SIR TOM.

New Zealand Herald, Volume XX, Issue 6811, 15 September 1883, Page 3

SIR TOM.

BT MRS. OLIPHANT. author of "The Chronioles of Carllnffford," "The Greatest Heiress is Kngt&nd," "He that Will Not when He May," &c.» <fcc.

CHAP I Eft XXXVL THE EVKNJN'G AFTEK.

The outcry that rose when, after Montjoie'a comic song, a performance of the broadest and silliest description, was over, it waa discovered that Bice had disappeared, and especially the blank look of the performer himself when turning round from the piano he surveyed the company in vain for her, gratified the Conteasa beyond measure. She amiled radiantly upon the assembly in answer to all their indignant questions. "It has been for once an indulgence," she said, " but little girls must keep early hours." Montjoie was wounded and disappointed beyond measure that it should have been at that moment of his performance that Bhe was spirited away. His reproaches were vehement, aod there was something of the pettishness of a boy in their indignant tones " 1 shouldn't have sung a note if I'd thought what was going on," he cried. "Conteeea, I wonld not have believed you could have be»n so me in—and I singing only to please yon." " But think how you have pleased me and all these ladies 1" cried the Contessa. " Does not that recompense you ?" Montjoiegueßsed that she wsa laughing at him, but he did not in fact, tee anything to laugh about. It was natural enough that the other ladies should bo pleased ; still he did not care whether they were pleased or not, and he did care much that the object of his admiration had not waited to hear him. His boyish sulk and resentment amused th« Contesßa beyond measure, and the rest of the evening was spent in baffling the questions with which, now Bice was gone, her friends overpowered her. She gave the smallest possible dole for reply to theiT interrogation, but Bmiled upon the questioners with sunshiny smiles. '* You must enme and see me in town," she said to Montjoie. It was the only satisfaction she would give him. And she perceived at a much earlitrhour than usual, that Lucy waa waiting for her to go to bed. She c;ave a little try of distress .when this Beamed to flash upon her.

" Sweet Lucy ! it is for me you wait?" she cried. " Hew could I keep you bo late, my dear one." Montjoie was the foremcst of those who attended her to the door, and got her candle for her, that indispensable but unnecessary formula.

" Of course I shall look you up in town ; but we'll talk of that to-morrow. I don't go till three—to-morrow," the young fellow said.

Tbe CoDteßta gave him her hand with a smile, but without a word, in that inimitable way she had, ltaving Moutjoie a prey to such uncertainty as poisoned his night's rest. He was not hutnbleminded, and he kuew that he was a prize which no lady he had met as yet had disregarded ; but for the first time his bosom was torn by disquietude. Of course he must see her to-morrow. Should he see her to morrow ? The Contessa's smilp so radiant, so unexplainable, tormented him with a thousand doubts.

Lucy had looked on at all this with an uneasinesß indescribable. She felt like an accomplice, watching this course of intrigue of which she indeed disapproved entirely, but could not olear herself from a certain guilty knowledge of. That it should all be going on under her roof w»s terrible to her, though it was not for llonjoie but for Bice toat her anxieties were awakened. She followed the Contessa upstairs bearing her candle as if tht-y formed part of a procession, with a countenance absolutely opposed in expression to the smiles of Madame di FornoPopulo. When they reached the Contessa's door, Lucy, by a tudden impuse, followed her in. It was not the first time th>«t she had been allowed to cross the threshold of that little enchanted world which had filled her with wonder on her first entrance, but which by this time she regarded with composure, no longer bewildered to find it in her own house. Bice sprang up from a sofa on which she was lying on their entrance. She had taken off her beautiful dres3 and her hair was streaming over her shoulders, her countenance radiant with delight. She threw herself upon the Contessa, although perceiving the presence of Lady Randolph. "Bntitis enchanting; it is ravishing. I hare never been so happy," she cried. "My child," said the Contessa, "here is one dear lady who is of a different opinion." "Of what opinion?" Bice cried. She was Btartled by the sudden appearance when she had no thought of such anappirition, of Lucy's face so grave and uneasy. It gave a contradiction which was painful to the girl's excitement and delight. " Indeed, I did not mean to find fault," saic'l Lucy. "I was only sorry—" and here she paused, feeling herself of expressing her real meaning, and convicted of int- rference and unnecessary severity by the girl's astonished eyes. _ "My dear one," said the Contessa, "it is only that we look from two points of view different. You will not object to li'tle Bice that she finds society intoxicating when she first goes into it. The child has made what we call a sensation. She has had her little siicctD. That is nothing to object to ? An English girl is pe.-hap3 more reticent. She is brought up to believe that she does not care for sneers. But Bice is otherwise. She has been trained for that, and to please makes her happy." " To please—whom?"' crid Lady nandolpb. "Oh, don't think I am finding fault. We are brought up to please our parents and people who—care for ns—in England.' Here Bice and the Contessa mutually looked at each other, and the girl laughed, putting her hands together. " She is pleased most of a'l," she cried ; "she is all my parents. I please her first of all." "What you say is sweet," said the Contessa, smiling upon Lucy; "and she is right too. S'e p'eases me most of all. To see her have her little triumph, looking really her very best, and her dress so successful, is to me delightful. I am nearly as much excited as the child herself!"

Lucy looked from one to another, and felt that it was impossible for her to say what she wished to say. The girl's pleasure seemed so innocent, and that of her protectress and guardian so generous, bo tender. All that had offended Lucy's instincts, the dramatic effort of the Contessa, the careful preparation of all the effects, the singling out of young MontjoiH as the object, all seemed to melt away in the girlißh delighS of Bice, and the sympathetic triumph of her guardian. She did not know what to say to them. It was she who was the culprit, putting thoughts of harm which had not found any entrance there in the girl's mind. She flushed with shame and an uneasy sense that the tables were thus turned upon her ; and yet how coufS she depart without some warning ? It was not only her own troubled, uncomfortable feelings but had she not read the same, still more serious and decided, in her husband's eyes 1 "I don't know what to say," said Lucy. " But Sir Tom thinks so too. He will tell yon better, he knows better. Lord Montjoie is—l do not know why he was asked. I did not wish it. He is—dear Madame di FornoPopulo, you have seen so much more than I —he is, vulgar—a little. And Bice is so young; she may bo deceived."

For a moment a cloud more dark than had ever been seen there before, overshaded the Contessa's face. But Bice burst forth into a peal of laughter, clapping her hands. "Is that vulgar?" the girl cried. "I am glad. Now I know how he is different. It is what you call fun, don't you know ?" she cried with suddt-n mimicry, at which Lucy herself could not refuse to laugh.

"I waited outside to hear a little of the song. It was so wonderful that I could not l»ugh; and to utter all that before yon, Ma-Jama, after he had beard yon—oh, what courage ! what braveness !" cried Bice. " I did not think any one could be so bravo !"

" You mean so simple, dear child," said the Contessa, whose biow had cleared, " that is really what is so wonderful in these English men. They are so simple, they never see how it is different. It is brave if you please, but still more Bimple-minded. Little Montjoie is so. He koowa no better ; not to me only, but even to you, Bice, with that voice of yours, so pure, so fresh, lie liß'ens, then performs as you heard. It is wonderful, as you say. But you have not told me, Lucy, my sweetest, what you think of the little one's voice ?"

'•I think,"said Lucy, with that disapproval which she could not altngther restrain, " that it is more wonderful, when it is so fine, that we never heard it before—"

"Ah, Bice," criedtheConteßss, "ourdear, lady is determined that she will not be pleased to-night. We have proposed a little surprise,

and it is a failare. She will not understand that we love to please. She will have us to be superior as it we were English." " Indeed, indeed," cried Lucy, full of compunction, " I ktiow y'ou i're always kind. And I know your ways •re different; —but——" with a sort of regretful reflectiveness, shaking her head. "All England is in that but," said the Contessa. "It is what has always been said to me. In our country wo love to arrange these little effects, to have surprises, impromptus, events that are unexpected- Bice, go, iny child, go to bed, a' ter thi3 excitement you must rest. You did well, and please 1 nie at least. My sweet Lucy," she said, when the girl with instant obcdience had disappeared into the next room, " I know how you see it all from your point of But we are not as you, rich, secure. We must make while we can, our coup. To succeed by one coup that ia my desire. And yo* will not interfere?"

"Oh, Contessa," cried Lucy, "will you not spare the child ? It is like selling her. She is too good for such a man. Ho is scarcely a man ;he is a boy. lam ashamed to think that you Bhould care to plea<e him. or any one like him. Oh, let it come naturally !Do not plan like this, and scheme and take trouble for ."

" For an establishment that will make her at once safe and sure ; that will give her so many of the things that people care for— beautiful houses, a good name, money I have schemed, as you say, for little things muoh of my life," saici the Contessa shaking her head with a mournful smile, "I have told you my history : for very very little things—for a box at the opera, for a carriage, things which are nothing, sweetest Lucj'. You have plenty : such things are nothing to you. You cannot understand it. But that is me, my dear one, not a higher raiud like you ; and shall I not scheme," cried the Cuiitessa, with sudden energy, " for the child to make her safe that she nr.y never require scheming ? Ah, my Lucy ! I luve the he>irt of a mother to her, and you know what a mother will do."

Lucy was silent, partly touched, pirt'y resisting. If it ever could be right to do evil that good might come, perhaps this mot vr might justify it. And then came the qnestii n how much, in the Contessa's code, waa evil of these proceedings. She was silenced if not satisfied. There is a certain casuistry involved in the most Christian—thinketh no evil" sometimes even implies an effort to think that there is no harm in evil according to the intention in it Lucy's iotellfot was confused though not that unobtrusive faculty ot judgment in her which was infallible, yet could be kept dumb.

" My love," said the Contesfsa, suddenly kissing her as a sort of dismissal, "think that you are rich and we are poor. If had a provision, if she had so much as w hat you give away to your poor friends and never think of more, how different would all things be for her. But she has no'hing; and therefore I prepare my little tableaux, and study all the effects I can think of, and produce her as in a theatre, and shut h> r up to agacer the audience, and keep her silent and make her sing, all for effect; yea, all for effect. But what can I do? She has not a penny, not a penny, not even like your poor friends."

The sudden energy with which this was said was indescribable. The Contessa's countenance, usually so ivory-pale, shone with a sort of reflection as if of light within, her eyes blazed, her smile gave place to a seriousness which was almost indignation. She looked like a heroine maintaining her right to do all that human strength could do for the folorn and oppressed; and there was in fact a certain abandon of feeling in her which made her half unconsciously open the door, and do what was tantamount to turning her visitor out, though her visitor was mistress of the house. Her feelings had indeed for the moment got the better of the Contessa. She had worked herself up to the point of indignation, that Lucy who could, if she would, deliver Bice from all the bnares of poverty, had not done so, and was not, so far a3 appeared, intending to do so. To find fault with the devices of the poor, and yet not to help them—iß not that one of the things least easily supportable of all the spurns of patient merit? The Contessa was doing what she could, all Bhe could in her own fashion, strenuously, anxiously. But Lucy was doing nothing, though she could have done it so easily, and yet the found fault and criticised. Madame di FornoPopulo was swept by a great flood of instinctive resentment. She put her hostess to the door in the strength of it tenderly with a kiss but not less hotly, and with full meaning. Such impulses had stood her instead of virtue on other occasions ; she felt a certain virtue as of superior generosity and power of self-sacrifice in her proceedings now.

As for Lucy, still much confused and scarcely recognising the full meaning of the Contessa's warmth, she made her way to her own room in a h*Lze of disturbed and uneasy feeling. Somehow—she could not tell how —she felt herself in the wrong. What was it she had done ? What was it she had left undone ? To further the scheme by which young Montjoie was to be caught and trapped and made the means of fortune and endowment to Bice was not possible. In such cases it is usually of the possible victim, the man against whom such plots are formed, that the bystander thinks ; but Lucy thought of young Montjoie only with an instinctive dislike, which would have been contempt in a less calm and tolerant mind. That Bice with all her gifts, a creature bo full of life and sweetness and strength, should be handed over to tl>is trifling commonplace lad, was in itself terrible to think of. Lucy did not think of the girl's beauty, or of that newly developed gift of song which had taken her by surprise ; but only and simply of herself, the warm-hearted and smiling girl, the creature full of fun and frolic whom she had learned to be fond of, first for the sake of little Tom and then for her own. Little Tom's friend, his playmate, who had found him out in his infant weakness and made his life so much brighter! And then Lucy asked herself what the Contessa could mean, what it was that made her own interference a sort of impertinence, why her protests had been received with so little of the usual caressing deference ? Thoughts go fast, and Lucy had not yet reached the door of her own room, when it flashed upon her what it was. She put down her candle upon a table in the corridor, and stood still to realise it. This gallery at the head of the great staircase was dimly lighted, and the hall below threw up a glimmer, reflecting in the oaken balusters and doors of the closed rooms, and dying away in the half-lit gloom above. There were sounds below far off, that betrayed the assembly still undispersed in tho smoking-room, and some fainter still above, of the ladies who had retired to their rooms, but were still discussing the strange events of the evening. In the centre of this partial darkness stood Lucy, with her candle, tho only visible representative of all the hidden life around, suddenly pausing, asking herself—

Was this what it meant ? Undoubtedly, this was what it meant. She had the power, and she had not used it. With a word she could make all their schemes unnecessary, and relive the burden on the soul of the> woman who had the heart of a mother for Bice, Tears sprang up into Lucy's eyes unawares as this reuollectiou suddenly seized her. The Oontesaa was not perfect—there were many things in her which Lady Randolph could with difficulty excuse to herself, but she had the heart of a mother for Bice. Oh, yea, it was true, quite true. The heart of a mother! and how was it possible that another mother oonld look on at this and not sympathise; and how was it that the idea had never occurred to her before—that she had never thought how changed in a moment might be Bice's position, if only—. Here she picked up her candle again, and went away hastily to her room. She said to herself that she was keeping Fletcher up, and that this was unkind. But, as a matter of fact, sho was not thinking about Fletcher. There had sprung up in her soul a fear, which was two-fold and contradictory. If one of those alarms was justified, then the other would be fallacious ; and yet the existence of the one doubled the force of the other. One of these elements of fear—the contradiction, the new terror—was wholly unthougbt of, and had never troubled her peace before. She thought—and this was her old burden, the anxiety which had already restrained her action and made her forego what sho bad never failed to feel as her duty, the carrying out of her father's will— of her husband's objection, of his opposition, of the terrible interview she had ooce had with him, when Bhe had refused to acquiesce in his command. And then, with a sort of stealthy horror, she thought of his departure from that opposition, and asked herself, would he for Bice'? sake, consent to that which he bad so much objected to in other cases ? This it was that made her shrink from herself and her own thoughts, and hurry nto her room for the solace of Fletcher's companionship, and to put off as long as she coald the ducauaioa of the question. Would

I Sir Tom agree to everything ? Would ho make no objections—for Bite's sake ? [ CHAPTER XXXVII. I LUCY COMBS TQ THE BKSCtJB. I That mcminc the rthole party came down' to break fa-1 expectant, for notwithstanding the Conte3sa'!) )>a'->it of not appearing, it wav. supposed ihat tie young lady whom most people suppo'-ed to have arrived very receutly must be present at tbernorning pieal. Young M ont joie, who was generally very late appeared among the first; in(t there was a look (if, curiosity an I anxiety in bis face as he turned towards the door every time it was opened, which betrayed bis motive. But: this expectation was not destined tp be repaid. Bice did. not appear at breakfast. She did not even come downstairs, though the Contessa did, for luncheon. When Madame di Forno-Populo came to 4his meal there was a. general:elevatioii of all hi ads, and tager look towards her, j to which she replied with her usual smile, but j no explanation of any kind, nor would She make any reply even to direct questions. She did nothing hut smile wh»n Montjoie demanded to know if Miss Forno-Populo was not coining downstairs, if she had gone away, if she were ill, if she would app ar before three with which questions he assailed her in downright fashion. When the Contessa did not smile she put on a look of injured. sweetneSß. " What iShesaid,' "Am I then solittlf thought of? Y«.u have no more pleasure, ficklest of. young men in seeing me?" " Qh, I assure you, Contessa. '-that's all right, don't you kuow; but a fellow may ask. And then it was your own doing to make us sti excited."

"Yeß, a fellow may aßk," said the Contessa smiling ; but this was all th-a response she would give, nothing that could really throw the least light upon the subject of his curiosity. The other men of her following, looked on with undisguised admiration at this skilled aud accomplished woman. To see how Bbe held in hand the youth whom they all considered a? her victim was beautiful t'ley thought; and bets even were going amongst them as to the certainly that she would larul her big fish. Sir Tom, at tho head of the table, did not regard the matter

so lightly. Tnese was a curve of annoyance in his forehead. He did not understand

what game she was playing. It was, with- | out doubt a pame of some sort, and its object was transparent, enough ; but Sir Tom I could not easily forgive the dramatic efforts of the previous night or endure the thought that his house was the scene of tactics so little credi'.able. He was vexed with the Contessa, with Bice, even with Lucy, who, he could n>.t keep from saying to himself, should have found some means of baulking such attention. He wa3 somewhat mollified by the absence of Bice now, Which seemed to him perhaps a tribute to hia own evident disapproval ; but-still he was uneasy. It was not a fit thing to take place in his heuse. He saw far more clearly than he had done before that a stop shouldjhavt: been put ere now to the Contessa's operations, and in the light of last night's proceedings perceived his own errors iu judgment—those errors which he had, indeed been teuiible of, yet condoned in himself with that wonderful charity which we Ehow towards our own mistakes and follies. He ought not to have asked her to the tlall ; he ought not to have permitted himself to be flattered and amused by her society, or to have encouraged her to remain,, or to have been so weak as to ask the people she wighed, which was the crowning error of all. He had invited Montjoie, a trifling boy in whom lie felt little or no interest, to please her, without any definite idea as to what she meant, but Only with an amused sense that she had designs on the lad, which Montjoie was quite knowing enough to deliver himself from. But the turn things had taken displeased Sir Tom. It was too barefaced, be said to himself. He too felt like hiß more innocent wile as if he were an accomplice in a social crime.

"I've been swindled, don't you know," Montjoie said ; "I have been taken a mean advantage of. None of these other beggars are going away like me. They will get all the go:id of the music to-night, and I shall be far away. I could cry to think of it, I could, dontyou know ; but you don't care a bit, Conteßsa." ■ The Contessa smiled as usual. "Enfant!". she said.

"I am not an infant, lam just the same age as everybody, old enough to look after myself, don't you know, and pay for myself, and all that sort of thing. Besides I haven't got any parents and guardians. Is that why you take such a base advantage of mp2"oned the young man. It is perhaps why—■—" Tbe Conteasawas not much in the way of answering questions; and when she had Baid this she broke off With a laugh. Was she going to saythat this was why she had talceu any trouble about him, with a frankness which it is sometimes part tf the astutest policy to employ. "Why what? why what? Oh, come, you mnst tell me now," the young man said. "Why, one takes so much interest in you," said the Contessa sweetly. " You shall come and see me, cher petit Marquis, in my little house that is to be, in Mayfair;. for you have foond me, n'e&txe pai, a little house in Mayfair ?" she said, turning to another of her train.

"Hung with rose-coloured curtains and pink glass in the windows, according to your orders, Contesßa," said the gentleman appealed to. " How good it is to have a friend ! but thoso curtains will be terrible," said the Contessa with a shiver, "if it were not that I carry with me a few little things jn a great bos. - '

" Oh, my dear Gontessa,, how many things you must have picked up 1" cried Lady Alias tasi a. " That peep into your bpudior made me sick with envy .j those Eastern embroideries, those Persian tugs ! They have furnished me with a lovely paragraph fqr my paper, and it is such a delightful original idea to carry about one's pet furniture like one's dresses. It will became quite the fashion when it is known. And bow I shall long to see that little house in Mayfair

The Contessa smiled upon Lady Anastasia as she smiled upon the male friends that surrounded her. Her paper and her paragraphs were not to be despised, and those little mysterious intimations about the new beauty which it delighted her to make. Madame di Forno-Populo turned to Montjoie afterwards with a little wave of her hand. "You are going?" Bhe s«d, "how sad for us 'l we shall have no song'to make us gay to-night. But come and you shall sing to us in Mayfair." 4 " Contesso, you are only laughing at me. But I shall come, don't you know," said Montioie "whether you mean it Or not,"

The company who were so much interested in this conversation did. not observe the pre-occnpied looks of the master and mistrees <jf the house, although to some of the gentlemeu the gravity of Sir Tom was apparent enough. And not much wonder that he should be grave. Even the men who were most easy in their own code looked with a certain severity and astonishment Upon liim who had opened his door to the adventuressContessa, of whom they all judged the worst, without even the charitable acknowledgement which her enemy the Dowagir had made, that there was nothing in her past nistory bad enough to procure her absolute expulsion from society. The men who crowded round when she appeared, who flattered and paid their court to her, and even took a little credit to themselves as intimates of the siren, were one aiid all of opinion that to bring her into his house was discreditable to Sir Tom. They were even a little respectful to Lucy for not knowing or finding Out the quality of her guest. If Tom Randolph was beginning to find' out that he had been a fool it wan wonderful he had not made the discovery sooner. For he had been a fOql and no mistake ! Xo bring that woman to England, to keep her in his house, to associate her in men's minds with his wife.—the worst of his present guests found it most difficult to forgive him. But they were all the more interested in the situation from the fact that Sir Tom was beginning to feel the effects of his folly. He said very little during that meal. He took no notice of the badinage going on between the Contesea and her train. When he epoke at all it was to that virtuous mother at his other hand, who was not at all amusing, and talked of nothing but Edith and Minnie, and her successful treatment to them through all the nursery troubles of their life.

Luoy, at the other end of the table, was : scarcely more expansive. She had been relieved by the absence of Bice; Which, in her innocence, she believed to be a concession to her own anxiety, feeling a certain gratitude to tbe Contessa for thus foregoing the chance of another interview with Montjoie:. It could not have occurred to Lucy to suppose that this was policy On the Contessa's part, and that her refusal, to satify Montjoie was in reality planned to strengthen her hold. On him, and to increase the curiosity she pretended to baffle. Lucy had no snch "artificial idea in her mind. She accepted the girl's withdrawal as; a tribute to heir own powers of persuasion, and. a proof that though the Contests bad been led away by her foreign

notions, she was yet ready to perceive aid adopt the more excellent way. This troubled Lucy's h-art and made, her feel that she was h-rself bound to reciprocate the generosity. They had done it without kno-viny auythiiu j about the intention ili her miml, ;ind it j should be hers to carry out the intention liberally, generously, not like an. unwilling giver. She cast many a glance at her husband while this was going through her mind' Would he. object as before ? or would he, because it was the Contessa who was to be benefitted, make no objection? Lucy did not know which of the two would be most, p.inful to her to bear. She had read carefully the. paragraph in her father's will about foreigners, and had found tfaer- was: no distinct objection to foreigners, only a preference the other, way. She knew indeed, bat would not | permit herself to think, that these were not persons who would have commended themselves to Mr. Trevor as objects of his bounty. Mr; Churchill, with his large family, was very different. But to endow; two frivolous and expensive wonien with a portion of his fortune was a thing to which he never would have consented. With a certain shiver she recognised this; but then she made a rush past the objection and turned her back dpon it., It was quite a :; common form of beneficence in old times, to provide a dower for a girl that she might marry. What could there be wrong in providing a poor girl with something tb live, upon that she might not. be forced into a mercenary marriage? Whilei all the talk was going on at the other end of the table she was turning this over in her mind—the | manner of it, the amount of it, all the details. She did not hear the talk, it was immaterial to her, she cared not for it. Now and then she gave an anxious look at. Sir Tom at the other end. He Was serious. He did not laugh as usual. What was he I thinking of? . Would his. objections be for-, i gotten because it was the Contessa, or Would he oppose her and struggle against her. Her heart beat at the thought of the conflict which might be before her—or perhaps if there was no conflict, if he were too willing, might not that be the worst of all ?

Thus the background against which the, Contessa. wove her tfeb of. smiles and humouris u schemes was both dark and serious. There were many shadows behind that' frivolous central ligVit. Herself the ehief actor, the plotter, she to whom only it could Ibe a matter Of peisonal advantage was per- ' haps the least serious of all the agents in it. The Others thought of possibilities dark, enough, qf perhaps the destruction of family peace ia this house which had been so pitable to her, which had received her when, no other house would; and Some of the. sacrifice of a girl, a&d some of the danger of a youth to. whom at present all the world, was bright. All these things seemed to be involved in the present crisis. What more: likely than that Lucy, at last enlightened, should turn upon her husband, who no deubt had forced this uncongenial companion upon her, should turn from Sir Tom altogether, and put her trust in him. no longer?. And the men who most adored the Contessa were those who looked with, the greatest horror upon a. marriage made by her, and called young Montjoie poor little beggar and poor devil, wondering much whether he ought not to be "spoken to." The men were not eOrry for Bice, nor thought of her at all in the matter, save to conclude her a true pupil pf the guardian whom most of them believed to be her mother. But in this point where the oihera were wanting Lucy came in, whose simple heart bled for the girl, who was about to be sacrificed to a man whom she could not love,. Thus tragical surmises floated in the air about Madame di Forno-Populo, that arch plotter whose heart was throbbing indeed with her sucoess, and the hope of successes to come, but who had no tragical alarms in her breast. She was perfectly easy in her ; mind about Sir Tom and Lucy. Even if a matrimonial quarrel should be the result, what was that to an experienced woman of the world, who h.new that such things are only for the minute? and neither Bice nor Montjoie caused her any alarm. Bice was perfectly pleased with the little Marquis. He amußed her. She had not the slightest objection to him; and as for Montjoie he was perfectly well able to take care of himself. So that while everybody else was more > or less anxious the Gontessa in the centre of ' all the webs was perfectly tranquil. She Was not aware that she wished any harm to ! any man, or woman either. Her light heart r.nd easy conscience carried her quite triumphantly through all.

. When Montjoie had gone away, carrying in his pocket-book the address Of the little, house in Mayfair ; and when the party had dispersed to Walk or ride or drive, as it thought fit, Lucy, who was doing neither, met her husband coming out of bis den. Sir Tom was full pf a remorseful sense that he had wronged Lucy. He took her by both hands, and drew her into hia room. It was a long time since he had met her with the same effusion. "You are looking very serious," he said, "you are vexed, and I don't Wonder } but 1 see land, Lucy. It will be over directly—'perhaps a week more—"

" I thought you were', looking serious, Tom, " she said.

"So I was, my love. All that, business last night was more than I could stand. You may think nie cilloua enough, but 1 could not stand that."

"Tom!" said Lucy, faltering. It seemed an opportunity, she could not let Blip—but bow she trembled between her two terrors ! "There is something that I want to say to. you."

" Say whatever yen like, Lucy," he cried, "but for Heaven'asakedoa'ti tremble, my little woman, when you speak to me. I've done nothing to deserve that." "I aiij not trembling," said Lucy, with the most innocent and transparent of falsehoods. "But oh, Tom, I am so sorry, so unhappy." " Fur what ?" he said. He did not know what accusation she might be going to bring against Mm ; aud how could he defend himself ? Whatever She might say he was sure to be. half guilty; and if she thought him wholly guilty, how could he prevent it ? A hot colour came up upon his middle-aged face; To have to blush when you are past the age of blushing is a more terrible necessity than ttie young can conceive. \ "Oh,. Tom!" cried Lucy again, "for Bice! Can we stand by and let her be sacrificed? She is not much more than a child ; and she ia always so good to little Tom."

" For Bice !" he cried ; in the relief of his inind he was ready to have done anything for Bice, fie laughed with a somewhat nervous tremulous, outburst. " Why, what is the matter with her ?" he said. " She did her part last night with assurance enough, She is young indeed, but she ought to have known better than that-"

" She is very youpg, and i t is the way she has been brought- up—how should she knew any better ? But, Tom, if she had any fortune she would noc be compelled to marry. How can we stand by and. ate her sacrificed to that odious young nrian ?"

" What odious young man ?" said Sir Tom astonished, and then with another burst of his old laughter such as had not been heard for weeks, he cried out, " Montjoie! Why, Luoy, are you. crazy ? Half the girls in England are in competition for him. Sacrificed to ! She will be iu the greatest luck if she ever has such a chance."

Lucy gave him a reproachful look. "How can you say so? A little vulgar boy—a creature not worthy to—"

"My dear, you are prejudiced, You are taking Jock's view, that worthy's opinion of a fellow who never rose above Lower Fourth is to be received with reservation. A fellow may be a skwg, and yet not a bad fellow—that is what Jock has'yet to. learn."

"Ok, Tom, I cannot laugh," eaid. Lucy, " What can She do, the Contessa Bays. She must marry the first that offers, and. in the meantime she attracts notice like that. It is dreadful to think of it. I think that someone—that we—l—ought to interfere."

" My innocent Lucy," said Sir Tom, " hqw can you interfere ? You know nothing about the tactics of such people. lam very penitent for my share in the matter. I ought not to have brought so much upon you, 1 '

"Oh, Tom," cried Lucy again, drawing closer fo him, eager to anticipate with her pardon any blame to which he might be liable. And then she added, returning, to ; her own subject, " She is. of English parentage on one side." Why this fact, so simply stated, should have startled her husband eo much, Lucy could not imagine. He. almost gaped as he met her eyes, as if he had received or feared a sudden blow, and underneath the; brownnesa of his complexion grew suddenly pale, all the ruddy colour forsaking liis face, "OfEnglish parentage," he said,, faltering, " do you mean ?—what do you mean ? Why—do you tell this to me ?" I Lucy was surprised, but saw no significance in his agitation. And her mind was fall of her own purpose. "Because of'the will

which is against foreigners," she said simply. "Bat in that case ahe •would not be a foreigner, Tom ! I think, a great deal of this, I.wai'it to 36 it.. Oh, dcn't opj one nio ! 1$ makes it so much harder when y u.goagainat me."

He gazed at her with sort .- f We. ,He did not seem able to ►peak.. What she had' said, though she was unconscious of ' any special meaning in it, seemed to have acted upon him like a spell. There was something tragic in his look -which frightened Lucy. °he came closer still and put. her hand npon his arm.

3 " Oh, it is not to trouble yon,. Tom ;it is f not that I want to go against you. But give 1 me yqu'r consent this once. Baby is so fond l; of her, Tom, and she is so good to hits. I Want to give something to Bice. Let me. make a provision for her she said, pleading. ! "Do not take all the pleasure pat of. it and [ oppose me. Oh, dear Tom, give me yonr free ; consent?" Lucy qried. I He kept gazing at her with that look of awe. ; "Oppose you!' h-'i said. What was the • shock he had received which made him so . unlike himself ? Hii' very lips quivered, as he ■ spoke. " God forgiv'3 me ; what have I.been' doing!" he cried. "Lucy, I think I will ■; never oppose you mote." CHAPTER XXXVIII, 1 DIiCOVZKIES, This interview had ail. agitating and painful effect upon Lucy, though Bhe could, not tell why. It was not What she expected or feared—neither in one sense nor the other. He had neither distressed her by opposing her proceedings, not accepted her beneficence ■ . towards the Cootessa With levity and satisfaction, both of which dangers she had been . prepared for. Instead, however, of agitating : her by the reception be gave to her proposal, it was he who was agaitated by something which in entire unconsciousness she had said. : . Bat what that could be Lucy could not divine. She had said nothing that could affect him personally so far as. she knew. She went o every word of the conversation Without being able to discover what .could; have had this effect. But she could find : nothing, there was no clue aiiy where that.her , unconscious rnind could discover. She concluded finally with much computation that it was the implied reproach that he had taken asay all pleasure in what she did by opposing her, that had. so disturbsd her husband. He was so kiod! He had not been able to beat the possibility that his opposition had been a source of pain. "I thiuk. I will never oppose you any more." In an answer-. : ing burst of generosity Lucy said to herself that she did. not desire this; that she pre-. lerred that he should find fault and object when he disapproved, not consent to everything. Bu,t the reflection of the disturbance she had seen in her husband's countenance was in her mind all day; she could Hot shake it off; and he was so grave that every look she. cast a;t him strengthened the impression. He did not approach the oircle in which the Contessa sat all the evening, but Stood apart, silent, taking little notice of anybody until Mr, Jjerwentwater secured his ear, when Sir Tom, instead of his usual genial laugh at Mr. Tutor's solemnities discharged little caustic criticisms, which astonished his companion. Mr. Derwentwater was going away next day, and he too, was pre-oecupied. After, that conversation with Sir Tom he betook himself to Lucy, vi ho was very sileot too, and doing little for the entertainment of ,her guests. He made her sundry pretty speeches, such as are appropriate from' a departing guest..

"Jock has made up his miud to stay behind," he saidi I am sorry but I am not surprised. I shall lose a most agreeable travelling companion; but perhaps home influences are best for the young." 'VI don't know why Jock has changed his mind Mr. Derwentwater. He wanted Very much to go."

He would say that there's metal more attractive," said the tutor with an offended smile ; and then L.e paused, and clearing his throat asked in a still more evident tone of offence—" Does not yotir young friend the Signorina appear again ? X thought from her appearance last night that she was making her debut."

"Yes, it was like it," said Lucy. "The Conteisa is not like one of us," she addedi after a moment. "She has her own ways—and, perhaps, I don't know, that may be the. Italian fashion."

" Not at all," Mr. Derwentwater said promptly. He was an authority upon national usages. " But I am afraid it Was very transparent what the Contessa meant/' he said, after a pause. To this Lucy made no reply, and the tutor, who was sensitive especially as to bad taste, reddened at hia inappropriate observation. He went on hastily "The Signorina, or should I say Mademoiselle di Foruo-Popalo ? haß a great deal of charm, Ido not know if she is so beautiful .as her mother—"

"Oh, not hef mother," cried Lucy quickly, with a smile at the mistake.

"Is she not her mother? The young lady's face indeed is different. It is of a higher order —it is full of thought. It is nobis in repose. She does not seem made for these scenes of festivity, if you will pardon me, Lady Randolph, but; for the higher retire? ments —"

" Oh, she is very fond of seeing people," said Lucy. "You must not suppose she is too seriou3 for her age. She enjoyed herself last night." " Tnere is no age," said Mr. Derwentsvater, "at which ou« can he too serious—and especially in youth, when all the world is before one, when one cannot tell what effect a carele3S Btep may one way or another. It is just that sweet gravity that charms me I think she was quite out of her element, excuse me for saying so, Lady Randolph, las't night."

"Do ydu think so ? Oh, lam afraid not. lam afraid she liked it," paid Lucy. "Jock, don't you think Bice liked it. I would much father thiuk not, but I am afraid—l am afraid—"

" She couldn't like that little cad," said Jock, who had drawn near with an instinctive sense that something was going on which concerned him. "But she's never solemn either," added the boy. "Is that for me, Jock ?" said Mr. Tutor, with a pensive gentleness of reproach. "Well, nevermind. We must all put. up with little misunderstandings from the younger generation. Some time yr other yon will judge differently. I should like to have bad an opportunity again of such music as we had last night; but I suppose I must not hope for it." " Ob,, do you mean Lord Montjoie's song ?" cried one of the young ladies in blue, who had. drawn neat. " Wasn't it fun.? Of course I know it wasn't to be compared to the Contessa ; but I've no musical taste. I always confess it—that's Edith's line. But Lord Montjoie was fun. Don't you think so, dear Ladv Randolph," Miss Minnie said.

Mr. Derwentwater gave her one glance, and retired, Jack fallowing. " Perhaps that's your opinion too,"hesaid, "that Lord Montjoie's was fun ?" ''He's a skng," said Jock laconically, "that's all I think about him."

Mr. Derwentwater took the lad's arm. " And yet," he said, "Jock, though yon and I consider ourselves his superior, that is the fellow that will carry off the prize. Beauty and genius are for him. He must have the best that humanity can produce. You ought to he too young to. have any feeling oh the, subject; but it is a humiliating, thought." "Rice will have nothing to say to hi.m.," said Jock, with straightforward application of the abstract description ; but Mr. Tutor shook his head.

'' How can we tell, the persecutions to which woman is subject?" he said. 44 You 1 and I, Jock, are in a very different position. But we should try to. realise, though, it is .difficult those dangers to which she is subject. Kept indoors," said Mr. Tutor, with pathos in his voice, "debarred from all knowledge of the world,, with all the authorities about her leading one way. How can we. tell what is said to her ? With a host oi' petty maxims preaching down a daughter's heart. Strange!" cried Mr. Derwentwater, with a closer pressure Of the hoy'is arm, 41 that the rnoßt lovely existence should thus be led to link itself with the basest continually. We must not blame woman ; we must keep her idea sacred, whatever happens, in our own experience." 44 It always sets one right to talk to you,' cried Jock, full. of emotion. 4i J was a | beast to say that." I 44 My boy, d.. n't you think I understand the disturbance in your mind ?" with a sigh, Mi\ Tutor said .

.They had left the drawing-room daring the course of this conversation, and Were, crossing the hall on the way to the library,. when some ojie suddenly drew back with a startled movement from the passage which led to Sir Tom's den. Then there followed a laugh and 44 Oh, is it only you—" after which there carno forth a slim shadow, as unlike as possible to the siren of the previous night. 44 We have met before, and I don't | mind. Is there anyone else coming ?" Bice said.

Why do you hide and sknlk in corner* J" pried Jock. ■' " Why shouldn't ynn nnj. one? Have yon done something wrong?" i; This made Bice laugh. still more. "Yo« don't understand," she said.

. . " Signorina," paid Mr. D nrentwater (who was somewhat prand of having remembered this good abstract ti tie to' give to the : mysterious girl), "I am going away to-morrow, and perhaps I shall never Seat yon again. Your Voice seemed to open the heavenly gates. :■ Why, since yon are bo good 83 to consider us different from the others, won'tyqu sing to us once more?" ( "Sing," said Bice, with a little surprise, " but by myself my voice i 3 not much—" "Itis iike a voice out of Mr; Derwentwater said fervently. Do .yo Q really, really, think so?" ahc said with a wondering .look. She wajs surprised but pleased too. " I don't think yon would care for it without the Contessa'a : but, perhaps " Then she looked round her with. a reflective look. " What can Ido ? There ig no piano, : and then the we people would hear." After this -a sudden idea struck her. She laugh-d aloud like a child with sudden gl.ee,' I dou'« suppose 1 * It. would do any harm ! You belong to the house—and then thero is Marietta. Y«8l Come !" she cried suddenly, rushing, up the great staircase and waving h>r hand impatiently, beckoning them to follow. " Come quick,', quick," she cried, i . , ; 1 .hear soineons coming," and llew upstairs. Thty followed her, Mr. Derwentwater passing Jock, whc> hung back a little, and did not know what to think of this adventure. " Come quick," she cried, darting along the dimly lighttd corridor with a laugh that, rang lightly along like the music to which her steps were sit 11 Oh, come in, come in.. They will, hear, btit they will not know where it comes from." The young men stnpified, h'.sitating, followed her. They found themselves among all the curiosities and luxuries of the Contessa'a boudoir. And in a moment Bice had placed herself at the little piai.o which was placed across one of the coriie's, its back covered ■with a wonderful piece, of Eastern embroidery which would have, in vi ted Do r wen twister's attention, Had hie been able to fix tipon anything but Bico. As it was, he gave a half regard to these treasures.. He would have examined then! all, with the devotion of • Connoisseur, but for her presence, who exercised a spell still more subtle than that ofrArt.

The sound ol the singing penetrated vaguely even, into the drawing-room, where the Contesss, startled, rose from her seat ranch Earlier than usual. Lucy,, who attended her dutifully upstairs according to her nsuaJ custom, was dismayed beyond measure by Seeing Jock and his tutor issue from that door; Bice came with them, with an ait of excitement and triumphant satisfaction. She had been singing, and the inspiration and applause hid gone to. her head. She met the ladies not with the air of a culprit, b'ut. in all the boldness of innocence. "They like to hear me, even myself, she cried; they have listened aa if I had been aii angel," And ehe clapped :hef hands with almost childisd pleasure. "Perhaps they think you are," said the Contessa, who shook her head, yet smiled with sympathy. ," You must not say to these, messieurs below that you have been in my rooir., Oh, I know the confidences qf a smoking-room. Yon must not brag, mts ami'.t. For Bice does not understand the convenances, nor repafember that it ii England, where people meet ou.ly in the drawingroom."

"Divine forgetfulnesi 1" murmured Iter, Jock, for his part, turned his back: with a certain sfiuiie of shame. He had liked it, but he hnd hot thought it right. The room altogether, with its draperies and mysteries, had conveyed to him a certain intoxication as of wrong-dping. Something that was dangerous was in the air of. it. It was seductive, it wan fascinating; he had felt like a man banished when Bice had Started from the piano and hidden them "Go away j go away !" in the same laughing tone in which she had bidden them come. Bnt the moment he was outside the threshold hia impulse was to escape—to rtish out Of sight — and obliterate even from his own mind the Souse that he had been there. To meet the Conteesa, and still more his sister, full in the face, was a shock to all his susceptibilities. He turned his back upon them.,, and but that his fellow-culprit made a momentary stand, would have fled away. Lucy partook oE Jock's feelings. It wounded her to see him at that door. She. pave him a glance of mingled reproach and pity; a vague sense that these were siren-women dangerous to all mankind stole into her heart.

But Lucy was destined to a still greater shock. The party from the smoking-room was late in breaking up. The sound of their Steps and voices as they came upstairs) roused Lady Randolph, not from sleep—for she had been unable to sleep.—but from the confused maze of recolleptions and efforts to think which, distracted hur placid soul. She was not made for these agitations. The constition of her mind was overset altogether. The moment that suspicion and. distrust: canoe in there-was no further strength in her. She waslying not thinking so much as remembering stray words and looks, which drifted across her memory as across a dim mirror, with a meaning in them which she did. not grasp. She was not clever. She could not put this and that together with the dolorous skill which some women possess, It ia a skill which docs not prorr.otc the happiness of the possessor, but,, perhaps, it is scarcely morehappy to. stand in the midst of a vague mass of suggestions witiOpt being able to make out what they mean, which was Lucy's ca«fe. She did not understand her husband's sudden excitement.; what it. had to. do with Bice, with the Cuntessa, tyith her own resolution and plians she could not tell, hut felt vaguely that many things deeply concerning her were in the aiiiy and was unhappy in the confusion of her thoughts. For a" long time after the sounds of varions persons coming upstairs had died away, Lucy lay silent waiting for her husband's but at last, unable to bear the vague wretchedness of her thoughts any longer, got up and. put en a dressing-gown and stole out into the dark gallery to go to the nursery to look at her ooy asleep, which was her best anodyne. The lights, were all. extinguished except, the faint ray that came from the nursery door, and Lucy went towards that* anxious to disturb little Tom by no sound. As she did so a dpor suddenly opened, sending a glare of light into the dark, corridor. It was the door of the Cont-eSßa'g rooiri, and tyith the light came Sir Tom, the. Ontessa herself appearing after him on the threshold. She was still in her dinner dress, and her appearsince remained long impressed npon Lncy's imagination like a photograph without colonr, in shadow and light She gave Sir Tom a little packet apparently Of letters, and then she held out both bands to him, which he took in his. Something seemed to flash through Lucy's heart like a knife, quivering like that pale death of the poet, in sight and sense. The sudden surprise and pang of it was such for a moment, that Bhe seemed turned: into stone; and stood, gazing like a spectre in her white flowing dress,, her face, more white, her eyes and mouth open in the misery and trouble of the moment. Then she stole back softly into her room—her head throbbing, her heart beatipg—and buried her face in her pillow and closed her eyes. Even baby aould not soothe in this unlooked for pang. And then she heard his step come slowly along the gallery.. How was she to look alt him? how to listen to him in the shock of Buoh an extraordinary discovery? She took refuge in a semblance Qf sleep. ' [To tie continued.] NEW STORY. " The Would Between Them," by Bertha M. Clay, is the title of a new Story, the. first chapters of which may be looked for on the 22nd September, Our readers are well acquainted with the vigorous, description of ! life which this talented authoress has frequently given r ..and when we state that the new story is believed to bo the best work yet from her pen, they may feel satisfied that many hours of pleasant and instructive readi ing awaiti them.