are ashamed to beg. These are they," said the Contes3 impressively, "who are to be the most pitied. They must starve and never cry out. Tbey must conceal their misery and smile. They must put always a fair front to the world, and seem to want nothing, while they want everything. Oh !" The Countess ended with a sigh, which said more than words. She pressed Lucy's hand, and turned her face away. Her feelings were too much for her, and on the delicate face, which Lucy could see, there was the trace of a tear. After a moment she looked round again, and said, with a little quiver in her voice, '' I respect your father, tny Lucy," It was a noble thought, and it is original. No one I have ever heard of had such an intention before."

Lucy, at thia unlooked-for applause, brightened with pleasure; but at the same time was so moved that she could only look up into her companion's face and return the pressure of her hand. When she recovered a little, she said, "You have known people like that ?" "Known them? In my country," said the Contessa (who was not an Italian at all), " they are as plentiful as in England—blackberries. . People with noble nameß, with noble old houses, with children who must never learn anything, never be anything, because there is no money. Know them! Dear child, who can know better ? If I were to tell you my history! I have for my own part known—what I "could not trouble your gentle spirit to hear." "But, Madame di Forno-Populo ! Oh! if you think me worthy of your confidence, tell me!" cried Lucy ; "indeed, I am not so insensible as yon may think. I have known mote than you suppose. You look as if no harm could ever have touched you," Lucy cried, with a look of genuine admiration. The Contessa had found the right way into her heart. The Contessa smiled with mournful mean« ing and shook her head. " A great deal of harm has touched me," she said, " I am the Tety person to meet with harm in the world. A solitary woman without'anyone to take ■are of me, and also a very silly one, - with many foolish tastes and inclinations. Not "prudent, not careful, my Lncy, and with very little money; what could be more forlorn ? You see," she said, with a smile, "I do not •put all this blame upon Providence, but a great deal on myaelf. But to pnt me ont of the question—" Lucy put a hand upon the Contcssa's arm. I She waß much moved by this revelation. "Oh! don't do that," she said; "it is jou I want to hear of." Madame di Forno-Populo had an object in eTery word she was saying, and knew exactly hov.- much she meant to tell and haw much to conceal. It was indeed a purely artificial appeal that Eihe was making to her companion's feelings ; and yet, when she looked upon the simple sympathy and -generous interest in Lucy's face, her heart 'Was touched. * Tb* proprietors of iha New Zxaulsd Herald the mlq riffct of Pu>liihi»g 41 Sir

"How good you are," she said; how generous ! though I have come to you against your will, and am BtayiDg—when I am not wanted." "Oh ! do not say so," cried Lucy, with eagerness ; "do not think so—indeed, it was not against my will. I was glad, as glad as I could be, to receive my husband's friend. "Few women are so," said the Contes9a gravely. "I knew it when I came. Pew very fecr, care for their husband's friendespecially when she is a woman " Lucy fixed her eyes upon her with earnest attention. Her look was not auspicious, yet there was investigation in it. " I do not think I am like that," she said simply. "No you are not like that," said the Contessa. " You aro the soul of candour and sweetness; but I have vexed you. Ah, my Luoy I have vexed you. I know it—innocently my love—but still I have done it. That is one of tho curses of poverty," Now look she said, after a momentary pause, "how truth brings truth ! I did not intend to say this when I began (and this was perfectly true), but now I must open my heart to yon. I came without caring much what you wonld think, meaning no harm. Oh, trust me meaning no harm. But since X have come here all the advantages of being here appeared to me so strongly that I have set my heart upon remaining, though I knew it was disagreeable to you." _ "Indeed—" cried Lucy, divided between sincerity and kindness. " Oh, if it was ever so for a moment, it was only because I did not understand."

"My sweetest child ! this I tel! you is one of the curses of poverty. I knew it was disagreeable to you; but because of the great advantage of being in your house, not only for me, but for Bice, for whom I have sworn to do my best—Lucy, pardon me—l could not make up my mind to go away. Listen 1 I said to myself, lam poor. I oannot give her all the advantages. And they are rich ; it is nothing to them. I will stay. I will continue though they do not want me, not for my sake, for the sake of Bice. They will not be sorry afterwards to have made the fortune of Bice. _ Listen, dear one. Hoar mo out. I had the intention of forcing myself upon yon —oh ! no, the words are not too strong—in London, always for Bice's sake, for she has no one but me : and if hor career is stopped— I sffl not a woman," said the Contessa, with dignity, " who am used to find myself de trop. I have been in my life courted. I may say it, rather than disagreeable ; yet this I was willing to bear—and impose myself upon you for Bice's sake." Lucy listened to this moving address with many differing emotions. It gave her a pang to think that her hopes of having her house to herself were thus permanently threatened. But at tho same time her heart swelled, and all her generous feelings were stirred. Was she indeed so poor a creature as to grudge to two lonely women the shelter and advantage of her wealth and position. If she did this what did it matter if she gave money away This would indeed be keeping to the letter of her father's will and abjuring its meaning. She could not resist the pathos, the dignity, the sweetness of the Contessa's appeal which was not for herself bus for Bice, for the girl that was so good to baby, and whom that little oracle had bound her to with links of gratitude and tenderness. Oh Lucy said to hersblf, if I should e?er have to appeal to anyone for kindness to him ! And Bice was the Contessa's child—the child of her heart at least—the voluntary charge which she had taken upon her, and to which she was devoting herself. Was it possible that only because she wanted to have her husband to herself in the evenings, and objected to any interruption of their privacy, a woman shonld be made to suffer, who was a good woman, and to whom Lucy conld be of use ? No, no, she cried within herself, the tears coming to her eyes ; and yet there was a. real pang behind. "But reassure yourself, doar child," said tha Contssaa, "for now that I see what yon are doing for others, I cannot be so selfish. No; I cannot do it any longer. In England you do not love society ; you love your home unbroken, you do not like strangers. No, my Lucy, 1 will learn a lesson from your goodness, I, too, will sacrifice—oh, if it was only myself and not Bice!"

"Contessa," said Lucy, with an effort, looking up with a smile through some tears, "I am not like that. It never was that yon were dissagreeable. How could you be disagreeable ? And Bice is—oh, so kind, so good to my boy. You must never think of it more. The town house is not so large as the Hall but we shall find room in it. Oh, 1 am not so heartless, not so stupid, as you think ! Do you suppose I would let you go a way after you have been so kind as to open your heart to me, and let me know that we are really of use. Oh, no, no ! . And lam sure," she added, faltering slightly, "that Tom—will think the same." "It is not Tom —excellent, clier Tom ! that shall be consulted," said the Contessa. "Lucy, my Ititle angel! if it it is really so, that you will give my Bice the advantage of your protection for her debut—. But that is to be an angel indeed, superior to all our little petty miserable— Is it possible, then," cried the Contessa, "that there is someone so good so noble in this low world?" This gratitude confused Lucy more than all tha rest. She did her best to deprecate and subdue; but in her heart she felt that it was a great sacrifice shn was making. "Indeed, it is nothing," she said faintly. "1 am fond of her, and she has been so good to baby ; and if we can be of any use. Bnt oh, Madame di Forno-Populo." Lady Randolph cried, taking courage. Her debut? do you really mean what she says that she must marry " "That I mean to marry her," said the Contessa, " that is how we express it," with a very concise ending to her transports of gratitude. " Sweet Lucy," she continued, "it is the usage of our country. The parents or those who stand in their place think it their duty. We marry our children as you clothe them in England. You do not wait till your little boy can choose. You find him what is necessary. Just so do we. We choose, so much better than an inexperienced girl can choose. If she has an aversion, if she says I cannot suffer him, we do not press it upon her. Many guardians will pay no attention, but me," said the Contessa, putting forth a little foreign accent, which she displayed very rarely—"l have lived among the English, and I am influenced by their ways. Neither do I think it right," she added with an air of candour, "to offer an old person, or one who is hideous, or even very disagreeable. But yes, she must marry well. What else is there thai a girl of family can do ?" Lucy was about to answer with enthusiasm that there were many things she could do , but stopped short, arrested by these last words. '"'A girl of family"—that, no doubt, made * different;?. She paused, and loooked somewhat wistfully ir.her companion's face : "We think," she said, "in England that anything is better than a marriage without"

The Countessa put up her hand to stay the words : " Without love , I know what you are going to say; but, my angel, that is a word which Bice has never heard spoken. She knows it not. She has not the habit of thinking it necessary—she is a good girl, and she has no sentiment. Besides, why sbouid we go so fast ? If she produces the effect I hope , Why should not some one present himself whom she could also love ? Oh, yes ! fall in love with, as you say in Knglish—such an innocent phrase! Let us hope it, that when the proper person comes who satisfies my requirements, Bice—to whom not a word shall be said—will fall in love with him I comme il faut!" Lucy did not make any reply. She was troubled by the light laugh with which the Contessa concluded, and with the slight change of tone which was perceptable. But she was etill too much moved by her own emotion to have got beyond its spell, and she had committed herself beyond recall. While the Contessa talked on with—was it a little, little change ?—a faint difference, a levity that had not been in her voice before ? Lucy's thoughts went back upon what she had dona with a little tremour. Not this time as to what Tom might say, but with a deeper wonder and pang as to what might come of it; was she going voluntarily into new danger, such as she had no clue to, and could not understand? After a little while she asked almost timidly— "But if Bice should not see any one—" " You mean if no one suitable should present himself?" The Contessa suddenly grew very grave. She put ■ her bands together with a.gesture of entreaty. "My nweet one, let us not think of that. When she is dressed as I shall dress her, nod brought out—as you will enable me to bring her out. My Lucy, we do not know what is in her. Sha will shine,- nhe will charm. Even now if she iff excited there are moments in which sh.o is beautful. If she fails altogether— Ah, my lovo, as I tell you, there is where the corse of poverty comes in.

Had she even a moderate fortune, poor child; bnt alas, orphan, with no one but me—" "Ia she an orphan?" said Lucy, feeling ashamed of the momentary failure of her interest, "and without relations—except—" "Relations," said the Contessa; there i was something peculiar in her tone which attracted Lucy's attention, and came back to her mind in other days. " Ah, my Lucy, there are many things in this life which you have never thought of. She has relations who think nothing of her, who would be angry, be grieved, if they knew that she existed. 'Yes, it'is terrible to think of, but it is true. She is on one side, of English parentage. But pardon me, sweetest, I did not mean to tell you all this : only my Lucy, you will one time be glad to think that you have been kind to Bice. It will be a pleasure to you. Now let us think of it no more. Marry, yes she must marry. She has not even so much as your poor clergyman ; she has nothing, not a penny. So I must marry her, there is nothing more to be said."

CHAPTER XXIX. TIIE CONTESSA'S TRIUMPH. And it was with very mingled sensations that Sir Tom heard from Lucy (for it was from her lips he beard it) the intimation that Madame di Fi>rno-Populo was going to be to good as to remain at the Hall till they moved to London, and then to accompany them to Park Lane. Sir Tom was taken entirely by surprise. He was not a man who had much difficulty in commanding himself, or showing such an aspect as he pleased to the general world ; but on this occasion he was so much surprised that his very jaw dropped with wonder and aatonishment. Ifc was at luncheon that the intimation was made, in the Contessa's presence, so that he did not venture to let loose any expression of his feelings. He gave a cry, only half uttered, of astonishment, restrained by politeness, turning his eyes, which grew twice their size ia the bewilderment of the moment, from Lucy to the Contessa and back again. Then he burst into a breathless laugh a twinkle of humour lighted in those eyes which were big with wonder, aod he turned a look of amused admiration towards the Contessa. How had she done it? There was no fathoming the cleverness of women, he said to hicißulf, and for the rest of the day he kept bursting forth into little peals of laughter all by himself. How had she managed to do it ? It was a task which he himself would not have ventured to undertake. He would not, he said to himself, have bad the slightest idea how to bring forward suoh a proposition. On the contrary, had not his sense that Lucy had much to forgive in respeot to this invasion of her ■ home and_ privacy indaoed him to make a great sacrifice, to withdraw his opposition to those proceedings of hers of which he so much disapproved ? Aud yet in an afternoon, in one interview, the Contessa had got | the upper hand ! Her cleverness was extraordinary. It tickled him so that he conld not take time to think how very little satisfied he was with ths result. He, too, had fallen under her enchantment in the country, in the stillness if not dullness of those long evenings, and he had been very willing to be good to her for the sake of old times, to make her as comfortable as possible, to give her time to settle her plans for her London campaign. But that she should begin that campaign under bis own roof, and that Lucy, his innocent and simple wife, should be visible to the world as the friend and ally of a lady whose name was too well known to society, was by no means satisfactory to Sir Tom. When his first astonishment and amazement were over he began to look grave. But what was he to |do ? He had so much respect for Lucy that when tho idea occured to him of warning her that the Contessa's antecedents were not of a comfortable kind, and that her generosity was mistaken, he rejected it again with a sort of panic, and did not dare, experienced and courageous as he was, to acknowledge to his little wife that he had ventured to bring to her house a woman of whom it could be said that she was not above suspicion. Sir Tom had dared a great many perils in his life, but he did not venture to face this. He recoiled from before it, as he would not have done from any lion in the way. He could not even suggest to her any reticence in her communications, any reserve in showing herßelf at the Con tessa's side, or in inviting other people to meet her. If all bis happiness depended upon it, he felt that he could not disturb Lucy's mind by any such warning. Confess to her that he had brought to her a woman with whom scandal had been busy, that he J had introduced to her as his friend, and recommended to honour and kindness one | whose name had been in all men's mouths ! j Sir Tom ran away morally from this suggestion as if he had been the veriest coward. He could not breathe a word of it in Lucy's ear. How could he explain to her that mixture of amazement at the woman's bold- ! ness,.and humorous sense of the incongruity of her appearance in the absolute quiet of an English home, without company, which combined with ancient kindness and careless good humour, had made him sanction her fir3t appearance ? still less how could he explain the mingling of more subtle sensations, the recollections of a past which Sir Tom could not himself much approve of, yet which was full of interest still, and the formation of an intercourse which renewed that past, and brought a little tingling of agreeable excitement into life when it had fallen to too low an ebb to be agreeable in itself ? He would not say a word of all this to Lucy. Her purity, her simplicity, even her want of imagination and experience, her incapacity to uuderstand that debatable land between vice and virtue in which so many men find little harm, and which so many women regard with interest and curiosity, closed his mouth. And then he comforted himself with the reflection that, as his aunt herself had admitted, the Contessa had never brought herself openly within the ban. Men might laugh when the name of La Forno-Populo was introduced, and women draw themselves up with indignation, or stare with astonishment not unmingled with consternation, as the Duchess had done ; but they could not refuse to recognise her, nor could anyone assert that there was sufficient reason to exclude her from society. Not even when she was younger, and surrounded by worshippers, csuld this be said. And now when she was less iJut here Sir Tom paused to ask himself,' was she less attractive than of old ? When ho came to consider the question he was obliged to allow that he did not think so; and if she really meant to bring out that girl Did she mean to bring out that girl ? could she make up her mind to exhibit beside her own waning (if they were waning) charms the first flush of this young beauty ? Sir Tom, who thought he knew womon (at least of the kind nf La Forno-Populo), shook his head and felt it very doubtful whether the Contessa wan sincere, or if she could indeed make up her mind to take a secondary place. He thought with a rueful anticipation of the sort of people who would flock to Park Lane to renew their acquaintance with La FornoPopulo. '' By Jove ! but shall they though ? not if I know it," said Sir Tom, firmly, to himself.

' Williams, the butler, was still more profoundly discomposed. .He bad opened his mind to Mrs. Freshwater on various occasions when his feelings were too many for him. Naturally, Williams £fave the Contessa the benefit of no doubt as to her reputation. He was entirely convinced, as is the fashion of his class, that all that bould have been said of her was true, and that she was as unfit for the society of the respectable as any wretched creature could be. "That foreign madam" was what he called her, in the privacy of the housekeeper's rooms, with many opprobrious epithets. Mrs. Freshwater, who was, perhaps, more good-natured than was advantageous to the hourekeeper and manager of a largo establishment, was melted whenever alio saw her, by the Conteasa's gracious looks and ways, but Williams was immovable. "If you'd seen what I've seen," he said, shaking his head The women, for Lucy 's maid, Fletcher, sometimes shared these revelations, were deeply excited by this—longing, yet fearing to aßk what it was that Williams had seen. "And when I think of my lady, that is as innocent as the babe unborn," he said, 11 mixed up in all that You'll see Buch racketing as never was thought of," cried Williams. " I know just how things will go. Night turned into day, carriages driving up at all hours, suppers going on after the play all the night through, masks and dominoes arriving—no— to be sure, this is England. There will be no veglionis at least—which in English, | ladies, would be masked balls ; with Madam the Contessa and her gentlemen—and even ladies, too, a sort of ladies—in all sorts of dresses," •'Oh-Oh I" the women cried. ! They were partially shocked, as they were I intended to be, but partially their curiosity I was exoited, and a feeling that they would

like to see all these gaieties and fine dresses moved their minds. The primitive intelligence always feels certain that "racketing" and orgies that go on all night must be at least guiltily delightful,, exciting; and arnoeing if nothing else. They-were; hot of those who "held with" such dissipation; still for once in a way to see it, the responsibility not being theirs, would be something. They held their breath, but it was not altogether in horror; there was. in it. a mixture of anticipation too. "And I know what will come of it," said Williams. " What has come afore. The money will have to come out o' some one's pocket; and master rieverknew how to keep his to himself, never, as long as I've known him. To be sure he hadn't got a great deal iin the old days. But I know what'll happen. He'll just have to pay up now. He's that soft," said Williams; "a man that can't say no to a woman ; Hot that I care for the money. I'd a deal sooner he gave her an allowance, or set her up in some other place, or just give her a good round sum—as he could afford to do -and get shut of her,. That is what I should "advise, Just a round sum and get shut of her." " I've always heard," said Miss Fletcher, " as the money was my lady's, and hot from the Randolph side at all." "What's hirs is his," Baid Williams. ' What's my lady's is her husband's ; and a good bargain too—on her side." "I declare," cried Fletcher, energetically, stung with that sense of wrong to her own side which gives heat to party feeling, I declare if any man took my money to keep up his—his—his old sweetheart, I'd murder him, I'd take his life—that's what I. should do." "Poor dear,"said Mrs, Freshw,ater. wiping her eyes with her apron. "Poor dear! She'll never murder no one, my lady. Bless her innocent face. I only hope as she'll never : find it out." "Sooner than she. don't find it out I'll tell her myself," cried Williams, "Now I don't understand you women. You'd let! my lady be deceived and made game of rather than tell her," " Made game of!" cried Fletcher with a shriek of indignation. " I should like to See who dared to do that." " Oh, they'll dare do it, soon enough, and ; take their fun out of he? —its just what them ; foreigners are fond of," said Williams, who knew them, and all their tricks, down to the ground, as he said. Still) however, notwithstanding his evil reports, good Mrs. Freshwater, who was as goodnatured as she was fat could scarcely made up her mind to believe all that of the Contessa. " She do look so sweet, and talk so pretty, not as if Bhe was foreign at all," the housekeeper said.

That evening, however, the Contessa her* self took occasion to explain to Sir Tom what her intentions were. She had thought the Bubject over while she dressed for dinner, with a certain elation in her success yet keen clear-mindeilness never deserted her. And then, to be sure, her object had not been entirely the simple one of getting an invitatation to Park Lane. She had intended something more than this and she was not sure of success in that important point. She meant that Lady Randolph should endow Bice largely, liberally. She intended to bring every sort of motive to bear—even some that verged upon tragedy—to procure this. She had no compunction or faltering on the subject, for it was not for herself, she said within herself that she was scheming, and she did not mean to be foiled. In considering the best means to attain this great and filial object she decided that it Would be well to go softly, not to insist too much upon the advantages she had secured, or to give Lucy too much cause to regret her yielding. The. Contessa had the soul of a strategist, the imagination of a great general. She did not ignore the feelings of the Subject of her experiment. She even put herself in Lucy's place and asked herself how she could beat this or that. She would Hot Oppose Or overwhelm the probable benefactress to whom she, or at least Bice, might afterwards owe so much. When Sir Tom approached her chair in the evening, when he Came in after dinner, as he always did, she made room for him on the sofa beside her. "I am going to make you my confidant," she said in her moat charming way, with that air of smiling graciousness which made Sir Tom latigh, yet- fascinated him in spite of himself. He knew that she put on the same air for whomsoever she chose to charm; but it had a power which he could not resist all the same. " But perhaps you don't care to be taken, into my confidence," she added, smiling, too, as if willing to admit all he could allege as to her syren graces. She had a delightful air of bsing in the joke which entirely deceived Sir Tom. . "On the contrary" he said. " But as we have just heard your plans from my wife—" The Contessa kissed her hand to Lucy, who occupied her usual place at the table. " I wonder," she said, " if.yOu understand being only a man, what there is in that child ; for she is but a child. You and me, we are Methusalehs in comparison." " Not quite so much as that," he said with a laugh.

"Methusalehs," she said reflectively. "Older, if that is possible ; knowing everything, while she knows nothing, She is our good angel. It is what you would not have dared to offer, you who know me—yea, I believe it—and libo me. Oh no, Ido not go beyond that English word, never! You like the Fovno-populo. I know how you men speak. You think that there is amusement to be got from her, and you will do me the honour to say, no harm. That is, no permanent harm. But you would not offer to befriend me; no, not the best of you. Bat she who by nature is.againat such women as I am—Sweet Lucy ! Yea it is you I am talking of," the Contesaa said, who was skilful to break any lengthened speeches like this by all manner of interruptions, so that it should never tire the person to whom it was addressed. " She, who is not amused by me, who does not like me, whose prejudices are all against me, she it is who offers me her little hand to help me. It is a lovely little hand, though she is not a beauty—" " My wife is very well, " said Sir Tom, with a certain hauteur and.abruptness, such as in all their lengthened conversations he had never shown before, The Contesaa gave him a. look in which there was much of that feminine contempt at which men laugh aa one of the pretences of women. "1 am going to bo good to her as she ia to me," she said. "The Carnival will be short this year, and in England you have no Carnival. I will find Inyself a little hon.se for the season. I will hot too much impose upon that angel. There, now, is something good for you to relieve yonr mind, I can read yon, mon ami, like a book, You are fond of me—oh, yes I—hut not too long ; not too much. I can read you like a book." "Too long, too much are not in .my vocabulary," said Sir Tom, "have they a meaning 1 not certainly that ha? any connection with a certain charming Contessina. If that lady has a fault, which 1 doubt, it is that she gives too little of her gracious countenance to her friends." "She does no'; come down to breakfast," said the Contesea, with her soft laugh, which in itself was a work of art, "She is not so foolish as to put heraelf in competition with the lilies and the rosea, the English flowers. Poverina ! she keeps herself for the afternoon which is charitable, and the light of the lamps which is flattering.. But she remembers other days—alas! in which she was not afraid of the snn himself, not even of the midday, nor of the dawn when it comes in above the lamps. There was a certain ball coßtumG in Florence, a year when many English came to the Populino palace. But why do I talk of that You will not remember—"

There was something apparently in the recollection that touched Sir Tom. His eye softened. An unaccustomed colour came to bis middle-aged cheek. "Ii not remember ? I remember every hour, every moment," he said, and then tteir v.oiceß sank lower, and a murmur of reminiscences, one filling up another, ensued between the pair. Their tone softened, there were broken phrases, exclamations, a rapid interchange which was far too indistinot to be audible. Lucy Sat by her table and worked, and was vaguely conscious of it all.' She had said, to herself that she would take no' heed any more, that the poor Contessiv was too open-hearted, too generous to harm her, that they were but two old friends talking of the past. And to it was ; but there was a something forlorn in : sitting by at a distance, but of it all, and knowing that it was to go on and last, alas, by her own doing, who could tell hOw many eveniDgs, how many long hours to come ? [To be continued. 1